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 horrour 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, horrour, 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 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 glides,

In heaps the rolling billows sweep away,

And into Scythian seas their bloated corps convey. From Blenheim's towers the Gaul, with wild affright, Beholds the various havoc of the right:

His waving banners, that so oft had ood

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 own The fatal field by such great leaders won, The field whence fam'd Eugenio bore away Only the second honours 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 dishonours, to complete Marlborough's great work, and finish the defeat. From Memminghen's high domes, and Augsburg's walls,

The distant battle drives th' insulting Gauls;

Freed by the terrour 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 labouring 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, While each contracts its bounds, or wider grows, Enlarg'd or straiten'd as the river flows, On Gallia's side a mighty bulwark stands, That all the wide-extended plain commands; Twice, since the war was kindled, has it try'd The victor's rage, and twice has chang'd its side; As oft 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;