Her power with boundless joy confest,
Her person only not ador'd:
Yet ought his sorrow to be check'd;
Yet ought his passions to abate:
If the great mourner would reflect,
Her glory in her death complete.
She was instructed to command,
Great king, by long obeying thee:
Her sceptre, guided by thy hand,
Preserv'd the isles, and rul'd the sea.
But oh! 'twas little, that her life
O'er earth and water bears thy fame: In death, 'twas worthy William's wife, Amidst the stars to fix his name.
Beyond where matter moves, or place
Receives its forms, thy virtues roll:
From Mary's glory, Angels trace
The beauty of her partner's soul.
Wise Fate, which does its Heav'n decree
To heroes, when they yield their breath,
Hastens thy triumph. Half of thee
Is deified before thy death.
Alone to thy renown 'tis giv'n,
Unbounded through all worlds to go: While she, great saint, rejoices Heav'n; And thou sustain'st the orb below.
IN IMITATION OF ANACREON.
ET 'em censure: what care I?
The herd of critics I defy.
Let the wretches know, I write,
Regardless of their grace, or spite.
No, no: the fair, the gay, the young
Govern the numbers of my song.
All that they approve is sweet,
And all is sense that they repeat.
Bid the warbling Nine retire:
Venus, string thy servant's lyre:
Love shall be my endless theme:
Pleasure shall triumph over Fame:
And when these maxims I decline,
Apollo, may thy fate be mine:
May I grasp at empty praise;
And lose the nymph, to gain the bays.
HE merchant, to secure his treasure,
Conveys it in a borrow'd name:
Euphelia serves to grace my measure;
But Cloe is my real flame.
My softest verse, my darling lyre,
Upon Euphelia's toilet lay;
When Cloe noted her desire,
That I should sing, that I should play.
My lyre I tune, my voice I raise;
But with my numbers mix my sighs:
And whilst I sing Euphelia's praise,
I fix my soul on Cloe's eyes.
Fair Cloe blush'd: Euphelia frown'd:
I sung and gaz'd: I play'd and trembled: And Venus to the Loves around
Remark'd, how ill we all dissembled.
SUR LA PRISE DE NAMUR, PAR LES ARMES DU ROY,
L'ANNEE MDCXCII. PAR MONSIEUR
UELLE docte & sainte yvresse
Aujourd'huy me fait la loy?
Chastes nymphes du Permesse,
N'est-ce pas vous que je voy
Accourez, troupe sçavante :
Des sons que ma lyre enfante;
Ces arbres sont réjouis:
Marquez en bien la cadence:
Et vous, vents, faites silence:
Je vais parler de Louis.
Dans ses chansons immortelles,
Comme un aigle audacieux,
Pindare étendant ses aisles,
Fuit loin des vulgaires yeux.
Mais, ô ma fidèle lyre,
Si, dans l'ardeur qui m'inspire,
Tu
peux suivre mes transports;
Les chesnes des monts de Thrace
N'ont rien oui, que n'efface
La douceur de tes accords.
ON THE TAKING OF NAMUR BY THE KING OF
Dulce est desipere in loco.*
OME folks are drunk, yet do not know it:
So might not Bacchus give you law?
Was it a Muse, O lofty Poet,
Or virgin of St. Cyr, you saw?
Why all this fury? What's the matter,
That oaks must come from Thrace to dance?
Must stupid stocks be taught to flatter?
And is there no such wood in France?
Why must the winds all hold their tongue?
If they a little breath should raise,
Would that have spoil'd the Poet's song,
Or puff'd away the monarch's praise?
Pindar, that eagle, mounts the skies:
While Virtue leads the noble way:
Too like a vulture Boileau flies,
Where sordid Int'rest shows the prey.
When once the Poet's honour ceases,
From reason far his transports rove:
And Boileau, for eight hundred pieces,
Makes Louis take the wall of Jove.
This ballad received great alterations after the first edition of it. The taking of Namur by the French in the year 1692, and the retaking it by the English in the year 1695,
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