Thence is that happy prudence which presides
In each defign, and ev'ry action guides,
Thence is the taught her fhining court to grace,
And fix the worthieft in the worthieft place,
To trust at home Godolphin's watchful care,
And fend victorious Churchill forth to war.
Arife, ye Nations! refcu'd by her sword, Freed from the bondage of a foreign lord, Arife, and join the heroine to blefs, Behold the fends to fave you from distress; Rich is the royal bounty she bestows, 'Tis plenty, peace, and safety from your And thou, Iberia! rous'd at length, difdain To wear enflav'd the Gallick tyrant's chain ; For fee! the British Genius comes to cheer Thy fainting fons and kindle them to war; With her own glorious fires their fouls fhe warms, And bids them burn for liberty and arms. Unhappy Land! the foremost once in fame, Once lifting to the stars thy noble name, In arts excelling, and in arms fevere, The western kingdoms' envy and their fear, Where is thy pride, thy confcious honour, flown, Thy ancient valour and thy first renown? How art thou funk among the nations now! How haft thou taught thy haughty neck to bow, And dropt the warriour's wreath inglorious from thy brow!
Not thus of old her valiant fathers bore The bondage of the unbelieving Moor,
But oft' alternate made the victors yield,
And prov'd their might in many a well fought field;
Bold in defence of liberty they flood,
And doubly dy'd their Crofs in Moorish blood:
Then in heroick arms their knights excell'd;
The tyrant then and giant then they quell'd:
Then ev'ry nobler thought their minds did move,
And those who fought for freedom figh'd for love.
Like one thofe facred flames united live,
At once they languifh and at once revive;
Alike they fhun the coward and the slave,
But blefs the free, the virtuous, and the brave.
Nor frown, ye Fair! nor think my verse untrue;
'Tho' we difdain that man should man fubdue
Yet all the freeborn race are flaves alike to you.
Yet once again that glory to restore
The Britons feek the Celtiberian shore.
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 Austria, waves his shining sword;
His youthful veins with hopes of empire glow, 76
Swell his bold heart, and urge him on the foe;
With joy he reads in ev'ry warriour's face
Some happy omen of a sure success,
Then leaps exulting on the hoftile strand,
And thinks the deftin'd fceptre in his hand.
Nor Fate denies what first his wishes name,
Proud Barcelona owns his jufter claim,
With the firft laurel binds his youthful brows, [ftows. And, pledge of future crowns, the mural wreath be
But foon 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, 90
But nearer draws the black impending war;
He views his hoft, then fcorns the rebel town,
And dooms to certain death the rival of his crown.
Now fame and empire, all the nobler fpoils
That urge the hero and reward his toils,
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; 100
As youthful kings when striving for renown [crown.
They prove their might in arms and combat for a
Hard was the cruel ftrife, and doubtful long
Betwixt the chiefs fufpended conqueft hung,
Till forc'd at length, difdaining 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,
Conscious of virtue, liberty, and fame,
They vow the youthful monarch's fate to fhare,
Above diftrefs, unconquer'd by defpair,
Still to defend the town and animate the war.
But lo! when ev'ry better hope was past,
When ev'ry day of danger feem'd their last,
Far on the diftant ocean they survey
Where a proud navy ploughs its wat'ry way;
Nor long they doubted, but with joy defcry
Upon the chief's tall topmafts waving high
The British Crofs and Belgick Lion fly.
Loud with tumult'ous clamour, loud they rear
Their cries of ecftafy, and rend the air;
In peals on peals the fhouts triumphant rife,
Spread fwift, and rattle thro' the fpacious skies,
While from below old Ocean groans profound, 125
The walls, the rocks, the fhores, repel the found,
Ring with the deaf'ning fhock, and thunder all
around!
Such was the joy the Trojan youth exprefs'd
Who by the fierce Rutilian's fiege distress'd
Were by the Tyrrhene aid at length releas'd, 130
When young Afcanius, then in arms first try'd,
Numbers and ev'ry other want fupply'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.
But oh! what verse, what numbers, shall reveal Those pangs of rage and grief the vanquish'd feel! Who shall retreating Philip's fhame impart,
And tell the anguish of his lab'ring heart!
What paint, what speaking pencil, fhall exprefs 140
The blended paffions striving in his face!
Hate, indignation, courage, pride, remorse,
With thoughts of glory past, the lofer's greatest curfe.
Fatal Ambition! say what wondrous charms
Delude mankind to toil for thee in arms,
When all thy fpoils, thy wreaths in battle won,
The pride of pow'r and glory of a crown,
When all war gives, when all the great can gain,
Ev'n thy whole pleasure, pays not half thy pain!
All hail! ye fofter happier arts of peace, 150
Secur'd from harms, and blest with learned ease,
In battles, blood, and perils hard, unfkill'd, -
Which haunt the warriour in the fatal field:
But chief thee, goddess Muse! my Verse would raise,
And to thy own foft numbers tune thy praise; 155
Happy the youth infpir'd, beneath thy fhade
Thy verdant everliving laurels laid!
There fafe, no pleasures there, no pains, they know
But thofe which, from thy facred raptures flow,
Nor with for crowns but what thy groves bestow.
Me, Nymph divine! nor scorn my humble pray'r, 165
Receive unworthy to thy kinder care,
Doom'd to a gentler tho' more lowly fate,
Nor wishing once nor knowing to be great ;
Me to thy peaceful haunts inglorious bring, 165
Where fecret thy celeftial fifters fing,
Faft by their facred hill and sweet Castalian spring.
But nobler thoughts the vidor prince employ,
And raife his heart with high triumphant joy;
From hence a better course of time rolls on,
And whiter days fucceflive feem to run;
From hence his kinder fortune seems to date
The rifing glories of his future flate;
From hence-but oh! too soon the hero mourns
His hopes deceiv'd and war's inconftant turns.
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