VIII. Will no kind flood, no friendly rain, Dear Poet, on the banks of Sambre; When you turn'd June into December? To Villeroy; are the land-nymphs fo♪ Truth, juftice, fenfe, religion, fame, May join to finish William's story : And France in fecret own his glory. How poor to this was Pindar's ftyle? Great bard! and fing the deathlefs Princes Who loft Namur the fame campaign He bought Dixmuyd, and plunder'd; Deynfe. I'll hold ten pound my dream is out : Dear Mars en feu qui les domine, Et les bombes dans les airs XI. Accourez, Naffau, Baviere, Venez vous pouvez tout voir. Et dans les eaux, dans la flame, Marcher, courir avec eux. XII. Contemplez dans la tempête, XII. Grands Dear me a hundred thousand French Till both the town and castle yield. Says Mars, through cannons' mouths in fire; Tells t'other, he can come no nigher.. Regain the lines the shortest way, The steps, by which Namur was loft. Now let us look for Louis' feather, Hanging the monarch's hat so high; XIII. To XIII. To animate the doubtful fight, XIV. The French had gather'd all their force ; Yet off they brush'd, both foot and horse. Or in the valleys near Scamander; If any foolish Phrygian there is, Impertinent enough to ask, How far Namur may be from Paris? XV. Two ftanzas more before we end, Of death, pikes, rocks, arms, bricks, and fire: Leave them behind you, honest friend ; And with your countrymen retire. Your |