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Unbounded courage and compaffion join'd,
Tempering each other in the victor's mind,
Alternately proclaim him good and great,
And make the Hero and the Man compleat.
Long did he ftrive th' obdurate foe to gain
By proffer'd grace, but long he ftrove in vain ;
Till, fir'd at length, he thinks it vain to spare
His rifing wrath, and gives a loose to war.
In vengeance rous'd, the foldier fills his hand.
With fword and fire, and ravages the land,
A thousand villages to ashes turns,
In crackling flames a thousand harvests burns.
To the thick woods the woolly flocks retreat,
And mixt with bellowing herds confus'dly bleat;
Their trembling lords the common shade partake,
And cries of infants found in every brake:
The listening foldier fixt in forrow stands,
Loth to obey his leader's just commands;
The leader grieves, by generous pity sway'd,
To fee his just commands fo well obey'd.
But now the trumpet terrible from far
In fhriller 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 defir'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 affail'd,
And Anna's ardent vows at length prevail'd;
The day was come when heaven defign'd to show
His care and conduct of the world below.
Behold in awful march and dread array
The long extended fquadrons shape their way!
Death, in approaching terrible, imparts
An anxious horror to the braveft hearts;
Yet do their beating breasts demand the ftrife,
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,
Leffen his numbers, and contract his host ;
Though fens and floods pofleft the middle space,
That unprovok'd they would have fear'd to pass;
Nor fens nor floods can ftop Britannia's bands,
When her proud foe rang'd on their borders stands.
But O, my Mufe, what numbers wilt thou find
To fing the furious troops in battle join'd!
Methinks I hear the drums tumultuous found
The victors shouts and dying groans confound,
The dreadful burft of cannon rend the fkies,
And all the thunder of the battle rife.
Twas then greatMarlborough's mighty foul was prov'd,
That, in the fhock of charging hosts unmov'd,
Amidst confufion, horror, and despair,
Examin'd all the dreadful fcenes of war:
In peaceful thought the field of death furvey'd,
To fainting fquadrons fent the timely aid,
Infpir'd repuls'd battalions to engage,
And taught the doubtful battle where to rage.
So when an angel by divine command
With rifing tempefts shakes a guilty land,
Such as of late o'er pale Britannia past,
Calm and ferene he drives the furious blast;
And, pleas'd th' Almighty's orders to perform,
Rides in the whirlwind, and directs the ftorm.
But fee the haughty houfhold-troops advance!
The dread of Europe, and the pride of France.
The war's whole art each private foldier knows,
And with a General's love of conqueft glows;
Proudly he marches on, and void of fear
Laughs at the shaking of the British spear:
Vain infolence! with native freedom brave,
The meanest Briton fcorns the highest flave;
Contempt and fury fire their fouls 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 crouds 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 fee the gay, the brave, the young,
Fall in the cloud of war, and lie unfung!
In joys of conqueft he refigns his breath,
And, fill'd with England's glory, fmiles in death.
The rout begins, the Gallic fquadrons run,
Compell'd in crouds to meet the fate they fhun;
Thousands of fiery steeds with wounds transfix'd,
Floating in gore, with their dead masters mixt,
"Midft heaps of spears and standards driven around,
Lie in the Danube's bloody whirl-pools drown'd.
Troops of bold youths, born on the distant Soane,
Or founding 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 fweep away,
And into Scythian seas their bloated corps convey.
From Blenheim's towers the Gaul, with wild affright
Beholds the various havock of the fight;
His waving banners, that so oft had stood
Planted in fields of death and streams of blood,
So wont the guarded enemy to reach,
And rife 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 forrow, and of shame,
That with mixt tumult in thy bosom swell'd,
When first thou faw'ft thy bravest troops repell'd,
Thine only fon pierc'd with a deadly wound,
Chok'd in his blood, and gasping on the ground,
Thyfelf 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 diftreft! they 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 fuch great leaders won,
The field whence fam'd Eugenio bore away
Only the fecond honours of the day.
With floods of gore that from the vanquish'd fell
The marshes ftagnate, and the rivers fwell.
Mountains of flain 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 'fcape the fetters and the fword,
Nor feek the fortunes of a happier lord,
Their raging King dishonours, to compleat
Marlborough's great work, and finish the defeat.
From Memminghen's high domes, and Augsburg's walls,
The distant battle drives th' infulting Gauls;
Freed by the terror of the victor's name
The rescued States his great protection claim ;
Whilft Ulme th' approach of her deliverer waits,
And longs to open her obfequious gates.
The hero's breaft ftill fwells with great defigns,
In every thought the towering genius fhines: