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A trifling song the Muse can only yield,
And sooth her soldiers panting from the field;
To sweet retirements see them safe convey'd,
And raise their battles in the rural shade.
From fields of death to Woodstock’s peaceful glooms
(The poet's haunt) Britannia's hero comes -emes
Begin, my Muse, and softly touch the string:
Here Henry lov’d; and Chaucer learn'd to sing.

Hail fabled grotto! hail Elysian foil !
Thou fairest spot of fair Britannia's ille !
Where kings of old conceal'd forgot the throne,
And beauty was content to shine unknown;
Where love and war by turns pavilions rear,
And Henry's bow’rs near Blenheim's dome appears
The weary'd champion lull in soft alcoves,
The noblest boast of thy romantic groves,
Oft, if the Muse prelage, shall he be seen
By Rofamonda fleeting o’er the green,
In dreams be haild by heroes' mighty shades,
And hear old Chaucer warble through the glades :
O'er the fam'd echoing vaults his name shall bound,
And hill to hill reflect the fav'rite found.

Here, here at least thy love for arms give o'er, Nor, one world conquer'd, fondly wish for more. B2

Vice

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· Vice of great souls alone ! O thirst of fame !
The Muse admires it, while she strives to blame ;
Thy toils be now to chase the bounding deer,
Or view the coursers stretch in wild career ;
This lovely scene shall footh thy soul to rest,
And wear each dreadful image from thy breast;
With pleasure, by thy conquests shalt thou see
Thy Queen triumphant, and all Europe free ;
No cares henceforth shall thy repose destroy,
But what thou giv'st the world, thyself enjoy.

Sweet folitude! when life's gay hours are past,
Howe'er we range, in thee we fix at last;
Toss'd through tempestuous feas (the voyage o’er)
Pale we look back, and bless the friendly shore.
Our own strict judges, our past life we scan,
And ask if glory hath enlarg’d the span ;
If bright the prospect, we the grave defy,
Trust future ages, and contented die.

When strangers from far-distant climes shall come,
To view the pomp of this triumphant dome ;
Where rear'd aloft dissembled trophies stand,
And breathing labours of the sculptor's hand,
Where Kneller's art shall paint the Aying Gaul,
And Bourbon's woes shall fill the story'd wall;

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Heirs of thy blood shall o'er their bounteous board
Fix Europe's guard, thy monumental sword;
Banners, that oft have wav'd on conquer'd walls,
And trumps, that drown'd the groans of gasping Gauls.
Fair dames shall oft, with curious eye, explore
The costly robes that Naughter'd gen’rals wore,
Rich trappings from the Danube's whirlpools brought,
(Hesperian nuns the gorgeous broid'ry wrought)
Belts stiff with gold, the Boian horseman's pride,
And Gaul's fair flow'rs, in human crimson dy'd.
Of Churchill's race perhaps some lovely boy
Shall mark the burnish'd steel that hangs on high;
Shall gaze transported on its glitt'ring charms,
And reach it struggling with unequal arms;
By signs the drum's tumultuous sound request,
Then seek, in starts, the hushing mother's breast.

So, in the painter's animated frame,
Where Mars embraces the soft Paphian dame,
The little loves in sport the faulchion wield,
Or join their strength to heave his pond'rous fhield;
One strokes the plume in Tityon’s gore embru’d,
And one the spear, that reeks in Typhon's blood;
Another's infant brows the helm sustain,
He nods his crest, and frights the shrieking train.

Thus,

B

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Thus, the rude tempest of the field o'erblown,
Shall whiter rounds of smiling years roll on:
Our victors, blest in peace, forget their wars,
Enjoy past dangers, and absolve the stars.
But oh! what sorrows shall bedew your urns,
Ye honour'd shades, whom widow'd Albion mourns?
If your thin forms yet discontented moan,
And haunt the mangled mansions once your own;
Behold what flow’rs the pious Muses strow,
And tears, which in the midst of triumph flow;
Cypress and bays your envy'd brows surround,
Your names the tender matron's heart shall wound,
And the soft maid grow pensive at the found.

Accept, great Anne, the tears their mem'ry draws,
Who nobly perish'd in their sovoreign's cause :
For thou in pity bid'st the war give o'er,
Mourn'st thy nain heroes, nor wilt venture more.
Vast price of blood on each victorious day! : i
(But Europe's freedom doth that price repay.)
Lamented triumphs ! when one breath must tell
That Marlb'rough conquer'd, and that Dormer fell.

Great Queen! whose name strikes haughty monarchs On whose just scepter hangs Europa's scale; epalco

Whose

Whose arm like mercy wounds, decides like fate,
On whose decree the nations anxious wait;
From Albion's cliffs thy wide extended hand
Shall o'er the main to far Peru command,
So vast a tract whose wide domain shall run,
Its circling skies shall fee no setting fun.
Thee, thee an hundred languages shall claim,
And favage Indians swear by Anna's name;
The line and poles shall own thy rightful fway,
And thy commands the sever'd globe obey.

Round the vast ball thy new dominions chain
The wat’ry kingdoms, and controul the main ;
Magellan's streights to Gibraltar they join,
Across the feas a formidable line;
The sight of adverse Gaul we fear no more,
But pleas'd see Dunkirk, now a guiltless shore.
In vain great Neptune tore the narrow ground,
And meant his waters for Britannia's bound;
Her giant Genius takes a mighty stride,
And sets his foot beyond th’incroaching tide ;
On either bank the land its master knows,
And in the midst the subject ocean flows.

So near proud Rhodes, across the raging flood,
Stupendous form! the vast Colofsus stood,

(While

B.4

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