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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

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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,
But gentler paffions sparkle in their eyes.

The Gauls, who never in their courts could find
Such temper'd fire with manly beauty join'd,
Doubt if they're thofe, whom dreadful to the view
In forms fo fierce their fearful fancies drew,

At whofe dire names ten thousand widows prefs'd
Their helpless orphans clinging to the breast.
In filent rapture each his foe furveys,

They vow firm friendship, and give mutual praise.
Brave minds, howe'er at war, are fecret friends,
Their gen'rous difcord with the battle ends
In peace they wonder whence diffention rofe,
And afk how fouls fo like could e'er be foes.

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Methinks I hear more friendly fhouts rebound,
And focial clarions mix their sprightly found;
The British flags are furl'd, her troops difband,
And scatter'd armies feek their native land.
The hardy veteran, proud of many a scar,
The manly charms and honours of the war,
Who hop'd to share his friend's illuftrious doom,
And in the battle find a foldier's tomb,

Leans on his fpear to take his farewel view,
And fighing bids the glorious camp adieu.

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.
In vain proud Gaul with boaftful Spain confpires,
When English valour English beauty fires
The nations dread your eyes, and kings defpair
Of chiefs fo brave, till they have nymphs fo fair.
See the fond wife, in tears of transport drown'd,
Hugs her rough lord, and weeps o'er ev'ry wound;
Hangs on the lips that fields of blood relate,
And smiles, and trembles, at his various fate.
Near the full bowl he draws the fancied line,
And marks feign'd trenches in the flowing wine,

Then

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Then fets th' invested fort before her eyes,
And mines that whirl'd battalions to the skies
His little lift'ning progeny turn pale,

And beg again to hear the dreadful tale.

Such dire atchievements fings the bard that tells
Of palfrey'd dames, bold knights, and magic spells;
Where whole brigades one champion's arms o'erthrow,
And cleave a giant at a random blow;

Slay panyms vile, that force the fair; and tame
The goblin's fury, and the dragon's flame.

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.
Th' exulting Briton asks his mournful guide,
Where his hard fate the loft Bavaria try'd;
Where Stepney grav'd the ftone to ANNA's fame :
He points to Blenheim, once a vulgar name;
Here fled the Houfhold, there did Tallard yield,
Here Marlb'rough turn'd the fortune of the field;
On those steep banks, near Danube's raging flood,
The Gauls thrice started back, and trembling stood;
When, Churchill's arm perceiv'd, they stood not long,
But plung'd amidst the waves, a defp'rate throng;

Crowds

Crowds whelm'd on crowds dash'd wide the wat❜ry bed,
And drove the current to its diftant head.

As when by Raphael's, or by Kneller's hands,
A warlike courfer on the canvas stands,
Such as on Landen bleeding Ormond bore,
Or fet young Ammon on the Granic fhore;
If chance a gen'rous steed the work behold,
He fnorts, he neighs, he champs the foamy gold:
So, Hocftet seen, tumultuous paffions roll,
And hints of glory fire the Briton's foul;
In fancy'd fights he fees the troops engage,
And all the tempeft of the battle rage.

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.
O'er shatter'd walls may creeping ivy twine,
And grafs luxuriant cloath the harmless mine,
Tame flocks afcend the breach without a wound,
Or crop the bastion, now a fruitful ground;
While fhepherds fleep, along the rampart laid,
Or pipe beneath the formidable shade.

Who was the man, (Oblivion blast his name,
Torn out and blotted from the list of fame!)

Who

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