O thou, from whom these bounteous bleffings flow, To whom, as chief, the hopes of peace we owe, (For next to thee, the man whom kings contend To stile companion, and to make their friend, Great STRAFFORD, rich in every courtly grace, With joyful pride accepts the second place,) From Britain's ifle, and Ifis' facred fpring, One hour, oh! liften while the Muses fing. Though minifters of mighty monarchs wait, With beating hearts, to learn their masters' fate, One hour forbear to fpeak thy Queen's commands, Nor think the world, thy charge, neglected stands; The blissful profpects, in my verse display'd, May lure the stubborn, the deceiv'd perfuade, Ev'n thou to peace fhalt speedier urge the way, And more be haften'd by this fhort delay. The haughty Gaul, in ten campaigns o'erthrown, Now ceas'd to think the western world his own. Oft had he mourn'd his boasting leaders bound, And his proud bulwarks fmoaking on the ground; In vain with pow'rs renew'd he fill'd the plain, Made tim❜rous vows, and brib'd the faints in vain. As oft his legions did the fight decline, Lurk'd in the trench, and skulk'd behind the line. Before At feafts he starts, and feems dethron'd in dreams; On glory past reflects with secret pain, On mines exhaufted, and on millions flain. To Britain's Queen the fcepter'd fuppliant bends, To her his crowns and infant race commends, Who grieves her fame with chriftian blood to buy, Nor afks for glory at a price fo high. At her decree the war fufpended stands, And Britain's heroes hold their lifted hands: Their open brows no threat'ning frowns disguise, The Gauls, who never in their courts could find At whofe dire names ten thousand widows prefs'd They vow firm friendship, and give mutual praise. Methinks I hear more friendly fhouts rebound, Leans on his fpear to take his farewel view, Ye generous fair, receive the brave with fmiles, O'erpay their fleepless nights, and crown their toils; Soft beauty is the gallant foldier's due, For you they conquer, and they bleed for you. Then Then fets th' invested fort before her eyes, And beg again to hear the dreadful tale. Such dire atchievements fings the bard that tells Slay panyms vile, that force the fair; and tame Our eager youth to distant nations run, To vifit fields their valiant fathers won; From Flandria's fhore their country's fame they trace, Till fair Germania fhews her blasted face. Crowds Crowds whelm'd on crowds dash'd wide the wat❜ry bed, As when by Raphael's, or by Kneller's hands, Charm me, ye pow'rs, with scenes less nobly bright, Far humbler thoughts th' inglorious Mufe delight, Content to see the horrors of the field By plough-fhares levell'd, or in flow'rs conceal'd. Who was the man, (Oblivion blast his name, Who |