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The laft fair inftance thou must give,
Whence Naffau's virtue can be try'd ;
And fhew the world, that thou canst live
Intrepid, as thy confort dy'd;
Thy virtue, whofe refiftlefs force
No dire event could ever stay,
Muft carry on its deftin'd course;
Though death and envy stop the way.
For Britain's fake, for Belgia's, live :
Pierc'd by their grief, forget thy own;
New toils endure, new conqueft give,
And bring them ease, though thou hast none.
Vanquish again; though fhe be gone,
Whofe garland crown'd the victor's hair:
And reign, though she has left the throne,
Who made thy glory worth thy care.
Fair Britain never yet before
Breath'd to her king an useless
Fond Belgia never did implore,
While William turn'd averse his ear.
But, fhould the weeping hero now Relentless to their wishes prove; Should he recall, with pleafing woe, The object of his grief and love; VOL. I.
Her face with thousand beauties bleft,
Her mind with thousand virtues ftor'd,
Her power with boundless joy confest,
Her perfon only not ador'd;
Yet ought his forrow to be checkt;
Yet ought his paffions to abate;
If the great mourner would reflect,
Her glory in her death compleat.
She was inftructed to command,
Great king, by long obeying thee;
Her fcepter, guided by thy hand,
Preferv'd the ifles, and rul'd the fea
But oh! 'twas little, that her life
O'er earth and water bears thy fame :
In death, 'twas worthy William's wife,
Amidft the ftars to fix his name.
Beyond where matter moves, or place
Receives its forms, thy virtues roll;
From Mary's glory, angels trace
The beauty of her partner's foul.
Wife Fate, which does its heaven decree
To heroes, when they yield their breath, Haftens thy triumph. Half of thee
Is deify'd before thy death.
Alone to thy renown 'tis given,
Unbounded through all worlds to go:
While fhe, great Saint, rejoices Heaven';
And thou fuftain'ft the orb below.
In IMITATION of ANACREON.
LET them cenfure: what care I?
The herd of critics I defy.
Let the wretches know, I write,
Regardless of their grace or spite.
No, no: the fair, the gay, the young,
Govern the numbers of my fong;
All that they approve is sweet;
And all is fenfe that they repeat.
Bid the warbling Nine retire;
Venus, ftring thy fervant's lyre:
Love shall be my endless theme;
Pleasure shall triumph over Fame :
And, when these maxims I decline,
Apollo, may thy fate be mine!
May I grafp at empty praife;
And lose the nymph, to gain the bays!
Sur la Prife de NAMUR,
par les Armes du Roi, l'Année 1692..
Par Monfieur BOILEAU DESPREAUX.
UELLE docte & fainte yvreffe
Aujourd'hui me fait la loi ?
Chaftes Nymphes du Permeffe,
N'eft-ce pas vous que je voi?
Accourez, troupe fçavante :
Des fons que ma lyre enfante;
Ces arbres font rejoüis:
Marquez en bien la cadence:
Et vous, vents, faites filence:
Je vais parler de Louis.
Dans fes chanfons immortelles,
Comme un aigle audacieux,
Pindare étendant fes aifles,
Fuit loin des vulgaires yeux.
Mais, ô ma fidele lyre,
Si, dans l'ardeur qui m'inspire,
Tu peus fuivre mes tranfports;
Les chênes des monts de Thrace
N'ont rien oui, que n'efface
La douceur de tes accords.
On the Taking of NAMUR by the KING of
GREAT BRITAIN, 1695.
"Dulce eft defipere in loco."
OME folks are drunk, yet do not know it: :
So might not Bacchus give you law?^
Was it a Mufe, O lofty Poet,
Or Virgin of St. Cyr, you
Why all this fury? what's the matter,
That oaks must come from Thrace to dance?
Muft ftupid stocks be taught to flatter?
And is there no fuch wood in France ?
Why muft the winds all hold their tongue?
If they a little breath fhould raise,
Would that have fpoil'd the Poet's fong,
Or puff'd away the Monarch's praife?
Pindar, that eagle, mounts the skies,-
While Virtue leads the noble way ::
Too like a vulture Boileau flies,
Where fordid Intereft fhews the prey.
When once the Poet's honour ceases,
From reason far his tranfports rove:
And Boileau, for eight hundred pieces,
Makes Louis take the wall of Jove.