Classic Poem

Oh, let the Conqueror stop his swift Career,
A while the Foe, a while the Poet spare:
What Muse can follow with an equal Pace
Thro' the bright Stages of his rapid Race?
He, like the Orbs of Light that roll above,
Does in his glorious Course so swiftly move,
His Conquests are so suddain, so compleat,
And the fierce Foe his Arms so oft defeat,
The Muse exhausted pants and hangs the Wing,
Nor has more Strength to rise, nor Breath to sing.
He Danger seeks, he asks unequal Fight,
And conquers faster than our Bards can write;
So thick Illustrious Vict'ries on them throng,
That half his Triumphs must be left unsung.

To sink the Proud, and suff'ring Nations save,
To curb the Tyrant and release the Slave,
Two Winters past, at Anna 's high Command,
The Chief prepar'd to leave Britannia 's Land.
He shone in Arms, and to the Great Campaign,
Flew, like a threatning Tempest, cross the Main;
He lands, and at their great Asserter's Sight,
Fair Liberty rejoyc'd and publick Right.
The Hero march'd, and on the Danube 's Tide
He chang'd the Ballance to Germania 's Side,
And terrible chastis'd the Gaul 's aspiring Pride.
By Marlbro 's Sword upheld, the wondring Flood
Was, like Egyptian Rivers, turn'd to Blood;
Danubius swoln with Spoils of Foreign Lands,
Dead Steeds and Warriors rolling o'er his Sands,
Flow'd on, Britannia 's Triumphs to convey
To Eastern Empires and the Euxine Sea.
The Hellespont and high Byzantia 's Tow'rs
Shook with the Thunder of the British Pow'rs:
The num'rous Nations of the spacious East
Struck with Amazement stood, while from the West
They saw so bright a Luminary rise,
And with his rival Beams adorn their Skies.

The Muse forsaking fair Britannia 's Thames
Attends the Chief to Danaw 's distant Streams.
She pass'd the German Sea and Belgia 's Soil,
To sing Immortal Deeds and Blenheim 's Glorious Toil:
Now high Augusta , now Britannia rung,
With Lyrick Numbers and Heroick Song,
While Albion 's Youth, in tuneful Lays unvers'd
Nor yet refin'd, with grateful Zeal rehears'd
Great Marlbro 's Wars, and by an early Bloom
Promis'd ripe Numbers and great Men to come;
Adulter Poets all their Riches drain'd,
Rais'd high their Voices and their Sinews strain'd,
And lavish of their Force, at vast Expence
Of generous Fire and Master Eloquence,
In Strains sublime attempted to display
The Martial Toil of Hochsted 's wondrous Day;
Which, as unhappy, Albion 's Isle regards
To Gallick Warriors and to British Bards;
Those, by contending Marlbro ' to repel,
And These, by singing his Atchievements, fell;
For Blenheim was a Theme too bright, too strong,
For Maro 's Rapture, or the Grecian Song;
In this Effort we did our Stock exhaust,
Spent all our Genius, and our Vigour lost.
Say, ye uncautious Sons of Eloquence,
Wastful of Wit; and prodigal of Sense,
Could you believe the British Hero's Sword
Would no more Triumphs, no more Themes afford?
That here the Chief's Victorious Course would cease,
That you and Gallia might indulge your Ease?
That Judgment had been right, had Marlbro ' fought
For meer Renown, and only Laurels sought;
For, one brave Toil, like that of Blenheim 's Field,
To which the Twelve Herculean Labours yield,
Consummate Vertue to the World displays;
We own the Hero, and we sing his Praise.
Had therefore low Designs, had Wealth and Fame,
Or mean Ambition kindled Marlbro 's Flame,
Like vulgar Warriors, had the Chief with Care
And Caution play'd the doubtful Game of War,
After the wondrous Deeds at Blenheim done,
Where all, that Thirst of Glory seeks, was won,
The Hero had resign'd his high Command,
And rose from Combate with a winning Hand:
He had retir'd with envy'd Laurels crown'd,
And a delightful Seat on Isis found;
There liv'd from publick Labour free, and far
From Fields of Slaughter, and rude Shocks of War
But 'tis his Country's, 'tis Europa 's Cause,
That to the Camp the mighty Briton draws:
Divine Compassion to oppress'd Mankind,
Like that which dwells in Anna 's generous Mind,
To lead her Armies forth the Hero's Heart inclin'd.
Fair Liberty, and Right, and antient Laws,
And Anna 's, which is Humane Nature's Cause,
Invite the Chief his Labours to repeat,
And thy Redemption, Europe , to compleat.

He yields — he undertakes the pious Toil,
And with the Trophies, with Illustrious Spoil,
And Laurels sprung from Danaw 's Banks adorn'd,
His rapid Course of Glory back he turn'd.
Bless'd by the num'rous States to Peace restor'd,
And Princes rescu'd by his conqu'ring Sword,
The great Deliv'rer marches to the Rhine ,
To break his Chains, and drive encroaching Sein ,
'Tis done — the Sein 's ambitious Waves subside,
Reluctant roar, and backward roll their Tide.
Oh! had not Envy, had not Discord reign'd,
And the swift Progress of his Arms restain'd,
The next Campaign had equal Wonders shown,
And Triumphs giv'n, like those at Blenheim won;
But that which follow'd, on the Chief confers
Vict'ries postpon'd, and Glory's full Arrears.

The Solar Orb did from the South retreat,
And thro' the Air diffuse reviving Heat,
Solace the Soil, exhilerate the Swain,
And Nature loose from Winter's Chrystal Chain,
When the Great Chief, at Anna 's high Command,
Return'd to chear Batavia 's joyful Land:
Dreadful in Arms he march'd to Brabant 's Coast,
And Terror struck thro' Gallia 's shuddring Host,
Whose Cohorts o'er the Ground, like Locusts, spread,
Each Herb devour'd, and crop'd each verdant Head,
The Vet'ran Troops inur'd to Blood advance,
The Scourge of Europe , and the Pride of France ,
The Squadrons reach'd thy frighted Fords, Mehaigne ,
And cover'd all Ramillia 's spacious Plain.
Here their Brigades, their Ranks embattled close,
Determin'd to withstand th' advancing Foes,
The Briton saw — transported with the Sight,
And bravely eager of decisive Fight,
He swiftly forward march'd, but march'd in Pain,
Lest proffer'd War the Gaul should not sustain;
But to elude his Fury should retreat,
The only way the Hero to defeat.
He drew — he brandish'd his victorious Sword,
Blenheim , remember Blenheim , was the Word.
That magick Sound the Cohorts did inspire,
Their Courage rous'd, and set their Veins on Fire.
With Blenheim ring the Hills and Vales around,
Lovania 's trembling Tow'rs reverberate the Sound.

Unguided Muse, say whether dost thou stray,
In Marlbro 's rapid Vortex caught away,
In the bright Eddy lost, and blind with too much Day?
Stop thy ambitious Flight, and modest yield
Thy Force unequal to Ramillia 's Field;
For thee the Theme is too sublime and bright,
Thou art not us'd to climb so steep a Height,
Nor can'st thou bear this Blaze, this Stress of Light
Can'st thou, to Heav'n secure from sinking rise,
And soar with Strength amidst superior Skies?
Can'st thou supported with a vig'rous Wing,
To list'ning Orbs around Ramillia sing,
And make thro' ecchoing Spheres great Marlbro 's Actions ring?
Hast thou of noble Words a Stock immense,
And Stores of rich inestimable Sense,
To furnish all the Pow'r and Pomp of Eloquence?
Warm Fancy and cool Judgment can'st thou show,
Make Numbers charm, and Words like Colours glow?
Then take the Lyre, and in a lofty Strain
Sing Marlbro 's Triumphs, sing Ramillia 's Plain.
But unprepar'd make not so rash a Choice;
How sluggish is thy Wing? How weak thy Voice?
Proportion'd Strength, Invention, Numbers, Skill,
All Things to thee are wanting, but a Will.
Be then advis'd, the strong Temptation fly,
Nor vain, on thy unequal Strength rely;
For this Attempt more unprovided far,
Than German Circles, when engag'd in War.

But since the Bards, whose Laurels spring and thrive
By Marlbro ', shou'd to Marlbro ' Tribute give;
Shou'd to remotest Realms, their Envoy Fame
Dispatch, their Hero's Triumphs to proclaim;
Since Cam and Ouze , which from the Gaul 's Alarms
And thine, O Rome , sav'd by the Briton 's Arms,
Soft Peace enjoy, and gently murmuring flow,
Should tell the World what they to Marlbro ' owe,
And since, superior in the Field, 'tis fit
We should assert the Empire too of Wit,
And make the haughty Gaul in both submit:
To sing Ramillia 's Field, ye Bards, awake;
The tuneful Lyre, let none but Masters take.

Ye Mercenary Wits, who rhime for Bread,
Ye unfledg'd Muses, this high Subject dread.
Let not th' Inferior Race, who can indite
A pretty Prologue, or a Sonnet write,
Tho' none so forward, none so bold as they,
Make on this Theme an impotent Essay.
All who can raise a Shed, must not presume
To frame a Palace, or erect a Dome.
No more let Milton 's Imitator dare
Torture our Language to torment the Ear,
With Numbers harsher than the Din of War;
Let him no more his horrid Muse employ
In uncouth Strains, pure English to destroy,
And from its Ruins yell his hideous Joy.
Away ye Triflers, who all Rule disdain,
Who in Pindarick sing Philander 's Pain,
And Camps and Arms in Pastor Fido 's Strain.
Hence vain Pretenders to the Song sublime,
Turners of Verse, and Finishers of Rhime,
Who think with Fame Immortal you are Crown'd,
By flowing Numbers, and harmonious Sound:
Who without Fire, and mindless of Design,
Ply hard the Pump, and labour every Line,
To make, like empty Clouds, your Diction shine.
So many Masters of this tuneful Skill,
With their melodious Songs the Kingdom fill,
That to compleat Poetic Eloquence,
Nothing is wanting, but Design, and Sense.
Yet of the Few, who can with Judgment praise,
And sing Great Actions in becoming Lays,
Let none, betray'd by generous Thirst of Fame,
Adventure singly on this Mighty Theme:
Left crush'd beneath th' unsufferable Weight,
He curse th' ambitious Flame, that caus'd his Fate,
And learn his Error in his Fall too late.
Let many Master Bards their Force unite,
And with Confederate Fire a Song Heroic write.
The Muses richest Treasures let 'em drain,
Lavish their Genius, and exhaust their Vein.
Let 'em this generous Resolution own,
That they are pleas'd, and proud to be undone,
While they adorn, with all the Muses Charms,
Bright Anna 's Empire, and brave Marlbro 's Arms.
Tho' any one unvulgar Bard might raise
The Briton 's Triumphs in superior Lays,
To my unfinish'd Songs, and crude Essays;
Yet a distinguish'd, and consummate Piece,
Excelling that of Mantua , that of Greece ,
A wond'rous, unexampled Epick Song,
Where all is just, and beautiful, and strong,
Worthy of Anna 's Arms, of Marlbro 's Fire,
Does our best Bards united Strength require.

The Poets, who assume this noble Theme,
Must have their Hero's Fire, their Hero's Flegm.
They must have Judgment to direct their Flight,
Be never low, and never out of sight.
Calm they must be, and yet with equal Grace,
Enthusiastick in a proper place.
Then Prior , for distinguish'd Lays renown'd,
And Congreve with repeated Laurels crown'd,
Harmonious Granville of superior Name,
Stepny and Walsh , both of establish'd Fame,
And in a tuneful Genius happy Hughes ,
Strike your concordant Lyre, and join your noble Muse.
For this great Task, let all these Sons of Art,
Their utmost Skill and Energy exert;
Let each his Genius know, each take his proper Part.
Let Summers , and let Montague preside,
Correct their Labours, and their Progress guide!
One is with all politer Science grac'd,
Of Thought refin'd, and delicate of Taste.
All to his Judgment, as decisive fly,
By that just Standard all their Notions try;
Like the fam'd Grecian 's chief Intelligence,
He sits sublime, in the first Sphere of Sense:
He rules the rest by his superior Force,
Puts them in Motion, and directs their Course.
And one, like Rome 's Immortal Angelo ,
Does rich and universal Genius show.
This Master, this Poetic Architect,
Can stately Domes and Palaces erect:
The Painter too, and Sculptor in his Turn,
He can the Building, which he rears, adorn.
Let these sustain the chief Surveyors Care;
By these directed can the Poets err?
The Age in Taste, grown curious to a Vice;
(O, that it were as delicate, as nice!)
And all contending Parties will submit
To such a Sovereign Court of Sense and Wit.
Let those employ'd the Building to erect,
Some Hero worthy of the Song elect,
Whose conquering Arms in Albion 's Annals shine,
And let the Action suit the Great Design.

Ye Bards, let all the noble Scheme be wrought
With Art, and Care, and deep deliberate Thought.
Before the Basis of the Frame you lay,
The famous Plans of Greece and Rome survey.
The Iliad , and the Æneid , well inspect,
All that is Just, and Bright, and Great select:
You know their Errors, those you will correct.
With due Connexion let the Parts cohere,
Lean on each other, and each other bear.
Let Order, Rule, and Symetry proclaim
The Artful Wonders of the happy Frame.
Believe no Cost too great, but every where
Let Plenty, Wealth, Magnificence appear.
A Plan so firm, so beautiful contrive,
As may the Critick mock, and Time survive.
A nobler Subject will your Care employ,
Than Latian Conquests, or the Wars of Troy .
Let the stupendious, everlasting Pile,
Worthy of Albion 's Arms, of Marlbro 's Toil,
The Glory of Ramillia 's Field sustain,
Longer than Woodstock 's Tow'rs can that of Blenheim 's Plain.

Let those appointed to adorn the Song,
Be bold with Care, with Delicacy strong.
Let Mantuan Judgment, and Horatian Words,
And all the noble Fire which Greece affords,
With all the Beauties which in Spencer shine,
To form their Diction's Dignity combine:
Let all the Charms of Verse, and Strength of Sense,
Let all the Pride and Force of Eloquence,
Let all the bold and beauteous Images,
Which by their Master-Strokes amaze, and Please,
The fairest Forms of all the airy Train,
With which the brightest Fancy fills the Brain.
Let Gilding, and Poetic Painting, grace
The Roofs and Rooms of all the stately Case.
Let Episodes , contriv'd with Art, surprize,
Which from the Subject unconstrain'd arise:
Like Walks and Gardens, charming to the Sight,
And Pleasure-Houses, let 'em give Delight.
In your Machines you will no Gods employ,
Who by the Poet listed fought at Troy .
The Pagan Gods might grace a Pagan Scheme,
But will they too adorn a Christian Theme?
Can you Concern, or Admiration move,
By introducing Pallas, Mars , or Jove ?
No more than Indian Pa-Gods', Jove we fear,
And Mars no more than Mahomet revere.
Yet should you these employ to grace your Plan,
You may the Indian please, or Musselman ,
The Christian , who reflects, you never can.

When you the Briton 's Character pursue,
Design Æneas , and Achilles too,
Else you but half the Hero set in View.
Let him in Steel bright, as Achilles , shine;
Give him his Godlike Port, and Arms Divine.
So let his Mien, and Martial Charms surprize,
Let such a Flame irradiate his Eyes.
Make him to fight, Achilles like, advance,
So let him wave his Sword, so grasp his trembling Lance.
With such an Ardor, and intrepid Air,
To Danger fly, and plunge himself in War.
Make him augment the Dyle with hostile Blood,
As the Greek Hero did Scamander 's Flood.
Then Marlbro draw, for Poets too can paint,
They never Lights, or Shades, or Colours want:
Give us his Picture, when engag'd in Fight,
Let him with glorious Slaughter smear'd, affright
And please us too, with terrible Delight.

But by this famous Greek 's, ye Poets know,
The Briton 's Courage you imperfect show.
Fierce is the Greek , and rugged as the Age,
And too near Brutal is his Martial Rage.
The Briton is courageous and serene,
To the Angelic Warriors more akin.
If you would Justice to the Hero do,
In a true Light would you his Valour shew,
Delineate Fury mixt with God-like Grace,
And Indignation in a Seraph's Face.
Describe the Leader of the Guards above,
Tell how he charg'd, how he in Battel strove,
How o'er the Plains of Heav'n he raging Satan drove.
Then let the Hero's noble Mind be crown'd
With all the Vertues in Æneas found.
Give him his pious Soul, his gen'rous Heart,
Leave out his boastful, and ungallant Part,
In Marlbro ' none can these Defects assert.
Did the good Trojan bear his aged Sire
On his strong Shoulders from the raging Fire?
Malbro ' on his sustains a nobler Weight,
His Kindred's, Country's, and Europa 's Fate.
The Heads by me suggested to your Muse,
And those, which you with more Success shall chuse,
As Epic Laws demand, should be express'd
In proper Types, and in Allusion dress'd.
Thus you'll Mankind with greater Pleasure strike
By side Advances, and by Views oblique.

Tell how the Prince, who to retrieve his Fame
From Boian Fields, to those of Belgia came,
To make the Dola and Ramillia clear,
The Danube 's Debt, and Blenheim 's vast Arrear,
Eager of Conquest, to the Battel flies,
Revenge and Fury flashing in his Eyes.
As when a Panther has with gen'rous Pride,
His Strength in Combate with the Lyon try'd,
And quickly vanquish'd by superior Might,
All maim'd and wounded, sav'd himself by Flight,
If when grown whole, he meets the mighty Foe,
His Hair erect, his raging Eye-balls glow:
Fierce he extends his Paws, he threat'ning stands,
And with revengeful Looks new War demands.
He calls to mind, to animate his Flame,
His painful Wounds, and his more painful Shame.
The noble Beast once more his Fortune tries,
The former to repair, to greater Ruin flies.
The Boian so. — Ye Bards, forgive me, you
Will of that Prince a nobler Image shew.