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Though minifters of mighty monarchs wait,
With beating hearts, to learn their masters' fate,
One hour forbear to speak thy Queen's commands,
Nor think the world, thy charge, neglected stands ;
The blissful prospects, in my verse display'd,
May lure the stubborn, the deceiv'd persuade;
Ev'n thou to peace
fhalt speedier urge
way, And more be hasten’d by this short delay.
The haughty Gaul, in ten campaigns o’erthrown,
Now ceas'd to think the Western world his own,
Oft had he mourn'd his boasting leaders bound,
And his proud bulwarks smoaking on the ground;
In vain with pow'rs renew'd he fill'd the plain,
Made tim’rous vows, and brib'd the saints in vain ;
As oft his legions did the fight decline,
Lurk'd in the trench, and skulk'd behind the line.
Before his eyes the fancy'd javelin gleams;
At feasts he starts, and seems dethron’d in dreams;
On glory past reflects with secret pain,
On mines exhaufted, and on millions flain.
To Britain's Queen the scepter'd suppliant bends,
To her his crowns and infant race commends;
Who grieves her fame with christian blood to buy,
Nor aks for glory at a price so high.
At her decree the war suspended ftands,
And Britain's heroes hold their lifted hands :
Their open brows no threat'ning frowns disguise,
But gentler passions sparkle in their eyes.
The Gauls, who never in their courts could find
Such temper'd fire with manly beauty join'd,
Doubt if they're those, whom dreadful to the view
In forms fo fierce their fearful fancies drew,
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 gen'rous discord with the battle ends;
In peace they wonder whence diffention 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 found;
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 friend's illustrious doom,
And in the battle find a soldier's tomb,
Leans on his fpear to take his farewel view,
And fighing 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 th' invested fort before her
And mines that whirld battalions to the skies;
His little lift'ning progeny turn pale,
And beg again to hear the dreadful tale.
Such dire archievements fings 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 fore their country's fame they trace, 'Till far Germania shews her blasted face. Th’exulting Briton alks his mournful guide, Where his hard fate the loft Bavaria try'd ; Where d Stepney grav'd the stone to ANNA's fame: He points to Blenheim, once a yulgar name ;
George Stepney, Efq; a gentleman, who although much celebrated by his contemporaries for poetical genius, is at present more known as
Here fled the Houshold, there did Tallard e yield,
Here Marlb'rough 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 amidft the waves, a desp’rate 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 gen'rous steed the work behold,
He snorts, he neighs, he champs the foamy gold :
So, Hocftet seen, tumultyous paffions roll,
And hints of glory fire the Briton's foul ;
a Statesman than a Poet. He was born at Westminster, in the year 1663, and, having become intimately acquainted with Charles Mon. tague, afterwards Earl of Halifax, at Trinity College, Cambridge, through his means procured himself the appointment of ambassador to several foreign courts, where he acquitted himself with great ability and success. He died at Chelsea in the year 1707, and was buried in Westminster Abbey.
* At the battle of Blenheim, the marshal Tallard was taken prisoner by the Duke of Marlborough, and, with twenty-fix other officers of diftin&ion, brought to England, where he continued in confinement a confiderable time.
At the battle of Landen, the Duke of Ormond was taken prisoner, and exchanged for the Dukc of Berwick,
In fancy'd fights he sees the troops engage,
And all the tempest of the battle rage.
Charm me, ye pow'rs, with scenes less nobly bright,
Far humbler thoughts th' inglorious Muse delight,
Content to see the horrors of the field
By plough-shares leveli'd, or in flow'rs conceal'd.
O’er Matter'd walls may creeping ivy twine,
And grass luxuriant cloath the harmless mine,
Tame Aocks ascend the breach without a wound,
Or crop the bastion, now a fruitful ground;
While Mepherds 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 funk the filial subject to a llave ;
His neighbour's realms by frauds un-kingly gain’d,
In guiltless blood the sacred ermine ftain'd;
Laid schemes for death, to slaughter turn'd his heart,
And fitted murder to the rules of art!
Ah! curs'd ambition, to thy lures we owe
All the great ills that mortals bear below.
Curs'd by the hind, when to the spoil he yields
His year's whole sweat and vainly-ripen’d fields;
Curs'd by the maid, torn from her lover's side,
When left a widow, though not yet a bride ;
By mothers curs’d, when floods of tears they shed,
And scatter useless roses on the dead.