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While each contracts its bounds, or wider grows,
Enlarg'd or straiten'd as the river flows,
On Gallia's side a mighty hulwark 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 of 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

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

And those who paint them truest praise them most



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

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:
Oh 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?


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 noonday 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 steadfast 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.


THE spacious firmament on high,
With all the blue ethereal sky,
And spangled heavens, a shining frame,
Their great original proclaim.
Th' unwearied sun from day to day
Does his Creator's power display,
And publishes to every land
The work of an almighty hand.

Soon as the evening shades prevail,
The moon takes up the wondrous tale,
And nightly to the listening earth
Repeats the story of her birth;
Whilst all the stars that round her burn,
And all the planets in their turn,
Confirm the tidings as they roll,
And spread the truth from pole.

What though in solemn silence all
Move round the dark, terrestrial ball?
What though nor real voice nor sound
Amid their radiant orbs be found?
In reason's ear they all rejoice,
And utter forth a glorious voice,
Forever singing as they shine

"The hand that made us is divine!"


ISAAC WATTS was born at Southampton, July 17, 1674. He was sent to an Independent academy in London, where he injured his health by hard study. In 1696 he became a private tutor at Stoke-Newington, and in 1702 minister of an Independent church in Mark Lane. In 1712 he was prostrated by an illness from which he never thoroughly recovered, and he then found a home with Sir Thomas Abney, at Theobald's, where he resided until his death, November 25, 1748. He wrote numerous theological works, which have long since gone out of print, and a treatise

on logic which held a place much longer, but that also is now almost forgotten. He is remembered by his hymns, which, in nearly all our church collections, are more numerous than those of any other author. The latest edition of his Hora Lyrice was published in 1837, with a memoir by Southey. While the vast majority of Watts's hymns are of little account considered as poetry, some of them have the lyric inspiration, as well as religious fervor, and will be sung as long as music has any part in public worship.

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THOMAS PARNELL was born in Dublin in 1679, and was educated at the university there. He took orders at an early age, and in 1705 was made Archdeacon of Clogher. About this time he married Miss Anne Minchin, who was famous for her beauty. Though a native Irishman, he had little regard for any thing in that country, and spent most of his time in London, where he preached frequently, and was, admired for his oratory and petted in literary circles. At first he was intimate with the Whigs; but when that party was going out of power, he transferred his friendship to the Tories. Though he had inherited two good estates, one in Cheshire and


one in Ireland, and had the revenue of his bene. fices besides, he lived beyond his means in the metropolis, courting preferment, but getting only the vicarage of Finglass, which Swift recommended him to. The death of his wife, in 1712, was a severe affliction, and he fell into intem. perate habits, and died at Chester in July, 1717. Parnell was the author of some papers in the "Spectator" and the "Guardian," and of several poems which are distinguished for their harmonious versification and pleasing tone. The best known of them is "The Hermit." They were collected and published by Pope, and an enlarged edition was issued at Dublin in 1758.


By the blue taper's trembling light, No more I waste the wakeful night, Intent with endless view to pore The schoolmen and the sages o'er: Their books from wisdom widely stray, Or point at best the longest way. I'll seek a readier path, and go Where wisdom's surely taught below. How deep yon azure dyes the sky! Where orbs of gold unnumber'd lie, While through their ranks in silver pride The nether crescent seems to glide. The slumbering breeze forgets to breathe, The lake is smooth and clear beneath, Where once again the spangled show Descends to meet our eyes below. The grounds, which on the right aspire, In dimness from the view retire: The left presents a place of graves, Whose wall the silent water laves. That steeple guides thy doubtful sight Among the livid gleams of night. There pass with melancholy state By all the solemn heaps of Fate,


softly sad you tread

And think, Above the venerable dead, Time was, like thee, they life possest, And time shall be, that thou shalt rest. Those with bending osier bound, That nameless heave the crumbled ground, Quick to the glancing thought disclose, Where toil and poverty repose.

The flat smooth stones that bear a name

The chisel's slender help to fame,
(Which ere our set of friends decay
Their frequent steps may wear away)
A middle race of mortals own,
Men half ambitious, all unknown.

The marble tombs that rise on high,
Whose dead in vaulted arches lie,
Whose pillars swell with sculptur'd stones
Arms, angels, epitaphs, and bones,
These, all the poor remains of state,
Adorn the rich, or praise the great;
Who, while on earth in fame they live,
Are senseless of the fame they give.
Ha! while I gaze, pale Cynthia fades,
The bursting earth unveils the shades!

All slow, and wan, and wrapp'd with shrouds,
They rise in visionary crowds,

And all with sober accent cry,

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Think, mortal, what it is to die."

Now from yon black and funeral yew,
That bathes the charnel-house with dew,
Methinks, I hear a voice begin;

(Ye ravens, cease your croaking din,
Ye tolling clocks, no time resound
O'er the long lake and midnight ground!)
It sends a peal of hollow groans,
Thus speaking from among the bones :
"When men my scythe and darts supply,
How great a king of fears am I !
They view me like the last of things;
They make, and then they draw, my strings.
Fools! if you less provok'd your fears,
No more my spectre form appears.
Death's but a path that must be trod,
If man would ever pass to God;

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