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While fame, to thee, from every foreign coast,
Flies with the news of empires won and lost,
Relates whate'er her busy eyes beheld,

And tells the fortune of each bloody field.;
While, with officious duty, crowds attend,
To hail the labours of thy god-like friend,
Vouchsafe the Muse's humbler joy to hear;
For sacred numbers shall be still thy care ;
Though mean the verse, though lowly be the strain,
Though least regarded be the Muse, of all the tuneful

train, Yet rise, neglected nymph, avow thy fame, Affert th' inspiring god, and greatly aim To make thy numbers equal to thy theme. From heaven derive thy verse; to heaven belong The counsels of the wise, and battles of the strong. To heaven the royal Anna owes, alone, The virtues which adorn and guard her throne; Thence is her justice wretches to redress, Thence is her mercy and her love of peace; 5





Thence is her power, her fceptre uncontrold,
To bend the stubborn, and repress the bold;
Her peaceful arts fierce factions to afiwage,
To heal their breaches, and to footh their rage; 25
Thence is that happy prudence, which presides
In each design, and every action guides;
Thence is the taught her shining court to grace,
And fix the worthiest in the worthiest place,
To trust at home Godolphin's watchful care,
And send victorious Churchill forth to war.

Arise, ye nations rescued by her sword,
Freed from the bondage of a foreign lord,
Arise, and join the heroine to bless,
Behold the sends to save you from distress ; 35
Rich is the royal bounty she bestows,
'Tis plenty, peace, and safety from your foes.
And thou, Iberia! rous'd at length, dildain
To wear in slav'd the Gallic tyrant's chain.
For fee! the British genius comes, to chear 40
Thy fainting fons, and kindle them to war.
With her own glorious fires their souls me warms,
And bids them burn for liberty and arms.
Unhappy land! the foremost once in fame,
Once lifting to the stars thy noble name,

45 In arts exceiling, and in arms severe, The western kingiioms' envy, and their fear : Where is thy pride, thy conscious honour, flown, Thy ancient valour, and thy firit renown? How art thou funk among the nations now ! How hast thou taught thy haughty neck to bow, And drop the warrior's wreath inglorious from thy


Not thus of old her valiant fathers bore The bondage of the unbelieving Moor, But, oft, alternate, made the victors yield, 55 And prov'd their might in many a well-fought field; Bold in defence of liberty they stood, And doubly dy'd their cross in Moorish blood : Then in heroic arms their knights excell'd, The tyrant then and giant then they quell’d. bo Then every nobler thought their ininds did move, And those who fought for freedom, figh'd for love. Like one, those sacred flames united live, At once they languih, and once revive ; Alike they hun the coward and the flave,

65 But bless the free, the virtuous, and the brave. Nor frown, ye fair, nor think my verse untrue; Though we disdain that man should man subdue, Yet all the free-born race are slaves alike to you.

Yet, once again that glory to restore,
The Britons seek the Celtiberian thore.
With echoing peals, at Anna's high command,
Their naval thunder wakes the drowsy land;
High at their head, Iberia's promis'd lord,
Young Charles of Auftria, waves his shining sword;
His youthful veins with hopes of empire glow,
Swell his bold heart, and urge hiin on the foe:
With joy he reads,


warrior's face,
Some happy omen of a sure success;
Then leaps exulting on the hostile strand,

80 And thinks the destin'd fceptre in his hand.

Nor fate denies, what first his wishes name, Proud Barcelona owns his jufer claim,




With the first laurel binds his youthful brows,
And, pledge of futurecrowns, the mural wreath bestows.
But soon the equal of his youthful years,
Philip of Bourbon's haughty line appears ;
Like hopes attend his birth, like glories grace,
(if glory can be in a tyrant's race)
In numbers proud, he threats no more from far,

But nearer draws the black impending war;
He views his host, then scorns the rebel town,
And dooms to certain death the rival of his crown.

Now fame and empire, all the nobler spoils That urge the hero, and reward his toils,

95 Plac'd in their view, alike their hopes engage, And fire their breasts with more than mortal rage. Not lawless love, not vengeance, nor despair, So daring, fierce, untam'd, and furious are, As when ambition prompts the great to war; As youthful kings, when, striving for renown, They prove their might in arms, and combat for a crown.

Hard was the cruel ftrife, and doubtful long Betwixt the chiefs fufpended conquest hung; Till, forc'd at length, disdaining much to yield, 105 Charles to his rival quits the fatal field. Numbers and fortune o'er his right prevail, And ev’n the British valour feems to fail; And yet they fail'd not all. In that extreme, Confcious of virtue, liberty, and fame, They vow the youthful monarch's fate to fhare, Above distress, unconquer'd by despair, Still to defend the town, and animate the war,



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But lo! when every better hope was past, When every day of danger seem'd their last,

115 Far on the distant ocean, they survey, Where a proud navy plows its watery way. Nor long they doubted, but with joy descry, Upon the chief's tall top-mafts waving high, The British cross and Belgic lion fly. Loud with tumultuous clamour, loud they rear Their cries of ecstasy, and rend the air ; In peals on peals the shouts triumphant rise, Spread twift, and rattle through the spacious skies; While, from below, old ocean groans profound, The walls, the rocks, the shores, repel the sound, Ring with the deafening shock, and thunder all around. Such was the joy the Trojan youth express’d Who, by the fierce Rutilian's fiege distress’d, Were by the Tyrrhene aid at length releas’d; When young Ascanius, then in arms first try'd, Numbers and every other want supply'd, And haughty Turnus from his walls defy'd; Sav'd in the town an empire yet to come, And fix'd the fate of his imperial Rome. 135

But oh! what verse, what numbers, shall reveal Those pangs of rage and grief the vanquish'd feel ! Who shall retreating Philip's shame impart, And tell the anguish of his labouring heart' What paint, what speaking pencil, shall express 140 The blended passions striving in his face ! Hate, indignation, courage, pride, remorse, With thoughts of glory patt, the loser's greatest curse.



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