Behold that navy which, a while before,

Provok'd the tardy English close to fight, Now draw their beaten vessels close to shore, As larks lie dar'd, to shun the hobbies' flight.

Whoe'er would English monuments survey,
1 In other records may our courage know;
But let them hide the story of this day,
Whose fame was blemish'd by too base a foe.

Or if too busily they will inquire
Into a victory which we disdain,

Then let them know the Belgians did retire
Before the patron saint* of injur'd Spain.

Repenting England this revengeful day

To Philip'st manes did an offering bring; England, which first, by leading them astray, Hatch'd up rebellion to destroy her King.

Our fathers bent their baneful industry,

To check a monarchy that slowly grew;
But did not France or Holland's fate foresee,
Whose rising power to swift dominion flew.

In Fortune's empire blindly thus we go,
And wander after pathless Destiny;

Whose dark resorts since Prudence cannot know,
In vain it would provide for what shall be.

But whate'er English to the bless'd shall go,
And the fourth Harry or first Orange meet,
Find him disowning of a Bourbon foe,

And him detesting a Batavian fleet.

* St. James: on whose day this victory was gained. + Philip II. of Spain.

Now on their coasts our conquering navy rides, Waylays their merchants, and their land besets; Each day new wealth without their care provides; They lie asleep with prizes in their nets.

So close behind some promontory lie

The huge leviathans to attend their prey, And give no chase, but swallow in the fry, Which through their gaping jaws mistake the way.

Nor was this all; in ports and roads remote
Destructive fires among whole fleets we send ;*
Triumphant flames upon the waters float,
And out-bound ships at home their voyage end.

Those various squadrons variously design'd,
Each vessel freighted with a several load,
Each squadron waiting for a several wind,
All find but one, to burn them in the road.

Some bound for Guinea, golden sand to find,
Bore all the gauds the simple natives wear;
Some for the pride of Turkish courts design'd,
For folded turbans finest holland bear.

Some English wool, vex'd in a Belgian loom,
And into cloth of spungy softness made,
Did into France or colder Denmark doom,
To ruin with worse ware our staple trade.

Our greedy seamen rummage every hold,

Smile on the booty of each wealthier chest; And as the priests, who with their gods make bold, Take what they like, and sacrifice the rest.

* Burning of the fleet in the Uly, by Sir Robert Holmes.

But, ah! how unsincere are all our joys!

[stay; Which, sent from Heaven, like lightning make no Their palling taste the journey's length destroys,

Or Grief, sent post, o'ertakes them on the way.

Swell'd with our late successes on the foe,
Which France and Holland wanted power to
We urge an unseen fate to lay us low, [cross,
And feed their envious eyes with English loss.*

Each element his dread command obeys,
Who makes or ruins with a smile or frown;
Who, as by one he did our nation raise,

So now he with another pulls us down.

Yet London, empress of the Northern clime,
By an high fate thou greatly didst expire;
Great as the world's, which, at the death of Time,
Must fall, and rise a nobler frame-by fire.

As when some dire usurper Heaven provides,
To scourge his country with a lawless sway,
His birth, perhaps, some petty village hides,
And sets his cradle out of Fortune's way:

Till fully ripe, his swelling fate breaks out,
And hurries him to mighty mischiefs on;
His prince, surpris'd at first, no ill could doubt,
And wants the power to meet it when 'tis known.

Such was the rise of this prodigious fire,

Which, in mean buildings first obscurely bred, From thence did soon to open streets aspire, And straight to palaces and temples spread.

* Transition to the Fire of London.

The diligence of Trade, and noiseful Gain,
And Luxury, more late, asleep were laid:
All was the Night's, and, in her silent reign,
No sound the rest of Nature did invade.

In this deep quiet, from what source unknown, Those seeds of fire their fatal birth disclose; And, first, few scattering sparks about were blown, Big with the flames that to our ruin rose.

Then in some close-pent room it crept along,
And, smouldering as it went, in silence fed :
Till the' infant monster, with devouring strong,
Walk'd boldly upright with exalted head.

Now, like some rich or mighty murderer,

Too great for prison, which he breaks with gold; Who fresher for new mischiefs does appear,

And dares the world to tax him with the old :

So 'scapes the' insulting fire his narrow jail,
And makes small outlets into open air;
There the fierce winds his tender force assail,
And beat him downward to his first repair.

The winds, like crafty courtezans, withheld
His flames from burning, but to blow them more;
At every fresh attempt he is repell'd

With faint denials, weaker than before.

And now, no longer letted of his prey,
He leaps up at it with enrag'd desire;
O'erlooks the neighbours with a wide survey,
And nods at every house his threat'ning fire.

The ghosts of traitors from the bridge descend,
With bold fanatic spectres to rejoice;
About the fire into a dance they bend,

And sing their sabbath-notes with feeble voice.

Our guardian angel saw them where they sate,
Above the palace of our slumbering King:
He sigh'd, abandoning his charge to Fate,

And, drooping, oft look'd back upon the wing.

At length the crackling noise and dreadful blaze
Call'd un some waking lover to the sight;
And long it was ere he the rest could raise,
Whose heavy eyelids yet were full of night.

The next to danger, hot pursued by Fate,
Half-cloth'd, half-naked, hastily retire;

And frighted mothers strike their breasts, too late,
For helpless infants left amidst the fire.

Their cries soon waken all the dwellers near; Now murmuring noises rise in every street : The more remote run stumbling with their fear, And, in the dark, men justle as they meet.

So weary bees in little cells repose;

But if night-robbers lift the well-stor❜d hive, An humming through their waxen city grows, And out upon each other's wings they drive.

Now streets grow throng'd and busy as by day: Some run for buckets to the hallow'd quire; Some cut the pipes, and some the engines play, And some, more bold, mount ladders to the fire.