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Est-ce Apollon et Neptune,
Qui sur ces rocs sourcilleux
Ont, compagnons de Fortune,
Basti ces murs orgueilleux ?
De leur enceinte fameuse
La Sambre unie à la Meuse,
Defend le fatal abord;
Et par cens bouches horribles
L'airain sur ces monts terribles
Vomit le fer, &

Dix mille vaillans Alcides
Les bordant de toutes parts,
D'éclairs au loin homicides
Font petiller leurs remparts :
Et dans son sein infidele
Par toute la terre y recele
Un feu prêt à s'élancer,
Qui soudain perçant son goufre,
Ouvre un sepulchre de foufre,
A quiconque osc avancer.

Namur, devant tes murailles
Jadis la Grece eût vingt ans
Sans fruit veu les funerailles
De ses plus fiers combattans.
Quelle effroyable puissance
Aujourd'hui pourtant s'avance,


Neptune and Sol came from above,

Shap'd like Megrigny and Vauban :
They arm’d these rocks; then shew'd old Jove

Of Marli wood the wondrous plan. Such walls, these three wife Gods agreed,

By human force could ne'er be shaken : But you

and I in Homer read Of gods, as well as men, mistaken. Sambre and Maese their waves may join ;

But ne'er can William's force restrain : He'll pass them both, who pass’d the Boyne : Remember this, and arm the Seine.

Full fifteen thousand lusty fellows

With fire and sword the fort maintain :
Each was a Hercules, you tell us ;

Yet out they march’d, like common men. Cannons above, and mines below,

Did death and tombs for foes contrive :
Yet matters have been order'd so,
That most of us are itill alive.

If Namur be compar'd to Troy ;

Then Britain's boys excell'd the Greeks: Their siege did ten long years employ ;

We've done our business in ten weeks. What godhead does so fast advance,

With dreadful power, those hills to gain? 'Tis little Will, the scourge of France ;

No godhead, but the first of men.

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An Ode, presented to the KING,
On his MAJESTY'S Arrival in HOLLAND,

after the Queen's Death, 1695.
« Quis desiderio fit pudor aut nodus
“ Tam cari capitis? præcipe lugubres
« Cantus, Melpomene."

I. A

T Mary's tomb (sad sacred place!)

The Virtues shall their vigils keep:
And every Muse, and every Grace,
In solemn state shall ever weep.

The future pious, mournful fair,

Oft as the rolling years return,
With fragrant wreaths and flowing hair,
Shall visit her distinguish'd urn.

For her the wise and great shall mourn,

When late records her deeds repeat:
Ages to come, and men unborn,
Shall bless her name, and sigh her fate.

Fair Albion shall, with faithful trust,

Her holy queen's fad reliques guard,
Till Heaven awakes the precious dust,
And gives the Saint her full reward.

But let the king dismiss his woes,

Reflecting on his fair renown;
And take the cypress from his brows,
To put his wonted laurels on.

If prest by grief our monarch stoops,

In vain the British lions roar :
If he, whose hand sustain'd them, droops,
The Belgic darts will wound no more.

Embattled princes wait the chief,

Whose voice should rule, whose arm should lead;
And, in kind murmurs, chide that grief,
Which hinders Europe being freed.

The great example they demand

Who still to conquest led the way;
Wishing him present to command,
As they stand ready to obey.

They seek that joy, which us’d to glow,

Expanded on the Hero's face;
When the thick squadrons prest the foe,
And William led the glorious chace.

To give the mourning nations joy,

Restore them thy auspicious light,
Great sun: with radiant beams destroy
Those clouds, which keep thee from our sight.

XI. Let


Prête à foudroyer tes monts ?
Quel bruit, quel feu l'environne?
C'est Jupiter en personne ;
Ou c'est le vainqueur de Mons.

N'en doute point : c'est lui-même.
Tout brille en lui ; tout eft roi.
Dans Bruxelles Nafsau blême
Commence à trembler


En vain il voit le Batâve,'
Desormais docile esclave,
Rangé fous ses étendarts :
En vain au lion Belgique
Il voit l'aigle Germanique
Uni sous les leopards.

Plein de la frayeur nouvelle,
Dont les sens sont agités,
A son secours il appelle
Les peuples les plus vantés.
Ceux-là viennent du rivage,
Où s'enorgueillit le Tage
De l'or, qui roule en ses eaux ;
Ceux-ci des champs, où la neige
Des marais de la Norvége
Neuf mois couvre les roseaux.

VIII. Alais

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