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They break through all, for William leads the
way Where fires rage most, and loudest engines play. Namur's late terrors and destruction show What William, warm’d with just revenge, can do: Where once a thousand turrets raised on high Their gilded spires, and glitter'd in the sky; An undistinguish'd heap of dust is found, And all the pile lies smoking on the ground.
His toils, for no ignoble ends design'd, Promote the common welfare of mankind; No wild ambition moves, but Europe's fears, The cries of orphans, and the widows' tears : Oppress'd Religion gives the first alarms, And injured Justice sets him in his arms; His conquests freedom to the world afford, And nations bless the labours of his sword. Thus when the forming Muse would copy
forth A perfect pattern of heroic worth, She sets a man triumphant in the field, O’er giants cloven down, and monsters killd, Reeking in blood, and smear'd with dust and sweat, Whilst angry gods conspire to make him great.
Thy navy rides on seas before unpress’d, And strikes a terror through the haughty East; Algiers and Tunis, from their sultry shore, With horror hear the British engines roar; Fain from the neighbouring dangers would they run, And wish themselves still nearer to the sun. The Gallic ships are in their ports confined, Denied the common use of sea and wind, Nor dare again the British strength engage; Still they remember that destructive rage Which lately made their trembling host retire, Stunn'd with the noise, and wrapp'd in smoke and
The waves with wide unnumber'd wrecks were strow'd,
[flow'd. And planks, and arms, and men, promiscuous
Spain's numerous fleet, that perish'd on our coast,
Where'er the waves in restless errors roll,
may we safely use the northern gales,
At length, proud prince! ambitious Louis! cease
Ask Villeroy, for Villeroy beheld
But stop not here: behold where Berkeley stands,
Thus Ætna, when in fierce eruptions broke, Fills Heaven with ashes and the earth with smoke; Here crags
of broken rocks are twirld on high, Here molten stones and scatter'd cinders fly; Its fury reaches the remotest coast, And strows the Asiatic shore with dust.
Now does the sailor from the neighbouring main Look after Gallic towns and forts in vain ; No more his wonted marks he can descry, But sees a long unmeasured ruin lie, Whilst, pointing to the naked coast, he shows His wondering mates where towns and steeples Where crowded citizens he lately view'd, (rose, And singles out the place where once St. Maloes'
stood. Here Russel's actions should my
Muse require, And would my strength but second my desire, I'd all his boundless bravery rehearse, And draw his cannons thundering in my verse; High on the deck should the great leader stand, Wrath in his look, and lightning in his hand;
Like Homer's Hector, when he flung his fire Amidst a thousand ships, and made all Greece
retire. But who can run the British triumphs o'er, And count the flames dispersed on every
shore? Who can describe the scatter'd victory, And draw the reader on from sea Else who could Ormond's godlike acts refuse? Ormond! the theme of every
Oxford Muse. Fain would I here his mighty worth proclaim, Attend him in the noble chase of fame, Through all the noise and hurry of the fight Observe each blow, and keep him still in sight. Oh! did our British peers thus court renown, And
grace the coats their great forefathers won, Our arms would then triumphantly advance, Nor Henry be the last that conquer'd France. What might not England hope, if such abroad Purchased their country's honour with their blood ? When such, detain'd at home, support our state In William's stead, and bear a kingdom's weight, The schemes of Gallic policy o'erthrow, And blast the counsels of the common foe; Direct our armies, and distribute right, And render our Maria's' loss more light? But stop, my Muse, the’ungrateful sound forbear, Maria's name still wounds each British ear; Each British heart Maria still does wound, And tears burst out unbidden at the sound; Maria still our rising mirth destroys, Darkens our triumphs, and forbids our joys.
But see, at length, the British ships appear! Our Nassau comes ! and, as his fleet draws near,
| Queen Mary, who died in 1694.
The rising masts advance, the sails grow white,
SIR GODFREY KNELLER,
ON HIS PICTURE OF THE KING.
KNELLER! with silence and surprise
The magic of thy art calls forth