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The day was come when heav'n designed to show
His care and conduct of the world below.
Behold, in awful march and dread array,
The long extended squadrons shape their way!
Death, in approaching terrible, imparts
An anxious horror to the bravest hearts;
Yet do their beating breasts demand the strife,
And thirst of glory quells the love of life.
No vulgar fears can British minds control:
Heat of revenge, and noble pride of soul,
O'erlook the foe, advantag'd by his post,
Lessen his numbers, and contract his host:
Though fens and floods possess'd the middle
That unprovok'd they would have fear'd to pass;
Nor fens nor floods can stop Britannia's bands,
When her proud foe rang'd on their borders stands.
But O, my muse, what numbers wilt thou find
To sing the furious troops in battle join'd!
Methinks I hear the drum's tumultuous sound,
The victor's shouts, and dying groans confound,
The dreadful burst of cannon rend the skies,
And all the thunder of the battle rise.

'Twas then great Marlbro's mighty soul was prov'd,
That, in the shock of charging hosts unmov'd,
Amidst confusion, horror, and despair,
Examin'd all the dreadful scenes of war;
In peaceful thought the field of death survey'd,
To fainting squadrons sent the timely aid,
Inspir'd repuls'd battalions to engage,
And taught the doubtful battle where to rage.
So when an angel by divine command
With rising tempests shakes a guilty land,
Such as of late o'er pale Britannia past,
Calm and serene he drives the furious blast;
And pleas'd th' Almighty's orders to perform,
Rides in the whirlwind, and directs the storm.

But see the haughty household troops advance! The dread of Europe, and the pride of France.

The war's whole art each private soldier knows,
And with a gen'ral's love of conquest glows;
Proudly he marches on, and, void of fear,
Laughs at the shaking of the British spear:
Vain insolence! with native freedom brave,
The meanest Briton scorns the highest slave;
Contempt and fury fire their souls by turns,
Each nation's glory in each warrior burns,
Each fights, as in his arm th' important day
And all the fate of his great monarch lay:
A thousand glorious actions, that might claim.
Triumphant laurels and immortal fame,
Confus'd in crowds of glorious actions lie,
And troops of heroes undistinguish'd die.
O Dormer, how can I behold thy fate,
And not the wonders of thy youth relate!
How can I see the gay, the brave, the young,
Fall in the cloud of war and lie unsung!
In joys of conquest he resigns his breath,
And, fill'd with England's glory, smiles in death.
The rout begins, the Gallic squadrons run,
Compell❜d in crowds to meet the fate they shun;
Thousands of fiery steeds, with wounds transfix'd,
Floating in gore, with their dead masters mix'd,
Midst heaps of spears and standards driv'n around,
Lie in the Danube's bloody whirlpools drown'd.
Troops of bold youths, born on the distant Soane,
Or sounding borders of the rapid Rhone,

Or where the Seine her flow'ry fields divides,
Or where the Loire through winding vineyards glides;
In heaps the rolling billows sweep away,

And into Scythian seas their bloated corps convey.
From Blenheim's tow'rs the Gaul, with wild affright,
Beholds the various havoc of the fight;

His waving banners, that so oft had stood
Planted in fields of death and streams of blood,

So wont the guarded enemy to reach,

And rise triumphant in the fatal breach,

Or pierce the broken foe's remotest lines,
The hardy veteran with tears resigns.

Unfortunate Tallard! oh who can name
The pangs of rage, of sorrow, and of shame,
That, with mix'd tumult, in thy bosom swell'd,
When first thou saw'st thy bravest troops repell'd,
Thine only son pierc'd with a deadly wound,
Chok'd in his blood, and gasping on the ground,
Thyself in bondage by the victor kept:

The chief, the father, and the captive wept.
An English muse is touch'd with gen'rous woe,
And in th' unhappy man forgets the foe.
Greatly distress'd! thy loud complaints forbear,
Blame not the turns of fate and chance of war;
Give thy brave foes their due, nor blush to own
The fatal field by such great leaders won,
The field whence fam'd Eugenio bore away
Only the second honours of the day.

With floods of gore, that from the vanquish'd fell,
The marshes stagnate, and the rivers swell.
Mountains of slain lie heap'd upon the ground,
Or 'midst the roarings of the Danube drown'd;
Whole captive hosts the conqueror detains
In painful bondage and inglorious chains;
Ev❜n those who 'scape the fetters and the sword,
Nor seek the fortunes of a happier lord,
Their raging king dishonours, to complete
Marlbro's great work, and finish the defeat.

From Memminghen's high domes and Augsburg's


The distant battle drives th' insulting Gauls,
Freed by the terror of the victor's name
The rescu'd states his great protection claim;
Whilst Ulme th' approach of her deliverer waits,
And longs to open her obsequious gates.

The hero's breast still swells with great designs,
In ev'ry thought the tow'ring genius shines:
If to the foe his dreadful course he bends,
O'er the wide continent his march extends;

If sieges in his lab'ring thoughts are form'd,
Camps are assaulted, and an army storm'd;
If to the fight his active soul is bent,.
The fate of Europe turns on its event.
What distant land, what region can afford
An action worthy his victorious sword:
Where will he next the flying Gaul defeat,
To make the series of his toils complete?

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Where the swoln Rhine, rushing with all its force, Divides the hostile nations in its course, While each contracts its bounds, or wider grows, Enlarg❜d or straiten'd as the river flows, On Gallia's side a mighty bulwark stands, That all the wide extended plain commands; Twice, since the war was kindled, has it try'd The victor's rage, and twice has chang'd its side; As oft whole armies, with the prize o'erjoy'd, Have the long summer on its walls employ'd. Hither our mighty chief his arms directs, Hence future triumphs from the war expects; And, though the dog-star had its course begun, Carries his arms still nearer to the sun: Fixt on the glorious action, he forgets The change of seasons and increase of heats: No toils are painful that can danger show, No climes unlovely, that contain a foe.

The roving Gaul, to his own bounds restrain'd, Learns to encamp within his native land, But soon as the victorious host he spies, From hill to hill, from stream to stream he flies: Such dire impressions in his heart remain Of Marlbro's sword and Hocstet's fatal plain: In vain Britannia's mighty chief besets Their shady coverts and obscure retreats; They fly the conqueror's approaching fame, That bears the force of armies in his name. Austria's young monarch, whose imperial sway Sceptres and thrones are destin'd to obey,

Whose boasted ancestry so high extends
That in the Pagan gods his lineage ends,
Comes from afar, in gratitude to own
The great supporter of his father's throne;
What tides of glory to his bosom ran,
Clasp'd in th' embraces of the god-like man!
How were his eyes with pleasing wonder fixt,
To see such fire with so much sweetness mixt.
Such easy greatness, such a graceful port,
So turn'd and finish'd for the camp or court!
Achilles thus was form'd with ev'ry grace,
And Nireus shone but in the second place;
Thus the great father of almighty Rome
(Divinely flusht with an immortal bloom
That Cytherea's fragrant breath bestow'd)
In all the charms of his bright mother glow'd.
The royal youth, by Marlbro's presence charm'd,
Taught by his counsels, by his actions warm'd,
On Landau with redoubled fury falls,
Discharges all his thunder on its walls,

O'er mines and caves of death provokes the fight,
And learns to conquer in the hero's sight.

The British chief, for mighty toils renown'd, Increas'd in titles and with conquests crown'd, To Belgian coasts his tedious march renews, And the long windings of the Rhine pursues, Clearing its borders from usurping foes, And blest by rescu'd nations as he goes. Treves fears no more, freed from its dire alarms, And Traerbach feels the terror of his arms, Seated on rocks her proud foundations shake, While Marlbro' presses to the bold attack, Plants all his batt'ries, bids his cannon roar, And shows how Landau might have fall'n before. Scar'd at his near approach, great Louis fears Vengeance reserv'd for his declining years, Forgets his thirst of universal sway, And scarce can teach his subjects to obey;

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