Nor war haft thou to wage, nor year to come:
Impending death is thine, and inftant doom.
Hark! the imperious goddefs is obey'd
Winds murmur; fnows defcend; and waters spread:
Oh! kinfman, friend-Oh! vain are all the cries
Of human voice; ftrong deftiny replies:
Weep you on earth: for he shall sleep below:
Thence none return; and thither all must go.
Whoe'er thou art, whom choice or bufinefs leads
To this fad river, or the neighbouring meads;
If thou may'st happen on the dreary shores
To find the object which this verse deplores;
Cleanfe the pale corps with a religious hand
From the polluting weed and common fand;
Lay the dead hero graceful in a grave;
(The only honour he can now receive)
And fragrant mould upon his body throw:
And plant the warrior laurel o'er his brow :
Light lie the earth; and flourish green the bough.
So may juft Heaven fecure thy future life
From foreign dangers, and domestick ftrife!
And when th' infernal judge's difmal power
From the dark urn fhall throw thy deftin'd hour;
When yielding to the fentence, breathiefs thou
And pale fhalt lie, as what thou buriest now;
May fome kind friend the piteous object see,
And equal rites perform, to that which once was thee.
SPOKEN AT COURT BEFORE THE QUEEN, ON HER MAJESTY'S BIRTH-DAY, MDCCIV.
SHINE forth, ye planets, with distinguish'd light,
As when ye hallow'd first this happy night:
Again tranfmit your friendly beams to earth:
As when Britannia joy'd for Anna's birth:
And thou, propitious ftar, whofe facred power
Prefided o'er the monarch's natal hour,
Thy radiant voyages for ever run,
Yielding to none but Cynthia, and the Sun:
With thy fair afpect still illustrate Heaven:
Kindly preferve what thou haft greatly given:
Thy influence for thy Anna we implore:
Prolong one life; and Britain asks no more:
For Virtue can no ampler power express,
Than to be great in war, and good in peace:
For thought no higher wish of bliss can frame,
Than to enjoy that virtue STILL THE SAME.
Entire and fure the monarch's rule must prove,
Who founds her greatnefs on her fubjects love;
Who does our homage for our good require;
And orders that which we should first defire:
Our vanquish'd wills that pleafing force obey,
Her goodness takes our liberty away,
And haughty Britain yields to arbitrary sway.
Let the young Auftrian then her terrors bear,
Great as he is, her delegate in war:
Let him in thunder speak to both his Spains,
That in these dreadful ifles a woman reigns.
While the bright queen does on her subjects shower
The gentle bleffings of her fofter power;
Gives facred morals to a vicious age,
To temples zeal, and manners to the stage;
Bids the chafte Mufe without a blush appear;
And Wit be that which Heaven and she
may hear. Minerva thus to Perfeus lent her shield; Secure of conqueft, fent him to the field: The Hero acted what the Queen ordain'd: So was his fame compleat, and Andromede unchain'd. Mean time amidst her native temples fate The goddess, ftudious of her Grecian's fate, Taught them in laws and letters to excel, In acting justly, and in writing well. Thus whilft she did her various power dispose; The world was free from tyrants, wars, and woes : Virtue was taught in verfe, and Athens' glory rofe.
MONSIEUR BOILEAU DESPREAUX;
Cupidum, pater optime, vires
Deficiunt: neque enim quivis horrentia pilis
Agmina, nec fractâ pereuntes cufpide gallos
SINCE hir'd for life, thy fervile Muse must fing
Succeffive conquefts, and a glorious king;
Muft of a man immortal vainly boast,
And bring him lawrels, whatfoe'er they coft:
What turn wilt thou employ, what colours lay
On the event of that fuperior day,
In which one English subject's profperous hand
(So Jove did will; so Anna did command)
Broke the proud column of thy mafter's praise,
Which fixty winters had confpir'd to raise?
From the loft field a hundred standards brought Must be the work of Chance, and Fortune's fault: Bavaria's ftars must be accus'd, which fhone, That fatal day the mighty work was done, With rays oblique upon the Gallic fun. Some Dæmon envying France misled the fight: And Mars mistook, tho' Louis order'd right.
When thy * young mufe invok'd the tuneful Nine, To fay how Louis did not pass the Rhine, What work had we with Wageninghen, Arnheim, Places that could not be reduc'd to rhime! And though the poet made his last efforts, Wurts who could mention in heroic-Wurts? But, tell me haft thou reafon to complain Of the rough triumphs of the last campaign; The Danube refcu'd, and the empire fav'd, Say, is the majefty of verfe retriev'd? And would it prejudice thy fofter vein, To fing the princes, Louis and Eugene?
Is it too hard in happy verfe to place
The Vans and Vanders of the Rhine and Maes?
Her warriors Anna fends from Tweed and Thames,
That France may fall by more harmonious names,
Canft thou not Hamilton or Lumley bear?
Would Ingold by or Palmes offend thy ear?
And is there not a found in Marlborough's name,
Which thou, and all thy, brethren ought to claim,
Sacred to verfe, and fure of endless fame ?
Epiftre 4. du Sr. Boileau Defpreaux au Roy,
En vain, pour te Louer, &c.
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