When thou bought'ft Conqueft at a rate too high,
Since thy Defeat, which paid it, was fo nigh;
Thy Soul could furely, with Applauses warm,
No Thought of her approaching Sorrow form;
Nor while on Seas fo fmooth thy Fate did fteer,
Imagine Shelves and Quickfands would appear.
That double Trophy on his Borders got,
Old hoary Rhine yet cannot ha' forgot;
When he a Witnefs of the Germans Grief,
From his deep Channel saw Landau's Relief:
The falfe Affurance of Eternal Praise,
Thy Lewis then infer'd from one well-gotten Bays;
For tho he thought Confederate Force to break,
The Boyan Duke, and Marfin were too weak;
He doubted not but thofe combin'd with you,
Would on the Danube turn the Ballance too.
'Twas then (O Flattery of Bourbon's Fate!)
The Race of Cæfar's, in its threatned State,
Beginning first of Succour to defpair,
The Shock of three fuch Torrents fcarce could bear.
In vain the Swords of Lewis and Eugene,
So oft in Turkish Fields fuccessful seen,
(Where never drawn without expected Gain,
The waxing Moons they ftill compell'd to wain.)
Your Rage oppos'd, while the big Tide was high;
Toftem it quite another Arm must fly.
The bold Phyfician of an Empire's Fears,
For this great Task referv'd, at last appears:
It's fucc'ring Churchill, who with Justice great,
No Blank e'er draws among the Lots of Fate;
As if but He to fix the Goddess knew,
And Laurels only for his Temples grew:
Hard was the Warrior's March, and long the Way,
Till Schellemberg he reacht, his first Essay,
Where Europe did on both thy Rivals fee
The Blush of a Defeat unfhar'd by thee.
'Twas a brave Effort! but one more as great
The Hero wants to make the Gain compleat:
Two Chiefs ha' fled, but till the Third be fought,
His Sum of Trophies is imperfect thought.
And now, Tallard, what kind Oblivion, fay,
Can rafe the Journal out of that unhappy Day?
When, one loft Battle eager to retrieve,
Thou didst a fecond's Gain fecure believe:
Too fare 'twas Malice of thy veering Fate,
And Glory never laid a falfer Bait!
A fmaller Force, it's true, did thine oppose,
But fuch a Leader made the Odds thy Foes;
Nor could, the profer'd Fight, thy feebler Side
Accept with Safety, tho it might with Pride.
With how much Blood the Field was crimson'd
My Mufe forbears to grate a Captive's Ear; (here,
What Thousands perifht in the Danube Stream,
By full as many fung, is grown too ftale a Theme.
On Thee alone my wond'ring Thought's intent,
Thy Fortune to my Eyes that Day prefent.
Methinks I hear from thy unwilling Tongue
That abject Word at laft of Quarter wrung;
And fee thy utmost need extort the Sound,
Which gives thy drooping Soul its deepest Wound,
Their Liberty, with thee to Life inclin'd,
A hundred valiant Chiefs befides refign'd:
Submission, mean in any other Place,
Where fuch a Hero wins, does leffen the Difgrace,
But urg'd by Danger, and by Safety led,
O Shame to all his Wreaths! Bavaria fled!
Too happy! had he been like thee confin'd,
And not referv'd for a worfe Fate behind.
'Twas Comfort yet to fee thy Conduct fince, Nor cenfur'd by thy Friends, nor punisht by thy What tho with Spite to thy Undoing us'd, (Prince. A Chief too rafh, fome Enemies accus'd;
A gentle Master foon their Malice croft,
And with a Province paid a Battle loft.
Let next my Muse, thy Victor's Mercy boast,
And strive her felf to pay the Debt thou ow'st
For fuch a Triumph: When he made thee bend,
Did one infulting Word thy Ears offend?
Say, Did not he (tho Captives may allow
Some Arrogance in those who make 'em bow)
Kind to thy Grief, yet faithful to his Charge,
Of Conqueror, and Friend, the Parts discharge?
For fince the Chance of that abandon'd Field,
Which saw thee, deftitute of Succour, yield,
From Britain's Queen, to moderate thy Pain,
A gentle Prison his Request did gain:
O pleafing Change! which fends thee kindly o'er From Danube's hated Banks to Trent's delightful
(Shore.
It's there thou dwell'ft, and with no Cloud between,
Haft two revolving Suns already feen;
Of so much Eafe, and Liberty possest,
Thy Embaffy it self scarce fhew'd thee half fo blest.
Not fo the Boyan Duke; his Planets ftill,
O juft Reward for broken Faith! are ill;
His State fubverted, and his Titles loft,
He finds too late the Price his Treafons cost.
To try the Fortune of another Plain,
It's true, he picks his Fugitives again;
Dares a third time his Victor's Fury meet,
And (what could elfe be thought) does feel a third
Thy Monarch, eager of a Battel's Gain, (Defeat.
His Villeroy and Marfin fends in vain ;
Confus'd they run, as fcar'd by Magick Charms,
And catch contagious Ruin from his Arms.
Now take a View (if where thou art confin'd,
Thy Mafter's Fate employs thy anxious Mind)
Of his abortive Schemes, and then confess,
Since laid unjustly they could be no less:
To win the Nations he did once perplex, And to his own furrounding Crowns annex; (Howe'er thy King expected to prevail)
Was such a Task, he could not chuse but fail :
For tho Great William's Arms (ordain'd by Fate
To buttress up the firft declining State)
Successless often did in Fields engage,
And ftopt ('twas all it could) but half his Rage;
Yet fee (ftrange Female Force) Imperial ANNE
Compleats the Work unfinisht by the Man.
O durft fome Minister, in Council near, But speak a famous Truth in Bourbon's Ear! And, one fit Moment, artfully relate The Scythian Queen's Succefs, and Perfian Foun(der's Fate: The Moral well apply'd, might make him fee AWoman's Arm had quel'd a greater King than he, That thus fhe triumphs,while the World forgets The Tudor's Glory, and Plantagenet's. While leffen'd every new victorious Year, Her hundred Great Forefathers A&s appear. To valiant Hands, Tallard, abroad fhe owes, And Heads expert at home for Council chofe. The State of Britain, thus prodigious grown, It is not Churchill's Arm fupports alone ; For other Heroes make, by ANNE's Command, Their Thunders fear'd at Sea, like his by Land: And Peterborough wants no Wreaths in Spain, By whofe officious Toil, a Crown is Charles's Gain, But as no Empire yet fo bleft has bin, That had not ftill fome Enemies within: Them too with Art uncommon fhe fubdues, And Mildness is the Weapon fhe doth use: Such Means to conquer Faction feldom fail, For where the Queen proves weak, the Mother
Now fure, Tallard, a Princefs fram'd like Her, Neceffity of Winning must infer.
The certain Danger to thy Master paint,
And thence be canoniz'd thy Country's Saint;
Her fuff'ring Sons an ended War would eafe,
The Lenitive alone for their Disease:
Where Blood no longer Subjects can afford,
It's Husbandry of State, to fheath the Sword.
Nor fhould he think it, of a Blush the Cause,
To let a Woman's Tongue impose him Laws;
He foon may find, in turning Annals o'er,
Kings stooping often on as mean a Score.
It grates, I know, to that foft Sex to bow,
Which Custom still the Weaker does allow.
But let him fee what States Eliza fhook,
Or on the Roman dread Bonduca took;
Then tell the Trophies which adorn the Throne
Of our third Female Boaft; and fure he'll own,
(Howe'er it justly may to fome belong)
In British Queens, at least, the Attribute is wrong.
An ODE occafion'd by the Battel of Ramellies. By Mr. B
How will the grateful Senate praife!
What new recording Pillars raise !
That with Eternal Battles glow
To kindle Britains for the Foe.
Our Roman Sires to Merit free,
Profufe of Immortality;
Of Him who had his Country ferv'd,
In various Piles the Fame preferv'd:
On Earth the Hero frown'd in Brass,
And hook the Skies with Jove in Verse:
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