IN one great Now, superior to an age,
The full extremes of Nature's force we find;
How heavenly virtue can exalt, or rage

Infernal how degrade the human mind.
While the fierce monk does at his trial stand,
He chews revenge, abjuring his offence;
Guile in his tongue, and murder in his hand,
He stabs his judge to prove his innocence.
The guilty stroke and torture of the steel

Infix'd, our dauntless Briton scarce perceives; The wounds his country from his death must feel The patriot views; for those alone he grieves. The barbarous rage that durst attempt thy life, Harley! great counsellor, extends thy fame; And the sharp point of cruel Guiscard's knife, In brass and marble carves thy deathless name. Faithful assertor of thy country's cause,

Britain with tears shall bathe thy glorious wound; She for thy safety shall enlarge her laws,

And in her statutes shall thy worth be found.

1 Guiscard was a spy employed by the court of France; and being apprehended, endeavoured to assassinate Mr. Harley (afterwards Earl of Oxford) while his deposition was taken before the privy council.

Yet midst her sighs she triumphs, on the hand
Reflecting, that diffused the public woe;
A stranger to her altars and her land,

No son of her's could meditate this blow.
Meantime thy pain is gracious Anna's care:

Our Queen, our saint, with sacrificing breath Softens thy anguish in her powerful prayer

She pleads thy service, and forbids thy death. Great as thou art, thou canst demand no more, O breast bewail'd by earth, preserved by Heaven! No higher can aspiring virtue soar;

Enough to thee of grief and fame is given.

IN IMITATION OF

HORACE, BOOK III. ODE II.

WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1692.

How long, deluded Albion, wilt thou lie
In the lethargic sleep, the sad repose,
By which thy close, thy constant enemy
Has softly lull'd thee to thy woes?

Or wake, degenerate Isle, or cease to own
What thy old kings in Gallic camps have done;
The spoils they brought thee back, the crowns
they won.

William (so Fate requires) again is arm'd;

Thy father to the field is gone:

Again Maria weeps her absent lord,
For thy repose content to rule alone.
Are thy enervate sons not yet alarm'd?
When William fights, dare they look tamely on,
So slow to get their ancient fame restored, [sword?
As not to meltat Beauty's tears, nor follow Valour's

See the repenting Isle awakes,

Her vicious chains the generous goddess breaks; The fogs around her temples are dispell'd;

Abroad she looks, and sees arm'd Belgia stand
Prepared to meet their common lord's command,
Her Lion roaring by her side, her arrows in her
hand,

And, blushing to have been so long withheld,
Weeps off her crime, and hastens to the field:
Henceforth her youth shall be inured to bear
Hazardous toil and active war;

To march beneath the dog-star's raging heat,
Patient of summer's drought, and martial sweat,
And only grieve in winter camps to find
Its days too short for labours they design'd:
All night beneath hard heavy arms to watch,
All day to mount the trench, to storm the breach,
And all the rugged paths to tread,

Where William and his virtue lead.

Silence is the soul of war;

Deliberate counsel must prepare

The mighty work which valour must complete: Thus William rescues, thus preserves the state, Thus teaches us to think and dare;

As, whilst his cannon just prepared to breathe
Avenging anger and swift death,

In the tried metal the close dangers glow,
And now, too late, the dying foe

Perceives the flame, yet cannot ward the blow;
So whilst in William's breast ripe counsels lie,
Secret and sure as brooding Fate,

No more of his design appears

Than what awakens Gallia's fears,

And (though Guilt's eye can sharply penetrate)

Distracted Lewis can descry

Only a long unmeasured ruin nigh.

On Norman coasts, and banks of frighted Seine,
Lo! the impending storms begin;

Britannia safely through her master's sea
Ploughs up her victorious way:

The French Salmoneus throws his bolts in vain,
Whilst the true thunderer asserts the main.
'Tis done! to shelves and rocks his fleets retire,
Swift victory, in vengeful flames,

Burns down the pride of their presumptuous names:
They run to shipwreck to avoid our fire,
And the torn vessels that regain their coast,
Are but sad marks to show the rest are lost.
All this the mild, the beauteous Queen has done,
And William's softer half shakes Lewis' throne.
Maria does the sea command,

Whilst Gallia flies her husband's arm by land.
So, the sun absent, with full sway the moon
Governs the isles, and rules the waves alone;
So Juno thunders when her Jove is gone.
Iö, Britannia! loose thy ocean's chains,
Whilst Russel strikes the blow thy Queen ordains.
Thus rescued, thus revered, for ever stand,
And bless the counsel, and reward the hand.
Iö Britannia! thy Maria reigns.

From Mary's conquests, and the rescued main,
Let France look forth to Sambre's armed shore,
And boast her joy for William's death no more.

1 King William being slightly wounded by a cannon-ball at the battle of the Boyne, a report reached France that he was killed; upon which, says Bishop Burnet, there were more public rejoicings, than had been usual at their greatest victories.

2

He lives, let France confess the victor lives:
Her triumphs for his death were vain,
And spoke her terror of his life too plain.
The mighty years begin, the day draws nigh
In which that one of Lewis' many wives
Who, by the baleful force of guilty charms,
Has long enthrall'd him in her wither'd arms,
Shall o'er the plains from distant towers on high
Cast around her mournful eye,

And with prophetic sorrow cry,

'Why does my ruin'd Lord retard his flight?
Why does despair provoke his age to fight?
As well the wolf may venture to engage
The angry lion's generous rage;

The ravenous vulture, and the bird of night,
As safely tempt the stooping eagle's flight;
As Lewis to unequal arms defy

Yon hero crown'd with blooming victory,
Just triumphing o'er rebel rage restrain'd,
And yet unbreath'd from battles gain'd.
See! all yon dusty fields quite cover'd o'er
With hostile troops, and Orange at their head;
Orange, destined to complete

The great designs of labouring Fate;

Orange, the name that tyrants dread:

He comes, our ruin'd empire is no more;

Down, like the Persian, goes the Gallic throne;
Darius flies, young Ammon urges on.'

Now from the dubious battle's mingled heat
Let Fear look back, and stretch her hasty wing,
Impatient to secure a base retreat;

Let the pale coward leave his wounded king,

2 Madame Maintenon.