Yet off they brush'd, both foot and horse.
What has friend Boileau left to say?
When his high muse is bent upon't

To sing her king, that great commander,
Or on the shores of Hellespont,

Or in the valleys near Scamander,
Would it not spoil his noble task,
If any foolish Phrygian there is
Impertinent enough to ask,

How far Namur may be from Paris?

Two stanzas more before we end,

Of death, pikes, rocks, arms, bricks and fire:

Leave 'em behind you, honest friend :

And with your country-men retire.
Your ode is spoilt, Namur is freed;
For Dixmuyd something yet is due ;
So good Count Guiscard may proceed;
But Boufflers, Sir, one word with you.-

'Tis done. In sight of these commanders,
Who neither fight, nor raise the siege ;
The foes of France march safe through Flanders,
Divide to Bruxelles, or to Liege.

Send, Fame, this news to Trianon,

That Boufflers may new honours gain :

He the same play by land has shown,

As Tourville did upon the main. Yet is the marshal made a peer!

O William, may thy arms advance, That he may lose Dinant next year, And so be constable of France.

L

I.

ET all be hush'd, each softest motion cease,

Be ev'ry loud tumultuous thought at peace,

And ev'ry ruder gasp of breath

Be calm, as in the arms of death:

And thou, most fickle, most uneasy part,
Thou restless wanderer, my heart,

Be still; gently, ah! gently, leave,
Thou busy, idle thing, to heave :
Stir not a pulse; and let my blood,
That turbulent unruly flood,

Be softly staid:

Let me be all, but my attention, dead.
Go, rest, unnecessary springs of life,
Leave your officious toil and strife;
For I would hear her voice, and try
If it be possible to die.

II.

Come, all ye love-sick maids and wounded swains,

And listen to her healing strains.

A wondrous balm between her lips she wears,

Of sov'reign force to soften cares,

And this thro' ev'ry ear she can impart,

(By tuneful breath diffus'd) to ev'ry heart.
Swiftly the gentle charmer flies,

And to the tender grief soft air applies,
Which warbling mystic sounds

Cements the bleeding panter's wounds.
But, ah! beware of clam'rous moan;
Let no unpleasing murmur or harsh groan
Your slighted loves declare;

Your very tend❜rest moving sighs forbear,
For even they will be too boist'rous here.
Hither let nought but sacred silence come,
And let all saucy praise be dumb.

III.

And, lo! silence himself is here;

Methinks I see the midnight God appear:

In all his downy pomp array'd,

Behold the rev'rend shade;

An ancient sigh he sits upon,

Whose memory of sound is long since gone,

And purposely annihilated for his throne;