Thence is her power, her fceptre uncontrol'd,
To bend the ftubborn, and reprefs the bold;
Her peaceful arts fierce factions to affwage,
To heal their breaches, and to footh their rage;
Thence is that happy prudence, which prefides
In each defign, and every action guides;
Thence is the taught her fhining court to grace,
And fix the worthieft in the worthiest place,
To trust at home Godolphin's watchful care,
And fend victorious Churchill forth to war.
Arife, ye nations rescued by her sword,
Freed from the bondage of a foreign lord,
Arife, and join the heroine to bless,
Behold the fends to fave you from distress;
Rich is the royal bounty the bestows,
'Tis plenty, peace, and fafety from your
And thou, Iberia! rous'd at length, difdain
To wear inflav'd the Gallic tyrant's chain.
For fee! the British genius comes, to chear
Thy fainting sons, and kindle them to war.
With her own glorious fires their fouls fhe warms,
And bids them burn for liberty and arms.
Unhappy land! the foremost once in fame,
Once lifting to the ftars thy noble name,
In arts excelling, and in arms fevere,
The western kingdoms' envy, and their fear :
Where is thy pride, thy confcious honour, flown,
Thy ancient valour, and thy first renown?
How art thou funk among the nations now!
How haft thou taught thy haughty neck to bow,
And dropt the warrior's wreath inglorious from thy
brow!
Not thus of old her valiant fathers bore
The bondage of the unbelieving Moor,
But, oft, alternate, made the victors yield,
And prov'd their might in many a well-fought field;
Bold in defence of liberty they stood,
And doubly dy'd their cross in Moorish blood:
Then in heroic arms their knights excell'd,
The tyrant then and giant then they quell'd.
Then every nobler thought their minds did move,
And those who fought for freedom, figh'd for love.
Like one, thofe facred flames united live,
At once they languish, and once revive ;
Alike they fhun the coward and the flave,
But blefs the free, the virtuous, and the brave.
Nor frown, ye fair, nor think my verfe untrue;
Though we difdain that man fhould man fubdue,
Yet all the free-born race are flaves alike to you.
Yet, once again that glory to reftore,
The Britons feek the Celtiberian fhore.
With echoing peals, at Anna's high command,
Their naval thunder wakes the drowsy land;
High at their head, Iberia's promis'd lord,
Young Charles of Auftria, waves his fhining fword;
His youthful veins with hopes of empire glow,
Swell his bold heart, and urge him on the foe:
With joy he reads, in every warrior's face,
Some happy omen of a fure fuccefs;
Then leaps exulting on the hoftile ftrand,
And thinks the destin'd fceptre in his hand.
Nor fate denies, what firft his wishes name,
Proud Barcelona owns his jufter claim,
With the first laurel binds his youthful brows,
And, pledge of future crowns, the mural wreath beftows.
But foon the equal of his youthful years,
Philip of Bourbon's haughty line appears ;
Like hopes attend his birth, like glories grace,
(If glory can be in a tyrant's race)
In numbers proud, he threats no more from far,
But nearer draws the black impending war;
He views his hoft, then fcorns the rebel town,
And dooms to certain death the rival of his crown.
Now fame and empire, all the nobler fpoils
That urge the hero, and reward his toils,
Plac'd in their view, alike their hopes engage,
And fire their breafts with more than mortal rage.
Not lawless love, not vengeance, nor defpair,
So daring, fierce, untam'd, and furious are,
As when ambition prompts the great to war;
As youthful kings, when, ftriving for renown,
They prove their might in arms, and combat for a crown.
Hard was the cruel ftrife, and doubtful long
Betwixt the chiefs fufpended conqueft hung;
Till, forc'd at length, difdaining much to yield, 105
Charles to his rival quits the fatal field.
Numbers and fortune o'er his right prevail,
And ev'n the British valour feems to fail;
And yet they fail'd not all. In that extreme,
Conscious of virtue, liberty, and fame,
They vow the youthful monarch's fate to fhare,
Above distress, unconquer'd by despair,
Still to defend the town, and animate the war.
But lo! when every better hope was past, When every day of danger feem'd their last, Far on the diftant ocean, they furvey, Where a proud navy plows its watery way. Nor long they doubted, but with joy descry, Upon the chief's tall top-masts waving high, The British cross and Belgic lion fly. Loud with tumultuous clamour, loud they rear Their cries of ecftafy, and rend the air; In peals on peals the fhouts triumphant rise, Spread fwift, and rattle through the fpacious skies; While, from below, old ocean groans profound, The walls, the rocks, the fhores, repel the found, Ring with the deafening fhock, and thunder all around. Such was the joy the Trojan youth exprefs'd Who, by the fierce Rutilian's fiege diftrefs'd, Were by the Tyrrhene aid at length releas'd; When young Afcanius, then in arms first try'd, Numbers and every other want fupply'd, And haughty Turnus from his walls defy'd; Sav'd in the town an empire yet to come,
And fix'd the fate of his imperial Rome.
But oh! what verfe, what numbers, fhall reveal Those pangs of rage and grief the vanquish'd feel ! Who fhall retreating Philip's fhame impart,
And tell the anguish of his labouring heart'
What paint, what speaking pencil, fhall express
The blended paffions ftriving in his face!
Hate, indignation, courage, pride, remorse,
With thoughts of glory paft, the lofer's greatest curse.
Fatal ambition! say what wondrous charms
Delude mankind to toil for thee in arms!
When all thy fpoils, thy wreaths in battle won,
The pride of power, and glory of a crown,
When all war gives, when all the great can gain,
Ev'n thy whole pleasure, pays not half thy pain.
All hail! ye fofter, happier arts of peace,
Secur'd from harms, and bleft with learned eafe;
In battles, blood, and perils hard, unskill'd,
Which haunt the warrior in the fatal field;
But chief, thee, Goddess Muse! my verse would raise,
And to thy own foft numbers tune thy praise;
Happy the youth infpir'd, beneath thy fhade,
Thy verdant, ever-living laurels laid!
There, fafe, no pleasures, there no pains they know,
But those which from thy facred raptures flow,
Nor wish for crowns, but what thy groves beftow.
Me, nymph divine! nor fcorn my humble prayer,
Receive unworthy, to thy kinder care,
Doom'd to a gentler, though more lowly, fate,
Nor wifhing once, nor knowing to be great;
Me, to thy peaceful haunts, inglorious bring,
Where fecret thy celeftial fifters fing,
Paft by their facred hill, and sweet Caftalian fpring.
But nobler thoughts the victor prince employ,
And raise his heart with high triumphant joy;
From hence a better course of time rolls on,
And whiter days fucceffive seem to run.
From hence his kinder fortune feems to date
The rifing glories of his future ftate,
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