And all the thunder of the battle rise!
'T was then great Marlbro's mighty soul was proved,
That, in the shock of charging hosts unmoved,
Amidst confusion, horrour, and despair,
Examined all the dreadful scenes of war:
In peaceful thought the field of death surveyed,
To fainting squadrons sent the timely aid,
Inspired repulsed battalions to engage,
And taught the doubtful battle where to rage.
So when an angel by divine command
With rising tempests shakes a guilty land,
Such as of late o'er pale Britannia passed,
Calm and serene he drives the furious blast,
And, pleased th' Almighty's orders to perform,
Rides in the whirlwind, and directs the storm.

1704.

MATTHEW PRIOR

TO A CHILD OF QUALITY FIVE YEARS OLD

THE AUTHOR THEN FORTY

Lords, knights, and squires, the num'rous band
That wear the fair Miss Mary's fetters,
Were summoned, by her high command,
To show their passions by their letters.

My pen amongst the rest I took,

Lest those bright eyes that cannot read
Should dart their kindling fires, and look
The power they have to be obeyed.

Nor quality nor reputation

Forbid me yet my flame to tell;
Dear five years old befriends my passion,
And I may write till she can spell.

1704.

For while she makes her silk-worms beds
With all the tender things I swear,
Whilst all the house my passion reads
In papers round her baby's hair,

She may receive and own my flame;

For though the strictest prudes should know it,
She'll pass for a most virtuous dame,
And I for an unhappy poet.

Then, too, alas! when she shall tear

The lines some younger rival sends,
She'll give me leave to write, I fear,

And we shall still continue friends;

For, as our diff'rent ages move,

'Tis so ordained (would Fate but mend it!) That I shall be past making love

When she begins to comprehend it.

1704.

Spare, gen'rous victor, spare the slave
Who did unequal war pursue,
That more than triumph he might have
In being overcome by you.

In the dispute whate'er I said,

My heart was by my tongue belied,
And in my looks you might have read
How much I argued on your side.

TO A LADY

SHE REFUSING TO CONTINUE A DISPUTE WITH ME AND LEAVING ME IN THE ARGUMENT

You, far from danger as from fear,

Might have sustained an open fight:
For seldom your opinions err;

Your eyes are always in the right.

1704.

Why, fair one, would you not rely

On Reason's force with Beauty's joined?
Could I their prevalence deny,

I must at once be deaf and blind.

Alas! not hoping to subdue,

I only to the fight aspired;
To keep the beauteous foe in view
Was all the glory I desired.

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But she, howe'er of vict'ry sure,

Contemns the wreath too long delayed, And, armed with more immediate pow'r, Calls cruel silence to her aid.

Deeper to wound, she shuns the fight;

She drops her arms, to gain the field; Secures her conquest by her flight,

And triumphs when she seems to yield.

So when the Parthian turned his steed
And from the hostile camp withdrew,
With cruel skill the backward reed
He sent, and as he fled he slew.

1704.

A SIMILE

Dear Thomas, didst thou never pop
Thy head into a tin-man's shop?
There, Thomas, didst thou never see
('Tis but by way of simile)
A squirrel spend his little rage
In jumping round a rolling cage,
The cage, as either side turned up,
Striking a ring of bells a-top?
Moved in the orb, pleased with the chimes,
The foolish creature thinks he climbs;
But here or there, turn wood or wire,
He never gets two inches higher.
So fares it with those merry blades
That frisk it under Pindus' shades:
In noble songs and lofty odes,
They tread on stars and talk with gods;
Still dancing in an airy round,

Still pleased with their own verses' sound;
Brought back, how fast soe'er they go,
Always aspiring, always low.

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AN ODE

The merchant, to secure his treasure,
Conveys it in a borrowed name:
Euphelia serves to grace my measure,
But Chloe is my real flame.

My softest verse, my darling lyre,
Upon Euphelia's toilet lay,
When Chloe noted her desire

That I should sing, that I should play.

My lyre I tune, my voice I raise,

But with my numbers mix my sighs;
And whilst I sing Euphelia's praise,

I fix my soul on Chloe's eyes.

Fair Chloe blushed; Euphelia frowned;
I sung and gazed, I played and trembled;
And Venus to the Loves around

Remarked how ill we all dissembled.

1718.

A BETTER ANSWER

Dear Chloe, how blubbered is that pretty face!
Thy cheek all on fire, and thy hair all uncurled!
Prithee quit this caprice, and (as old Falstaff says)

Let us e'en talk a little like folks of this world.

How canst thou presume thou hast leave to destroy
The beauties which Venus but lent to thy keeping?
Those looks were designed to inspire love and joy;

More ord'nary eyes may serve people for weeping.

To be vexed at a trifle or two that I writ,

Your judgment at once and my passion you wrong; You take that for fact which will scarce be found wit: Od's life! must one swear to the truth of a song?

What I speak, my fair Chloe, and what I write, shows
The diff'rence there is betwixt nature and art:

I court others in verse, but I love thee in prose;

And they have my whimsies, but thou hast my heart.

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The god of us verse-men (you know, child), the sun,
How after his journeys he sets up his rest;
If at morning o'er earth 't is his fancy to run,
At night he reclines on his Thetis's breast.

So when I am wearied with wand'ring all day,
To thee, my delight, in the evening I come:
No matter what beauties I saw in my way;

They were but my visits, but thou art my home.

Then finish, dear Chloe, this pastoral war,

And let us like Horace and Lydia agree; For thou art a girl as much brighter than her As he was a poet sublimer than me.

JONATHAN SWIFT

1718.

A DESCRIPTION OF THE MORNING

Now hardly here and there a hackney-coach,
Appearing, showed the ruddy Morn's approach. . . .
The slipshod 'prentice from his master's door
Had pared the dirt, and sprinkled round the floor.
Now Moll had whirled her mop with dext'rous airs,
Prepared to scrub the entry and the stairs.
The youth with broomy stumps began to trace
The kennel edge, where wheels had worn the place.
The small-coal man was heard with cadence deep,
Till drowned in shriller notes of chimney-sweep.
Duns at his lordship's gate began to meet

And brick-dust Moll had screamed through half a street.
The turnkey now his flock returning sees,
Duly let out a-nights to steal for fees.

The watchful bailiffs take their silent stands,
And school-boys lag with satchels in their hands.

1709.

1709.