But now furtounded by thy ancient Mounds,
Doft Inward fhrink from thy New-conquer'd Bounds,
Why did not Nature, far from MARLBRÔ's Worth,
In Diftant Ages bring her Louis forth?
Each uncontroll'd had conquer'd Worlds Alone,
Happy! for Europe, they Together fhone.
Ceafe! Louis, ceafe! from Wars and Slaughter cease! Oh! Sue at laft, 'tis time to Sue, for Peace!
Urge not too far your Twice unhappy Fate,
Nor MARL BRô 's ftronger Arm confefs too late :
Who never Camps or rough Encounters faw,
Can no juft Image of the Hero draw:
He muft, alas! that MAP LBR ô truly knows,
Face him in Battel, and whole Armies lofe.
Believe me, Sir, on my unwilling Breast,
Fate has his Virtues one by one Impreft:
With what a Force our Schellemberg he storm'd?
And Bleinheim's Battel with what Condu&t form'd?
How Great his Vigilance; how Quick his Thought;
What his Contempt of Death, Ramillia taught.
Thefe Nature cool for Peace and Counfel forms,
For Battel thofe with Rage and Fury warms;
But to Her Fav'rite Briton does impart
The Cooleft Head at once and Warmeft Heart;
So does Sicilia's lofty Mountain fhow
Flames in her Bofom, on her Head the Snow.
My Youth with flat'ring Smiles did Fortune Crown, The more feverely on my Age to Frown?
Of Pleafure's endless Store I drank my Fill,
Officious Nature waited on my Will;
The Auftrian Refcu'd, and the Turk o'erthrown,
Europe and Afia fill'd with my Renown:
Blafted are all my Glories and my Fame,
Loft is my Country and Illuftrious Name;
The Titles from their prefent Lord are torn,
Which my Great Ancestors so long had born;
No Native Honours hall my Off-fpring grace,
The laft Elector with a Num'rous Race.
Half my unhappy Subjects loft by Wars,
The reft for a worse Fate the Victor spares:
Were they for this Entrusted to my Care?
This the Reward the Brave, the Faithful fhare
My Sons lament, in diftant Dungeons thrown,
Unacted Crimes, and Follies' not their own;
But oh! my Confort!-- my o'er-flowing Eyes
Gush forth with Tears, and all my Sorrows rife,
While the Dear tender Exile I bemoan;
Oh Royal Bride! oh Daughter of a Throne!
Not thus I promis'd when I fought thy Bed,
Thou didst the Brave, the Great Bavaria Wed:
Curft be Ambition! curft the Thirst of Pow'r!
And curft that once-lov'd Title Emperour!!
Excufe, Great SIR, the Ravings of a Mind,
That can fo juft a Cause for Sorrow find;
My Words too rudely may a Monarch greet,
For oh! was ever Grief like mine difcreet!
No Suff'rings fhall my Firm Alliance End,
An Unfuccefsful, but a Faithful Friend,
Ardon, Great DUKE, if Britain's Style delights;
Or if th' Imperial Title more invites,
Pardon, Great PRINCE, the Failings of a Mufe,
That dares not hope for more than Your Excuse,
Forc'd at a Distance to attempt Your Praise,
And Sing Your Victories in Mournful Lays,
To caft in Shadows, and allay the Light,
That wounds, with nearer Rays, the dazled Sight,
Nor durft in a direct and open Strain
Such Acts, with her unhallow'd Notes, prophane:
In tow'ring Verfe let meaner Heroes grow,
And to Elab'rate Lines their Greatness owe;
Your Actions, own'd by ev'ry Nation, want
Praifes, no greater than a Foe may grant.
Oh! when shall Europe, by her MARLBRO's Sword, To lafting Peace and Liberty reftor'd, Allow her weary Champion a Retreat,
To his lov'd Country and his rifing Seat?
Where your foft Part'ner, far from Martial Noife, Your Cares fhall fweeten with Domestick Joys: Your Conquefts fhe with doubtful Pleasure hears, And in the midft of ev'ry Triumph fears; Betwixt her Queen and You divides her Life, A Friend Obfequious, and a Faithful Wife.
Hail Woodstock! Hail ye Celebrated Glades! Grow faft ye Woods, and flourish thick ye Shades!"
Ye rifing Tow'rs for your new Lord prepare,
your old Henry come from Gallia's War.
The Gen'ral's Arms as far the King's o'erpow'r
As this new Structure does furpass the Bow'r.
The Pleafing Profpects and Romantick Scite,
The Spacious Compafs, and the Stately Height;
The painted Gardens, in their flow'ry Prime,
Demand whole Volumes of Immortal Rhime,
And if the Mufe would fecond the Defign,
Mean as they are, fhould in my Numbers shine.
There live, the Joy and Wonder of our Ifles,
Happy in Albion's Love and ANNA's Smiles.
While from the Godlike Race of CHURCHILL born, Four beauteous Rofamonds this Bow'r adorn,.
Who with the antient Syren of the Place
In Charms might vie, and ev'ry blooming Grace;
But blefs'd with equal Virtues had the been,.
Like them fhe had been Favour'd by the QUEEN,
Whom your high Merit, and their own, prefers
To all the worthieft Beds of England's Peers.
Thus the Great Eagle, when Heav'n's Wars are o'er, And the loud Thunder has forgot to rore,
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