Ask Villeroy, for Villeroy beheld
The town surrender'd and the treaty seal'd;
With what amazing strength the forts were won,
Whilst the whole power of France stood looking on.
But stop not here: behold where Berkeley stands,
And executes his injured King's commands;
Around thy coast his bursting bombs he pours
On flaming citadels and falling towers;
With hissing streams of fire the air they streak,
And hurl destruction round them where they break;
The skies with long ascending flames are bright,
And all the sea reflects a quivering light.
Thus Etna, when in fierce eruptions broke, Fills Heaven with ashes and the earth with smoke; Here crags of broken rocks are twirl'd on high, Here molten stones and scatter'd cinders fly; Its fury reaches the remotest coast,
And strows the Asiatic shore with dust.
Now does the sailor from the neighbouring main Look after Gallic towns and forts in vain ; No more his wonted marks he can descry, But sees a long unmeasured ruin lie,
Whilst, pointing to the naked coast, he shows His wondering mates where towns and steeples Where crowded citizens he lately view'd, [rose, And singles out the place where once St. Maloes' stood.
Here Russel's actions should my Muse require, And would my strength but second my desire, I'd all his boundless bravery rehearse,
And draw his cannons thundering in my verse; High on the deck should the great leader stand, Wrath in his look, and lightning in his hand ;
Like Homer's Hector, when he flung his fire
Amidst a thousand ships, and made all Greece retire.
But who can run the British triumphs o'er, And count the flames dispersed on every shore? Who can describe the scatter'd victory,
And draw the reader on from sea to sea?
Else who could Ormond's godlike acts refuse?
Ormond! the theme of every Oxford Muse.
Fain would I here his mighty worth proclaim,
Attend him in the noble chase of fame,
Through all the noise and hurry of the fight
Observe each blow, and keep him still in sight.
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
Purchased their country's honour with their blood?
When such, 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 blast the counsels of the common foe;
Direct our armies, and distribute right,
And render our Maria's' loss more light?
But stop, my Muse, the' ungrateful sound forbear,
Maria's name still wounds each British ear;
Each British heart Maria still does wound,
And tears burst out unbidden at the sound;
Maria still our rising mirth destroys,
Darkens our triumphs, and forbids our joys.
But see, at length, the British ships appear!
Our Nassau comes! and, as his fleet draws near,
1 Queen Mary, who died in 1694.
The rising masts advance, the sails grow white,
And all his pompous navy floats in sight.
Come, mighty Prince! desired of Britain! come;
May Heaven's propitious gales attend thee home!
Come, and let longing crowds behold that look,
Which such confusion and amazement strook
Through Gallic hosts; but, oh! let us descry
Mirth in thy brow, and pleasure in thine eye;
Let nothing dreadful in thy face be found,
But for a while forget the trumpet's sound;
Well pleased, thy people's loyalty approve,
Accept their duty, and enjoy their love:
For as, when lately moved with fierce delight,
You plunged 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 peacefull blessings
flow.
ON HIS PICTURE OF THE KING.
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, awed 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 placed,
With its bright round of titles graced,
And, stamp'd 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,
Rejoiced 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 canvass 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 disgraced:
may famed 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 advanced to Jove,
And taught the polish'd rocks to shine
With airs and lineaments divine,
Till Greece, amazed, and half afraid,
The' assembled deities survey'd.
Great Pan, who wont to chase the fair,
And loved the spreading oak, was there;
Old Saturn, too, with up-cast eyes
Beheld his abdicated skies;
And mighty Mars, for war renown'd,
In adamantine armour 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-lived 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.
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