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HE 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 sinoaking on the ground;
In vain with pow'rs renew'd he fill'd 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 feasts he starts, and seems dethron'd in dreams;
On glory past reflects with secret pain,
On mines exhausted, and on millions slain.

To Britain's Queen the scepter'd suppliant 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 so high.
At her decree the war suspended stands,
And Britain's heroes hold their lifted hands,
Their open brows no threat'ning frowns disguise,
But gentler paffions sparkle in their eyes.


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The Gauls, who never in their courts could find
Such temper'd fire with manly beauty join'd,
Doubt if they're those, whom dreadful to the view
In forms fo fierce their fearful fancies drew,
At whose dire names ten thousand widows pressid
Their helpless orphans clinging to the breaft.
In filent rapture each his foe surveys,
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 dissention rose,
And ask how fouls 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 illuftricus doom,
And in the battle find a soldier's tomb,
Leans on his spear to take his farewel view,
And fighing bịds 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 soldier's due,

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 so brave, till they have nymphs so 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, or 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 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 magick spells ;
Where whole brigades one champion's arms o’erthrow,
And cleave a giant at a random blow;
Slay paynims vile, that force the fair, and tame
The goblin's fury, and the dragon's flame.

Our eager youth to distant nations run,
To visit fields their valiant fathers won ;
From Flandria's fhore their country's fame they trace,
Till far Germania shews her blafted face.
Th' exulting Briton asks his mournful guide,
Where his hard fate the loft Bavaria try'd ;
Where Stepney grav'd 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 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 desp’rate throng;
Crowds whelm'd on crowds dalh'd wide the wat'ry bed,
And 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 feen, tumultuous paflions roll,
And hints of glory fire the Briton's foul ;
In fancy'd fights he sees the troops engage,
And all the tempeft of the battle rage.

Charm me, ye pow'rs, with scenes lefs nobly bright,
Far humbler thoughts th' inglorious muse delight,
Content to see the horrors of the field
By plough-shares leveld, or in flow'rs conceald.
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 shepherds sleep, 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 fond of lawless rule, and proudly brave,
First sunk the filial subject to a slave ;
His neighbour's realms by friends un-kingly gain'd,
In guiltless blood the facred ermine stain'd;
Laid schemes for death, to slaughter turn'd his heart,
And fitted murder to the rules of art.

Ah! curs d ambition, to thy lures we owe
All the great ills, that mortals bear below.
Curs'd by the hind, when to the spoil he yields
His year's whole sweat, and vainly-ripen'd fields ;
Curs'd by the maid, torn from her lover's side,
When left a widow, though not yet a bride :
By mothers curs’d, when floods of tears they shed,
And scatter useless roses on the dead.
Oh sacred Bristol ! then what dangers prove
The arts, thou smil'ft on with paternal love?
Then, mix'd with rubbish by the brutal foes,
In vain the marble breathes, the canvas glows;
To shades obscure the glitt'ring sword pursues
The gentle poet, and defenceless muse.
A voice, like thine alone, might then affwage
The warrior's fury, and controul his rage ;
To hear thee speak might the fierce Vandal ftand,
And Aling the brandish'd sabre from his hand.

Far hence be driv'n to Scythia's stormy shore
The drum's harsh musick, and the cannon's roar;
Let grim Bellona haunt the lawless plain,
Where Tartar clans, and grilly Cossacks reign ;


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