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:: Othou, from whom these bounteous blessings 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 isle, and Isis’ sacred spring,
One hour, oh! listen while the Muses sing.
Though ministers of mighty monarchs wait,
With beating hearts, to learn their masters' fate,
One hour forbear to speak thy Queen's commands,
Nor think the world, thy charge, neglected stands ;
The blissful prospects, in my verse display'd,
May lure the stubborn, the deceiv'd persuade,
Ev'n thou to peace shalt speedier urge the way,
And more be hasten'd by this short 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 smoaking on the ground;
In vain with pow'rs renewid he filld the plain,
Made tim'rous vows, and brib'd the saints in vain;
As oft his legions did the fight decline,
Lurk’d in the trench, and skulk'd behind the line.


Before his eyes the fancy'd javelin gleams;
At feafts he starts, and seems dethrond in dreams ;
On glory past reflects with secret pain,
On mines exhausted, and on millions flain. .

To Britain's Queen the scepter'd fuppliant bends,
To her his crowns and infant race commends,
Who grieves her fame with christian blood to buy,
Nor asks for glory at a price fo high.
At her decree the war suspended stands,
And Britain's heroes hold their lifted hands :
Their open brows no threatning frowns disguise,
But gentler passions 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 whose dire names ten thoufand widows press'a
Their helpless orphans clinging to the breast.
In silent rapture each his foe furveys,
They vow firm friendship, and give mutual praise.
Brave minds, howe'er at war, are secret friends,
Their gen'rous discord with the battle ends ;
In peace they wonder whence diffention rose,
And ask how souls fo like could e'er be foes.


Methinks I hear more friendly shouts rebound,
And social clarions mix their sprightly sound;
The British flags are furl'd, her troops disband,
And scatter'd armies seek 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 illustrious doom,
And in the battle find a soldier's tomb,
Leans on his fpear to take his farewel view,
And sighing bids the glorious camp adieu.

Ye generous fair, receive the brave with smiles,
O’erpay their sleepless 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 boastful Spain conspires,
When English valour English beauty fires ;

The nations dread your eyes, and kings despair
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 sets th' invested fort before her eyes,
And mines that whirld battalions to the skies;
His little lift'ning progeny turn pale,
And beg again to hear the dreadful tale.

Such dire atchievements sings 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 fame.
, Our eager youth to distant nations run,
To visit fields their valiant fathers won;
From Flandria's shore 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 gravid the stone to Anna's fame :
He points to Blenheim, once a vulgar name;
Here fled the Houshold, there did Tallard yield,
Here Marlb'rough turn’d the fortune of the field;
On those steep banks, near Danube's raging food,
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 desp?rate throng;


Crowds whelm'd on crowds dalh'd wide the watry bed,
Ind drove the current to its distant head.

As when by Raphael's, or by Kneller's hands,
A warlike courser on the canvas stands,
Such as on Landen bleeding Ormond bore,
Or set young Ammon on the Granic shore;
If chance a gen'rous steed the work behold,
He snorts, he neighs, he champs the foamy gold:
So, Hocftet seen, tumultuous passions roll,
And hints of glory fire the Briton's soul;
In fancy'd fights he sees the troops engage,

And all the tempest of the battle rage. | Charm me, ye pow'rs, with scenes less nobly bright,

Far humbler thoughts th' inglorious Muse delight,
Content to see the horrors of the field
By plough-Ihares levell’d, or in flow'rs conceald.
O’er shatter'd walls may creeping ivy twine,
And grass luxuriant cloath the harmless mine, ,
Tame flocks ascend the breach without a wound,
Or crop the bastion, now a fruitful ground;
While shepherds neep, along the rampart laid,
Or pipe beneath the formidable shade.

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


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