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Gallia's proud standards, to Bavaria's join'd,
Unfurl their gilded lilies in the wind;
The daring prince his blasted hopes renews,
And, while the thick embattled host he views
Stretcht out in deep array, and dreadful length,
His heart dilates, and glories in his strength.

The fatal day its mighty course began,
That the griev'd world had long desir'd in vain ;
States that their new captivity bemoan'd,
Armies of martyrs that in exile groan'd,
Sighs from the depth of gloomy dungeons heard,
And prayers in bitterness of soul preferr'd,
Europe's loud cries, that Providence assail'd,
And Anna's ardent vows at length prevail'd;
The day was come when Heaven design'd to show
His care and conduct of the world below.

Behold in awful march and dread array
The long-extended squadrons shape their way!
Death, in approaching, terrible, imparts
An anxious horror to the bravest hearts;
Yet do their beating breasts demand the strife,
And thirst of glory quells the love of life.
No vulgar fears can British minds control:
Heat of revenge, and noble pride of soul,
O'erlook the foe, advantag'd by his post,
Lessen his numbers, and contract his host;
Though fens and floods possest the middle space,
That unprovok'd they would have fear'd to pass;
Nor fens nor floods can stop Britannia's bands,
When her proud foe rang'd on their borders stands.
But O, my Muse, what numbers wilt thou find
To sing the furious troops in battle join'd!
Methinks I hear the drums tumultuous sound,
The victors' shouts and dying groans confound,
The dreadful burst of cannon rend the skies,
And all the thunder of the battle rise. [prov'd,
'Twas then great Marlborough's mighty soul was
That, in the shock of charging hosts unmov'd,
Amidst confusion, horror, and despair,
Examin'd all the dreadful scenes of war:
In peaceful thought the field of death survey'd,
To fainting squadrons sent the timely aid,
Inspir'd repuls'd battalions to engage,

And taught the doubtful battle where to rage.
So when an angel by divine command
With rising tempests shakes a guilty land,
Such as of late o'er pale Britannia past,
Calm and serene he drives the furious blast;
And, pleas'd th' Almighty's orders to perform,
Rides in the whirlwind, and directs the storm.

But see the haughty household troops advance!
The dread of Europe, and the pride of France.
The war's whole art each private soldier knows,
And with a general's love of conquest glows;
Proudly he marches on, and void of fear
Laughs at the shaking of the British spear:
Vain insolence! with native freedom brave,
The meanest Briton scorns the highest slave:
Contempt and fury fire their souls by turns,
Each nation's glory in each warrior burns;
Each fights, as in his arm th' important day
And all the fate of his great monarch lay:
A thousand glorious actions, that might claim
Triumphant laurels, and immortal fame,
Confus'd in crowds of glorious actions lie,
And troops of heroes undistinguish'd die.
O Dormer, how can I behold thy fate.
And not the wonders of thy youth relate!
How can I see the gay, the brave, the young,
Fall in the cloud of war, and lie unsung!

In joys of conquest he resigns his breath,
And, fill'd with England's glory, smiles in death.
The rout begins, the Gallic squadrons run,
Compell'd in crowds to meet the fate they shun;
Thousands of fiery steeds with wounds transfix'd,
Floating in gore, with their dead masters mixt,
'Midst heaps of spears and standards driven around
Lie in the Danube's bloody whirlpools drown'd.
Troops of bold youths, born on the distant Soane,
Or sounding borders of the rapid Rhône,

Or where the Seine her flowery fields divides,
Or where the Loire through winding vineyards
glides,

In heaps the rolling billows sweep away,
And into Scythian seas their bloated corpse convey.
From Blenheim's towers the Gaul, with wild affright,
Beholds the various havoc of the fight;
His waving banners, that so oft had stood
Planted in fields of death, and streams of blood,
So wont the guarded enemy to reach,
And rise triumphant in the fatal breach,
Or pierce the broken foe's remotest lines,
The hardy veteran with tears resigns.

Unfortunate Tallard! Oh, who can name
The pangs of rage, of sorrow, and of shame,
That with mixt tumult in thy bosom swell'd,
When first thou saw'st thy bravest troops repell'd,
Thine only son pierc'd with a deadly wound,
Chok'd in his blood, and gasping on the ground,
Thyself in bondage by the victor kept!
The chief, the father, and the captive, wept.
An English Muse is touch'd with generous woe,
And in th' unhappy man forgets the foe!

Greatly distrest! thy loud complaints forbear,
Blame not the turns of fate, and chance of war;
Give thy brave foes their due, nor blush to own
The fatal field by such great leaders won,
The field whence fam'd Eugenio bore away
Only the second honors of the day.

With floods of gore, that from the vanquish'd fell,
The marshes stagnate, and the rivers swell.
Mountains of slain lie heap'd upon the ground,
Or 'midst the roarings of the Danube drown'd;
Whole captive hosts the conqueror detains
In painful bondage, and inglorious chains;
Ev'n those who 'scape the fetters and the sword,
Nor seek the fortunes of a happier lord,
Their raging king dishonors, to complete
Marlborough's great work, and finish the defeat.
From Memminghen's high domes, and Augs
burg's walls,

The distant battle drives th' insulting Gauls;
Freed by the terror of the victor's name,
The rescu'd states his great protection claim;
Whilst Ulme th' approach of her deliverer waits,
And longs to open her obsequious gates.

The hero's breast still swells with great designs,
In every thought the towering genius shines:
If to the foe his dreadful course he bends,
O'er the wide continent his march extends;
If sieges in his laboring thoughts are form'd,
Camps are assaulted, and an army storm'd;
If to the fight his active soul is bent,
The fate of Europe turns on its event.
What distant land, what region, can afford
An action worthy his victorious sword?
Where will he next the flying Gaul defeat,
To make the series of his toils complete?
Where the swoln Rhine, rushing with all its force,
Divides the hostile nations in its course,

While each contracts its bounds, or wider grows,
Enlarg'd or straiten'd as the river flows,
On Gallia's side a mighty bulwark stands,
That all the wide-extended plain commands;
Twice, since the war was kindled, has it tried
The victor's rage, and twice has chang'd its side;
As oft whole armies, with the prize o'erjoy'd,
Have the long summer on its walls employ'd.
Hither our mighty chief his arms directs,
Hence future triumphs from the war expects;
And though the dog-star had its course begun,
Carries his arms still nearer to the Sun:
Fixt on the glorious action, he forgets
The change of seasons, and increase of heats;
No toils are painful that can danger show,
No climes unlovely, that contain a foe.

The roving Gaul, to his own bounds restrain'd,
Learns to encamp within his native land,
But soon as the victorious host he spies,
From hill to hill, from stream to stream he flies:
Such dire impressions in his heart remain

Such are th' effects of Anna's royal cares: By her, Britannia, great in foreign wars, Ranges through nations, wheresoe'er disjoin'd, Without the wonted aid of sea and wind. By her th' unfetter'd Ister's states are free, And taste the sweets of English liberty: But who can tell the joys of those that lie Beneath the contant influence of her eye! Whilst in diffusive showers her bounties fall Like Heaven's indulgence, and descend on all, Secure the happy, succor the distrest,

Make every subject glad, and a whole people blest.
Thus would I fain Britannia's wars rehearse,
In the smooth records of a faithful verse;
That, if such numbers can o'er time prevail,
May tell posterity the wondrous tale.
When actions, unadorn'd, are faint and weak,
Cities and countries must be taught to speak;
Gods may descend in factions from the skies,
And rivers from their oozy beds arise;
Fiction may deck the truth with spurious rays,

Of Marlborough's sword and Hochtste's fatal plain: And round the hero cast a borrow'd blaze.

In vain Britannia's mighty chief besets
Their shady coverts, and obscure retreats;
They fly the conqueror's approaching fame,
That bears the force of armies in his name.

Austria's young monarch, whose imperial sway
Sceptres and thrones are destin'd to obey,
Whose boasted ancestry so high extends
That in the pagan gods his lineage ends,
Comes from afar, in gratitude to own
The great supporter of his father's throne:
What tides of glory to his bosom ran,
Clasp'd in th' embraces of the godlike man!
How were his eyes with pleasing wonder fixt,
To see such fire with so much sweetness mixt,
Such easy greatness, such a graceful port,
So turn'd and finish'd for the camp or court!
Achilles thus was form'd with ev'ry grace,
And Nireus shone but in the second place;
Thus the great father of almighty Rome
(Divinely flusht with an immortal bloom,
That Cytherea's fragrant breath bestow'd)
In all the charms of his bright mother glow'd.
The royal youth by Marlborough's presence
charm'd,

Taught by his counsels, by his actions warm'd,
On Landau with redoubled fury falls,
Discharges all the thunder on its walls,

O'er mines and caves of death provokes the fight,
And learns to conquer in the hero's sight.

The British chief, for mighty toils renown'd, Increas'd in titles, and with conquests crown'd, To Belgian coasts his tedious march renews, And the long windings of the Rhine pursues, Clearing its borders from usurping foes, And blest by rescued nations as he goes. Treves fears no more, freed from its dire alarms; And Traerbach feels the terror of his arms: Seated on rocks her proud foundations shake, While Marlborough presses to the bold attack. Plants all his batteries, bids his cannon roar, And shows how Landau might have fall'n before. Scar'd at his near approach, great Louis fears Vengeance reserv'd for his declining years, Forgets his thirst of universal sway, And scarce can teach his subjects to obey; His arms he finds on vain attempts employ'd, Th' ambitious projects for his race destroy'd, The works of ages sunk in one campaign, And lives of millions sacrific'd in vain.

Marlborough's exploits appear divinely bright,
And proudly shine in their own native light,
Rais'd of themselves their genuine charms they
boast,

And those who paint them truest praise them most.

TO SIR GODFREY KNELLER,

ON HIS PICTURE OF THE KING.

KNELLER, with silence and-surprise
We see Britannia's monarch rise,
A godlike form, by thee display'd
In all the force of light and shade;
And, aw'd by thy delusive hand,
As in the presence-chamber stand.
The magic of thy art calls forth
His secret soul and hidden worth,
His probity and mildness shows,
His care of friends, and scorn of foes,
In every stroke, in every line,
Does some exalted virtue shine,
And Albion's happiness we trace
Through all the features of his face.

O may I live to hail the day,
When the glad nation shall survey
Their sovereign, through his wide command,
Passing in progress o'er the land!
Each heart shall bend, and every voice
In loud applauding shouts rejoice,
Whilst all his gracious aspect praise,
And crowds grow loyal as they gaze.

The image on the medal plac'd,
With its bright round of titles grac'd,
And stampt on British coins shall live,
To richest ores the value give,
Or, wrought within the curious mould,
Shape and adorn the running gold.
To bear this form, the genial Sun
Has daily since his course begun
Rejoic'd the metal to refine,
And ripen'd the Peruvian mine.

Thou, Kneller, long with noble pride,
The foremost of thy art, hast vied
With Nature in a generous strife,
And touch'd the canvas into life.

V 2

Thy pencil has, by monarchs sought, From reign to reign in ermine wrought, And, in the robes of state array'd, The kings of half an age display'd.

Here swarthy Charles appears, and there
His brother with dejected air:
Triumphant Nassau here we find,
And with him bright Maria join'd;
There Anna, great as when she sent
Her armies through the continent,
Ere yet her hero was disgrac'd:

O may fam'd Brunswick be the last,
(Though Heaven should with my wish agree,
And long preserve thy art in thee)
The last, the happiest British king,
Whom thou shalt paint, or I shall sing!

Wise Phidias thus, his skill to prove,
Through many a god advanc'd to Jove,
And taught the polish'd rocks to shine
With airs and lineaments divine;
Till Greece, amaz'd, and half-afraid,
Th' assembled deities survey'd.

Great Pan, who wont to chase the fair,
And lov'd the spreading oak, was there;
Old Saturn too with upcast eyes
Beheld his abdicated skies;

And mighty Mars, for war renown'd,

In adamantine armor frown'd;

By him the childless goddess rose,
Minerva, studious to compose

Her twisted threads; the web she strung,
And o'er a loom of marble hung:
Thetis, the troubled ocean's queen,
Match'd with a mortal, next was seen,
Reclining on a funeral urn,

Her short-liv'd darling son to mourn.
The last was he, whose thunder slew
The Titan-race, a rebel crew,
That from a hundred hills allied
In impious leagues their king defied.

This wonder of the sculptor's hand Produc'd, his art was at a stand: For who would hope new fame to raise, Or risk his well-establish'd praise, That, his high genius to approve,

Had drawn a George, or carv'd a Jove?

PARAPHRASE ON PSALM XXIII.

THE Lord my pasture shall prepare,
And feed me with a shepherd's care;
His presence shall my wants supply,
And guard me with a watchful eye:
My noon-day walks he shall attend,
And all my midnight hours defend.

When in the sultry glebe I faint,
Or on the thirsty mountain pant;
To fertile vales and dewy meads
My weary wandering steps he leads:
Where peaceful rivers, soft and slow,
Amid the verdant landscape flow.

Though in the paths of death I tread,
With gloomy horrors overspread,
My stedfast heart shall fear no ill,
For thou, O Lord, art with me still;
Thy friendly crook shall give me aid,
And guide me through the dreadful shade.

Though in a bare and rugged way,
Through devious lonely wilds I stray,
Thy bounty shall my wants beguile :
The barren wilderness shall smile,
With sudden greens and herbage crown'd
And streams shall murmur all around.

MATTHEW PRIOR.

MATTHEW PRIOR, a distinguished poet, was born | It will not be worth while here to take notice of all in 1664. in London according to one account, his changes in the political world, except to mention according to another at Winborne, in Dorsetshire. the disgraces which followed the famous congress His father dying when he was young, an uncle, of Utrecht, in which he was deeply engaged. For who was a vintner, or tavern-keeper, at Charing- the completion of that business he was left in Cross, took him under his care, and sent him to France, with the appointments and authority of an Westminster-school, of which Dr. Busby was ambassador, though without the title, the proud then master. Before he had passed through the Duke of Shrewsbury having refused to be joined in school, his uncle took him home, for the purpose commission with a man so meanly born. Prior, of bringing him into his own business; but the however, publicly assumed the character till he Earl of Dorset, a great patron of letters, having was superseded by the earl of Stair, on the acces found him one day reading Horace, and being sion of George I. The Whigs being now in power, pleased with his conversation, determined to give he was welcomed, on his return, by a warrant from him an university education. He was accordingly the House of Commons, under which he was comadmitted of St. John's College, Cambridge, in mitted to the custody of a messenger. He was ex1682, proceeded bachelor of arts in 1686, and was amined before the Privy Council respecting his soon after elected to a fellowship. After having share in the peace of Utrecht, was treated with proved his poetic talents by some college exercises, rigor, and Walpole moved an impeachment he was introduced at court by the Earl of Dorset, against him, on a charge of high treason, for holdand was so effectually recommended, that, in 1690, ing clandestine conferences with the French pleni he was appointed secretary to the English pleni- potentiary. His name was excepted from an act of potentiaries who attended the congress at the grace passed in 1717: at length, however, he was Hague. Being now enlisted in the service of the discharged, without being brought to trial, to end court, his productions were, for some years, chiefly his days in retirement. directed to courtly topics, of which one of the most considerable was an Ode presented to King William in 1695, on the death of Queen Mary. In 1697, he was nominated secretary to the commissioners for the treaty of Ryswick; and, on his return, was made secretary to the Lord Lieutenant of Ireland. He went to France in the following year, as secretary, first to the earl of Portland, and then to the Earl of Jersey; and being now regarded as one conversant in public affairs, he was summoned by sical. The most popular of his serious composiKing William to Loo, where he had a confidential audience. In the beginning of 1701, he sat in Parliament for East Grinstead.

We are now to consider Prior among the poetical characters of the time. In his writings is found that incongruous mixture of light and rather indecent topics with grave and even religious ones, which was not uncommon at that period. In the faculty of telling a story with ease and vivacity, he yields only to Swift, compared to whom his humor is occasionally strained and quaint. His songs and amatory pieces are generally elegant and clas

tions are "Henry and Emma," or the Nut-brown Maid, modernized from an antique original; and "Solomon," the idea of which is taken from the Prior had hitherto been promoted and acted with book of Ecclesiastes. These are harmonious in the Whigs: but the Tories now having become the their versification, splendid and correct in their prevalent party, he turned about, and ever after ad- diction, and copious in poetical imagery; but they hered to them. He even voted for the impeach- exert no powerful effect on the feelings or the ment of those lords who advised that partition fancy, and are enfeebled by prolixity. His "Alma," treaty in which he had been officially employed. a piece of philosophical pleasantry, was written to Like most converts, he embraced his new friends console himself when under confinement, and diswith much zeal, and from that time almost all his plays a considerable share of reading. As to his social connexions were confined within the limits elaborate effusions of loyalty and patriotism, they of his party. seem to have sunk into total neglect.

The successes in the beginning of Queen Anne's The life of Prior was cut short by a lingering reign were celebrated by the poets on both sides; illness, which closed his days at Wimpole, the seat and Prior sung the victories of Blenheim and of Lord Oxford, in September, 1721, in the 58th Ramilies he afterwards, however, joined in the year of his age.

attack of the great general who had been his theme.

HENRY AND EMMA.

А РОЕМ,

Upon the Model of the Nut-Brown Maid.

TO CLOE.

THOU, to whose eyes I bend, at whose command (Though low my voice, though artless be my

hand),

I take the sprightly reed, and sing, and play,
Careless of what the censuring world may say:
Bright Cloe, object of my constant vow,
Wilt thou awhile unbend thy serious brow?
Wilt thou with pleasure hear thy lover's strains,
And with one heavenly smile o'erpay his pains?
No longer shall the Nut-brown Maid be old;
Though since her youth three hundred years have
roll'd:

At thy desire, she shall again be rais'd;
And her reviving charms in lasting verse

prais'd.

No longer man of woman shall complain, That he may love, and not be lov'd again: That we in vain the fickle sex pursue, Who change the constant lover for the new. Whatever has been writ, whatever said, Of female passion feign'd, or faith decay'd, Henceforth shall in my verse refuted stand, Be said to winds, or writ upon the sand. And, while my notes to future times proclaim Unconquer'd love, and ever-during flame, O fairest of the sex! be thou my Muse: Deign on my work thy influence to diffuse. Let me partake the blessings I rehearse, And grant me, love, the just reward of verse!

One child he had, a daughter chaste and fair, His age's comfort, and his fortune's heir. They call'd her Emma; for the beauteous dame, Who gave the virgin birth, had borne the name: The name th' indulgent father doubly lov'd: For in the child the mother's charms improv'd. Yet as, when little, round his knees she play'd, He call'd her oft, in sport, his Nut-brown Maid, The friends and tenants took the fondling word, (As still they please, who imitate their lord): Usage confirm'd what fancy had begun ; The mutual terms around the land were known And Emma and the Nut-brown Maid were one.

As with her stature, still her charms increas'd Through all the isle her beauty was confess'd. Oh! what perfections must that virgin share, Who fairest is esteem'd, where all are fair! From distant shires repair the noble youth, And find report, for once, had lessen'd truth. By wonder first, and then by passion mov'd, They came; they saw; they marvell'd; and they

lov'd.

be By public praises, and by secret sighs,

As beauty's potent queen, with every grace, That once was Emma's, has adorn'd thy face; And, as her son has to my bosom dealt That constant flame, which faithful Henry felt: O let the story with thy life agree: Let men once more the bright example see; What Emma was to him, be thou to me. Nor send me by thy frown from her I love, Distant and sad, a banish'd man to rove. But, oh! with pity, long-entreated, crown My pains and hopes; and, when thou say'st that one Of all mankind thou lov'st, oh! think on me alone.

WHERE beauteous Isis and her husband Tame, With mingled waves, for ever flow the same, In times of yore an ancient baron liv'd; Great gifts bestow'd, and great respect receiv'd. When dreadful Edward, with successful care, Led his free Britons to the Gallic war; This lord had headed his appointed bands, In firm allegiance to his king's commands; And (all due honors faithfully discharg'd) Had brought back his paternal coat, enlarg'd With a new mark, the witness of his toil, And no inglorious part of foreign spoil.

From the loud camp retir'd, and noisy court, In honorable ease and rural sport, The remnant of his days he safely past; Nor found they lagg'd too slow, nor flew too fast. He made his wish with his estate comply, Joyful to live, yet not afraid to die.

Each own'd the general power of Emma's eyes.
In tilts and tournaments the valiant strove,
By glorious deeds, to purchase Emma's love.
In gentle verse the witty told their flame,
And grac'd their choicest songs with Emma'

name.

In vain they combated, in vain they writ:
Useless their strength, and impotent their wit.
Great Venus only must direct the dart,
Which else will never reach the fair-one's heart,
Spite of th' attempts of force, and soft effects of

art.

Great Venus must prefer the happy one :
In Henry's cause her favor must be shown;
And Emma, of mankind, must love but him alone.
While these in public to the castle came,
And by their grandeur justified their flame;
More secret ways the careful Henry takes;
His squires, his arms, and equipage forsakes:
In borrow'd name, and false attire array'd,
Oft he finds means to see the beauteous maid.
When Emma hunts, in huntsman's habit drest,
Henry on foot pursues the bounding beast.
In his right-hand his beechen pole he bears;
And graceful at his side his horn he wears.
Still to the glade, where she has bent her way,
With knowing skill he drives the future prey.
Bids her decline the hill, and shun the brake ;
And shows the path her steed may safest take;
Directs her spear to fix the glorious wound;
Pleas'd in his toils to have her triumph crown'd;
And blows her praises in no common sound.

A falconer Henry is, when Emma hawks:
With her of tarsels and of lures he talks.
Upon his wrist the towering merlin stands,
Practis'd to rise, and stoop, at her commands.
And when superior now the bird has flown,
And headlong brought the tumbling quarry down
With humble reverence he accosts the fair,
And with the honor'd feather decks her hair.
Yet still, as from the sportive field she goes,
His downcast eye reveals his inward woes;
And by his look and sorrow is exprest,
A nobler game pursued than bird or beast.

A shepherd now along the plain he roves; And, with his jolly pipe, delights the groves.

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