The Fanciad An Heroic Poem. In Six Cantos. To His Grace the Duke of Marlborough, On The Turn of His Genius to Arms [by Aaron Hill] |
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| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. | CANTO IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
 | The Fanciad |  |
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CANTO IV.
Learn, cry'd the Genius, and resum'd her Clue;
Learn, with what groundless Hope the Sword ye drew.
Find, in your Trade's Extent, your Triumph's Bar:
You courting Commerce, Commerce cumb'ring War!
Who, but a God, can guard a State from Harms,
Too rich for Virtue, and too proud for Arms!
Where Stall-fed Plumpness rails out lazy Life;
And murm'ring Millions lend but Tongues to Strife!
Where Fools of Fortune grasp their Purse, with Care;
Yet, hurl the guardian Sword, to rash Despair!
Scorn the poor Soldier, whose Defence they buy:
Yet dread those Dregs of Want, they hire to die!
Trust, where they fear—yet, injure, where they trust:
With Heads unheedful, and with Hearts unjust.
Starve, and provoke, Distress, which arm'd, they see!
And dream those Slaves, by whome Themselves are free!
Where, shunning Musters, Pride bids Pen'ry dare:
And Fame's a Toy, beneath a Tradesman's Care!
Learn, with what groundless Hope the Sword ye drew.
Find, in your Trade's Extent, your Triumph's Bar:
You courting Commerce, Commerce cumb'ring War!
Who, but a God, can guard a State from Harms,
Too rich for Virtue, and too proud for Arms!
Where Stall-fed Plumpness rails out lazy Life;
And murm'ring Millions lend but Tongues to Strife!
Where Fools of Fortune grasp their Purse, with Care;
Yet, hurl the guardian Sword, to rash Despair!
Scorn the poor Soldier, whose Defence they buy:
Yet dread those Dregs of Want, they hire to die!
Trust, where they fear—yet, injure, where they trust:
With Heads unheedful, and with Hearts unjust.
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And dream those Slaves, by whome Themselves are free!
Where, shunning Musters, Pride bids Pen'ry dare:
And Fame's a Toy, beneath a Tradesman's Care!
But, 'twas not, always, so!—Not always bled
Low, mercenary Breasts, by Hunger led.
Once, there was nobler War.—Else, France! thy Fields
Had lost no Lilies, to my Edward's Shields.
There was a Time, when Kings, of martial Soul,
In Death's black Bands, cou'd Yeomens Hearts enrol:
When Thames, and Trent, and Tracts where Severn runs,
“Pour'd at their Prince's Feet their dreadful Sons:”
Youths, whome no raw Resentment's idiot Start
Snatch'd, from a Sweet-heart's Frown, or Parent's Heart:
But, vers'd in Arms, from Boy-hood's op'ning Bloom,
Aspects, of surly Force, and threat'ning Gloom!
No puny Postures spaniel'd native Glow:
No mincing Motions jirk'd, th'undancing Bow.
Scornful of Tricks, and Twists, and apish Fling;
The thigh-struck Hand-clap, and the heel-twirl'd Spring;
The toe-toss'd Strut, the down-thump'd Firelock's Bang;
The Stare of Promptness, and the time-kept Clang.
Needless Parade, to Limbs, from infant Dawn,
Nerv'd into Menace, and fatigu'd, to Brawn!
Churls, whome each Festival to Practice led,
Brac'd for the shafted Butt, with sin'wy Tread:
Prais'd, by the Nymphs they lov'd, by Friends caress'd;
And, by pleas'd Groups of joy-touch'd Parents, bless'd!
Firm, as a Pyramid's broad Base, they stood:
And sternly meas'ring, ey'd the whiten'd Wood:
Each strong-strain'd Muscle, hard retracting, bent,
Back'd the tugg'd Arrow, to it's Length's Extent:
Then, the String struggling, out the Mischief flew—
Shook, in the Mark: and shook th'Observers too!
Low, mercenary Breasts, by Hunger led.
Once, there was nobler War.—Else, France! thy Fields
Had lost no Lilies, to my Edward's Shields.
There was a Time, when Kings, of martial Soul,
In Death's black Bands, cou'd Yeomens Hearts enrol:
When Thames, and Trent, and Tracts where Severn runs,
“Pour'd at their Prince's Feet their dreadful Sons:”
Youths, whome no raw Resentment's idiot Start
Snatch'd, from a Sweet-heart's Frown, or Parent's Heart:
But, vers'd in Arms, from Boy-hood's op'ning Bloom,
Aspects, of surly Force, and threat'ning Gloom!
No puny Postures spaniel'd native Glow:
No mincing Motions jirk'd, th'undancing Bow.
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The thigh-struck Hand-clap, and the heel-twirl'd Spring;
The toe-toss'd Strut, the down-thump'd Firelock's Bang;
The Stare of Promptness, and the time-kept Clang.
Needless Parade, to Limbs, from infant Dawn,
Nerv'd into Menace, and fatigu'd, to Brawn!
Churls, whome each Festival to Practice led,
Brac'd for the shafted Butt, with sin'wy Tread:
Prais'd, by the Nymphs they lov'd, by Friends caress'd;
And, by pleas'd Groups of joy-touch'd Parents, bless'd!
Firm, as a Pyramid's broad Base, they stood:
And sternly meas'ring, ey'd the whiten'd Wood:
Each strong-strain'd Muscle, hard retracting, bent,
Back'd the tugg'd Arrow, to it's Length's Extent:
Then, the String struggling, out the Mischief flew—
Shook, in the Mark: and shook th'Observers too!
THESE were the Limbs, by Nature form'd, to kill!
Big-bon'd Athletics! bred, to Brawls, and Skill!
Theirs, were the Hands for Blows! the Eyes for Fight!
The Voice for Startling! and the Scorn for Flight!
Big-bon'd Athletics! bred, to Brawls, and Skill!
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The Voice for Startling! and the Scorn for Flight!
Ev'n
now, rough Sons! pleas'd Mem'ry paints 'em gay!
Muscly, they march,—to Cressi's dreadful Day!
Swarms of light Gauls, in vain, broad Plains, o'erfill:
Shine, from each Steep, and quicken ev'ry Hill.
Conscious, in vain, pale Genii lend their Aid;
Cowr o'er each Standard: scream from ev'ry Shade!
In vain, Streams, Woods, Rocks, Walls, and Turrets, lin'd,
With vocal Thunder arm th'impregnate Wind.
Onward we press'd—slow meas'ring hostile Ground;
Unreck'ning Number, and un-answ'ring Sound.
With Look fix'd forward, dreadfully serene!
My sour-soul'd Archers mov'd, with surly Mien.
Dumbly severe, the hers'd Arrangement clos'd:
And one long Weft, of War-knit Strength, compos'd.
No Smoak's involving Night their Frowns conceal'd:
No roar'd Explosion stunn'd the deaf'ning Field.
Hush'd, as the Shades of Death, whose Shafts they bore,
Majestic Stillness breath'd stern Rev'rence, o'er!
Aweful Attention watch'd, th'unsounding Sign:
Till the rais'd Finger warn'd th'awak'ning Line.
Then, back'ning aimful, Rank from Rank reclin'd,
Their String-strain'd Arrows loosen'd to the Wind—
Prone, and point-blanc, the Front's barb'd Tempest drove;
While, in curv'd Cloud, the Rear's slop'd Lightnings rove.
Storms, foll'wing Storms, a steely Deluge rain:
And Drifts of feath'ry Death deface the Plain!
Muscly, they march,—to Cressi's dreadful Day!
Swarms of light Gauls, in vain, broad Plains, o'erfill:
Shine, from each Steep, and quicken ev'ry Hill.
Conscious, in vain, pale Genii lend their Aid;
Cowr o'er each Standard: scream from ev'ry Shade!
In vain, Streams, Woods, Rocks, Walls, and Turrets, lin'd,
With vocal Thunder arm th'impregnate Wind.
Onward we press'd—slow meas'ring hostile Ground;
Unreck'ning Number, and un-answ'ring Sound.
With Look fix'd forward, dreadfully serene!
My sour-soul'd Archers mov'd, with surly Mien.
Dumbly severe, the hers'd Arrangement clos'd:
And one long Weft, of War-knit Strength, compos'd.
No Smoak's involving Night their Frowns conceal'd:
No roar'd Explosion stunn'd the deaf'ning Field.
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Majestic Stillness breath'd stern Rev'rence, o'er!
Aweful Attention watch'd, th'unsounding Sign:
Till the rais'd Finger warn'd th'awak'ning Line.
Then, back'ning aimful, Rank from Rank reclin'd,
Their String-strain'd Arrows loosen'd to the Wind—
Prone, and point-blanc, the Front's barb'd Tempest drove;
While, in curv'd Cloud, the Rear's slop'd Lightnings rove.
Storms, foll'wing Storms, a steely Deluge rain:
And Drifts of feath'ry Death deface the Plain!
WHY were these Glories Ours?—'Twere poor, to boast!
Brave is the Gaul! and forms no feeble Host!
All that was Man's was Theirs.—Who wrongs his Foe,
Shames his own Triumph, and disclaims his Blow.
—What, then, prevail'd—o'er Courage, Numbers, Laws?
'Twas—that no venal Hireling stain'd my Cause.
Then, War was Freehold Tenure: farm'd no Aid:
Limp'd on no golden Legs—expos'd no Trade:
No lukewarm Shout, in Death's dire Field was known;
For, each touch'd Pleader felt the Cause his own.
Then, firy Barons bled, for England's Fame:
And kindling Tenants catch'd their Landlord's Flame.
One, vast, un-listed, Host, whole Albion fram'd:
March'd, conquer'd, and dispers'd—to Cotts reclaim'd:
Active, alike, the Death-dy'd Sword to wield,
Or wind the Plow-share's Point, to tame the Field.
To Bribes, unbow'd: yet ductile in Command:
Their Heart, their Country's—and their King's, their Hand.
Brave is the Gaul! and forms no feeble Host!
All that was Man's was Theirs.—Who wrongs his Foe,
Shames his own Triumph, and disclaims his Blow.
—What, then, prevail'd—o'er Courage, Numbers, Laws?
'Twas—that no venal Hireling stain'd my Cause.
Then, War was Freehold Tenure: farm'd no Aid:
Limp'd on no golden Legs—expos'd no Trade:
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For, each touch'd Pleader felt the Cause his own.
Then, firy Barons bled, for England's Fame:
And kindling Tenants catch'd their Landlord's Flame.
One, vast, un-listed, Host, whole Albion fram'd:
March'd, conquer'd, and dispers'd—to Cotts reclaim'd:
Active, alike, the Death-dy'd Sword to wield,
Or wind the Plow-share's Point, to tame the Field.
To Bribes, unbow'd: yet ductile in Command:
Their Heart, their Country's—and their King's, their Hand.
Still-but how chang'd!—thus, thus, were Armies taught;
Un-paid, thus tractile; and thus rais'd, un-bought:
Forever standing, and yet never fear'd;
By Rights, held Freemen, and, to Homes, endear'd:
Nor Time, nor Envy, shou'd your Safety shake:
Nor Nimrod's Hunters your Inclosures break.
Un-paid, thus tractile; and thus rais'd, un-bought:
Forever standing, and yet never fear'd;
By Rights, held Freemen, and, to Homes, endear'd:
Nor Time, nor Envy, shou'd your Safety shake:
Nor Nimrod's Hunters your Inclosures break.
But, Trade's exempted Pride no Arms will bear:
She sells her Scarlet; and bids Mis'ry wear!
Her silken Sons, the Drum's big Sound chagrines:
Her End is Safety—but she scorns the Means!
She sells her Scarlet; and bids Mis'ry wear!
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Her End is Safety—but she scorns the Means!
Oh, Lux'ry! Sun-shown Cobweb! weakly fine!
Thy soft Seduction, none cou'd e'er resign:
Till wrapt in Ruin, (which Thy Love made Fate)
Thou falling—with thee fell th'unjointed State!
Name not her glitt'ring Face: proud Shade!—'twas She,
Gave Carthage up—to Rome, poor, brave, and free.
Again, 'twas She, to naked Vandals, gave
Rome, rich, proud, base, a Coward, and a Slave.
'Twas Wealth's fat Indolence, superbly weak!
To Lydian Wand'rers, sold th'Imperial Greek.
Hard, as their native Hills, descending Swarms
Of Thieves, in Penury, and Saints, in Arms,
Plund'ring Byzantium's Gold, it's Influence felt:
And, now, wait, rip'ning—for the Woes they dealt.
Thy soft Seduction, none cou'd e'er resign:
Till wrapt in Ruin, (which Thy Love made Fate)
Thou falling—with thee fell th'unjointed State!
Name not her glitt'ring Face: proud Shade!—'twas She,
Gave Carthage up—to Rome, poor, brave, and free.
Again, 'twas She, to naked Vandals, gave
Rome, rich, proud, base, a Coward, and a Slave.
'Twas Wealth's fat Indolence, superbly weak!
To Lydian Wand'rers, sold th'Imperial Greek.
Hard, as their native Hills, descending Swarms
Of Thieves, in Penury, and Saints, in Arms,
Plund'ring Byzantium's Gold, it's Influence felt:
And, now, wait, rip'ning—for the Woes they dealt.
So mourn'd the tutelary Pow'r; and paus'd:
Pensively touch'd, for Ills by Affluence caus'd!
While a thin Pediment, of colour'd Clouds,
Truth, and her Chariot's flamy Driver, shrouds:
O'er the curl'd Windings of whose wavy Flow,
That, wid'ning vast, o'ercop'd the Depth below;
Fancy, in firy Rings, on Air's soft Field,
Round, and still round, th'impatient Coursers wheel'd.
Pensively touch'd, for Ills by Affluence caus'd!
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Truth, and her Chariot's flamy Driver, shrouds:
O'er the curl'd Windings of whose wavy Flow,
That, wid'ning vast, o'ercop'd the Depth below;
Fancy, in firy Rings, on Air's soft Field,
Round, and still round, th'impatient Coursers wheel'd.
| The Fanciad | |