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 stood,
And doubly dy'd their crofs in Moorish blood:
Then in heroic arms their knights excell'd,
The tyrant then and giant then they quell'd.
Then every 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 languish, and once revive;
Alike they fhun the coward and the flave,
But blefs the free, the virtuous, and the brave.
Nor frown, ye fair, nor think my verfe untrue;
Though we difdain that man should man fubdue,
Yet all the free-born race are flaves alike to you.
Yet, once again that glory to restore,
The Britons feek the Celtiberian fhore.
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 Auftria, waves his fhining fword;
His youthful veins with hopes of empire glow,
Swell his bold heart, and urge him on the foe :
With joy he reads, in every warrior's face,
Some happy omen of a fure fuccefs;
Then leaps exulting on the hoftile strand,
And thinks the deftin'd fceptre in his hand.
Nor fate denies, what firft his wishes name,
Proud Barcelona owns his jufter claim,
With the first laurel binds his youthful brows,
And, pledge of future crowns, the mural wreath beftows. 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,
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 spoils
That urge the hero, and reward his toils,
Plac'd in their view, alike their hopes engage,
And fire their breafts 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;
As youthful kings, when, ftriving for renown,
They prove their might in arms, and combat for a crown.
Hard was the cruel ftrife, and doubtful long
Betwixt the chiefs fufpended conquest 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,
Confcious of virtue, liberty, and fame,
They vow the youthful monarch's fate to share,
Above diftrefs, unconquer'd by despair,
Still to defend the town, and animate the war.
But lo! when every better hope was past,
When every day of danger feem'd their last,
Far on the diftant ocean, they survey,
Where a proud navy plows its watery way.
Nor long they doubted, but with joy descry,
Upon the chief's tall top-mafts waving high,
The British crofs and Belgic lion fly.
Loud with tumultuous clamour, loud they rear
Their cries of ecstasy, and rend the air ;
In peals on peals the fhouts triumphant rise,
Spread fwift, and rattle through the fpacious fkies;
While, from below, old ocean groans profound,
The walls, the rocks, the fhores, repel the found,
Ring with the deafening 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;
When young Ascanius, then in arms first try'd,
Numbers and every 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 verfe, what numbers, fhall reveal Thofe pangs of rage and grief the vanquish'd feel! Who shall retreating Philip's shame impart,
And tell the anguish of his labouring heart'
What paint, what fpeaking pencil, fhall exprefs
The blended paffions striving in his face!
Hate, indignation, courage, pride, remorse,
With thoughts of glory paft, the lofer's greateft curse.
Fatal ambition! fay what wondrous charms
Delude mankind to toil for thee in arms!
When all thy spoils, thy wreaths in battle won,
The pride of power, 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,
Secur'd from harms, and bleft with learned ease.;
In battles, blood, and perils hard, unskill'd,
Which haunt the warrior in the fatal field;.
But chief, thee, Goddess Mufe! my verfe would raise,
And to thy own foft numbers tune thy praise;
Happy the youth infpir'd, beneath thy fhade,
Thy verdant, ever-living laurels laid!
There, fafe, no pleasures, there no pains they know,
But thofe which from thy facred raptures flow,
Nor wish for crowns, but what thy groves bestow.
Me, nymph divine! nor fcorn my humble prayer,
Receive unworthy, to thy kinder care,
Doom'd to a gentler, though more lowly, fate,
Nor wishing once, nor knowing to be great;
Me, to thy peaceful haunts, inglorious bring,
Where fecret thy celestial fisters fing,
Past by their facred hill, and sweet Caftalian spring.
But nobler thoughts the victor prince employ,
And raise his heart with high triumphant joy;
From hence a better course of time rolls on,
And whiter days fucceffive feem to run.
From hence his kinder fortune feems to date
The rifing glories of his future ftatę,
From hence!---But oh! too foon the hero mourns
His hopes deceiv'd, and war's inconftant turns.
In vain, his echoing trumpets loud alarms
Provoke the cold Iberian lords to arms;
Carelefs of fame, as of their monarch's fate,
In fullen floth fupinely proud they fate;
Or to be flaves or free alike prepar'd,
And trusting heaven was bound to be their guard,
Untouch'd with fhame, the noble ftrife beheld,
Nor once effay'd to ftruggle to the field;
But fought in the cold fhade, and rural feat,
An unmolefted eafe and calm retreat :
Saw each contending prince's arms advance,
Then with a lazy dull indifference
Turn'd to their reft, and left the world to chance.
So when, commanded by the wife of Jove,
Thaumantian Iris left the realms above,
And swift defcending on her painted bow,
Sought the dull god of fleep in fhades below;
Nodding and flow, his drowsy head he rear'd,
And heavily the facred message heard ;
Then with a yawn at once forgot the pain,
And funk to his first floth and indolence again.
But oh, my Mufe! th' ungrateful toil forfake,
Some task more pleafing to thy numbers take,
Nor choose in melancholy strains to tell
Each harder chance the juster cause befel.
Or rather turn, auspicious turn thy flight,
Where Marlborough's heroic arms invite,
Where highest deeds the poet's breast inspire
With rage divine, and fan the facred fire.
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