Fetch uncontroll'd each labour of the fun,
And make the product of the world our own.
At length, proud Prince! ambitious Louis! cease To plague mankind, and trouble Europe's peace; Think on the ftructures which thy pride has ras'd, On towns unpeopled, and on fields laid wafte; 126 Think on the heaps of corpfe' and streams of blood, On every guilty plain and purple flood
Thy arms have made, and cease an impious war,
Nor waste the lives entrusted to thy care:
Or if no milder thought can calm thy mind,
Behold the great avenger of mankind!
See mighty Naffau thro' the battle ride,
And see thy fubjects gasping by his side!
Fain would the pious prince refuse th' alarm,
Fain would he check the fury of his arm,
But when thy cruelties his thoughts engage,
The hero kindles with becoming rage,
Then countries ftol'n, and captives unrestor'd,
Give ftrength to ev'ry blow, and edge his fword. 140 Behold with what refiftless force he falls
On towns befieg'd, and thunders at thy walls!
Ask Villeroy, for Villeroy beheld
The town furrender'd and the treaty feel'd,
With what amazing strength the forts were won, 143 Whilft the whole pow'r of France food looking on. But ftop not here: behold where Berkeley ftands, And executes his injur'd King's commands;
Around thy coaft his bursting bombs he pours
On flaming citadels and falling tow'rs;
With hiffing streams of fire the air they streak,
And hurl destruction round 'em where they break;
The skies with long ascending flames are bright,
And all the fea reflects a quivering light.
Thus Ætna, when in fierce eruptions broke, 155
Fills heav'n with ashes and the earth with smoke;
Here crags of broken rocks are twirl'd on high,
Here molten ftones and scatter'd cinders fly;
Its fury reaches the remotest coast,
And ftrows the Afiatic fhore with duft.
Now does the failor from the neighb'ring main
Look after Gallic towns and forts in vain ;
No more his wonted marks, he can descry,
But fees a long unmeasur'd ruin lie,
Whilft, pointing to the naked coaft, he shows
His wondring mates where towns and steeples rose, Where crowded citizens he lately view'd,
And fingles out the place where once St. Maloes ftood.
Here Ruffel's actions should my Mufe require,
And would my strength but second my defire, 170
I'd all his boundless bravery rehearse,
And draw his cannons thund'ring in my verse;
High on the deck fhould the great leader stand,
Wrath in his look, and lightning in his hand,
Like Homer's Hector, when he flung his fire 175
Amidst a thousand ships, and made all Greece retire.
But who can run the British triumphs o'er,
And count the flames disperst on ev'ry fhore ?
Who can describe the scatter'd victory,
And draw the reader on from fea to fea?
Elfe who could Ormond's godlike acts refuse?
Ormond! the theme of ev'ry Oxford Muse.
Fain would I here his mighty worth proclaim,
Attend him in the noble chafe of fame,
Thro' all the noise and hurry of the fight
Obferve each blow, and keep him still in fight.
Oh! did our British peers thus court renown,
And grace the coats their great forefathers won,
Our arms would then triumphantly advance,
Nor Henry be the last that conquer'd France.
What might not England hope, if such abroad
Purchas'd their country's honour with their blood?
When fuch, detain'd at home, support our state
In William's stead, and bear a kingdom's weight,
The schemes of Gallic policy o'erthrow,
And blaft the counfels of the common foe,
Direct our armies, and distribute right,
And render our Maria's lofs more light?
But stop, my Muse, th' ungrateful found forbear,
Maria's name ftill wounds each British ear;
Each British heart Maria ftill does wound,
And tears burst out unbidden at the found;
Maria ftill our rising mirth destroys,
Darkens our triumphs, and forbids our joys.
Queen Mary, who die!.
But fee, at length, the British ships appear! Our Naffau comes! and, as his fleet draws near, The rifing masts advance, the fails grow white, And all his pompous navy flotes in sight. Come, mighty Prince! defir'd of Britain! come; May Heav'n's propitious gales attend thee home! 210 Come, and let longing crowds behold that look Which fuch confusion and amazement strook Thro' Gallic hofts; but, oh! let us defcry Mirth in thy brow, and pleasure in the eye; Let nothing dreadful in thy face be found, But for a while forget the trumpet's found; Well pleas'd, thy people's loyalty approve, Accept their duty, and enjoy their love: For as, when lately mov'd with fierce delight, You plung❜d amidst the tumult of the fight, Whole heaps of death encompass'd you around, And steeds o'erturn'd lay foaming on the ground; So, crown'd with laurels now, where'er you go, Around you blooming joys and peaceful bleffings flow.
ON HIS PICTURE OF THE KING.
KNELLER! with silence and surprise
We fee Britannia's monarch rife,
A godlike form, by thee display'd
In all the force of light and shade,
And, aw'd by thy delufive hand,
As in the Prefence-chamber stand.
The magic of thy art calls forth
His fecret foul and hidden worth,
His probity and mildness shows,
His care of friends and feorn of foes:
In every stroke, in every lino,
Does fome exalted virtue shine,
And Albion's happiness we trace
Thro' all the features of his face.
O may I live to hail the day
When the glad nation shall survey
Their fov'reign thro' his wide command,
Paffing in progrefs o'er the land!
Each heart hall bend, and ev'ry voice
In loud applauding shouts rejoice,
Whilst all his gracious aspect praise,
And crowds grow loyal as they gaze.
The image on the medal placed,
With its bright round of titles graced,
And fampt on British coins, hall 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 fun
Has daily, fince his courfe begun,
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