In martial din she drowns her sighs,
Lest he the rising grief should hear:
She pulls her helmet o’er her eyes,
Lest he should see the felling tear.
Go, mighty prince, let France be taught,
How constant minds by grief are tried:
How great the land, that wept and fought, 80
When William led, and Mary died.
Fierce in the battle make it known,
Where death with all his darts is seen.
That he can touch thy heart with none,
But that which struck the beauteous queen.
Belgia indulg’d her open grief,
While yet her master was not near;
With sullen pride refus’d relief,
And sat obdurate in despair.
As waters from her sluices, flow’d
Unbounded sorrow from her eyes: 90
To earth her bended front she bow’d,
And sent her wailings to the skies.
But when her anxious lord return’d,
liais’d is her head, her eyes are dried;
She smiles, as William ne’er had mourn’d;
She looks, as Mary ne’er had died.
That freedom which all sorrows claim,
She does for thy content resign:
Her piety itself would blame,
If her regrets should waken thine. 100
To cure thy woe, she shows thy fame;
Lest the great mourner should forget.
That all the race, whence Orange came,
Made Virtue triumph over Fate.
William his country’s cause could fight,
And with his blood her freedom seal:
Maurice and Henry guard that right,
For which their pious parents fell.
How heroes rise, how patriots set,
Thy father’s bloom and death may tell 110
Excelling others these were great:
Thou, greater still, must these excel.
The last fair instance thou must give,
Whence Nassau’s virtue can be tried;
And shew the world, that thou canst live,
Intrepid, as thy consort died.
Thy virtue, whose resistless force
No dire event could ever stay,
Must carry on its destin’d course,
Though Death and Envy stop the way. 120
For Britain’s sake, for Belgia’s, live:
Pierc’d by their grief forget thy own:
New toils endure; new conquest give;
And bring them ease, though thou hast none.
Vanquish again; though she be gone,
Whose garland crown’d the victor’s hair;
And reign, though she has left the throne,
Who made thy glory worth thy care.
Fair Britain never yet before
Breath’d to her king a useless pray’r: 130
Fond Belgia never did implore,
While William turn’d averse his ear.
But should the weeping hero now
Relentless to their wishes prove;
Should he recall, with pleasing woe,
The object of his grief and love;
Her face with thousand beauties blest,
Her mind with thousand virtues stor’d,
Her power with boundless joy confest,
Her person only not ador’d: 140
Yet ought his sorrow to be check’d;
Yet ought his passions to abate:
If the great mourner would reflect,
Her glory in her death complete.
She was instructed to command,
Great king, by long obeying thee:
Her sceptre, guided by thy hand,
Preserv’d the isles, and rul’d the sea.
But oh! ’twas little, that her life
O’er earth and water bears thy fame: 150
In death, ’twas worthy William’s wife,
Amidst the stars to fix his name.
Beyond where matter moves, or place
Receives its forms, thy virtues roll:
From Mary’s glory, Angels trace
The beauty of her partner’s soul.
Wise Fate, which does its Heav’n decree
To heroes, when they yield their breath,
Hastens thy triumph. Half of thee
Is deified before thy death. 160
Alone to thy renown ’tis giv’n,
Unbounded through all worlds to go:
While she, great saint, rejoices Heav’n;
And thou sustain’st the orb below.
IN IMITATION OF ANACREON.
LET ’em censure: what care I?
The herd of critics I defy.
Regardless of their grace, or spite.
No, no: the fair, the gay, the young
Govern the numbers of my song.
All that they approve is sweet,
And all is sense that they repeat.
Bid the warbling Nine retire:
Venus, string thy servant’s lyre:
Love shall be my endless theme:
Pleasure shall triumph over Fame:
And when these maxims I decline,
Apollo, may thy fete be mine:
May I grasp at empty praise;
And lose the nymph, to gain the bays.
AN ODE.
THE merchant, to secure his treasure,
Conveys it in a borrow’d name:
Euphelia serves to grace my measure;
But doe is my real flame.
My softest verse, my darling lyre,
Upon Euphelia’s toilet lay;
When Cloe noted her desire,
That I should sing, that I should play.
My lyre I tune, my voice I raise;
But with my numbers mix my sighs: 10
And whilst I sing Euphelia’s praise,
I fix my soul on doe’s eyes.
Fair Cloe blush’d: Euphelia frown’d:
I sung and gaz’d: I play’d and trembled:
And Venus to the Loves around
Remark’d, how ill we all dissembled.
ODE SUR LA PRISR DE NAMUR, PAR LES ARMES DU ROY, L’ANNEE MDCXCII. PAR MONSIEUR BOILEAU DESPREAUX.
I.
QUELLE docte & sainte yvresse
Aujourd’huy me fait la loy?
Chastes nymphes du Perm esse,
N’est-ce pas vous que je voy?
Accourez, troupe sçavante:
Des sons que ma lyre enfante;
Ces arbres sont réjoüis:
Marquez en bien la cadence:
Et vous, vente, faites silence:
Je vais parler de Louis. 10
II.
Dans ses chansons immortelles,
Comme un aigle audacieux,
Pindare étendant ses aisles,
Fuit loin des vulgaires yeux.
Mais, ô ma fidèle lyre,
Si, dans l’ardeur qui m’inspire,
Tu peux suivre mes transporte;
Les chesnes des monts de Thrace
N’ont rien oüi, que n’efface
La douceur de tes accords. 20
AN ENGLISH BALLAD ON THE TAKING OF NAMUR BY THE KING OF
GREAT BRITAIN, MDCXCV.
Dolce est desipere in loco.
I.
SOME folks are drunk, yet do not know it
So might not Bacchus give you law?
Was it a Muse, O lofty Poet,
Or virgin of St. Cyr, you saw?
Why all this fury? What’s the matter,
That oaks must come from Thrace to dance?
Must stupid stocks be taught to flatter?
And is there no such wood in France?
Why must the winds all hold their tongue?
If they a little breath should raise, 10
Would that have spoil’d the Poet’s song,
Or puff’d away the monarch’s praise?
II.
Pindar, that eagle, moun
ts the skies:
While Virtue leads the noble way:
Too like a vulture Boileau flies,
Where sordid Int’rest shows the prey.
When once the Poet’s honour ceases,
From reason far his transports rove:
And Boileau, for eight hundred pieces,
Makes Louis take the wall of Jove. 20
III.
Est-ce Apollon & Neptune,
Qui sur ces rocs sourcilleux
Ont, compagnons de fortune,
Basti ces murs orgueilleux?
De leur enceinte fameuse
La Sambre unie à la Meuse,
Défend le fatal abord;
Et par cent bouches horribles
L’airain sur ces monts terribles
Vomit le fer, & la mort. 30
IV.
Dix mille vaillans Alcides
Les bordant de toutes parts,
D’éclairs au loin homicides
Font pétiller, leurs remparts:
Et dans son sein infidèle
Par toute la terre y recèle
Un feu prest à s’élancer,
Qui soudain perçant son goufre
Ouvre un sépulchre de soufre,
A quiconque ose avancer. 40
Namur, devant tes murailles
Jadis la Grèce eust vingt ans
Hans fruit veu les funérailles
De ses plus fiers combattans.
III.
Neptune and Sol came from above,
Shap’d like Megrigny and Vauban:
They arm’d these rocks: then show’d old Jove
Of Marli wood, the wondrous plan.
Such walls, these three wise gods agreed,
By human force could ne’er be shaken:
But you and I in Homer read
Of gods, as well as men, mistaken.
Sambre and Maese their waves may join;
But ne’er can William’s force restrain: 30
He’ll pass them both, who pass’d the Boyne:
Remember this and arm the Seine.
IV.
Full fifteen thousand lusty fellows
With fire and sword the fort maintain;
Each was a Hercules, you tell us,
Yet out they march’d like common men.
Cannons above, and mines below,
Did death and tombs for foes contrive:
Yet matters have been order’d so,
That most of us are still alive. 40
If Namur be compar’d to Troy;
Then Britain’s boys excell’d the Greeks:
Their siege did ten long years employ;
We’ve done our bus’ness in ten weeks.
Quelle effroyable Puissance
Aujourd’huy pourtant s’avance,
Preste à foudroyer tes monts?
Quel bruit, quel feu l’environne?
C’est Jupiter en personne;
Ou c’est le vainqueur de Mons. 50
VI.
N’en doute point: c’est luy-mesme.
Tout brille en luy; tout est roy.
Dans Bruxelles Nassau blême
Commence à trembler pour toy.
En vain il voit le Batâve,
Désormais docile Escl&ve,
Rangé sous ses étendars:
En vain au Lion Belgique
Il voit l’Aigle Germanique
Uni sous Les Léopards. 60
VII.
Plein de la frayeur nouvelle,
Dont ses sens sont agités,
A son secours il appelle
Les peuples les plus vantés.
Ceux-là viennent du rivage,
Où s’enorgueillit le Tage
What godhead does so fast advance,
With dreadful power those hills to gain?
’Tis little Will, the scourge of France;
No Godhead, but the first of men.
His mortal arm exerts the power
To keep ev’n Mons’s victor under: 50
And that same Jupiter no more
Shall fright the world with impious thunder.
VI.
Our king thus trembles at Namur,
Whilst Villeroy, who ne’er afraid is,
To Bruxelles marches on secure,
To bomb the monks and scare the ladies.
After this glorious expedition,
One battle makes the marshal great:
He must perform the king’s commission:
Who knows, but Orange may retreat? 60
Kings are allow’d to feign the gout,
Or be prevail’d with not to fight:
And mighty Louis hop’d, no doubt,
That William would preserve that right.
VII.
From Seine and Loire, to Rhone and Po,
See every mother’s son appear:
In such a case ne’er blame a foe,
If he betrays some little fear.
He comes, the mighty Villeroy comes;
Finds a small river in his way; 70
De For, qui roule en ses eaux;
Ceux-ci des champs, où la neige
Des marais de la Norvège
Neuf mois couvre les roseaux. 70
VIII.
Mais qui fait enfler la Sambre?
Sous les Jumeaux effrayez,
Des froids torrens de Décembre
Les champs par tout sont noyés.
Cérès s’enfuit, éplorée
De voir en proye à Borée
Ses guérets d’epics chargés,
Et sous les urnes fangeuses
Des Hyades orageuses
Tous ses trésors submergés. 80
IX.
Déployés toutes vos rages,
Princes, vents, peuples, frimats;
Ramasses tous vos nuages;
Rassembles tous vos soldats.
Malgré vous Namur en poudre
S’en va tomber sous la foudre
Qui domta Lille, Courtray,
Gand la superbe Espagnole,
Saint Orner, Besançon, Dole,
Ypres, Mastricht, & Cambray. 90
So waves his colours, beats his drums,
And thinks it prudent there to stay.
The Gallic troops breathe blood and war;
The Marshal cares not to march faster;
Poor Villeroy moves so slowly here,
We fancied all, it was his master.
VIII.
Will no kind flood, no friendly rain
Disguise the Marshal’s plain disgrace:
No torrents swell the low Mehayne?
The world will say, he durst not pass. 80
Why will no Hyades appear,
Dear Poet, on the banks of Sambre?
Just as they did that mighty year,
When you turn’d June into December.
The water-nymphs are too unkind
To Villeroy; are the land-nymphs so?
And fly they all, at once combin’d
To shame a general, and a beau?
IX.
Truth, Justice, Sense, Religion, Fame,
May join to finish William’s story: 90
Nations set free may bless his name;
And France in secret own his glory.
But Ypres, Maestricht, and Cambray,
Besançon, Ghent, St. Omers, Lisle,
Courtray, and Dole — ye critics, say,
How poor to this was Pindar’s style!
With ekes and alsos tack thy strain,
Great Bard; and sing the deathless prince,
Who lost Namur the same campaign,
He bought Dixmuyd, and plunder’d Deynse. 100
X.
Mes présages s’accomplissent:
Il commence à chanceler:
Sous les coups qui retentissent
Ses murs s’en vont s’écrouler.
Mars en feu qui les domine,
Souffle à grand bruit leur ruine,
Et les bombes dans les airs
All
ant chercher le tonnerre
Semblent tombant sur la terre,
Vouloir s’ouvrir les enfers. 100
Accourez, Nassau, Bavière,
De ces murs l’unique espoir:
A couvert d’une rivière
Venez: vous pouvez tout voir.
Considérez ces approches:
Voyez grimper sur ces roches.
Ces athletes belliqueux;
Et dans les eaux, dans la dame,
Louis à tout donnant l’ame,
Marcher, courir avec eux. 110
XII.
Contemplez dans la tempesto,
Qui sort de ces boulevars,
La plume qui sur sa teste
Attire tous les regards.
X.
I’ll hold ten pound my dream is out:
I’d tell it you, but for the rattle
Of those confounded drums; no doubt
Yon bloody rogues intend a battle.
Dear me! a hundred thousand French
With terror fill the neighb’ring field:
While William carries on the trench,
Till both the town and castle yield.
Villeroy to Boufflers should advance,
Says Mars, through cannons’ mouths in fire; 110
Id est, one mareschal of France
Tells t’other, he can come no nigher.
XI.
Regain the lines the shortest way,
Villeroy; or to Versailles take post;
For, having seen it, thou canst say
The steps, by which Namur was lost.
The smoke and flame may vex thy sight:
Look not once back: but as thou goest,
Quicken the squadrons in their flight,
And bid the d — l take the slowest. 120
Think not what reason to produce,
From Louis to conceal thy fear:
He’ll own the strength of thy excuse;
Tell him that William was but there.
XII.
Complete Works of Matthew Prior Page 5
