Occasional Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

In vain the Goddess mounts her native Skies,
In vain, with feeble Wings, attempts to rise;
In vain she toils to do her Hero right,
Lost in Excess of Day, and boundless Tracks of Light.
The Theban Swan with daring Wings,
And Force impetuous, soars on high,
Above the Clouds sublimely sings,
Above the reach of mortal Eye.
But what alas! would Pindar do,
Were his bold Muse to sing of you?
Can Chromius' Strength be nam'd with yours?
Can mimick Fights, and sportive War,
With Schellembergh's demolish'd Tow'rs,
Or Blenheim's bloody Field compare?
The Bard wou'd blush at Theron's Speed,
When Marlbrô mounts the fi'ry Steed;
And the despairing Foe's pursu'd
Thro' Towns, and Provinces subdu'd.

Fond Poet spare thy empty Boast,
In vain thy Chariots raise so great a Dust;
See Britain's Hero with whole Armies flies,
To execute his vast Designs,
To pass the Scheld, to force the Lines,
Swift as thy smoking Carr, to win th' Olympick Prize.
But now, when with diminish'd Light,
And Beams more tolerably bright;
With less of Grandeur, and Surprize,
Mild you descend to mortal Eyes;
Your setting Glories charm us more,
Than all your dazling Pomp before.
Your Worth is better understood,
The Hero more distinctly view'd,
Glad we behold him not so Great as Good.
True Virtue's amiable Face
Improves, when shaded by Disgrace,

A lively Sense of conscious Worth,
Calls all her hidden Beauties forth;
Darts thro' the Gloom a lovely Ray,
And by her own intrinsick Light, creates a nobler Day.

2.

Let fickle Chance with partial Hands divide
Her gaudy Pomp, her tinsel Pride;
Who to her Knaves and Fools supplies
Those Favours which the Brave despise.
Let Faction raise the saucy Croud,
And call her Multitude to Arms;
Let Envy's Vipers hiss aloud,
And rouze all Hell with dire Alarms:
Go shake the Rocks, and bid the Hills remove;
Yet still the Hero's Mind shall be
Unchangeable, resolv'd, and free,
Fix'd on its Base, firm as the Throne of Jove.

Britons, look back on those auspicious Days,
On Ister's Banks when your great Leader stood,
And with your gasping Foes incumber'd all the Flood.
Or when Ramillies' bloody Plain
Was fatten'd with the Mighty slain;
Or when Blaregnies' Ramparts were assail'd,
With Force that Heav'n itself had scal'd.
Did then revileing Pens profane
Your Marlbro's sacred Name?
Did noisy Tribunes then debauch the Croud?
Did their unrighteous Votes blaspheme aloud?
Did mercenary Tools conspire
To curse the Hero whom their Foes admire?
No—The contending Nations sung his Praise;
While Bards of ev'ry Clime,
Exert their most Triumphant Lays,
No Thought too great, no Diction too sublime.

Hail, glorious Prince! 'tis not for thee we grieve,
For thy invulnerable Fame
No Diminution can receive,
Thou mighty Man! art still the same,
Thy purer Gold eludes the Flame;
This fi'ry Tryal makes thy Virtue shine,
And Persecution crowns thy Brows with Rays divine.
But what alas! shall fainting Europe do?
How stand the Shock of her imperious Foe?
What Successor shall bear the Weight
Of all our Cares? and prop the State?
Since thou our Atlas art remov'd,
O best deserving Chief! and therefore best belov'd?

3.

To your own Blenheim's blissful Seat,
From this ungrateful World retreat;

A Gift unequal to that Hero's Worth,
Who from the peaceful Thames led our bold Britons forth,
To free the Danube, and the Rhine,
Who by the Thunder of his Arms
Shook the proud Rhosne with loud Alarms,
And rais'd a Tempest in the trembling Seine.
After the long Fatigues of War,
Repose your envy'd Virtues here;
Enjoy (my Lord) the sweet Repast
Of all your glorious Toils,
A Pleasure that shall ever last,
The mighty Comfort that proceeds
From the just Sense of vertuous Deeds,
Content with endless Fame, contemn the meaner Spoils,
Pomona calls, and Pan invites,
To rural Pleasures, chaste Delights;

The Orange, and the Citron Grove,
Will by your hand alone improve:
Wou'd fain their gaudy Liv'ries wear,
And wait your Presence to revive the Year.
In this Elysium, more than blest,
Laugh at the Vulgar's senseless Hate,
The Politician's vain Deceit,
The fawning Knave, the proud Ingrate.
Revolve in your capacious Breast,
The various unforeseen Events,
And unexpected Accidents,
That change the flatt'ring Scene, and overturn the Great.
Frail are our Hopes, and short the Date
Of Grandeur's transitory State.
Corinthian Brass shall melt away,
And Parian Marble shall decay;

The vast Colossus, that on either Shore
Exulting stood, is now no more;
Arts, and Artificers shall die,
And in one common Ruin lie.
Behold your own Majestick Palace rise,
In haste to emulate the Skies;
The gilded Globes, the pointed Spires,
See the proud Dome's ambitious Height,
Emblem of Pow'r, and pompous State,
Above the Clouds aspires:
Yet Vulcan's Spight, or angry Jove,
May soon its tow'ring Pride reprove,
Its painted Glories soon efface,
Divide the pond'rous Roof, and shake the solid Base.
Material Structures must submit to Fate,
But Virtue which alone is truly great;
Virtue like yours (my Lord) shall be
Secure of Immortality.

Nor foreign Force, nor factious Rage,
Nor Envy, nor devouring Age,
Your lasting Glory shall impair,
Time shall mysterious Truths declare,
And Works of Darkness shall disclose;
This Blessing is reserv'd for you
T'out-live the Trophies to your Merit due,
And Malice of your Foes.
If glorious Actions, in a glorious Cause,
If Valour negligent of Praise,
Deserving, yet retireing from Applause,
In gen'rous Minds can great Ideas raise:
If Europe sav'd, and Liberty restor'd,
By steady Conduct, and a prosp'rous Sword,
Can claim in free-born Souls a just Esteem;
Britain's victorious Chief shall be
Rever'd by late Posterity,
The Hero's Pattern, and the Poet's Theme.