Now let us look for Louis’ feather,
That us’d to shine so like a star:
The gen’rals could not get together,
Wanting that influence, great in war.
A cet astre redoubtable
Toujours un sort favorable
S’attache dans les combats:
Et toujours avec la gloire
Mars amenant la Victoire
Vole, & le suit à grands pas. 120
XIII.
Grands défenseurs de l’Espagne,
Montrez-vous: il en est temps:
Courage; vers la Mahagne
Voilà vos drapeaux flottans.
Jamais ses ondes craintives
N’ont veû sur leurs foibles rives
Tant de guerriers s’amasser.
Courez donc: qui vous retarde?
Tout l’univers vous regarde.
N’osez-vous la traverser? 130
Loin de fermer le passage
A vos nombreux bataillons,
Luxembourg a du rivage
Reculé ses pavillons.
Quoy? leur seul aspect vous glace?
Où sont ces chefs pleins d’audace,
Jadis si prompts à marcher,
Qui dévoient de la Tamise,
Et de la Dràve soûmise,
Jusqu’à Paris nous chercher? 140
Cependant l’effroy redouble
Sur les ramparts de Namur;
O Poet! thou hadst been discree ter,
Hanging the Monarch’s hat so high; 130
If thou hadst dubb’d thy star a meteor,
That did but blaze, and rove, and die.
XIII.
To animate the doubtful fight,
Namur in vain expects that ray:
In vain France hopes, the sickly light
Should shine near William’s fuller day:
It knows Versailles, its proper station;
Nor cares for any foreign sphere:
Where you see Boileau’s constellation,
Be sure no danger can be near. 140
The French had gather’d all their force;
And William met them in their way:
Yet off they brush’d, both foot and horse.
What has friend Boileau left to say?
When his high Muse is bent upon’t,
To sing her king — that great commander,
Or on the shores of Hellespont,
Or in the valleys near Scamander;
Would it not spoil his noble task,
If any foolish Phrygian there is, — iso
Impertinent enough to ask,
How far Namur may be from Paris.
XV.
Two stanzas more before we end,
Of death, pikes, rocks, arms, bricks, and fire;
Son gouverneur qui se trouble
S’enfuit sous son dernier mur.
Déjà jusques à ses portes
Je voy monter nos cohortes,
La flame & la fer en main:
Et sur les monceaux de piques,
De corps morts, de rocs, de briques,
S’ouvrir un large chemin. 150
XVI.
C’en est fait. Je viens d’entendre
Sur ces rochers éperdus
Battre un signal pour se rendre:
Le feu-cesse. Ils sont rendue.
Dépouillez votre arrogance,
Fiers ennemis de la France,
Et désormais gracieux,
Allez à Liege, à Bruxelles,
Porter les humbles nouvelles
De Namur pris à vos yeux. 160
Leave them behind you, honest friend;
And with your countrymen retire.
Your ode is spoilt; Namur is freed;
For Dixmuyd something yet is due:
So good Count Guiscard may proceed;
But Boufflers, Sir, one word with you 160
XVI.
’Tis done. In eight of these commanders,
Who neither fight, nor raise the siege,
The foes of France march safe through Flanders;
Divide to Bruxelles, or to Liege.
Send, Fame, this news to Trianon,
That Boufflers may new honours gain:
He the same play by land has shown,
As Tourville did upon the main,
Yet is the marshal made a peer!
O William, may thy arms advance; 170
That he may lose Dînant next year,
And so be constable of France.
PRESENTED TO THE KING, AT HIS ARRIVAL IN HOLLAND, AFTER THE DISCOVERY OF THE CONSPIRACY, MDCXCVI.
(This conspiracy is generally called the Assassination Plot. Sir John Fenwick was executed for being concerned in it.)
Seras in cœlum redeas; diuque
Lœtus intersis populo Quirini:
Neve te nostrie vitiis iniquum
Ocyor aura
Tollat — HOR ad Augustum.
YE careful angels, whom eternal Fate
Ordains, on earth and human acts to wait;
Who turn with secret power this restless ball,
And bid predestin’d empires rise and fall:
Your sacred aid religious monarchs own,
When first they merit, then ascend the throne:
But tyrants dread ye, lest your just decree
Transfer the power, and set the people free.
See rescu’d Britain at your altars bow;
And hear her hymns your happy care avow: 10
That still her axes and her rods support
The judge’s frown, and grace the awful court;
That Law with all her pompous terror stands,
To wrest the dagger from the traitor’s hands;
And rigid justice reads the fatal word,
Poises the balance first, then draws the sword.
Britain her safety to your guidance owns,
That she can sep’rate parricides from sons;
That, impious rage disarm’d, she lives and reigns,
Her freedom kept by him, who broke her chains.
And thou, great minister, above the rest 21
Of guardian spirits, be thou for ever blest;
Thou, who of old wert sent to Israel’s court,
With secret aid great David’s strong support;
To mock the frantic rage of cruel Saul,
And strike the useless javelin to the wall.
Thy later care o’er William’s temples held,
On Boyne’s propitious banks, the heav’nly shield;
When power divine did sovereign right declare,
And cannons mark’d whom they were bid to spare.
Still, blessed angel, be thy care the same! 31
Be William’s life untouch’d, as is his fame!
Let him own thine, as Britain owns his hand:
Save thou the king, as he has sav’d the land!
We angels’ forms in pious monarchs view;
We reverence William; for he acts like you;
Like you, commission’d to chastise and bless,
He must avenge the world, and give it peace.
Indulgent Fate our potent prayer receives;.
And still Britannia smiles, and William lives. 40
The hero dear to earth, by heav’n belov’d,
By troubles must be vex’d, by dangers prov’d:
His foes must aid to make his fame complete,
And fix his throne secure on their defeat.
So, though with sudden rage the tempest comes;
Though the winds roar, and though the water foams,
Imperial Britain on the sea looks down,
And smiling sees her rebel subject frown:
Striking her cliff, the storm confirms her pow’r;
The waves but whiten her triumphant shore: 50
In vain they would advance, in vain retreat;
Broken they dash, and perish at her feet.
For William still new wonders shall be shown:
The
powers that rescued, shall preserve the throne.
Safe on his darling Britain’s joyful sea,
Behold, the monarch ploughs his liquid way:
His fleets in thunder through the world declare,
Whose empire they obey, whose arms they bear.
Bless’d by aspiring winds, he finds the strand
Blacken’d with crowds; he sees the nations stand
Blessing his safety, proud of his command. 61
In various tongues he hears the captains dwell
On their great leader’s praise; by turps they tell,
And listen, each with emulous glory fir’d,
How William conquer’d, and how France retir’d;
How Belgia freed, the hero’s arm confess’d,
But trembled for the courage which she bless’d.
O Louis, from this great example know,
To be at once a hero, and a foe:
By sounding trumpets, hear, and rattling drums,
When William to the open vengeance comes: 71
And see the soldier plead the monarch’s right,
Heading his troops, and foremost in the fight.
Hence then, close Ambush and perfidious War,
Down to your native seats of Night repair.
And thou, Bellona, weep thy cruel pride
Restrain’d, behind the victor’s chariot tied
In brazen knots, and everlasting chains,
(So Europe’s peace, so William’s fate ordains).
While on the ivory chair, in happy state, — so
He sits, secure in innocence, and great
In regal clemency; and views beneath
Averted darts of rage, and pointless arms of death.
TO CLOE WEEPING.
SEE, whilst thou weep’st, fair Cloe, see
The world in sympathy with thee.
The cheerful birds no longer sing;
Each droops his head, and hangs his wing.
The clouds have bent their bosom lower,
And shed their sorrows in a shower
The brooks beyond their limits flow;
And louder murmurs speak their woe.
The nymphs and swains adopt thy cares;
They heave thy sighs, and weep thy tears. 10
Fantastic nymph! that grief should move
Thy heart, obdurate against Love.
Strange tears! whose power can soften all,
But that dear breast on which they fall.
TO MR. HOWARD.
AN ODE.
“Hugh Howard, better known by these beautiful verses to him, than by his own works, was son of Ralph Howard, doctor of physic, and was born in Dublin, February 7, 1675. His father being driven from Ireland by the troubles that followed the Revolution, brought the lad to England, who discovering a disposition to the arts and Belles Lettres, was sent to travel in 1697; and, in his way to Italy, passed through Holland in the train of Thomas, Earl of Pembroke, one of the plenipotentiaries at the treaty of Ryswick. Mr. Howard proceeded as he had intended, and having visited France and Italy, returned home in October, 1700.
“Some years he passed in Dublin: the greatest and latter part of hits life he spent entirely in England, practising painting, at least with applause; but having ingratiated himself by his fame and knowledge of lands with men of the first rank, particularly the Duke of Devonshire and Lord Pembroke, and by a parsimonious management of his good fortune, and of what he received with his wife, he was enabled to quit the practical part of his profession for the last twenty years of his life; the former peer having obtained for him the posts of Keeper of the State Papers, and Paymaster of his Majesty’s Palaces. In this pleasing situation he amused himself with forming a large collection of prints, books, and medals, which at his death (March 27, 1737), he bequeathed to his only brother Robert Howard, Bishop of Elphin, who transported them to Ireland.
DEAR Howard, from the soft assaults of Love,
Poets and painters never are secure;
Can I untouch’d the fair ones’ passions move?
Or thou draw beauty, and not feel its power?
To great Apelles when young Ammon brought
The darling idol of his captive heart;
And the pleas’d nymph with kind attention sat,
To have her charms recorded by his art:
The am’rous master own’d her potent eyes;
Sigh’d when he look’d, and trembled as he drew
Each flowing line confirm’d his first surprise, 10
And as the piece advanc’d, the passion grew.
While Philip’s son, while Venus’ son was near,
What different tortures does his bosom feel!
Great was the rival, and the god severe:
Nor could he hide his flame, nor durst reveal.
The prince, renown’d in bounty as in arms,
With pity saw the ill-conceal’d distress;
Quitted his title to Campaspe’s charms,
And gave the fair one to the friend’s embrace.
Thus the more beauteous Cloe sat to thee, 20
Good Howard, emulous of the Grecian art:
But happy thou, from Cupid’s arrow free,
And flames that pierced thy predecessor’s heart
Had thy poor breast receiv’d an equal pain;
Had I been vested with the monarch’s power;
Thou must have sigh’d, unlucky youth, in vain;
Nor from my bounty hadst thou found a cure.
Though to convince thee, that the friend did feel
A kind concern for thy ill-fated care, 30
I would have sooth’d the flame I could not heal;
Giv’n thee the world, though I withheld the fair.
LOVE DISARMED.
BΕΝΕΑΤΗ a myrtle’s verdant shade
As Cloe half asleep was laid,
Cupid perch’d lightly on her breast,
And in that heav’n desir’d to rest:
Over her paps his wings he spread:
Between he found a downy bed,
And nestled in his little head.
Still lay the god: the nymph surpris’d,
Yet mistress of herself, devis’d
How she the vagrant might enthral, 10
And captive him who captives all.
Her bodice half-way she unlac’d;
About his arms she slily cast
The silken bond, and held him fast.
The god awak’d; and thrice in vain
He strove to break the cruel chain;
And thrice in vain he shook his wing,
Incumber’d in the silken string.
Flutt’ring the god, and weeping said,
Pity poor Cupid, generous maid, 20
Who happen’d, being blind, to stray,
And on thy bosom lost his way;
Who stray’d, alas! but knew too well,
He never there must hope to dwell:
Set an unhappy pris’ner free,
Who ne’er intended harm to thee.
To me pertains not, she replies,
To know or care where Cupid flies;
What are his haunts, or which his way;
Where he would dwell, or whither stray: 30
Yet will I never set thee free:
For harm was meant, and harm to me.
Vain fears that vex thy virgin heart!
I’ll give thee up my bow and dart;
Untangle but this cruel chain,
And freely let me fly again.
Agreed: secure my virgin heart:
Instant give up thy bow and dart:
The chain I’ll in return untie;
And freely thou again shalt fly. 40
Thus she the captive did deliver;
The captive thus gave up his quiver.
The god disarm’d, e’er since that day
Passes his life in harmless play:
Flies round, or sits upon her breast,
A little, fluttering, idle guest.
&nb
sp; E’er since that day the beauteous maid
Governs the world in Cupid’s stead;
Directs his arrow as she wills;
Gives grief, or pleasure; spares, or kills, 50
CLOE HUNTING.
BEHIND her neck her comely tresses tied,
Her ivory quiver graceful by her side,
A-hunting doe went: she lost her way,
And through the woods uncertain chanc’d to stray.
Apollo passing by beheld the maid;
And, Sister dear, bright Cynthia, turn, he said:
The hunted hind lies close in yonder brake.
Loud Cupid laugh’d, to see the god’s mistake;
And laughing cried, Learn better, great divine,
To know thy kindred, and to honour mine. 10
Rightly advis’d, far hence thy sister seek,
Or on Meander’s bank, or Latmus’ peak.
But in this nymph, my friend, my sister know:
She draws my arrows, and she bends my bow:
Fair Thames she haunts, and every neighb’ring grove,
Sacred to soft recess, and gentle love.
Go, with thy Cynthia, hurl the pointed spear
At the rough boar, or chase the flying deer:
I and my Cloe take nobler aim: 19
At human hearts we fling, nor ever miss the game.
CUPID AND GANYMEDE.
IN Heaven, one holiday, you read
In wise Anacreon, Ganymede
Drew heedless Cupid in, to throw
A main, to pass an hour, or so.
The little Trojan, by the way,
By Hermes taught, play’d all the play.
The god unhappily engag’d,
By nature rash, by play enrag’d,
Complain’d, and sigh’d, and cried, and fretted;
Lost every earthly thing he betted: 10
In ready money, all the store
Pick’d up long since from Danaë’s shower;
A snuff-box, set with bleeding hearts,
Rubies, all pierc’d with diamond darts;
His nine-pins made of myrtle wood,
(The tree in Ida’s forest stood);
His bowl pure gold, the very same
Which Paris gave the Cyprian dame;
Two table-books in shagreen covers;
Fill’d with good verse from real lovers; 20
Merchandise rare! a billet doux,
Its matter passionate, yet true;
Complete Works of Matthew Prior Page 6
