Matthew Prior. Dialogues of the Dead and Other Works in Prose and Verse. The Text Edited by A. R. Waller |
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AN
ODE,
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 | Matthew Prior. Dialogues of the Dead and Other Works |  |
AN ODE,
In Imitation of the Second Ode of the Third Book of Horace.
Written in the Year 1692.
[I]
How long, deluded Albion, wilt thou lieIn the Lethargic Sleep, the sad Repose,
By which thy close thy constant Enemy,
Has softly lull'd Thee to Thy Woes;
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What thy old Kings in Gallic Camps have done;
The Spoils They brought Thee back, the Crowns They won.
William, (so Fate requires) again is Arm'd;
Thy Father to the Field is gone:
Again Maria Weeps Her absent Lord;
For thy Repose content to rule alone.
Are Thy Enervare Sons not yet Alarm'd?
When William Fights dare they look tamely on,
So slow to get their Ancient Fame restor'd,
As nor to melt at Beauties Tears, nor follow Valour's Sword?
II.
See the Repenting Isle Awakes,Her Vicious Chains the generous Goddess breaks:
The Fogs around Her Temples are Dispell'd;
Abroad She Looks, and Sees Arm'd Belgia stand
Prepar'd to meet their common Lords Command;
Her Lions Roaring by Her Side, Her Arrows in Her Hand;
And Blushing to have been so long withheld,
Weeps off her Crime, and hastens to the Field:
Hen[ce]forth her Youth shall be inur'd to bear
Hazardous Toil and Active War:
To march beneath the Dog-Star's raging Heat,
Patient of Summer's Drought, and Martial Sweat;
And only Grieve in Winter's Camps to find,
Its Days too short for Labours They design'd:
All Night beneath hard heavy Arms to Watch;
All Day to Mount the Trench, to Storm the Breach;
And all the rugged Paths to tread,
Where William and His Virtue lead.
III.
Silence is the Soul of War;Deliberate Counsel must prepare
The Mighty Work which Valour must compleat:
Thus William Rescu'd, thus Preserves the State;
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As whilst his Cannon just prepar'd to Breathe
Avenging Anger and Swift Death,
In the try'd Metal the close Dangers glow,
And now too late the Dying Foe
Perceives the Flame, yet cannot ward the Blow;
So whilst in William's Breast ripe Counsels lie,
Secret and sure as Brooding Fate,
No more of His Design appears
Than what Awakens Gallia's Fears;
And (tho' Guilt's Eye can sharply penetrate)
Distracted Lewis can descry
Only a long unmeasur'd Ruin nigh.
IV.
On Norman Coasts and Banks of frighted Seine,Lo! the Impending Storms begin:
Britannia safely thro' her Master's Sea
Plows up her Victorious Way.
The French Salmoneus throws his Bolts in vain,
Whilst the true Thunderer asserts the Main:
'Tis done! to Shelves and Rocks his Fleets retire,
Swift Victory in vengeful Flames
Burns down the Pride of their Presumptuous Names.
They run to Shipwreck to avoid our Fire,
And the torn Vessels that regain their Coast
Are but sad Marks to shew the rest are lost:
All this the Mild, the Beauteous Queen has done,
And William's softer Half shakes Lewis' Throne:
Maria does the Sea command,
Whilst Gallia flies her Husbands Arms by Land,
So, the Sun absent, with full sway the Moon
Governs the Isles, and rules the Waves alone;
So Juno thunders when her Jove is gone.
Iö Britannia! loose thy Ocean's Chains,
Whilst Russel strikes the Blow Thy Queen ordains:
Thus Rescu'd, thus Rever'd, for ever stand,
And Bless the Counsel, and Reward the Hand,
Iö Britannia! thy Maria Reigns.
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V.
From Mary's Conquests, and the Rescu'd Main,Let France look forth to Sambre's armed Shore,
And boast her Joy for William's Death no more.
He lives; let France confess, the Victor lives:
Her Triumphs for his Death were vain,
And spoke her Terror of his Life too plain.
The mighty Years begin, the Day draws nigh,
In which That One of Lewis' many Wives,
Who by the baleful force of guilty Charms,
Has long enthrall'd Him in Her wither'd Arms,
Shall o'er the Plains from distant Tow'rs on high
Cast around her mournful Eye,
And with Prophetick Sorrow cry:
Why does my ruin'd Lord retard his Flight?
Why does despair provoke his Age to fight?
As well the Wolf may venture to engage
The angry Lyon's gen'rous Rage;
The rav'nous Vultur, and the Bird of Night,
As safely tempt the stooping Eagle's flight,
As Lewis to unequal Arms defy
Yon' Hero, crown'd with blooming Victory,
Just triumphing o'er Rebel rage restrain'd,
And yet unbreath'd from Battles gain'd.
See! all yon' dusty Fields quite cover'd o're
With Hostil Troops, and Orange at their Head,
Orange destin'd to compleat
The great Designs of lab'ring Fate,
Orange, the Name that Tyrants dread:
He comes, our ruin'd Empire is no more:
Down, like the Persian, goes the Gallick Throne,
Darius flies, young Ammon urges on.
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VI.
Now from the dubious Battel's mingl'd Heat,Let Fear look back, and stretch her hasty Wing ,
Impatient to secure a base Retreat:
Let the pale Coward leave his wounded King,
For the vile privilege to breathe,
To live with shame in dread of glorious Death.
In vain: for Fate has swifter Wings than Fear,
She follows hard, and strikes Him in the Rear,
Dying and Mad the Traytor bites the Ground,
His Back transfix'd with a dishonest Wound;
Whilst thro' the fiercest Troops, and thickest Press,
Virtue carries on Success;
Whilst equal Heav'n guards the distinguisht Brave,
And Armies cannot hurt, whom Angels save.
VII.
Virtue to Verse immortal Lustre gives ,Each by the other's mutual Friendship lives:
Æneas suffer'd, and Achilles fought,
The Hero's Acts enlarg'd the Poet's Thought,
Or Virgil's Majesty, and Homer's Rage,
Had ne'er like lasting Nature vanquish'd Age:
Whilst Lewis then his rising Terror drowns
With Drum's Alarms, and Trumpet's Sounds,
Whilst hid in arm'd Retreats and guarded Towns,
From Danger as from Honour far,
He bribes close Murder against open War:
In vain you Gallic Muses strive
With labour'd Verse to keep his Fame alive;
Your mould'ring Monuments in vain ye raise
On the weak Basis of the Tyrant's Praise:
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'Tis Incense to an Idol giv'n,
Meat offer'd to Prometheu's Man,
That had no Soul from Heav'n.
Against his Will you chain your frighted King
On rapid Rhine's divided Bed;
And mock your Hero, whilst ye Sing
The Wounds for which he never bled;
Falshood does Poyson on your Praise diffuse,
And Lewis' Fear gives Death to Boileau's Muse.
VIII.
On its own Worth True Majesty is rear'd,And Virtue is her own Reward,
With solid Beams and Native Glory bright,
She neither Darkness dreads, nor covets Light;
True to Her self, and fix'd to inborn Laws,
Nor sunk by Spite, nor lifted by Applause,
She from her settl'd Orb looks calmly down,
On Life or Death a Prison or a Crown.
When bound in double Chains poor Belgia lay,
To foreign Arms, and inward Strife a Prey,
Whilst One Good Man buoy'd up Her sinking State,
And Virtue labour'd against Fate;
When Fortune basely with Ambition join'd,
And all was conquer'd but the Patriot's Mind;
When Storms let loose, and raging Seas
Just ready the torn Vessel to o'erwhelm,
Forc'd not the faithful Pilot from his Helm;
Nor all the Syren Songs of future Peace,
And dazling Prospect of a promis'd Crown,
Cou'd lure his stubborn Virtue down;
But against Charms, and Threats, and Hell, He stood,
To that which was severely good;
Then, had no Trophies justify'd his Fame,
No Poet bless'd his Song with Nassau's Name,
Virtue alone did all that Honour bring,
And Heav'n as plainly pointed out the King,
As when he at the Altar stood,
In all his Types and Robes of Powr,
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And own'd him next to what we there Adore.
IX.
Say, Joyful Maeze, and Boyne's Victorious Flood,(For each has mixt his Waves with Royal Blood)
When William's Armies past, did He retire,
Or view from far the Battel's distant Fire?
Could He believe His Person was too dear?
Or use His Greatness to conceal his Fear?
Could Pray'rs and Sighs the dauntless Hero move?
Arm'd with Heav'ns Justice and His People's Love,
Thro' the first Waves He wing'd his vent'rous Way
And on the Adverse Shore arose,
(Ten thousand flying Deaths in vain oppose)
Like the great Ruler of the Day,
With Strength and Swiftness mounting from the Seas:
Like Him, all Day He Toil'd; but long in Night
The God had eas'd His weary'd Light,
E're Vengeance left the stubborn Foes,
Or William's Labours found Repose,
When His Troops falter'd, stept not He between;
Restor'd the dubious Fight again,
Mark'd out the Coward that du[r]st fly,
And led the fainting Brave to Victory?
Still as She fled Him, did He not o'ertake
Her doubtful Course, still brought Her bleeding back?
By His keen Sword did not the Boldest fall?
Was He not King, Commander, Soldier, All—?
His Danger's such, as, with becoming Dread,
His Subjects yet unborn shall Weep to Read,
And were not those the only Days that e'er
The Pious Prince refus'd to hear
His Friends Advices, or His Subjects Pray'r.
X.
Where-e'er old Rhine his fruitful Water turns,Or fills his Vassals Tributary Urns;
To Belgia's sav'd Dominions, and the Sea,
Whose righted Waves rejoice in William's Sway,
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‘Here Holland Prosper'd, for here Orange Fought,
‘Thro’ rapid Waters, and thro’ flying Fire:
‘Here rush'd the Prince, here made whole France retire.—
By diff'rent Nations be this Valour blest,
In diff'rent Languages confest,
And then let Shannon speak the rest:
Let Shannon speak, how on her wond'ring Shore,
When Conquest hov'ring on his Arms did wait,
And only as'kd some Lives to bribe her o'er.
The God-like Man, the more than Conqueror,
With high Contempt sent back the specious Bait,
And scorning Glory at a Price too great,
With so much Pow'r such Piety did join,
As made a Perfect Virtue soar
A Pitch unknown to Man before,
And lifted Shannon's Waves o'er those of Boyne.
XI.
Nor do his Subjects only shareThe Prosp'rous Fruits of his Indulgent Reign;
His Enemies approve the Pious War,
Which, with their Weapon, takes away their Chain:
More than his Sword, His goodness strikes his Foes,
They Bless his Arms, and Sigh they must oppose.
Justice and Freedom on his Conquests wait,
And 'tis for Man's Delight that He is Great:
Succeeding Times shall with long Joy contend,
If He were more a Victor, or a Friend:
So much his Courage and his Mercy strive;
He Wounds, to Cure; and Conquers, to Forgive.
XII.
Ye Heroes, that have Fought your Country's Cause,Redress'd Her Injuries, or Form'd Her Laws,
To my Advent'rous Song just Witness bear,
Assist the Pious Muse, and hear her Swear,
That 'tis no Poet's Thought, no flight of Youth,
But solid Story, and severest Truth,
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Than any Country, any Age can Boast:
And all that Ancient Stock of Fame
He did from His Fore-Fathers take,
He has improv'd, and gives with Int'rest back;
And in His Constellation does unite
Their scatter'd Rays of Fainter Light:
Above or Envy's Lash, or Fortune's Wheel,
That settl'd Glory shall for ever dwell,
Above the Roling Orbs and common Sky,
Where nothing comes that e're shall Die.
XIII.
Where roves the Muse? Where, thoughtless to return,Is her short-liv'd Vessel born,
By Potent Winds too subject to be tost?
And in the Sea of William's Praises lost?
Not let Her tempt that Deep, nor make the Shore,
Where our abandon'd Youth She sees
Shipwreck'd in Luxury, and lost in Ease;
Whom nor Britannia's Danger can alarm,
Nor William's Exemplary Virtue warm:
Tell 'em howe're, the King can yet Forgive
Their guilty Sloth, their Homage yet Receive,
And let their wounded Honour live:
But sure and sudden be their just Remorse;
Swift be their Virtue's Rise, and strong its Course;
For tho' for certain Years, and destin'd Times,
Merit has lain confus'd with Crimes;
Tho' Fove seem'd Negligent of Human Cares,
Nor scourg'd our Follies, nor return'd our Pray'rs;
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Sedition is suppress'd, and Truth Prevails:
Fate its Great Ends by slow Degrees Attains,
And Europe is redeem'd, and William Reigns.
Angustam, amici, Pauperiem pati
Robustus acri Militiâ Puer
Condiscat, & Parthos feroces
Vexet eques metuendus bastâ.
Robustus acri Militiâ Puer
Condiscat, & Parthos feroces
Vexet eques metuendus bastâ.
—Illum ex mænibus hosticis
Matrona bellantis Tyranni
Prospiciens, &' adulta virgo
Suspiret, eheu! ne rudis agminum
Sponsus lacessat regius asperam
Tactu leonem quem cruenta
Per medias rapit ira Cædes.
Matrona bellantis Tyranni
Prospiciens, &' adulta virgo
Suspiret, eheu! ne rudis agminum
Sponsus lacessat regius asperam
Tactu leonem quem cruenta
Per medias rapit ira Cædes.
Dulce & decorum est pro patriâ mori,
Mors & fugacem prosequitur Virum
Nec parcit imbellis Juventæ
Poplitibus timidoque tergo.
Mors & fugacem prosequitur Virum
Nec parcit imbellis Juventæ
Poplitibus timidoque tergo.
Virtus repulsæ nescia sordidæ
Intaminatis fulget honoribus
Nec ponit aut sumit secures
Arbitrio popularis auræ.
Intaminatis fulget honoribus
Nec ponit aut sumit secures
Arbitrio popularis auræ.
| Matthew Prior. Dialogues of the Dead and Other Works | |