AN ODE, Humbly Inscrib'd to the QUEEN. ON THE Glorious Success OF Her MAJESTY's Arms, 1706.

Written in Imitation of Spencer's Style.

I.

When Great Augustus govern'd Antient Rome,
 And sent his Conqu'ring Bands to Foreign Wars;
 Abroad when Dreaded, and Belov'd at Home,
 He saw his Fame encreasing with his Years;
 Horace, Great Bard (so Fate ordain'd) arose;
 And Bold, as were his Countrymen in Fight,
 Snatch'd their fair Actions from degrading Prose,
 And set their Battels in Eternal Light:
 High as their Trumpets Tune His Lyre he strung;
 And with his Prince's Arms He moraliz'd his Song. 

II.

When bright Eliza rul'd Britannia's State,
 Widely distributing Her high Commands;
 And boldly Wise, and fortunately Great,
 Freed the glad Nations from Tyrannick Bands;
 An equal Genius was in Spenser found:
 To the high Theme He match'd his Noble Lays:
 He travell'd England o'er on Fairy Ground,
 In Mystic Notes to Sing his Monarch's Praise:
 Reciting wond'rous Truths in pleasing Dreams,
 He deck'd Eliza's Head with Gloriana's Beams. 

III.

But, Greatest Anna! while Thy Arms pursue
 Paths of Renown, and climb Ascents of Fame,
 Which nor Augustus, nor Eliza knew;
 What Poet shall be found to sing Thy Name? 
What Numbers shall record, what Tongue shall say
 Thy Wars on Land, Thy Triumphs on the Main? 
O Fairest Model of Imperial Sway! 
What Equal Pen shall write Thy wond'rous Reign? 
Who shall Attempts and Feats of Arms rehearse,
 Not yet by Story told, nor parallel'd by Verse? 

IV.

Me all too mean for such a Task I weet:
 Yet if the Sovereign Lady deigns to Smile,
 I'll follow Horace with impetuous Heat,
 And cloath the Verse in Spenser's Native Style. 
By these Examples rightly taught to sing,
 And Smit with Pleasure of my Country's Praise,
 Stretching the Plumes of an uncommon Wing,
 High as Olympus I my Flight will raise:
 And latest Times shall in my Numbers read
 Anna's Immortal Fame, and Marlbrô's hardy Deed. 

V.

As the strong Eagle in the silent Wood,
 Mindless of warlike Rage, and hostile Care,
 Plays round the rocky Cliff, or crystal Flood;
 'Till by Jove's high Behests call'd out to War,
 And charg'd with Thunder of his angry King,
 His Bosom with the vengeful Message glows:
 Upward the Noble Bird directs his Wing;
 And tow'ring round his Master's Earth-born Foes,
 Swift He collects his fatal Stock of Ire;
 Lifts his fierce Talon high, and darts the forked Fire. 

VI.

Sedate and calm thus Victor Marlbrô sate,
 Shaded with Laurels, in his Native Land;
 'Till Anna calls Him from his soft Retreat,
 And gives Her Second Thunder to his Hand. 
Then leaving sweet Repose, and gentle Ease,
 With ardent Speed He seeks the distant Foe:
 Marching o'er Hills and Vales, o'er Rocks and Seas,
 He meditates, and strikes the wond'rous Blow. 
Our Thought flies slower than Our General's Fame:
 Grasps He the Bolt? (We ask) when He has hurl'd the Flame. 

VII.

When fierce Bavar on Judoign's spacious Plain
 Did from afar the British Chief behold;
 Betwixt Despair, and Rage, and Hope, and Pain,
 Something within his warring Bosom roll'd:
 He views that Fav'rite of Indulgent Fame,
 Whom whilom He had met on Ister's Shoar:
 Too well, alas! the Man He knows the same,
 Whose Prowess there repell'd the Boyan Pow'r;
 And sent Them trembling thro' the frighted Lands,
 Swift as the Whirlwind drives Arabia's scatter'd Sands. 

VIII.

His former Losses He forgets to grieve;
 Absolves his Fate, if with a kinder Ray
 It now would shine, and only give Him leave
 To Balance the Account of Blenheim's Day. 
So the fell Lion in the lonely Glade,
 His Side still smarting with the Hunter's Spear,
 Tho' deeply wounded, no way yet dismay'd,
 Roars terrible, and meditates new War;
 In sullen Fury traverses the Plain,
 To find the vent'rous Foe, and Battel Him again. 

IX.

Misguided Prince! no longer urge Thy Fate,
 Nor tempt the Hero to unequal War;
 Fam'd in Misfortune, and in Ruin Great,
 Confess the Force of Marlbrô's stronger Star. 
Those Laurel Groves (the Merits of thy Youth)
 Which Thou from Mahomet didst greatly gain,
 While bold Assertor of resistless Truth,
 Thy Sword did Godlike Liberty maintain,
 Must from thy Brow their falling Honors shed;
 And their transplanted Wreaths must deck a worthier Head. 

X.

Yet cease the Ways of Providence to blame,
 And Human Faults with Human Grief confess:
 'Tis Thou art chang'd; while Heav'n is still the same:
 From Thy ill Councils date Thy ill Success. 
Impartial Justice holds Her equal Scales;
 'Till stronger Virtue does the Weight incline:
 If over Thee thy glorious Foe prevails;
 He now Defends the Cause, that once was Thine. 
Righteous the War, the Champion shall subdue;
 For Jove's great Handmaid Power, must Jove's Decrees pursue. 

XI.

Hark! the dire Trumpets sound their shrill Alarms:
 Auverquerque, branch'd from the renown'd Nassaws,
 Hoary in War, and bent beneath his Arms,
 His Glorious Sword with Dauntless Courage draws. 
When anxious Britain mourn'd her parting Lord,
 And all of William that was Mortal Dy'd;
 The faithful Hero had receiv'd This Sword
 From His expiring Master's much-lov'd Side. 
Oft from it's fatal Ire has Louis flown,
 Where-e'er Great William led, or Maese and Sambre run. 

XII.

But brandish'd high, in an ill-omen'd Hour
 To Thee, proud Gaul, behold thy justest Fear,
 The Master Sword, Disposer of thy Power:
 'Tis That which Cæsar gave the British Peer. 
He took the Gift: Nor ever will I sheath
 This Steel, (so Anna's high Behests ordain)
 The General said, unless by Glorious Death
 Absolv'd, 'till Conquest has confirm'd Your Reign. 
Returns like these Our Mistress bids us make,
 When from a foreign Prince a Gift Her Britons take. 

XIII.

And now fierce Gallia rushes on her Foes,
 Her Force augmented by the Boyan Bands:
 So Volga's Stream, increas'd by Mountain Snows,
 Rolls with new Fury down thro' Russia's Lands. 
Like two great Rocks against the raging Tide,
 (If Virtue's Force with Nature's We compare)
 Unmov'd the Two united Chiefs abide,
 Sustain the Impulse, and receive the War. 
Round their firm Sides in vain the Tempest beats;
 And still the foaming Wave with lessen'd Pow'r retreats. 

XIV.

The Rage dispers'd, the Glorious Pair advance,
 With mingl'd Anger, and collected Might,
 To turn the War, and tell aggressing France,
 How Britain's Sons and Britain's Friends can fight. 
On Conquest fix'd, and covetous of Fame,
 Behold Them rushing thro' the Gallic Host. 
Thro' standing Corn so runs the sudden Flame,
 Or Eastern Winds along Sicilia's Coast. 
They deal their Terrors to the adverse Nation:
 Pale Death attends their Arms, and ghastly Desolation. 

XV.

But while with fiercest Ire Bellona glows,
 And Europe rather Hopes than Fears Her Fate;
 While Britain presses Her afflicted Foes;
 What Horror damps the Strong, and quells the Great? 
Whence look the Soldiers Cheeks dismay'd and pale? 
Erst ever dreadful, know They now to dread? 
The Hostile Troops, I ween, almost prevail;
 And the Pursuers only not recede. 
Alas! their lessen'd Rage proclaims their Grief! 
For anxious, lo! They croud around their falling Chief! 

XVI.

I thank Thee, Fate, exclaims the fierce Bavar;
 Let Boya's Trumpet grateful Iö's sound:
 I saw Him fall, their Thunderbolt of War: —
 Ever to Vengeance sacred be the Ground —
 Vain Wish! short Joy! the Hero mounts again
 In greater Glory, and with fuller Light:
 The Ev'ning Star so falls into the Main,
 To rise at Morn more prevalently bright. 
He rises safe: but near, too near his Side,
 A good Man's grievous Loss, a faithful Servant dy'd. 

XVII.

Propitious Mars! the Battel is regain'd:
 The Foe with lessen'd Wrath disputes the Field:
 The Briton fights, by fav'ring Gods sustain'd:
 Freedom must live; and lawless Power must yield. 
Vain now the Tales which fab'ling Poets tell,
 That wav'ring Conquest still desires to rove! 
In Marlbrô's Camp the Goddess knows to dwell:
 Long as the Hero's Life remains her Love. 
Again France flies: again the Duke pursues:
 And on Ramillia's Plains He Blenheim's Fame renews. 

XVIII.

Great Thanks, O Captain great in Arms! receive
 From thy Triumphant Country's public Voice:
 Thy Country greater Thanks can only give
 To Anne, to Her who made those Arms Her Choice. 
Recording Schellenberg's, and Blenheim's Toils,
 We dreaded lest Thou should'st those Toils repeat:
 We view'd the Palace charg'd with Gallic Spoils;
 And in those Spoils We thought thy Praise compleat:
 For never Greek, We deem'd, nor Roman Knight,
 In Characters like these did e'er his Acts indite. 

XIX.

Yet mindless still of Ease, Thy Virtue flies
 A Pitch to Old and Modern Times unknown:
 Those goodly Deeds which We so highly prize,
 Imperfect seem, great Chief, to Thee alone. 
Those Heights, where William's Virtue might have staid,
 And on the Subject World look'd safely down,
 By Marlbrô pass'd, the Props and Steps were made,
 Sublimer yet to raise his Queen's Renown:
 Still gaining more, still slighting what He gain'd,
 Nought done the Hero deem'd, while ought undone remain'd. 

XX.

When swift-wing'd Rumor told the mighty Gaul,
 How lessen'd from the Field Bavar was fled;
 He wept the Swiftness of the Champion's Fall;
 And thus the Royal Treaty-Breaker said:
 And lives He yet, the Great, the Lost Bavar,
 Ruin to Gallia, in the Name of Friend? 
Tell Me, how far has Fortune been severe? 
Has the Foe's Glory, or our Grief an End? 
Remains there, of the Fifty Thousand lost,
 To save our threaten'd Realm, or guard our shatter'd Coast? 

XXI.

To the close Rock the frighted Raven flies,
 Soon as the rising Eagle cuts the Air:
 The shaggy Wolf unseen and trembling lyes,
 When the hoarse Roar proclaims the Lion near. 
Ill-starr'd did We our Forts and Lines forsake,
 To dare our British Foes to open Fight:
 Our Conquest We by Stratagem should make:
 Our Triumph had been founded in our Flight. 
'Tis Our's, by Craft and by Surprize to gain:
 'Tis Their's, to meet in Arms, and Battel in the Plain. 

XXII.

The ancient Father of this Hostile Brood,
 Their boasted Brute, undaunted snatch'd his Gods
 From burning Troy, and Xanthus red with Blood,
 And fix'd on Silver Thames his dire Abodes;
 And this be Troynovante, He said, the Seat
 By Heav'n ordain'd, My Sons, Your lasting Place:
 Superior here to all the Bolts of Fate
 Live, mindful of the Author of your Race,
 Whom neither Greece, nor War, nor Want, nor Flame,
 Nor Great Peleides' Arm, nor Juno's Rage could tame. 

XXIII.

Their Tudor's hence, and Stuart's Off-spring flow:
 Hence Edward, dreadful with his Sable Shield,
 Talbot, to Gallia's Pow'r Eternal Foe,
 And Seymour, fam'd in Council, or in Field:
 Hence Nevil, Great to Settle or Dethrone,
 And Drake, and Ca'ndish, Terrors of the Sea:
 Hence Butler's Sons, o'er Land and Ocean known,
 Herbert's, and Churchill's Warring Progeny:
 Hence the long Roll which Gallia should conceal:
 For, oh! Who vanquish'd, loves the Victor's Fame to tell? 

XXIV.

Envy'd Britannia, sturdy as the Oak,
 Which on her Mountain-Top She proudly bears,
 Eludes the Ax, and sprouts against the Stroke;
 Strong from her Wounds, and greater by her Wars. 
And as Those Teeth, which Cadmus sow'd in Earth,
 Produc'd new Youth, and furnish'd fresh Supplies:
 So with young Vigor, and succeeding Birth,
 Her Losses more than recompens'd arise;
 And ev'ry Age She with a Race is Crown'd,
 For Letters more Polite, in Battels more Renown'd. 

XXV.

Obstinate Pow'r, whom Nothing can repel;
 Not the fierce Saxon, nor the cruel Dane,
 Nor deep Impression of the Norman Steel,
 Nor Europe's Force amass'd by envious Spain,
 Nor France on universal Sway intent,
 Oft breaking Leagues, and oft renewing Wars,
 Nor (frequent Bane of weaken'd Government)
 Their own intestine Feuds, and mutual Jars;
 Those Feuds and Jars, in which I trusted more,
 Than in My Troops, and Fleets, and all the Gallic Pow'r. 

XXVI.

To fruitful Rheims, or fair Lutetia's Gate
 What Tidings shall the Messenger convey? 
Shall the loud Herald our Success relate,
 Or mitred Priest appoint the Solemn Day? 
Alas! my Praises They no more must Sing;
 They to my Statue now must Bow no more:
 Broken, repuls'd is their Immortal King:
 Fall'n, fall'n for ever is the Gallic Pow'r —
 The Woman Chief is Master of the War:
 Earth She has freed by Arms, and vanquish'd Heav'n by Pray'r. 

XXVII.

While thus the ruin'd Foe's Despair commends
 Thy Council and Thy Deed, Victorious queen,
 What shall Thy Subjects say, and what Thy Friends? 
How shall Thy Triumphs in Our Joy be seen? 
Oh! daign to let the Eldest of the Nine
 Recite Britannia Great, and Gallia Free:
 Oh! with her Sister Sculpture let her join
 To raise, Great Anne, the Monument to Thee;
 To Thee, of all our Good the Sacred Spring;
 To Thee, our dearest Dread; to Thee, our softer King. 

XXVIII.

Let Europe sav'd the Column high erect,
 Than Trajan's higher, or than Antonine's;
 Where sembling Art may carve the fair Effect,
 And full Atchievement of Thy great Designs. 
In a calm Heav'n, and a serener Air,
 Sublime the Queen shall on the Summit stand,
 From Danger far, as far remov'd from Fear,
 And pointing down to Earth Her dread Command. 
All Winds, all Storms that threaten Human Woe,
 Shall sink beneath Her Feet, and spread their Rage below. 

XXIX.

There Fleets shall strive by Winds and Waters tost;
 'Till the young Austrian on Iberia's Strand,
 Great as Æneas on the Latian Coast,
 Shall fix his Foot: and This, be This the Land,
 Great Jove, where I for ever will remain
 (The Empire's other Hope shall say) and here
 Vanquish'd, Intomb'd I'll lye, or Crown'd I'll Reign —
 O Virtue, to thy British Mother dear! 
Like the fam'd Trojan suffer and abide;
 For Anne is Thine, I ween, as Venus was His Guide. 

XXX.

There, in Eternal Characters engrav'd,
 Vigo, and Gibraltar, and Barcelone,
 Their Force destroy'd, their Privileges sav'd,
 Shall Anna's Terrors, and Her Mercies own:
 Spain, from th'Usurper Bourbon's Arms retriev'd,
 Shall with new Life and grateful Joy appear,
 Numb'ring the Wonders which That Youth atchiev'd,
 Whom Anna clad in Arms, and sent to War;
 Whom Anna sent to claim Iberia's Throne;
 And made Him more than King, in calling Him Her Son. 

XXXI.

There Ister pleas'd, by Blenheim's glorious Field
 Rolling, shall bid his Eastern Waves declare
 Germania sav'd by Britain's ample Shield,
 And bleeding Gaul afflicted by her Spear:
 Shall bid Them mention Marlbrô, on that Shore
 Leading his Islanders, renown'd in Arms,
 Thro' Climes, where never British Chief before
 Or pitch'd his Camp, or sounded his Alarms:
 Shall bid Them bless the Queen, who made his Streams
 Glorious as those of Boyn, and safe as those of Thames. 

XXXII.

Brabantia, clad with Fields, and crown'd with Tow'rs,
 With decent Joy shall her Deliv'rer meet;
 Shall own Thy Arms, Great Queen, and bless Thy Pow'rs,
 Laying the Keys beneath Thy Subject's Feet. 
Flandria, by Plenty made the Home of War,
 Shall weep her Crime, and bow to Charles restor'd;
 With double Vows shall bless Thy happy Care,
 In having drawn, and having sheath'd the Sword. 
From these their Sister Provinces shall know
 How Anne supports a Friend, and how forgives a Foe. 

XXXIII.

Bright Swords, and crested Helms, and pointed Spears
 In artful Piles around the Work shall lye;
 And Shields indented deep in ancient Wars,
 Blazon'd with Signs of Gallic Heraldry;
 And Standards with distinguish'd Honors bright,
 Marks of high Pow'r and National Command,
 Which Valois' Sons, and Bourbon's bore in Fight,
 Or gave to Foix', or Montmorancy's Hand:
 Great Spoils, which Gallia must to Britain yield,
 From Cressy's Battel sav'd, to grace Ramillia's Field. 

XXXIV.

And as fine Art the Spaces may dispose,
 The knowing Thought and curious Eye shall see
 Thy Emblem, Gracious Queen, the British Rose,
 Type of sweet Rule, and gentle Majesty:
 The Northern Thistle, whom no Hostile Hand
 Unhurt too rudely may provoke, I ween;
 Hibernia's Harp, Device of Her Command,
 And Parent of Her Mirth, shall there be seen:
 Thy vanquish'd Lillies, France, decay'd and torn,
 Shall with disorder'd Pomp the lasting Work adorn. 

XXXV.

Beneath, Great Queen, oh! very far beneath,
 Near to the Ground, and on the humble Base,
 To save Her self from Darkness, and from Death,
 That Muse desires the last, the lowest Place;
 Who tho' unmeet, yet touch'd the trembling String;
 For the fair Fame of Anne and Albion's Land,
 Who durst of War and Martial Fury Sing:
 And when Thy Will, and when Thy Subject's Hand
 Had quell'd those Wars, and bid that Fury cease;
 Hangs up her grateful Harp to Conquest, and to Peace.