« السابقةمتابعة »
From Britain's ifle, and Ifis' facred spring
One hour, oh! liften while the muses fing.
Tho' minifters of mighty monarchs wait,
With beating hearts, to learn their master's fate,
One hour forbear to fpeak thy Queen's commands,
Nor think the world, thy charge, neglected fands;
The blissful profpects, in my verse display'd,
May lure the stubborn, the deceiv'd persuade,
Ev'n thou to peace fhalt speedier urge the way,
And more be haften'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 boafting leaders bound,
And his proud bulwarks fmoaking on the ground;
In vain with pow'rs renew'd he fill'd the plain,
Made tim❜rous vows, and brib'd the faints 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 feems dethron'd in dreams;
On glory paft reflects with fecret pain,
On mines exhausted, and on millions flain.
To Britain's Queen the fcepter'd fuppliant bends, To her his crowns and infant race commends,
Who grieves her fame with chriftian blood to buy,
Nor afks for glory at a price fo high.
At her decree the war fufpended ftands,
And Britain's heroes hold their lifted hands:
Their open brows no threat'ning frowns difguife,
But gentler paffions fparkle 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 thofe, whom dreadful to the view
In forms fo fierce their fearful fancies drew,
At whofe dire names ten thousand widows prefs'd
Their helpless orphans clinging to the breaft.
In filent rapture each his foe furveys,
They vow firm friendship, and give mutual praise.
Brave minds, howe'er at war, are fecret friends,
Their gen'rous discord with the battle ends;
In peace they wonder whence diffention rose,
And ask how fouls fo like could e'er be foes.
Methinks I hear more friendly fhouts rebound,
And focial clarions mix their sprightly found;
The British flags are furl'd, her troops disband,
And scatter'd armies feek their native land.
The hardy veteran, proud of many a scar,
The manly charms and honours of the war,
Who hop'd to fhare his friend's illuftrious doom,
And in the battle find a foldier'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 fmiles,
O'erpay their fleepless nights, and crown their toils;
Soft beauty is the gallant foldier's due,
For you they conquer, and they bleed for you.
In vain proud Gaul with boaftful Spain confpires,
When Eaglifh valour English beauty fires;
The nations dread your eyes, and kings despair
Of chiefs fo brave, till they have nymphs so fair.
See the fond wife, in tears of tranfport, drown'd,
Hugs her rough lord, and weeps o'er ev'ry wound;
Hangs on the lips, that fields of blood relate,
And fmiles and trembles, at his various fate.
Near the full bowl he draws the fancied line,
And marks feign'd trenches in the flowing wine,
Then fets th' invested fort before her eyes,
And mines that whirl'd battalions to the skies ;
His little lift'ning progeny turn pale,
And beg again to hear the dreadful tale.
Such dire atchievements 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 vifit fields their valiant fathers won ;
From Flandria's fhore their country's fame they trace, Till far Germania fhews her blafted face.
Th' exulting Briton asks his mournful guide,
Where his hard fate the loft Bavaria try'd;
Where Stepney grav'd the stone to ANNA's fame:
He points to Blenheim, once a vulgar name;
Here fled the Houfhold, there did Tallard yield,
Here Malb'rough turn'd the fortune of the field;
On those steep banks, near Danube's raging flood,
The Gauls thrice started back, and trembling ftood;
When, Churchill's arm perceiv'd, they stood not long,
But plung'd amidst the waves, a desperate throng;
Crowds whelm'd on crowds dafh'd wide the wat'ry bed,
And drove the current to its diftant head.
As when by Raphael's, or by Kneller's hands
A warlike courfer on the canvas ftands,
Such as on Landen bleeding Ormond bore,
Or fet young Ammon on the Granic fhore ;
If chance a gen'rous steed the work behold,
He fnorts, he neighs, he champs the foamy gold:
So, Hocftet feen, tumultuous paffions roll,
And hints of glory fire the Briton's foul;
In fancy'd fights he fees the troops engage,
And all the tempeft of the battle
Charm me, ye pow'rs, with scenes lefs nobly bright,
Far humbler thoughts th' inglorious mufe delight,
Content to see the horrors of the field
By plough-fhares levell'd, or in flow'rs conceal'd.
O'er fhatter'd walls may creeping ivy twine,
And grafs luxuriant cloath the harmless mine,
Tame flocks afcend the breach without a wound,
crop the bastion, now a fruitful ground;
While fhepherds fleep, along the rampart laid,
Or pipe beneath the formidable fhade.
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 fubject to a flave;
His neighbour's realms by frauds un-kingly gain'd,
In guiltless blood the facred ermine ftain'd;
Laid fchemes for death, to flaughter 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 fweat, and vainly-ripen'd fields;
Curs'd by the maid, torn from her lover's fide,
When left a widow, though not yet a bride :
By mothers curs'd, when floods of tears they shed,
And scatter useless rofes on the dead.
Oh facred BRISTOL! then what dangers prove
The arts; thou fmil'ft on with paternal love?
Then, mix'd with rubbish by the brutal foes,
In vain the marble breathes, the canvas glows;
To fhades obfcure the glitt'ring fword purfues
The gentle poet, and defenceless muse.
A voice, like thine alone, might then afswage
The warrior's fury, and controul his
To hear thee speak might the fierce Vandal stand,
And fling the brandish'd fabre from his hand.
Far hence be driv'n to Scythia's stormy fhore
The drum's harsh musick, and the cannon's roar ;