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But, greatest Anna! while thy arms pursue
Paths of renown, and climb ascents of fame,
Which nor Augustus, nor Eliza knew ;
What poet shall be found to sing thy name?
What numbers shall record, what tongue shall say,
Thy wars on land, thy triumphs on the main?
O fairest model of imperial sway!

What equal pen shall write thy wondrous reign?
Who shall attempts and feats of arms rehearse,
Nor yet by story told, nor parallel'd by verse?
Me all too mean for such a task I weet:
Yet, if the sovereign lady deigns to smile,
I'll follow Horace with impetuous heat,
And clothe the verse in Spenser's native style.
By these examples rightly taught to sing,
And smit with pleasure of my country's praise,
Stretching the plumes of an uncommon wing,
High as Olympus I my flight will raise;
And latest times shall in my numbers read
Anna's immortal fame, and Marlborough's hardy
deed.

As the strong eagle in the silent wood,
Mindless of warlike rage and hostile care,
Plays round the rocky cliff or crystal food,
Till by Jove's high behests call'd out to war,
And charg'd with thunder of his angry kind,
His bosom with the vengeful message glows;
Upward the noble bird directs his wing,
And, towering round his master's earth-born foes,
Swift he collects his fatal stock of ire,

Lifts his fierce talon high, and darts the forked fire.
Sedate and calm thus victor Marlborough sate,
Shaded with laurels, in his native land,
Till Anna calls him from his soft retreat,
And gives her second thunder to his hand.
Then, leaving sweet repose and gentle ease,
With ardent speed he seeks the distant foe;
Marching o'er hills and vales, o'er rocks and seas,
He meditates, and strikes the wondrous blow.
Our thought flies slower than our general's fame:
Grasps he the bolt? we ask-when he has hurl'd
the flame.

When fierce Bavar, on Judoign's spacious plain,
Did from afar the British chief behold,
Betwixt despair, and rage, and hope, and pain,
Something within his warning bosom roll'd:
He views that favourite of indulgent Fame,
Whom whilom he had met on Ister's shore;
Too well, alas! the man he knows the same,
Whose prowess there repell'd the Boyan power,
And sent them trembling through the frighted lands,
Swift as the whirlwind drives Arabia's scatter'd
sands.

His former losses he forgets to grieve:
Absolves his fate, if, with a kinder rav,
It now would shine, and only give him leave
To balance the account of Blenheim's day.
So the fell lion in the lonely glade,

His side still smarting with the hunter's spear,
Thongh deeply wounded, no way yet dismay'd,
Roars terrible, and meditates new war;
In sullen fury traverses the plain,

To find the venturous foe, and battle him again.

Misguided prince, no longer urge thy fate, Nor tempt the hero to unequal war; Fam'd in misfortune, and in ruin great, Confess the force of Marlborough's stronger star.

Those laurel groves, (the merits of the youth)
Which thou from Mahomet didst greatly gain,
While, bold assertor of resistless truth,
Thy sword did godlike liberty maintain,
Must from thy brow their falling honours shed,
And their transplanted wreaths must deck a wor-
thier head.

Yet cease the ways of Providence to blame, And human faults with human grief confess; 'Tis thou art chang'd, while Heaven is still the same; From thy ill councils date thy ill success. Impartial Justice holds her equal scales, Till stronger virtue does the weight incline: If over thee thy glorious foe prevails,

He now defends the cause that once was thine. Righteous the war, the champion shall subdue; For Jove's great handmaid, Power, must Jove's decrees pursue.

Hark! the dire trumpets sound their shrill alarms! Auverquerque, branch'd from the renown'd Nassaus, Hoary in war, and bent beneath his armis,

His glorious sword with dauntless courage draws.
When anxious Britain mourn'd her parting lord,
And all of William that was mortal died;
The faithful hero had receiv'd this sword
From his expiring master's much-lov'd side.
Oft from its fatal ire has Louis flown,
Where'er great William led, or Maese and Sambre

run.

But brandish'd high, in an ill-omen'd hour To thee, proud Gaul, behold thy justest fear, The master-sword, disposer of thy power: 'Tis that which Cæsar gave the British peer. He took the gift: "Nor ever will I sheathe This steell (so Anna's high behests ordain)," The general said, "unless by glorious death Absolv'd, till conquest has confirm'd your reign. Returns like these our mistress bids us make, When from a foreign prince a gift her Britons take."

And now fierce Gallia rushes on her foes, Her force augmented by the Boyan bands; So Volga's stream, increas'd by mountain snows, Rolls with new fury down through Russia's lands. Like two great rocks against the raging tide, (If Virtue's force with Nature's we compare) Unmov'd the two united chiefs abide, Sustain the impulse, and receive the war. Round their firm sides, in vain, the tempest beats, And still the foaming wave, with lessen'd power,

retreats.

The rage dispers'd, the glorious pair advance, With mingled anger and collected might, To turn the war, and tell aggressing France, How Britain's sons and Britain's friends can fight. On conquest fix'd, and covetous of fame, Behold them rushing through the Gallic host: Through standing corn so runs the sudden flame, Or eastern winds along Sicilia's coast.

They deal their terrours to the adverse nation: Pale Death attends their arms, and ghastly Desolation.

But while, with fiercest ire, Bellona glows, And Europe rather hopes than fears her fate; While Britain presses her afflicted foes;

What horrour damps the strong, and quells the

great!

Whence look the soldiers' checks dismay'd and pale?

Erst ever dreadful, know they now to dread?
The hostile troops, I ween, almost prevail;
And the pursuers onl~ not recede.

Alas! their lessen'd rage proclaims their grief! For, anxious, lo! they crowd around their falling chief.

“Ithank thee, Fate!" exclaims the fierce Bavar; "Let Boya's trumpet grateful- lö's sound : I saw him fall, their thunderbolt of war:Ever to Vengeance sacred be the ground." Vain wish! short joy! the hero mounts again In greater glory, and with fuller light: The evening star so falls into the main, To rise at morn more prevalently bright. He rises safe; but near, too near his side,

A good man's grievous loss, a faithful servant died.

Propitious Mars! the battle is regain'd : The foe, with lessen'd wrath, disputes the field: The Briton fights, by favouring gods sustain'd: Freedom must live; and lawless Power must yield. Vain now the tales which fabling poets tell, That wavering Conquest still desires to rove! In Marlborough's camp the goddess knows to dwell: Iong as the hero's life remains her love. Again France flies, again the duke pursues, And on Ramilia's plains he Blenheim's fame re

news.

Great thanks, O captain great in arms! receive From thy triumphant country's public voice: Thy country greater thanks can only give To Anne, to her who made those arms her choice. Recording Schellenberg's and Blenheim's toils, We dreaded lest thou should'st those toils repeat: We view'd the palace charg'd with Gallic spoils. Aud in those spoils we thought thy praise complete. For never Greek, we deem'd, nor Roman knight, In characters like these did e'er his acts indite.

Yet, mindless still of case, thy virtue flics A pitch to old and modern times unknown: Those goodly deeds, which we so highly prize, Imperfect seem, great chief, to thee alone. Those heights, where William's virtue might have

staid,

And on the subject world look'd safely down, By Marlborough pass'd, the props and steps were made

Sublimer yet to raise his queen's renown:

Still gaining more, still slighting what he gain'd, Nought done the hero deem'd, while aught undone remain'd.

When swift-wing'd Rumour told the mighty Gaul, How lessen'd from the field Bavar was filed; He wept the swiftness of the champion's fall; And thus the royal treaty-breaker said : "And lives he yet, the great, the lost Bavar, Ruin to Gallia in the name of friend? Tell me, how far has Fortune been severe ? Has the foe's glory, or our grief, an end? Remains there, of the fifty thousand lost,

To save our threaten'd realm, or guard our shatter'd coast?

"To the close rock the frighted raven flies, Soon as the rising eagle cuts the air:

The shaggy wolf, unseen and trembling, lies,
When the hoarse roar proclaims the lion near.

Ill-starr'd did we our forts and lines forsake, To dare our British foes to open fight: Our conquest we by stratagem should make: Our triumph had been founded in our flight. 'Tis ours by craft and by surprise to gain : 'Tis theirs, to meet in arms, and battle in the plain.

Their boasted Brute, undaunted snatch'd his gods "The ancient father of this hostile brood, From burning Troy, and Xanthus red with blood, And fix'd on silver Thames his dire abodes:

And this be Troynovante,' he said, the seat By Heaven ordain'd, my sons, your lasting place: Superior here to all the bolts of Fate

Live, mindful of the author of your race,

Whom neither Greece, nor war, nor want, nor

flame,

Nor great Pelides' arm, nor Juno's rage, could tame.'

"Their Tudors hence, and Stuarts offspring flow: Hence Edward, dreadful with his sable shield, Talbot to Gallia's power eternal foe,

And Seymour, fam'd in council or in field:
Hence Nevil, great to settle or dethrone,
And Drake, and Ca'ndish, terrours of the sea:
Hence Butler's sons, o'er land and ocean known,
Herbert's and Churchill's warring progeny:
Hence the long roll which Gallia should conceal:
For, oh! who, vanquish'd, loves the victor's fame
to tell?

"Envy'd Britannia, sturdy as the oak,
Which on her mountain top she proudly bears,
Fludes the ax, and sprouts against the stroke;
Strong from her wounds, and greater by her wars.
And as those teeth, which Cadmus sow'd in earth,
Produc'd new youth, and furnish'd fresh supplies:
So with young vigour, and succeeding birth,
Her losses more than recompens'd arise;
And every age she with a race is crown'd,
For letters more polite, in battles more renown'd.

"Obstinate power, whom nothing can repel; Not the fierce Saxon, nor the cruel Dane, Nor Europe's force amass'd by envious Spain, Nor deep impression of the Norman steel, Nor France, on universal sway intent, Oft breaking leagues, and oft renewing wars, Nor (frequent bane of weaken'd government) Their own intestine feuds and mutual jars : Those feuds and jars, in which I trusted more, Than in my troos, and fleets, and all the Gallic power.

"To fruitful Rheims, or fair Lutetia's gate, What tidings shall the messenger convey? Shall the loud herald our success relate, Or mitred priest appoint the solemn day? Alas! my praises they no more must sing; They to my statue now must bow no more Broken, repuls'd is their immortal king : Fali'n, fall'n for ever, is the Gallic power!The woman chief is master of the war: Earth she has freed by arms, and vanquish'd Hear ven by prayer."

While thus the ruin'd foe's despair commends Thy council and thy deed, victorious queen, What shall thy subjects say, and what thy friends! How shall thy triumphs in our joy be seen?

Oh! deign to let the eldest of the Nine
Recite Britannia great, and Gallia free:
Oh! with her sister, Sculpture, let her join
To raise, great Anne, the monument to thee;
To thee, of all our good the sacred spring;

To thee, our dearest dread; to thee, our softer
king.

Let Europe sav'd the column high erect,
Than Trajan's higher, or than Antonine's;
Where sembling Art may carve the fair effect
And full achievement of thy great designs,
In a calm heaven, and a serener air,
Sublime the queen shall on the summit stand,
From danger far, as far remov'd from fear,
And pointing down to Earth her dread command.
All winds, all storms, that threaten human woe,
Shall sink beneath her feet, and spread their rage
below.

Their fleets shall strive, by winds and waters tost,
Till the young Austrian on Iberia's strand,
Great as Encas on the Latian coast,

Shall fix his foot: " and this, be this the land,
Great Jove, where I for ever will remain,"
(The empire's other hope shall say)" and here
Vanquish'd, entomb'd I'll lie; or, crown'd, I'll
O virtue, to thy British mother dear! [reign !"
Like the fam'd Trojan suffer and abide;
For Anne is thine, I ween, as Venus was his guide,

There, in eternal characters engrav'd,
Vigo, and Gibraltar, and Barcelone,
Their force destroy'd, their privileges sav'd,
Shall Anna's terrours and her mercies own:
Spain, from th' usurper Bourbon's arms retriev'd,
Shall with new life and grateful joy appear,
Numbering the wonders which that youth achiev'd,
Whom Anna clad in arms, and sent to war;
Whom Anna sent to claim Iberia's throne;
And made him more than king, in calling him her

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There Ister, pleas'd by Blenheim's glorious field,
Rolling shall bid his eastern waves declare
Germania sav'd by Britain's ample shield,
And bleeding Gaul afflicted by her spear;
Shall bid them mention Marlborough on the shore,
Leading his islanders, renown'd in arms,
Through climes, where never British chief before
Or pitch'd his camp, or sounded his alarms;
Shall bid them bless the queen, who made his streams
Glorious as those of Boyne, and safe as those of
Thames.

Brabantia, clad with fields, and crown'd with
towers,

With decent joy shall her deliverer meet;
Shall own thy arms, great queen, and bless thy
powers,

Laying the keys beneath thy subject's feet,
Flandria, by plenty made the home of war,
Shall weep her crime, and bow to Charles restor'd;
With double vows shall bless thy happy care,
In having drawn, and having sheath'd the sword;
From these their sister provinces shall know,
How Anne supports a friend, and how forgives a foc.

Bright swords, and crested helms, and pointed
In artful piles around the work shall lie; [spears,
And shields indented deep in ancient wars,
Blazon'd with signs of Gallic heraldry ;

And standards with distinguish'd honours bright,
Marks of high power and national command,
Which Valois' sons, and Bourbon's bore in fight,
Or gave to Foix', or Montmorency's hand:
Great spoils, which Gallia must to Britain yield,
From Cressy's battle sav'd to grace Ramilia's field.

And, as fine Art the spaces may dispose,
The knowing thought and curious eye shall see
Thy emblem, gracious queen, the British rose,
Type of sweet rule and gentle majesty:
The northern thistle, whom no hostile hand
Unhurt too rudely may provoke, I ween;
Hibernia's harp, device of her command,
And parent of her mirth, shall there be seen:
Thy vanquish'd lilies, France, decay'd and torn,
Shall with disorder'd pomp the lasting work adorn,

Beneath, great queen, oh! very far beneath,
Near to the ground, and on the humble base,
To save herself from darkness and from death,
That Muse desires the last, the lowest place;
Who, tho' unmeet, yet touch'd the trembling string,
For the fair fame of Anne and Albion's land,
Who durst of war and inartial fury sing;
And when thy will, and when thy subject's hand,
Had quell'd those wars, and bid that fury cease,
Hangs up her grateful harp to conquest, and to
peace.

HER RIGHT NAME,
As Nancy at her toilet sat,
Admiring this, and blaming that,
"Tell me," she said; "but tell me true;
The nymph who could your heart subdue.-
What sort of charms does she possess?"
"Absolve me, fair one, I'll confess
With pleasure," I reply'd.
"Her hair,
In ringlets rather dark than fair,
Does down her ivory bosom roll,
And, hiding half, adorns the whole.
In her high forehead's fair half-round
Love sits in open triumph crown'd;
He in the dimple of her chin,
In private state, by friends is seen.
Her eyes are neither black nor gray;
Nor fierce nor feeble is their ray;
Their dubious lustre seems to show
Something that speaks nor Yes, nor No.
Her lips no living bard, I weet,
May say, how red, how round, how sweet;
Old Homer only could indite

Their vagrant grace and soft delight:
They stand recorded in his book,
When Helen smil'd, and Hebe spoke."
The gipsey, turning to her glass,
Too plainly show'd she knew the face ;
"And which am I most like," she said,
"Your Cloe, or your Nut-brown Maid?"

CANTATA.

SET BY MONSIEUR CALLIARD.

RECIT.

BENEATH a verdant laurel's ample shade
His lyre to mournful numbers strung,
Horace, immortal bard, supinely laid,
To Venus thus address'd the song:

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FORMA BONUM FRAGILE.

"WHAT a frail thing is beauty!" says Baron le Perceiving his mistress had one cye of glass : [Cras, And scarcely had he spoke it,

When she more confus'd, as more angry she grew, By a negligent rage prov'd the maxim too true: She dropt the eye, and broke it.

AN EPIGRAM.

WRITTEN TO THE DUKE DE NOAILLES.

VAIN the concern which you express,
That uncall'd Alard will possess

Your house and coach, both day and night, And that Macbeth was haunted less

By Banquo's restless spright.

With fifteen thousand pounds a year,
Do you complain, you cannot bear

An ill, you may so soon retrieve ?
Good Alard, faith, is modester

By much than you believe.
Lend him but fifty Louis-d'or;
And you shall never sce him more:
Take the advice; probatum est.
Why do the gods indulge our store,
But to secure our rest?

EPILOGUE

TO SMITH'S PHEDRA AND HIPPOLYTUS,
SPOKEN BY Mrs. Oldfield, WHO ACTED ISMENA.

LADIES, to night your pity I implore
For one,
who never troubled you before:
An Oxford man, extremely read in Greek,
Who from Euripides makes Phædra speak;
And comes to town to let us moderns know,
How women lov'd two thousand years ago.

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If that be all," said I, "e'en burn your play:
Egad! we know all that as well as they :
Show us the youthful, handsome charioteer,
Firm in his seat, and runuing his career;
Our souls would kindle with as generous flames,
As e'er inspir'd the ancient Grecian dames:
Every Ismona would resign her breast;
And every dear Hippolytus be blest.

"But, as it is, six flouncing Flanders mares
Are e'en as good as any two of theirs:
And, if Hippolytus can but contrive
To buy the gilded chariot, John can drive."
Now of the bustle you have seen to day,
And Phædra's morals in this scholar's play,
Something at least in justice should be said;
But this Hippolytus so fills one's head—
Well! Phædra liv'd as chastely as she con'd;
For she was father Jove's own flesh and blood.
Her aukward love indeed was oddly fated;
She and her Poly were too near related;
And yet that scruple had been laid aside,
If honest Theseus had but fairly died:
But when he came, what needed he to know,
But that all matters stood in statu quo ?

There was no harm, you see; or, grant there were,
She might want conduct; but he wanted care.

"Twas in a husband little less than rude,
Upon his wife's retirement to intrude--
That he would come exact at such an hour;
He should have sent a night or two before,
Then he had turn'd all tragedy to jest;
Found every thing contribute to his rest;
The picquet friend dismiss'd, the coast all clear,
And spouse alone impatient for her dear.

But, if these gay reflections come too late,
To keep the guilty Phædra from her fate;
If your more serious judgment must condemn
The dire effects of her unhappy flame:
Yet, ye chaste matrons, and ye tender fair,
Let Love and Innocence engage your care:
My spotless flames to your protection take;
And spare poor Phædra for Ismena's sake.

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EPILOGUE TO MRS. MANLEY'S LUCIUS.
THE female author who recites to day,
Trusts to her sex the merit of her play.
Like father Bayes securely she sits down:
Pit, box, and gallery, 'gad! all's our own.
In ancient Greece, she says, when Sappho writ,
By their applause the critics show'd their wit,
They tun'd their voices to her lyric string;
Tho' they could all do something more than sing.
But one exception to this fact we find;
That booby Phaon only was unkind,
An ill-bred boat-man, rough as waves and wind.
From Sappho down through all succeeding ages,
And now on French or on Italian stages,
Rough satyrs, sly remarks, ill-natur'd speeches,
Are always aim'd at poets that wear breeches.
Arm'd with Longinus, or with Rapin, no man
Drew a sharp pen upon a naked woman.
The blustering bully, in our neighbouring streets,
Scorns to attack the female that he meets :
Fearless the petticoat contemns his frowns:
The hoop secures whatever it surrounds.
The many colour'd gentry there above,
By turns are rul'd by tumult and by love:
And, while their sweethearts their attention fix,
Suspend the din of their damn'd clattering sticks
Now, sirs-

To you our author makes her soft request,
Who speak the kindest, and who write the best,
Your sympathetic hearts she hopes to move,
From tender friendship, and endearing love.
If Petrarch's Muse did Laura's wit rehearse;
And Cowley flatter'd dear Orinda's verse;
She hopes from you-Pox take her hopes and fears!
I plead her sex's claim; what matters hers?
By our full power of beauty we think fit
To damn the Salique law impos'd on wit:
We'll try the empire who so long have boasted;
And, if we are not prais'd, we'll not be toasted.
Approve what one of us presents to night,
Or every mortal woman here shall write:
Bural, pathetic, narrative, sublime,

We'll write to you, and make you write in rhyme

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