At whose dire names ten thousand widows press'd
Their helpless orphans clinging to the breast.
In silent rapture each his foe surveys;

They vow firm friendship and give mutual praise.
Brave minds, howe'er at war, are secret friends;
Their generous discord with the battle ends:
In Peace they wonder whence dissension rose,
And ask how souls so 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 friends' illustrious doom,
And in the battle find a soldier's tomb,

Leans on his spear to take his farewell view,
And, sighing, bids 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;

For 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 every 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 the' invested fort before her eyes,
And mines, that whirl'd battalions to the skies;

His little listening progeny turn pale,

And beg again to hear the dreadful tale.

Such dire achievements sings the bard, that tells Of palfrey'd dames, bold knights, and magic 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 shore their country's fame they
trace,

Till far Germania shows her blasted face.

The' exulting Briton asks his mournful guide,
Where his hard fate the lost Bavaria tried?
Where Stepney grav'd the stone to Anna's fame?-
He points to Blenheim, once a vulgar name.
Here fled the household, there did Tallard yield,
Here Marlborough 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 desperate throng! Crowds whelm'd on crowds dash'd wide the watry bed,

And drove the current to its distant head.

As when by Raphael's or by Kneller's hands A warlike courser on the canvass stands, Such as on Landen bleeding Ormond bore, Or set young Ammon on the Granic shore, If chance a generous steed the work behold, He snorts, he neighs, he champs the foamy gold;

So Hochstet seen, tumultuous passions roll,
And hints of glory fire the Briton's soul,
In fancied fights he sees the troops engage,
And all the tempest of the battle rage.

Charm me, ye Powers! with scenes less nobly right;

Far humbler thoughts the' inglorious Muse delight,
Content to see the horrors of the field

By ploughshares levell'd or in flowers conceal'd.
O'er shatter'd walls may creeping ivy twine,
And grass luxuriant clothe the harmless mine;
Tame flocks ascend 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 neighbours' realms by frauds unkingly gain'd, In guiltless blood the sacred ermine stain'd,

Laid schemes for death, to slaughter turn'd his heart,

And fitted murder to the rules of art?

Ah! curst Ambition! to thy lures we owe
All the great ills that mortals bear below;
Curst by the hind, when to the spoil he yields
His year's whole sweat and vainly ripen'd fields;
Curst by the maid, torn from her lover's side,
When left a widow though not yet a bride;
By mothers curst, when floods of tears they shed,
And scatter useless roses on the dead!

Oh, sacred Bristol? then what dangers prove
The arts thou smil'st on with paternal love!

Then mix'd with rubbish by the brutal foes,
In vain the marble breathes, the canvass glows;
To shades obscure the glittering sword pursues
The gentle poet and defenceless Muse:
A voice like thine alone might then assuage
The warrior's fury and control his rage;

To hear thee speak might the fierce Vandal stand, And fling the brandish'd sabre from his hand.

Far hence be driven to Scythia's stormy shore
The drum's harsh music and the cannon's roar.
Let grim Bellona haunt the lawless plain
Where Tartar clans and grisly Cossacks reign;
Let the steel'd Turk be deaf to matrons' cries,
See virgins ravish'd with relentless eyes,
To death grey heads and smiling infants doom,
Nor spare the promise of the pregnant womb,
O'er wasted kingdoms spread his wide command,
The savage lord of an unpeopled land!

Her guiltless glory just Britannia draws
From pure religion and impartial laws;
To Europe's wounds a mother's aid she brings,
And holds in equal scales the rival kings:
Her generous sons in choicest gifts abound.
Alike in arms, alike in arts renown'd.

As when sweet Venus (so the fable sings)
Awak'd by nereids from the ocean springs,
With smiles she sees the threatening billows rise,
Spreads smooth the surge and clears the low'ring
skies,

Light o'er the deep, with fluttering Cupids crown'd
The pearly couch and silver turtles bound,
Her tresses shed ambrosial odours round.
Amidst the world of waves so stands serene
Britannia's isle, the Ocean' stately queen!

In vain the nations have conspir'd her fall,
Her trench the sea, and fleets her floating wall:
Defenceless barks, her powerful navy near,
Have only waves and hurricanes to fear.
What bold invader or what land opprest
Hath not her anger quell'd, her aid redrest!
Say where have e'er her Union Crosses sail'd,
But much her arms, her justice more, prevail'd!
Her labours are to plead the' Almighty's cause,
Her pride to teach the' untam'd Barbarian laws.
Who conquers, wins by brutal strength the prize,
But 'tis a godlike work to civilize.

Have we forgot how from great Russia's throne
The king, whose power half Europe's regions own,
Whose sceptre waving, with one shout rush forth
In swarms, the harness'd millions of the north,
Through realms of ice pursued his tedious way
To court our friendship and our fame survey!
Hence the rich prize of useful arts he bore,
And round his empire spread the learned store :
(To' adorn old realms is more than new to raise;
His country's parent is a monarch's praise.)
His bands now march in just array to war,
And Caspian gulphs unusual navies bear;
With runic lays Smolensko's forests ring,
And wondering Volga hears the Muses sing.
Did not the painted kings of India greet
Our Queen, and lay their sceptres at her feet?
Chiefs who full bowls of hostile blood had quaff't,
Fam'd for the javelin and envenom'd shaft,
Whose haughty brows made savages adore,
Nor bow'd to less than stars or sun before:
Her pitying smile accepts their suppliant claim,
And adds four monarchs to the Christian name.