Page images


JOSEPH ADDISON was born at Milston, Wiltshire, May 1, 1672. He was the son of a clergyman, and was himself intended for the church; but his acquaintance with Dryden, and some other circumstances, drew him into a literary and political career. He was sent to Oxford, where he was distinguished for his classical attainments, and especially for facility in composing Latin poetry. His first publication in English was a copy of verses addressed to Dryden, which he wrote in his twenty-second year. In 1695 he addressed to Lord Somers a complimentary poem on one of King William's campaigns, and his reward was a pension of £300 a year. In 1699 he set out on a continental tour which lasted four years. He visited France, Italy, Switzerland, and Germany, whence he sent accounts of his travels, both in prose and in verse. When he returned to England, the Whigs were out of office, and he was disappointed in his expectations of a place. But in 1704 occurred the battle of Blenheim, and he seized the opportunity to write his poem "The Campaign;" in fact, it is said that the ministry appointed him the task of celebrating the victory in verse. He was at once appointed Commissioner of Appeals. In 1706 he was made Under-Secretary of State, and in 1709 he went to Ireland as secretary to the Lord-Lieutenant. There he obtained also the office of Keeper of the Records.

About this time he became a contributor to "The Tatler," edited by his friend Steele, and also to the "Whig Examiner." In March, 1711, he started his celebrated "Spectator," which ran until December, 1712, and was then succeeded by the "Guardian." Nearly all the finest papers in the "Spectator" are Addison's, and these also constitute his best literary work. The series in which Sir Roger de Coverley figures has been the best known and most heartily enjoyed

of his writings, and will probably endure the longest. His hymns also appeared first in that periodical.

The tragedy of "Cato" was brought out in 1713, and met with an immediate and astonishing success. It was assumed that it must have a political significance as a matter of course; but this, if it existed, was so ambiguously expressed that Whigs and Tories applauded with equal vehemence. Its popularity was beyond all precedent; it was translated into several languages, and Voltaire pronounced Shakespeare a barbarian in comparison with Addison. Everybody in England praised it, except Dennis. Time seems to have shown that Dennis was right, and England was wrong. It is not the only instance of the kind in literary history.

In 1716 Addison married the Dowager-Countess of Warwick, and in 1717 he accepted the office of Secretary of State. These are generally considered the two great blunders of his life. All of his contemporaries who alluded to the subject have left their testimony to the unhappiness of the marriage; and his well-known timidity and awkwardness made it impossible for him to debate in Parliament. He resigned the office at the end of a year, and on June 17, 1719, he died at Holland House, Kensington, in his forty-eighth year. He left one daughter.

Tickell, his literary executor, published his works in four volumes 4to. He left an unfinished work on "The Evidences of the Christian Religion." Addison was always the advocate of liberty, and his writings are singularly pure and healthful. He was a master of all the delicate graces of composition; but Dr. Johnson's dietum, that "whoever wishes to attain an English style familiar but not coarse, and elegant but not ostentatious, must give his days and nights to the volumes of Addison," hardly continues to be true in our day.



Salve magna parens frugum Saturnia tellus,
Magna virum! tibi res antiquæ laudis et artis
Aggredior, sanctos ausus recludere fontes.

Virg. Georg. ii.

WHILE you, my lord, the rural shades admire,
And from Britannia's public posts retire,
Nor longer, her ungrateful sons to please,

For their advantage sacrifice your ease;

Me into foreign realms my fate conveys
Through nations fruitful of immortal lays,
Where the soft season and inviting clime
Conspire to trouble your repose with rhyme

For wheresoe'er I turn my ravish'd eyes,
Gay gilded scenes and shining prospects rise,
Poetic fields encompass me around,

And still I seem to tread on classic ground;
For here the Muse so oft her harp has strung,
That not a mountain rears its head unsung,
Renown'd in verse each shady thicket grows,
And every stream in heavenly numbers flows.
How am I pleas'd to search the hills and woods
For rising springs and celebrated floods!

To view the Nar, tumultuous in his course,
And trace the smooth Clitumnus to his source,
To see the Mincio draw his watery store,
Through the long windings of a fruitful shore,
And hoary Albula's infected tide

O'er the warm bed of smoking sulphur glide.
Fir'd with a thousand raptures, I survey
Eridanus through flowery meadows stray,
The king of floods! that, rolling o'er the plains,
The towering Alps of half their moisture drains,
And proudly swoln with a whole winter's snows,
Distributes wealth and plenty where he flows.

Sometimes, misguided by the tuneful throng,
I look for streams immortaliz'd in song,
That lost in silence and oblivion lie,

Stern tyrants, whom their cruelties renown,
And emperors in Parian marble frown:
While the bright dames, to whom they humbly sued
Still show the charms that their proud hearts sub

Fain would I Raphael's godlike art rehearse.
And show th' immortal labors in my verse,
Where, from the mingled strength of shade and light
A new creation rises to my sight,

Such heavenly figures from his pencil flow,
So warm with life his blended colors glow.
From theme to theme with secret pleasure tost,
Amidst the soft variety I'm lost:

Here pleasing airs my ravish'd soul confound
With circling notes and labyrinths of sound;

(Dumb are their fountains and their channels dry,) Here domes and temples rise in distant views,

Yet run for ever by the Muse's skill,
And in the smooth description murmur still.
Sometimes to gentle Tiber I retire,
And the fam'd river's empty shores admire,
That destitute of strength derives its course
From thrifty urns and an unfruitful source;
Yet sung so often in poetic lays,
With scorn the Danube and the Nile surveys;
So high the deathless Muse exalts her theme!
Such was the Boyne, a poor inglorious stream,
That in Hibernian vales obscurely stray'd,
And unobserv'd, in wild meanders play'd;
Till by your lines and Nassau's sword renown'd,
Its rising billows through the world resound,
Where'er the hero's godlike acts can pierce,
Or where the fame of an immortal verse.

Oh, could the Muse my ravish'd breast inspire With warmth like yours, and raise an equal fire, Unnumber'd beauties in my verse should shine, And Virgil's Italy should yield to mine!

See how the golden groves around me smile, That shun the coast of Britain's stormy isle, Or, when transplanted and preserv'd with care, Curse the cold clime, and starve in northern air. Here kindly warmth their mountain juice ferments To nobler tastes, and more exalted scents: S'en the rough rocks with tender myrtle bloom, And trodden weeds send eat a rich perfume. Bear me, some god, to Baia's gentle seats, Or cover me in Umbria's green retreats; Where western gales eternally reside, And all the seasons lavish all their pride: Biossoms, and fruits, and flowers together rise, And the whole year in gay confusion lies.

Immortal glories in my mind revive, And in my soul a thousand passions strive, When Rome's exalted beauties I descry Magnificent in piles of ruin lie. An amphitheatre's amazing height Here fills my eye with terror and delight, That on its public shows unpeopled Rome, And held, uncrowded, nations in its womb: Here pillars rough with sculpture pierce the skies, And here the proud triumphal arches rise, Where the old Romans deathless acts display'd, Their base degenerate progeny upbraid: Whole rivers here forsake the fields below, [flow. And wondering at their height through airy channels Sull to new scenes my wandering Muse retires, And the dumb show of breathing rocks admires: Where the smooth chisel all its force has shown, And soften'd into flesh the rugged stone. In solemn silence, a majestic band, 'Heroes, and gods, and Roman consuls stand

And opening palaces invite my Muse.

How has kind Heaven adorn'd the happy land, And scatter'd blessings with a wasteful hand! But what avail her unexhausted stores, Her blooming mountains, and her sunny shores, With all the gifts that Heaven and Earth impart, The smiles of Nature, and the charms of Art, While proud oppression in her valleys reigns, And tyranny usurps her happy plains? The poor inhabitant beholds in vain The reddening orange and the swelling grain Joyless he sees the growing oils and wines, And in the myrtle's fragrant shade repines: Starves in the midst of Nature's bounty curst, And in the loaden vineyard dies for thirst.

O Liberty, thou goddess heavenly bright, Profuse of bliss, and pregnant with delight! Eternal pleasures in thy presence reign, And smiling Plenty leads thy wanton train; Eas'd of her load, Subjection grows more light, And Poverty looks cheerful in thy sight; Thou mak'st the gloomy face of Nature gay Giv'st beauty to the Sun, and pleasure to the day Thee, goddess, thee, Britannia's isle adores; How has she oft exhausted all her stores, How oft in fields of death thy presence sought, Nor thinks the mighty prize too dearly bought! On foreign mountains may the Sun refine The grape's soft juice, and mellow it to wine, With citron groves adorn a distant soil, And the fat olive swell with floods of oil: We envy not the warmer clime, that lies In ten degrees of more indulgent skies, Nor at the coarseness of our Heaven repine, Though o'er our heads the frozen Pleiads shine: "Tis Liberty that crowns Britannia's isle,

And makes her barren rocks and her bleak moun

tains smile.

Others with towering piles may please the sight And in their proud aspiring domes delight; A nicer touch to the stretcht canvas give, Or teach their animated rocks to live: "Tis Britain's care to watch o'er Europe's fate, And hold in balance each contending state, To threaten bold presumptuous kings with war, And answer her afflicted neighbor's prayer. The Dane and Swede, rous'd up by fierce alarms, Bless the wise conduct of her pious arms: Soon as her fleets appear, their terrors cease, And all the northern world lies hush'd in peace. Th' ambitious Gaul beholds with secret dread Her thunder aim'd at his aspiring head, And fain her godlike sons would disunite By foreign gold, or by domestic spite:

But strives in vain to conquer or divide,
Whom Nassau's arms defend and counsels guide.
Fir'd with the name, which I so oft have found
The distant climes and different tongues resound,
I bridle-in my struggling Muse with pain,
That longs to launch into a bolder strain.

But I've already troubled you too long,
Nor dare attempt a more adventurous song
My humble verse demands a softer theme,
A painted meadow, or a purling stream;
Unfit for heroes: whom immortal lays,

And lines, like Virgil's, or like yours, should praise.



That sees her bravest son advanc'd so high,
And flourishing so near her prince's eye;
Thy favorites grow not up by fortune's sport,
Or from the crimes or follies of a court;
On the firm basis of desert they rise,
From long-tried faith, and friendship's holy ties:
Their sovereign's well-distinguish'd smiles they

Her ornaments in peace, her strength in war;
The nation thanks them with a public voice;
By showers of blessings Heaven approves their

Envy itself is dumb, in wonder lost,

And factions strive who shall applaud them most.
Soon as soft vernal breezes warm the sky,
Britannia's colors in the zephyrs fly;
Her chief already has his march begun,
Crossing the provinces himself had won,
Till the Moselle, appearing from afar,
Retards the progress of the moving war.
Delightful stream, had Nature bid her fall
In distant climes far from the perjur'd Gaul;

TO HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF MARLBOROUGH, 1705. But now a purchase to the sword she lies,

-Rheni pacator et Istri.

Omnis in hoc uno variis discordia cessit
Ordinibus; lætatur eques, plauditque senator,
Votaque patricio certant plebeia favori.

tissima sint.

Claud. de Laud. Stilic.

Liv. Hist. lib. 33.

Her harvests for uncertain owners rise,
Each vineyard doubtful of its master grows,
And to the victor's bowl each vintage flows.
The discontented shades of slaughter'd hosts,
That wander'd on her banks, her heroes' ghosts,
Hop'd, when they saw Britannia's arms appear,
The vengeance due to their great deaths was near.
Our godlike leader, ere the stream he past,
The mighty scheme of all his labors cast,

Esse aliquam in terris gentem quæ suâ impensâ, suo labore ac
periculo, bella gerat pro libertate aliorum. Nec hoc finiti-
mis, aut propinquæ vicinitatis hominibus, aut terris conti-
nenti junctis præstet. Maria trajiciat: ne quod toto orbe ter-
rarum injustum imperium sit, et ubique jus, fas, lex, poten-Forming the wondrous year within his thought;
His bosom glow'd with battles yet unfought.
The long laborious march he first surveys,
And joins the distant Danube to the Maese,
Between whose floods such pathless forests grow
Such mountains rise, so many rivers flow:
The toil looks lovely in the hero's eyes,
And danger serves but to enhance the prize.

WHILE crowds of princes your deserts proclaim,
Proud in their number to enrol your name;
While emperors to you commit their cause,
And Anna's praises crown the vast applause;
Accept, great leader, what the Muse recites,
That in ambitious verse attempts your fights.
Fir'd and transported with a theme so new,
Ten thousand wonders opening to my view
Shine forth at once; sieges and storms appear,
And wars and conquests fill th' important year:
Rivers of blood I see, and hills of slain,
An Iliad rising out of one campaign.

The haughty Gaul beheld, with towering pride,
His ancient bounds enlarg'd on every side;
Pyrene's lofty barriers were subdued,
And in the midst of his wide empire stood;
Ausonia's states, the victor to restrain,
Oppos'd their Alps and Apennines in vain,

Big with the fate of Europe, he renews
His dreadful course, and the proud foe pursues!
Infected by the burning Scorpion's heat,
The sultry gales round his chaf'd temples beat.
Till on the borders of the Maine he finds
Defensive shadows, and refreshing winds.
Our British youth, with inborn freedom bold
Unnumber'd scenes of servitude behold,
Nations of slaves, with tyranny debas'd,
(Their Maker's image more than half defac'd.
Hourly instructed, as they urge their toil,
To prize their queen, and love their native soil.
Still to the rising Sun they take their way

Nor found themselves, with strength of rocks im- Through clouds of dust, and gain upon the day.


Behind their everlasting hills secur'd;
The rising Danube its long race began,

And half its course through the new conquests ran;
Amaz'd and anxious for her sovereign's fates,
Germania trembled through a hundred states;
Great Leopold himself was seiz'd with fear;
He gaz'd around, but saw no succor near;
He gaz'd, and half-abandon'd to despair
His hopes on Heav'n, and confidence in prayer.
To Britain's queen the nations turn ther eyes,
On her resolves the western world relies,
Confiding still, amidst its dire alarms,
In Anna's councils, and in Churchill's arms.
Thrice happy Britain, from the kingdoms rent,
To sit the guardian of the continent!

When now the Neckar on its friendly coast
With cooling streams revives the fainting host,
That cheerfully his labors past forgets,
The midnight watches, and the noon-day heats.

O'er prostrate towns and palaces they pass
(Now cover'd o'er with woods, and hid in grass,
Breathing revenge; whilst anger and disdain
Fire every breast, and boil in every vein :
Here shatter'd walls, like broken rocks from far
Rise up in hideous views, the guilt of war;
Whilst here the vine o'er hills of ruin climbs,
Industrious to conceal great Bourbon's crimes.

At length the fame of England's hero drew
Eugenio to the glorious interview.
Great souls by instinct to each other turn,
Demand alliance, and in friendship burn;

A sudden friendship, while with stretch'd-out rays
They meet each other, mingling blaze with blaze.
Polish'd in courts, and harden'd in the field,
Renown'd for conquest, and in council skill'd,
Their courage dwells not in a troubled flood
Of mountain spirits, and fermenting blood;
Lodg'd in the soul, with virtue over-rul'a
Inflam by reason, and by reason cool'd,
In hours of peace content to be unknown,
And only in the field of battle shown:
To souls like these, in mutual friendship join'd,
Heaven dares intrust the cause of human-kind.

Britannia's graceful sons appear in arms,
Her harass'd troops the hero's presence warms,
Whilst the high hills and rivers all around
With thundering peals of British shouts resound:
Doubling their speed, they march with fresh delight,
Eager for glory, and require the fight.

So the staunch hound the trembling deer pursues,
And smells his footsteps in the tainted dews,
The tedious track unravelling by degrees:

But when the scent comes warm in every breeze,
Fir'd at the near approach he shoots away
On his full stretch, and bears upon his prey.

Nor hazard thus, confus'd in crowds of foes,
Britannia's safety, and the world's repose;
Let nations anxious for thy life abate
This scorn of danger, and contempt of fate:
Thou liv'st not for thyself; thy queen demands
Conquest and peace from thy victorious hands;
Kingdoms and empires in thy fortune join,
And Europe's destiny depends on thine.

At length the long-disputed pass they gain,
By crowded armies fortified in vain;
The war breaks in, the fierce Bavarians yield,
And see their camp with British legions fill'd.
So Belgian mounds bear on their shatter'd sides
The sea's whole weight increas'd with swelling

But if the rushing wave a passage finds
Enrag'd by watery moons, and warring wind
The trembling peasant sees his country round
Cover'd with tempests, and in oceans drown'd.
The few surviving foes disperst in flight,
(Refuse of swords, and gleanings of a fight,)
In every rustling wind the victor hear,
And Marlborough's form in every shadow fear,
Till the dark cope of night with kind embrace

The march concludes, the various realms are past; Befriends the rout, and covers their disgrace.
Th'immortal Schellenberg appears at last:
Like hills th' aspiring ramparts rise on high,
Like valleys at their feet the trenches lie;
Batteries on batteries guard each fatal pass,
Threatening destruction; rows of hollow brass,
Tube behind tube, the dreadful entrance keep,
Whilst in their wombs ten thousand thunders sleep:
Great Churchill owns, charm'd with the glorious

His march o'er-paid by such a promis'd fight.
The western Sun now shot a feeble ray,
And faintly scatter'd the remains of day:
Ev'ning approach'd, but oh what host of foes
Were never to behold that evening close!
Thickening their ranks, and wedg'd in firm array,
The close-compacted Britons win their way;
In vain the cannon their throng'd war defac'd
With tracts of death, and laid the battle waste;
Still pressing forward to the fight, they broke
Through flames of sulphur, and a night of smoke,
Till slaughter'd legions fill'd the trench below,
And bore their fierce avengers to their foe.

High on the works the mingling hosts engage;
The battle, kindled into tenfold rage,
With showers of bullets and with storms of fire
Burns in full fury; heaps on heaps expire,
Nations with nations mix'd confus'dly die,
And lost in one promiscuous carnage lie.

How many generous Britons meet their doom,
New to the field, and heroes in the bloom!
Th' illustrious youths, that left their native shore
To march where Britons never march'd before,
(O fatal love of fame! O glorious heat,
Only destructive to the brave and great!)
After such toils o'ercome, such dangers past,
Stretch'd on Bavarian ramparts breathe their last:
But hold, my Muse, may no complaints appear,
Nor blot the day with an ungrateful tear:
While Marlborough lives, Britannia's stars dispense
A friendly light, and shine in innocence.
Plunging through seas of blood his fiery steed,
Where'er his friends retire, or foes succeed:
Those he supports, these drives to sudden flight,
And turns the various fortune of the fight.
Forbear, great man, renown'd in arms, forbear
To brave the thickest terrors of the war,
VOL. 1.-19

To Donavert, with unresisted force,
The gay victorious army bends its course.
The growth of meadows, and the pride of fields.
Whatever spoils Bavaria's summer yields,
(The Danube's great increase,) Britannia shares,
The food of armies and support of wars:
Witl. magazines of death, destructive balls,
And cannon doom'd to batter Landau's walls,
The victor finds each hidden cavern stor'd,
And turns their fury on their guilty lord.

Deluded prince! how is thy greatness crost,
And all the gaudy dream of empire lost,
That proudly set thee on a fancied throne,
And made imaginary realms thy own!
Thy troops, that now behind the Danube join,
Shall shortly seek for shelter from the Rhine,
Nor find it there! Surrounded with alarms,
Thou hop'st the assistance of the Gallic arms;
The Gallic arms in safety shall advance,
And crowd thy standards with the power of France
While, to exalt thy doom, th' aspiring Gaul
Shares thy destruction, and adorns thy fall.

Unbounded courage and compassion join'd,
Tempering each other in the victor's mind,
Alternately proclaim him good and great,
And make the hero and the man complete.
Long did he strive th' obdurate foe to gain
By proffer'd grace, but long he strove in vain;
Till, fir'd at length, he thinks it vain to spare
His rising wrath, and gives a loose to war.
In vengeance rous'd, the soldier fills his hand
With sword and fire, and ravages the land,
A thousand villages to ashes turns,
In crackling flames a thousand harvests burns.
To the thick woods the woolly flocks retreat,
And mixt with bellowing herds confus'dly bleat;
Their trembling lords the common shade partake,
And cries of infants sound in every brake:
The listening soldier fixt in sorrow stands,
Loth to obey his leader's just commands;
The leader grieves, by generous pity sway'd,
To see his just commands so well obey'd.

But now the trumpet terrible from far
In shriller clangors animates the war;
Confederate drums in fuller concert beat,
And echoing hills the loud alarm repeat.

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

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 owr
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.

« PreviousContinue »