The German eagles spread their wings; his hand
Grasps victory, its slave. Such was thy brow
Majestic, such thy martial port, when Gaul
Fled from thy frown, and in the Danube sought
A refuge from thy sword.-There, where the field
Was deepest stain'd with gore, on Hochstet's plain,
The theatre' of thy glory, once was rais'd
A meaner trophy, by the' Imperial hand;
Extorted gratitude; which now the rage
Of malice impotent, beseeming ill
A regal breast, has levell'd to the ground;
Mean insult! This, with better auspices,
Shall stand on British earth, to tell the world
How Marlborough fought, for whom, and how
His services. Nor shall the constant love [repaid
Of her who rais'd this monument be lost
In dark oblivion: that shall be the theme
Of future bards in ages yet unborn,
Inspir'd with Chaucer's fire, who in these groves
First tun'd the British harp, and little deem'd
His humble dwelling should the neighbour be
Of Blenheim, house superb; to which the throng
Of travellers approaching shall not pass
His roof unnoted, but respectful hail
With reverence due. Such honour does the Muse
Obtain her favourites!-But the noble pile
(My theme) demands my voice.-O shade ador'd,
Marlborough! who now above the starry sphere
Dwell'st in the palaces of Heaven, enthron'd
Among the demi-gods, deign to defend
This thy abode, while present here below,
And sacred still to thy immortal fame,
With tutelary care. Preserve it safe
From Time's destroying hand, and cruel stroke
Of factious Envy's more relentless rage.
Here may, long ages hence, the British youth,
When Honour calls them to the field of war,
Behold the trophies which thy valour rais'd;
The proud reward of thy successful toils
For Europe's freedom, and Britannia's fame;
That, fir'd with generous envy, they may dare
To emulate thy deeds.--So shall thy name,
Dear to thy country, still inspire her sons
With martial virtue; and to high attempts
Excite their arms, till other battles won,
And nations sav'd, new monuments require,
And other Blenheims shall adorn the land.
A BEAUTY IN THE COUNTRY.
(WRITTEN AT ETON SCHOOL.)
"Twas night; and Flavia to her room retir'd,
With evening chat and sober reading tir'd;
There, melancholy, pensive, and alone,
She meditates on the forsaken town;
On her rais'd arm reclin'd her drooping head,
She sighed, and thus in plaintive accents said:
"Ah! what avails it to be young and fair,
To move with negligence, to dress with care?
What worth have all the charms our pride can
If all in envious solitude are lost?
Where none admire, 'tis useless to excel;
Where none are beaux, 'tis vain to be a belle;
Beauty, like wit, to judges should be shown;
Both most are valued where they best are known.
With every grace of nature or of art,
We cannot break one stubborn country heart:
The brutes, insensible, our power defy :
To love, exceeds a 'squire's capacity.
The town, the court, is beauty's proper sphere;
That is our heaven, and we are angels there:
In that gay circle thousand Cupids rove;
The court of Britain is the court of Love:
How has my conscious heart with triumph glow'd,
How have my sparkling eyes their transport show'd,
At each distinguish'd birth-night ball to see
The homage due to empire, paid to me!
When every eye was fix'd on me alone,
And dreaded mine more than the monarch's frown;
When rival statesmen for my favour strove,
Less jealous in their power than in their love.
Chang'd is the scene, and all my glories die,
Like flowers transplanted to a colder sky;
Lost is the dear delight of giving pain,
The tyrant joy of hearing slaves complain,
In stupid indolence my life is spent,
Supinely calm, and dully innocent:
Unbless'd I wear my useless time away,
Sleep, wretched maid! all night, and dream all day;
Go at set hours to dinner and to prayer,
For dulness ever must be regular :
Now with mamma at tedious whist I play,
Now without scandal drink insipid tea,
Or in the garden breathe the country air,
Secure from meeting any tempter there;
From books to work, from work to books I
And am, alas! at leisure to improve.→
Is this the life a beauty ought to lead?
Were eyes so radiant only made to read?
These fingers, at whose touch ev'n age would glow,
Are these of use for nothing but to sew?
Sure erring Nature never could design
To form a housewife in a mould like mine?
O Venus! queen and guardian of the fair,
Attend propitious to thy votary's prayer;
Let me revisit the dear town again,
Let me be seen!-Could I that wish obtain,
All other wishes my own power would gain.'
POPE! to whose reed, beneath the beechen shade,
The nymphs of Thames a pleas'd attention paid,
While yet thy Muse, content with humbler praise,
Warbled in Windsor's grove her silvan lays,
Though now, sublimely borne on Homer's wing,
Of glorious wars and godlike chiefs she sing;
Wilt thou with me revisit once again
The crystal fountain and the flowery plain?
Wilt thou, indulgent, hear my verse relate
The various changes of a lover's state;
And while each turn of passion I pursue,
Ask thy own heart if what I tell be true?
To the green margin of a lonely wood,
Whose pendent shades o'erlook'd a silver flood,
Young Damon came, unknowing where he stray'd,
Full of the image of his beauteous maid;
His flock far off, unfed, untended, lay,
To every savage a defenceless prey;
No sense of interest could their master move,
And every care seem'd trifling now but love.
Awhile in pensive silence he remain❜d,
[plain'd; But, though his voice was mute, his looks comAt length the thoughts within his bosom pent Forc'd his unwilling tongue to give them vent.
"Ye nymphs! (he cried) ye dryads! who so long
Have favour'd Damon, and inspir'd his song;
For whom retir'd I shun the gay resorts
Of sportful cities and of pompous courts,
In vain I bid the restless world adieu,
To seek tranquillity and peace with you.
Though wild Ambition and destructive Rage
No factions here can form, no wars can wage;
Though Envy frowns not on your humble shades,
Nor Calumny your innocence invades,
Yet cruel Love, that troubler of the breast,
Too often violates your boasted rest;
With inbred storms disturbs your calm retreat,
And taints with bitterness each rural sweet.
'Ah luckless day! when first with fond surprise On Delia's face I fix'd my eager eyes! Then in wild tumults all my soul was toss'd, 'Then reason, liberty, at once were lost,
And every wish, and thought, and care was gone, But what my heart employ'd on her alone.
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