Poets have this to boaft; without their aid,
The fresheft laurels nipp'd by malice, fade,
And virtue to oblivion is betray'd :
The proudest honours have a narrow date,
Unless they vindicate their names from fate.
But who is equal to sustain the part ?
Dryden has numbers, but he wants a heart;
Injoin'd a penance, which is too fevere
For playing once the fool, to perfevere.
Others, who knew the trade, have laid it down;
And, looking round, I find you stand alone.
How, Sir, can you, or any English Muse,
Our country's fame, our monarch's arms, refuse ?
'Tis not my want of gratitude, but skill,
Makes me decline what I can ne'er fulfil.
I cannot fing of conquests as I ought,
And my breath fails to swell a lofty note.
I know my compass, and my Mufe's fize,
She loves to sport and play, but dares not rife;
Idly affects, in this familiar way,
In easy numbers loofely to convey,
What mutual friendship would at distance say.
Poets affume another tone and voice,
When victory 's their theme, and arms their choice.
To follow heroes in the chace of fame,
Afks force and heat, and fancy wing'd with flame,
What words can paint the royal warrior's face ?
What colours can the figure boldly raise,
When, cover'd o'er with comely dust and smoke,
He pierc'd the foe, and thickest squadrons broke?
His bleeding arm, still painful with the fore,
Which, in his people's cause, the pious father bore :
Whom, cleaving through the troops a glorious way,
Not the united force of France and hell could stay.
Oh, Dorfet! I am rais'd! I'm all on fire!
And, if my strength could anfiver my defire,
In speaking paint this figure should be seen,
Like Jove his grandeur, and like Mars his mein;
And gods descending should adorn the scene.
See, see! upon the banks of Boyne he stands,
By his own view adjusting his commands:
Calm and ferene the armed coast surveys,
And, in cool thoughts, the different chances weighs
Then, fir'd with fame, and eager of renown,
Resolves to end the war, and fix the throne.
From wing to wing the squadrons bending stand,
And close their ranks to meet their king's command;
The drums and trumpets sleep, the sprightly noise
Of neighing steeds, and cannons louder voice,
Suspended in attention, banish far
All hoftile sounds, and hush the din of war :
The filent troops stretch forth an eager look,
Listening with joy, while thus their general spoke,
"Come, fellow-foldiers, follow me once more,
"And fix the fate of Europe on that shore;
"Your courage only waits from me the word,
"But England's happiness commands my sword:
"In her defence I every part will bear,
"The foldier's danger, and the prince's care,
"And envy any arm an equal share.
"Set all that's dear to men before your sight;
"For laws, religion, liberty, we fight;
"To fave your wives from rape, your towns from flame, "Redeem your country fold, and vindicate her name:
"At whose request and timely call I rose,
"To tempt my fate, and all my hopes expose;
Struggled with adverse storms and winter seas, "That in my labours you might find your ease. Let other monarchs dictate from afar,
"And write the empty triumphs of the war; " In lazy palaces supinely rust;
My fword shall justify my people's trust, "For which-But I your victory delay; "Come on; I and my genius lead the way."
He said, new life and joy ran through the hoft,
And fenfe of danger in their wonder loft;
Precipitate they plunge into the flood,
In vain the waves, the banks, the men, withstood:
The king leads on, the king does all inflame,
The king-and carries millions in the name.
As when the fwelling ocean bursts his bounds,
And foaming overwhelms the neighbouring grounds,
The roaring deluge, rushing headlong on,
Sweeps cities in its course, and bears whole forests down;
So on the foe the firm battalions prest,
And he, like the tenth wave, drove on the rest;
Fierce, gallant, young, he shot through every place,
Urging their flight, and hurrying on the chace;
He hung upon their rear, or lighten'd in their face.
Stop! stop! brave Prince! allay that generous flame,
Enough is given to England, and to fame.
Remember, Sir, you in the centre stand,
Europe's divided interests you command,
All their designs uniting in your hand :
Down from your throne defcends the golden chain,
Which does the fabric of our world fustain;
That once diffolv'd by any fatal stroke,
The fcheme of all our happiness is broke.
Stop! stop! brave Prince! fleets may repair again,
And routed armies rally on the plain;
But ages are requir'd to raise so great a man!
Hear, how the waves of French ambition roar,
Difdaining bounds, and breaking on the shore,
Which you, ordain'd to curb their wild destructive
That strength remov'd; again, again, they flow,
Lay Europe waste, nor law, nor limits know.
Stop! stop! brave Prince!---what, does your Muse,
Proceed, purfue his conquests---faith, I can't:
My fpirits fink, and will no longer bear;
Rapture and fury carry'd me thus far
Transported and amaz'd-
That rage once fpent, I can no more fustain
Your flights, your energies, and tragic strain,
But fall back to my natural pace again;
In humble verse provoking you to rhyme;
I wish there were more Dorsets at this time.
Oh! if in France this hero had been born,
What glittering tinsel would his acts adorn!
There 'tis immortal fame, and high renown,
To fteal a country, and to buy a town:
There triumphs are o'er kings and kingdoms fold,
And captive virtue led in chains of gold.
If courage could, like courts, be kept in pay
What give, that France might lay
That victory follow'd where he led the way?
He all his conquests would for this refund,
And take th' equivalent, a glórious wound.
Then, what advice, to spread his real fame,
Would pass between Versailles and Nôtredame ?
Their plays, their fongs, would dwell upon his wound,
And operas repeat no other found;
Boyne would, for ages, be the painter's theme,
The Gobelins labour, and the poets dream;
The wounded arın would furnish all their rooms,
And bleed for ever scarlet in the looms:
Boileau with this would plume his artful pen:
And can your Muse be filent? Think again.
Spare your advice; and fince you have begun,
Finish your own design; the work is done.
Done! nothing's done! nor the dead colours laid,
And the most glorious scenes stand undisplay'd;
A thousand generous actions close the rear;
A thousand virtues, still behind, stand crowdingto appear.
The Queen herfelf, the charming Queen should grace
The noble piece, and in an artful place
Soften war's horror with her lovely face.
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