HE haughty Gaul, in ten Campaigns o'erthrown,
Now ceas'd to think the Western World
Oft had he mourn'd his boafting Leaders
bound,
And his proud Bulwarks fmoking 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 Feafts he starts, and feems dethron'd in Dreams,
On Glory paft reflects with fecret Pain,
On Mines exhaufted, and on Millions flain.
To Britain's Queen the fceptred Suppliant bends,
To her his Crowns and infant Race commends,
Who grieves her Fame with Chriftian Blood to buy,
Nor asks for Glory at a Price fo high.
At her Decree the War fufpended stands,
And Britain's Heroes hold their lifted Hands,
Their open Brows no threat'ning Frowns disguise,
But gentler Paffions 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 whofe dire Names ten thousand Widows preft
Their helpless Orphans clinging to the Breaft.
In filent Rapture each his Foe furveys,
They vow firm Friendship, and give mutual Praife.
Brave Minds, howe'er at War, are fecret Friends,
Their gen'rous Discord with the Battle ends;
In Peace they wonder whence Diffenfion rose,
And ask how Souls fo like cou'd e'er be Foes.
Methinks I hear more friendly Shouts rebound,
And focial Clarions mix their sprightly Sound,
The British Flags are furl'd, her Troops disband,
And scatter'd Armies feek their native Land.
The hardy Vet'ran, proud of many a car,
The manly Charms and Honours of the War,
Who hop'd to share his Friends' illuftrious Doom,
And in the Battle find a Soldier's Tomb,
Leans on his Spear to take his farewel View,
And fighing bids the glorious Camp adieu.
Ye gen'rous Fair, receive the Brave with Smiles, O'er-pay their fleepless 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 boaftful Spain confpires,
When English Valour English Beauty fires;
The Nations dread your Eyes, and Kings defpair
Of Chiefs fo brave, till they have Nymphs fo 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, or trembles at his various Fate.
Near the full Bowl he draws the fancy'd 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 Achievements 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 diftant Nations run,
To vifit Fields, their valiant Fathers won;
From Flandria's Shore 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 Houfbold, there did Tallard yield,
Here Marlb'rough turn'd the Fortune of the Field,
On those steep Banks, near Danube's raging Flood,
The Gauls thrice ftarted back, and trembling ftood:
When, Churchill's Arm perceiv'd, they ftood not long,
But plung'd amidft the Waves, a defp'rate Throng,
Crowds whelm'd on Crowds dafh'd wide the watry 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 stands,
Such as on Landen bleeding Ormond bore,
Or fet young Ammon on the Granic Shore;
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 Soul,
In fancy'd Fights he fees the Troops engage,
And all the Tempeft of the Battle rage.
Charm me, ye Pow'rs, with Scenes lefs nobly bright, Far humbler Thoughts th' inglorious Mufe delight, Content to see the Honours of the Field
By Plough-fhares level'd, or in Flow'rs conceal'd.
O'er fhatter'd Walls may creeping Ivy twine,
And Grafs luxuriant clothe the harmlefs Mine,
Tame Flocks afcend the Breach without a Wound,
Or crop the Bastion, now a fruitful Ground;
While Shepherds fleep, along the Rampart laid,
Or pipe beneath the formidable Shade.
Who was the Man? Oblivion blast his Name,
Torn out, and blotted from the Lift of Fame!
Who fond of lawless Rule, and proudly brave,
Firft funk the filial Subject to a Slave,
His Neighbour's Realms by Frauds unkingly gain'd, In guiltless Blood the facred Ermine stain'd,
Laid Schemes for Death, to Slaughter turn'd his Heart And fitted Murder to the Rules of Art.
Ah! curft Ambition, to thy Lures we owe
All the great Ills, that Mortals bear below.
Curft by the Hind, when to the Spoil he yields -
His Year's whole Sweat, and yainly ripen'd. Fields ;
Curt by the Maid, toth from her Lover's Side,
When left a Widow, though not yet a Bride;
By Mothers curft, when Floods of Tears they shed,
And scatter ufelefs 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 Shades obfcure the glitt'ring Sword' purfues
The gentle Poet, and defenceless Mufe.
A Voice, like thine alone, might then affwage
The Warrior's Fury, and control his Rage;
To hear thee speak might the fierce Vandal stand,
And fling the brandish'd Sabre from his Hand.
Far hence be driv'n to Scythia's ftormy Shore The Drums harsh Music, and the Cannon's Roar;
Let grim Bellona haunt the lawless Plain,
Where Tartar Clans, and grizly Coffacks reign;
Let the feel'd Turk be deaf to Matrons' Cries,
See Virgins ravifh'd with relentless Eyes,
To Death gray Heads and fmiling Infants doom,
Nor spare the Promise of the pregnant Womb,
O'er wafted Kingdoms fpread his wide Command,
The favage Lord of an unpeopled Land.
Her guiltless Glory juft Britannia draws
From pure Religion, and impartial Laws,
To Europe's Wounds a Mother's Aid fhe brings,
And holds in equal Scales the rival Kings:
Her gen'rous Sons in choiceft Gifts abound,
Alike in Arms, alike in Arts renown'd.
As when sweet Venus (fo the Fable fings)
Awak'd by Nereids, from the Ocean Springs,
With Smiles fhe fees the threatning Billows rife,
Spreads fmooth the Surge, and clears the louring Skies,
Light, o'er the Deep, with flutt'ring Cupids crown'd,
The pearly Conch and filver Turtles bound ;
Her Treffes fhed ambrofial Odours round.
Amidst the World of Waves fo ftands ferene
Britannia's 'Ifle," the Ocean's ftately Queen;
In vain the Nations have confpir'd her Fall,
Her Trench the Sea, and Fleets her floating Wall:
Defenceless Barks, her pow'rful Navy near,
Have only Waves and Hurricanes to fear.
What bold Invader, or what Land oppreft
Hath not her Anger quell'd, her Aid redreft!
Say, where have e'er her Union-Croffes fail'd,
But much her Arms, her Juftice more prevail'd!
Her Labours are to plead th' Almighty's Caufe,
Her Pride to teach th' untam'd Barbarian Laws:
Who conquers wins by, brutal Strength the Prize;
But 'tis a Godlike Work to civilize.
Have we forgot how from great Ruffia's Throne
The King, whofe Pow'r half Europe's Regions own,
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