After one battle loft, and country gone,
Vanquish'd again, alas! and twice undone.

Oh! where fhall I begin? what language find
To heal the raging anguifh of your mind ?
Or if you deign a willing ear to lend,
Oh! where will my difaftrous ftory end?
Conqueft I often promis'd, I confefs,

And who from fuch a pow'r could promife lefs?
There Gallia's force, and here Bavaria's fhines,
Th' experienc'd houfhold fills our crowded lines
Already had our tow ring thoughts o'erthrown
The Belgian hoft, while we furvey'd our own,
Destroy'd their provinces with fword and flame,
Let in their feas, and fack'd their Amfterdam;
Already had we shar'd the fancy'd spoil,
(Imaginary trophies crown'd our toil)
Batavian ftandards to this temple gave,
In that the British croffes doom'd to wave,
A rural feat affign'd each captive chief,
In flow'ry gardens to affuage his grief,
And by his arts, and firft efcape prepar'd,
On MARLBRO had bestow'd a double guard.
Paris impatient for the conquer'd foe,
Haflen'd the tuneful hymn and folemn fhow;
Triumphal chariots for the victor stay'd,
And finish'd arches caít a pompous fhade 9
With niceft art the bards had dress'd their lays,
Of nothing fearful but to reach our praise ;

;

But all our hopes and expectation croft,

What lines have we? what fame has Boileau loft?
Your army now, fixt on its high designs,
Rush forth like vernal swarms, and quit their lines ;
Eager the Dyle they pafs to feek the fight,
Judoina's fields with fudden tents are white,
The foe descends, like torrents from the hills,
And all the neighb'ring vale tumultuous fills:
Preluding cannons tell th' approaching ftorm,
And working armies take a dreadful form.

Soon your victorious arms, and ftronger force,
Tore all the left, and broke the Belgian horfe;
Their fcatter'd troops are rally'd to the fight,
But only rally'd for a fecond flight:

As when high heav'n on fome afpiring wood,
Which in clofe ranks, and thickeft order ftood,
Pours its collected ftores of vengeance down,
Cedars are feen with firs and oaks o'erthrown,
Long ravages and intervals of waste !
So gor'd their lines appear'd, and fo defac'd.
The third attack had ended all the war,
Sunk their whole force, and fav'd your future
Had MARLBRO, only MARLBRO, not been there.
As fome good genius flies, to fave the realms
Which, in his abfence born, a plague o'erwhelms,
Through op'ning fquadrons did the hero haste,
And rais'd their drooping courage as he past.

care,

}

Amidst the routed Belgians he arriv'd,
Turn'd the purfuit, the fainting fight reviv'd,
Supply'd each rank, fill'd ev'ry vacant space,
And brought the battle to its former face.

With trembling hearts we see our fate decreed;
Where MARLBRO fights how can a foe fucceed?
To reach his life our boldeft warriors ftrive,
On him the ftorm with all its thunder drive;
He ftems the war, and half encompass'd round
Still clears his way, and ftill maintains his ground:
Amaz'd I faw him in fuch dangers live,

And envy'd him the death I wish'd to give.

But how our rifing pleasure shall I tell ?

The thund'ring steed, and the great rider, fell:
We thank'd kind heav'n, and hop'd the victor flain,
But all our hopes, and all our thanks were vain;
Free from the guilt of any hoftile wound
Alive he lay, and dreadful on the ground.

As when a lion in the toils is caft,
That uncontroul'd had laid the country wafte,
Th' infulting hinds furround him, who before
Fled from his haunts, and trembled at his roar;
So round befet the mighty Briton lies,
And vulgar foes attempt the glorious prize.
"Till fresh battalions to his fuccour brought,
Contending armies for the hero fought;
The wanted steed fome friendly hand prepar'd,
And met a fatal, but a great, reward:

A glorious

A glorious death; of his lov'd lord bereft,
The pious office unperform'd he left.

The refcu'd chief, by the paft danger warm'd,
Our weaken'd boufhold with new fury storm'd:
While all around to our admiring eyes
Fresh foes, and undiscover'd squadrons, rise.
The boafted guards that fpread your name fo far,
And turn'd where'er they fought the doubtful war,
With heaps of flaughter ftrow'd the fatal plain,
And did a thoufand glorious things in vain ;
Broke with unequal force fuch numbers die,
That I myself rejoic'd to see them fly.

But oh! how few preferv'd themselves by flight?
Or found a fhelter from th' approaching night?
Thoufands fall undiftinguifh'd in the dark,

And five whole leagues with wide destruction mark.
Scarce at Ramillia did the flaughter end,

When the swift victor had approach'd Oftend ;
Took in whole ftates and countries in his way,
Bruffels, nor Ghent, nor Antwerp gain'd a day;
Within the compafs of one circling moon,
The Lis, the Demer, and the Scheld his own.
What in the foe's, and what in William's hand,
Did for an age the power of France withstand;
Tho' each campaign she crowded nations drain'd,
And the fat foil with blood of thousands ftain'd;
Thofe forts and provinces does MARLBRO gain
In twice three funs, and not a foldier flain;

1

None can fufpend the fortune of their town,
But who their harvest and their country drown;
Compell'd to call (his valour to evade)

The lefs deftructive ocean to their aid.

Oh! were our loss to Flandria's plains confin'd!
But what a train of ills are ftill behind!
Beyond the Adige Vendome feels the blow,
And Villars now retires without a foe,
The fate of Flanders fpreads in Spain the flame,
And their new monarch robs of half his fame;
But France shall hear, in fome late diftant reign,
An unborn Lewis curfe Ramillia's plain.

Whither, oh! whither fhall Bavaria run?
Or where himself, or where the victor fhun?
Shall I no more with vain ambition roam,
But my own fubjects rule in peace at home?
Thence an abandon'd fugitive I'm driven,
Like the firft guilty man by angry heav'n
From his bless'd mansions, where th' avenging lord
Still guards the paffage with a brandish'd sword.
Or fhall I to Brabantia's courts retire,

And reign o'er diftant provinces for hire?
Shall I with borrow'd government difpenfe,

A royal fervant and another's prince?
These countries too (oh my hard fate!) are loft,
And I am banish'd from a foreign coaft ;
Now may I fight fecure of future toils,

Of no new countries a third battle spoils.

Oh,