University of Virginia Library

It's true, Tallard, when fickle Chance deny'd,
At Blenheim's fatal Field to crown thy Side,
Where Right again did win; and Europe see
Thy Master's Lillies droop, tho led by Thee:
It might be well allow'd thee to repine,
For who's a Stoick, in a Case like thine?
But now since others striving to repair
Thy Country's Loss, with as successless Care,
Ha' found superior Britain's Strength the same,
O'erthrown like Thee in the mad Chace of Fame;
Forgive th'unsteddy Goddess thy Defeat,
And count it Churchill's Privilege to beat.

In Ages past, the mighty Mortal name,
That could an equal Place in Annals claim;
The Boasts and Wonders of the Trojan Race,
From Rome's aspiring Twins, to Cæsar, trace;
Thro the long Roll of all their Labours run,
Till ev'ry Town subdu'd, and Battel won.
But as thou dost the glorious Search pursue,
And leaving antient Valour, turn to New;
Be just to Churchill's Worth, and thy best Praise bestow,
A noble Spirit's Gift, on such a matchless Foe.
For see assisting Fate, with Force Divine,
Once more for him the doubtful Scale incline;
See Flanders now a bloody Prospect yield,
And Blenheim rival'd by Ramillia's Field.
Where met alike, and by as daring Men,
The Warrior has out-stript his Country's Hopes again.
Observe how soon usurpt Dominion fell,
While juster Titles were asserted well;
How to reduce the long contested Soil
Of Belgia's better half, was but a Se'nnights Toil.
Then own, Tallard, tho there but little be
Of Truth allow'd in Tales of Chivalry;
Tho where great Acts are pictur'd in Extremes,
We think 'em oft'nest but the Writer's Dreams.
Some Prodigies authentick we may call,
And all that's strange, is not Apocryphal.
When Spierbach's Fortune, to thy Valour kind,
Did thy serener Brow with Laurels bind;
When thou bought'st Conquest at a rate too high,
Since thy Defeat, which paid it, was so nigh;
Thy Soul could surely, with Applauses warm,
No Thought of her approaching Sorrow form;
Nor while on Seas so smooth thy Fate did steer,
Imagine Shelves and Quicksands would appear.
That double Trophy on his Borders got,
Old hoary Rhine yet cannot ha' forgot;
When he a Witness of the Germans Grief,
From his deep Channel saw Landau's Relief:
The false Assurance of Eternal Praise,
Thy Lewis then infer'd from one well-gotten Bays;
For tho he thought Confederate Force to break,
The Boyan Duke, and Marsin were too weak;
He doubted not but those combin'd with you,
Would on the Danube turn the Ballance too.
'Twas then (O Flattery of Bourbon's Fate!)
The Race of Cæsar's, in its threatned State,
Beginning first of Succour to despair,
The Shock of three such Torrents scarce could bear.
In vain the Swords of Lewis and Eugene,
So oft in Turkish Fields successful seen,
(Where never drawn without expected Gain,
The waxing Moons they still compell'd to wain.)
Your Rage oppos'd, while the big Tide was high;
To stem it quite another Arm must fly.
The bold Physician of an Empire's Fears,
For this great Task reserv'd, at last appears:
It's succ'ring Churchill, who with Justice great,
No Blank e'er draws among the Lots of Fate;
As if but He to fix the Goddess knew,
And Laurels only for his Temples grew:
Hard was the Warrior's March, and long the Way,
Till Schellemberg he reacht, his first Essay,
Where Europe did on both thy Rivals see
The Blush of a Defeat unshar'd by thee.
'Twas a brave Effort! but one more as great
The Hero wants to make the Gain compleat:
Two Chiefs ha' fled, but till the Third be fought,
His Sum of Trophies is imperfect thought.
And now, Tallard, what kind Oblivion, say,
Can rase the Journal out of that unhappy Day?
When, one lost Battle eager to retrieve,
Thou didst a second's Gain secure believe:
Too sure 'twas Malice of thy veering Fate,
And Glory never laid a falser Bait!
A smaller Force, it's true, did thine oppose,
But such a Leader made the Odds thy Foes;
Nor could, the profer'd Fight, thy feebler Side
Accept with Safety, tho it might with Pride.

With how much Blood the Field was crimson'd here,
My Muse forbears to grate a Captive's Ear;
What Thousands perisht in the Danube Stream,
By full as many sung, is grown too stale a Theme.
On Thee alone my wond'ring Thought's intent,
Thy Fortune to my Eyes that Day present.
Methinks I hear from thy unwilling Tongue
That abject Word at last of Quarter wrung;
And see thy utmost need extort the Sound,
Which gives thy drooping Soul its deepest Wound.
Their Liberty, with thee to Life inclin'd,
A hundred valiant Chiefs besides resign'd:
Submission, mean in any other Place,
Where such a Hero wins, does lessen the Disgrace,
But urg'd by Danger, and by Safety led,
O Shame to all his Wreaths! Bavaria fled!
Too happy! had he been like thee confin'd,
And not reserv'd for a worse Fate behind.

'Twas Comfort yet to see thy Conduct since,
Nor censur'd by thy Friends, nor punisht by thy Prince.
What tho with Spite to thy Undoing us'd,
A Chief too rash, some Enemies accus'd;
A gentle Master soon their Malice crost,
And with a Province paid a Battle lost.

Let next my Muse, thy Victor's Mercy boast,
And strive herself to pay the Debt thou ow'st
For such a Triumph: When he made thee bend,
Did one insulting Word thy Ears offend?
Say, Did not he (tho Captives may allow
Some Arrogance in those who make 'em bow)
Kind to thy Grief, yet faithful to his Charge,
Of Conqueror, and Friend, the Parts discharge?
For since the Chance of that abandon'd Field,
Which saw thee, destitute of Succour, yield,
From Britain's Queen, to moderate thy Pain,
A gentle Prison his Request did gain:
O pleasing Change! which sends thee kindly o'er
From Danube's hated Banks to Trent's delightful Shore.
It's there thou dwell'st, and with no Cloud between,
Hast two revolving Suns already seen;
Of so much Ease, and Liberty possest,
Thy Embassy it self scarce shew'd thee half so blest.
Not so the Boyan Duke; his Planets still,
O just Reward for broken Faith! are ill;
His State subverted, and his Titles lost,
He finds too late the Price his Treasons cost.
To try the Fortune of another Plain,
It's true, he picks his Fugitives again;
Dares a third time his Victor's Fury meet,
And (what could else be thought) does feel a third Defeat.
Thy Monarch, eager of a Battel's Gain,
His Villeroy and Marsin sends in vain;
Confus'd they run, as scar'd by Magick Charms,
And catch contagious Ruin from his Arms.

Now take a View (if where thou art confin'd,
Thy Master's Fate employs thy anxious Mind)
Of his abortive Schemes, and then confess,
Since laid unjustly they could be no less:
To win the Nations he did once perplex,
And to his own surrounding Crowns annex;
(Howe'er thy King expected to prevail)
Was such a Task, he could not chuse but fail:
For tho Great William's Arms (ordain'd by Fate
To buttress up the first declining State)
Successless often did in Fields engage,
And stopt ('twas all it could) but half his Rage;
Yet see (strange Female Force) Imperial ANNE
Compleats the Work unfinisht by the Man.

O durst some Minister, in Council near,
But speak a famous Truth in Bourbon's Ear!
And, one fit Moment, artfully relate
The Scythian Queen's Success, and Persian Founder's Fate;
The Moral well apply'd, might make him see
A Woman's Arm had quel'd a greater King than he.

That thus she triumphs, while the World forgets
The Tudor's Glory, and Plantagenet's.
While lessen'd every new victorious Year,
Her hundred Great Forefathers Acts appear.
To valiant Hands, Tallard, abroad she owes,
And Heads expert at home for Council chose.
The State of Britain, thus prodigious grown,
It is not Churchill's Arm supports alone;
For other Heroes make, by ANNE's Command,
Their Thunders fear'd at Sea, like his by Land:
And Peterborough wants no Wreaths in Spain,
By whose officious Toil, a Crown is Charles's Gain.

But as no Empire yet so blest has bin,
That had not still some Enemies within:
Them too with Art uncommon she subdues,
And Mildness is the Weapon she doth use:
Such Means to conquer Faction seldom fail,
For where the Queen proves weak, the Mother does prevail.

Now sure, Tallard, a Princess fram'd like Her,
Necessity of Winning must infer.
The certain Danger to thy Master paint,
And thence be canoniz'd thy Country's Saint;
Her suff'ring Sons an ended War would ease,
The Lenitive alone for their Disease:
Where Blood no longer Subjects can afford,
It's Husbandry of State, to sheath the Sword.

Nor should he think it, of a Blush the Cause,
To let a Woman's Tongue impose him Laws;
He soon may find, in turning Annals o'er,
Kings stooping often on as mean a Score.
It grates, I know, to that soft Sex to bow,
Which Custom still the Weaker does allow.
But let him see what States Eliza shook,
Or on the Roman dread Bonduca took;
Then tell the Trophies which adorn the Throne
Of our third Female Boast; and sure he'll own,
(Howe'er it justly may to some belong)
In British Queens, at least, the Attribute is wrong.