Poems on Several Occasions :: :: University of Virginia Library

Whose Soul,
Above Mortality now,
Out of the Power of Envy,
Or
Ingratitude,
Enjoys the Happiest Stations of Elysium.
Where,
Alexander, Cæsar, Cato,
Admire,
Revere,
Adore,
The Bravest General, the Firmest Patriot.
Where,
Nor Cowardice, nor Treachery,
Vain Glory, Vain Ambition,
A sordid Thirst for Riches,
A restless Aim at Greatness,
Or studied Popularity and Noise:
Where,
No Base Betrayer of his Prince's Weakness,

No Sycophant,
No servile Courtier of th' inconstant Croud,
(Who, whom they raise, pull down;)
Where,
None that serves his Country's Enemy,
To build his Private Int'rest,
On that Country's Ruin;
Who trusts his Foe, deserts his Friend,
Dare shew his hated Head.

Stop, Traveller,
Here are the poor Remains
Of
GENERAL CHURCHILL:
His Country's Glory, and his Country's Shame!
Who,
Having inlarg'd her Credit, far Abroad,
In conquering Armies, and victorious Troops,
And having, well, secur'd her Peace, at Home,
Was, first, Rewarded;

Then,
Envy'd,
Injur'd,
Banish'd.

Happy Antwerp!
To whose antient Walls each Foreigner,
From both the Indies, and from either Pole,
In future Times will come,
To Read and Wonder:
To Learn,
How Changeable is every Mortal's Fate;
How certain Death.
Then value not Thy-self, vain Man!
Although possest
Of Youth or Beauty, Riches, Glory,
Since all that's Valuable could not save
Great Marlborough from Antwerp, and the Grave
And all thy Gifts,
Whether of Body, Fortune, or of Mind,

Will not continue thee Thy-self for Ever.
Whether thou'rt renown'd
For Military Feats,
In glorious Fields, in prosperous Campaigns;
For Troops Couragiously led on, and soon
Victoriously led off:
Whether thou'rt renown'd
For bravely storming, with a daring Hand,
The well-wall'd Citadel and Rampart
Of Flanders' strongest Towns:
Or, whether thou hast purchas'd Fame,
In distant Courts, and Camps, and Palaces,
For being skill'd in Counsel deep and dark,
And understanding well
The many mazy Wiles and Turns of State.
For,
Little it avails;
(Read Marlborough's Fate!)
Little,
To have known the diff'rent Interests

Of neighb'ring and of distant Nations:
Little, to have known
The truest Int'rest of our Native Land,
And to have fix'd it nearest to his Heart:
Little it avails
To have advanc'd most Glorious Terms of Peace
To have directed a most Glorious War;
T' have been the Darling of his Prince;
T' have had the Heart of every Fellow-Subject
Of mitred Flamens, and of well-rob'd Priests;
Of furr'd Patricians, and plain Senators;
Of plainer, poor Plebeians:
For Time and Chance,
Death and Disgrace,
Happens, alas! to All.
The Stout, the Coward, to the Wise, the Fool:
The Just, the Knave;
The Honest Lover of his Country;
The VILLAIN that betrays it.
But, oh! Heav'n, may that Man

Live curs'd and hated long;
Live, in unusual Disgrace,
With pungent Mind, and painful Body:
And if he rose in Haste, in Haste too may he fall.

Happy Antwerp!
Bless'd with the last Retirements of the Great,
The Glorious MARLBOROUGH:
More splendid, and more honourable Here,
Than when he shin'd in Ermin, or in Armour.
Who,
Having obtain'd a Name,
Amongst the most illustrious Mortals;
The antient Demi Gods, and present Heroes;
A Name!
Esteem'd where-ever Phœbus gilds the Day,
Thro' th'habitable Earth:
Having secur'd from French
And Popish Power
The happy Realms of Britain,

By British Arms, and those, of firm Allies:
Having,
By Glorious Marches, Sieges, Battles,
(Still Victorious)
Reliev'd the Empire, conquer'd France,
Made Flanders smile, Holland rejoice,
Tyrants tremble;
And,
A certain Ascititious Prince despair:
Full of Years,
With Honours loaden,
Withdrew into thy peaceful Walls, in Quiet
To contemplate
Th' Herculean Labours of his busie Life;
(Chiefly imploy'd for England's Good)
To contemplate
Such Glories, purchas'd by a single Man,
In few Years space,
As, a whole Race of Worthies might attempt,
With less Success, in many Ages.

Happy Antwerp!
Blest with the last Remains
Of that Great Man, who once protected Thee,
Secure from Tyranny.
Not all thy stately Buildings,
Not Temples (Antwerp's Pride)
Not
That happy Situation,
To which the Elements do All conspire
To make thee still frequented, ever lov'd;
Not all thy Riches, Plenty, Power,
Learning, Arts, and Sciences;
So true an Ornament to Thee do prove,
As MARLBOROUGH's Presence,
When Alive,
His Monument,
Now Dead.
Envy us, England!
And act, as often thou hast done,

Neglect thy Heroes, and thy Benefactors;
Disgrace Them,
But,
Lament and Honour them, when 'tis too late.

Speak Citizens,
What Shrines, what Arches,
What Mausoleum shall we raise
For Marlborough's Glory and our own?
The Graver's Art will perish,
The Painter's fade:
Time conquers Trophies,
And levels
Best rais'd Triumphal Pillars to the Ground.
'Tis the Poet,
The Muse, must make Him live;
For, She, that ne'er can die,
Alone, an Immortality can give.

Descend, Apollo, then,
And all ye Heav'nly Choir,
Which round Parnassus dwell;
Inspire,
Assist;
Whilst every Son of Art,
And Rev'rend Bard, who treads on Antwerp's Plains,
And walks, and sings, and loves, and rhimes,
And courts the Umbra of its Groves,
Along the Banks of many warbling Streams;
Summons all his Fire;
Strongest Judgment, brightest Wit,
Liveliest Fancy, justest Measure,
To eternize Themselves, their Verse,
And
MARLBOROUGH.
Methinks! I see a noble Iliad rise;
Virgil's invok'd, Statius and Lucan read,

And ev'ry Flandrian Muse aspires to be
A Steele! an Addison!

Strange!
How the lab'ring Genius works the Brain,
To rout the French on fam'd Ramillies Plain:
How! many Poets gain that glorious Day?
Here One,
With his All-conquering Pen,
Forces the Lines, by Stratagem; once pass'd,
Maintain'd by Courage,
And writes (as Marlborough fought) an Army down.
Tropes, Figures, Similes ingage the Troops,
Sweep all the Plain,
And level strongest Bulwarks to the Ground.
Another,
With Pegasæan Speed, from Flanders,
Denmark, Prussia, Thule's self,
Posts whole Battalia's, swift, to Germany.
How! does the Boian Prince

(Rewarded Rebel now)
Tremble in Verse Heroic? How! the Fate
Of the great Empire, dubious, nod;
'Till Marlborough gives the Word?
Then Baden marches, Eugene fights,
Schellenberg's pass'd, Hocstet won,
The Empire free, Tallard a Captive,
An ARMY PRISONERS.

Attend y' inspir'd Souls,
Who Numbers love, and the just Force of Verse;
Applaud, encourage;
And, in immortal Lines, employ
Your best Invention, Diction, Phrase,
In proud Heroic, humble Elegy,
In bold Alcaic, softer Saphic,
To sing the mighty, endless Deeds
Of
MARLBOROUGH.
What a noble Subject must HE choose,

Who takes him Infant first, into his Care,
Then writes him full grown Youth?
What Words, what Images,
Will this happy Poet find
T'express his beauteous Body, beauteous Mind?
(Strong Promises of future Greatness.)
See! in the Boy he reads the Man,
And, without Prophecy, foretels
The Politician, Patriot, General, yet to come.
Whose Genius, now, out-runs his Years,
And renders him the King's, the Court's Delight:
Their present Admiration, future Hope.
How greatly too, is HE employ'd,
Who, his maturer Years describes,
And finds the Hero in full Bloom?
Bending his Thoughts and Actions,
All, to his Country's Good.
Who leads him, with Success,
To many Prince's Favours;
With Him Great WILLIAM's Reign adorns;

With Him embellishes SIX Glorious Years
Of Greater ANN.
What Poet, now, is equal to the Task?
What single Genius dare attempt
The Praises, which are due to
MARLBOROUGH?
See! they divide the Theme.
One sings
His noble Race, Equestrian Family;
By War's Atchievements,
Ripen'd into Princely Titles, Honours, Riches.
Another sings his Princely Consort,
And a beautiful Descent,
Even of Goddesses, in Mortal Line.

Behold!
Ierne, here, rejoicing drawn
At Marlborough's Arrival on its Shore;
Towns surrendring! Battles won!
The French, the Native Irish, forc'd to fly,

And Popery,
And Slav'ry banish'd from the happy Coast.

There!
Another Poet makes him shine
In WILLIAM's Council at Augusta;
And Another
In WILLIAM's Wars, in Flanders:
WILLIAM!
The Good Genius of the British Isles:
Assertor of our Liberty:
Defender of our Laws:
Protector of our Religion:
Restorer of them All.

WILLIAM! and Marlborough!
For ever, Both employ'd
Our Peace and Safety to secure,
And to transmit our Crown
To ANNA, glorious.

ANNA!
Though last, yet not least Fortunate
Of the fam'd STUART Line.

Another,
A melancholy Bard,
On NASSAU's Death,
Thus makes th' illustrious Monarch speak his last;
With earnest Eyes, and Force of Voice,
Impressing HANOVER
Upon his Royal Sister's Heart.

ANNA, my Sister, my Belov'd:
The Cause,
With which Heav'n warm'd my Breast:
For which I left my native Land,
To render This a Guardianship to That,
And That to This:
To join in strict Alliance, Friendship, Love,
The Dutch and British People:

Best! Security
'Gainst France's lawless Power;
'Gainst Popery and Slavery at Home.
That Good Cause, which thy Sire
Had made deplorable and wretched;
By introducing Politicks in State,
And Worship in Religion,
Foreign and destructive to our Isle;
Retriev'd by Me!
Fate has determin'd
By Thee to Finish.
Thou shalt rise,
In Glory high:
Victories strange!
Thy Reign shall grace:
France shall be humbled, Lewis seek for Peace.
But remember, remember well, my Sister:
Take CHURCHILL to thy Heart;
Let Him command thy Arms, Abroad;
Advise at Home;

'Tis He must draw my Sword:
No Subject, less than HE,
Shall e'er command the Belgian Troops,
And those of numerous Allies;
No, Briton, when He's gone.

I see! I see the Conqueror:
From Flanders, France, the Rhine, the Maes, the Scheld,
Victorious, to the very Ister.
To Audenard, to Mons, he makes his Way,
But, oh! Blaregnies is the greater Name.
Tournay surrenders, Lisle submits,
Doway yields, ev'n Bouchain's taken,
And Paris—With that his Spirit sunk,
Just able, with his latest Breath, to say,
Paris,—Pretender.