All tipt with Pleasure, and all wing’d with Joy:
And Those, They vow’d, whose Lives should imitate
These Lovers Constancy, should share their Fate.
The Queen of Beauty stop’d her bridled Doves;
Approv’d the little Labour of the Loves;
Was proud and pleas’d the mutual Vow to hear;
And to the Triumph call’d the God of War:
Soon as She calls, the God is always near.
Now Mars, she said, let Fame exalt her Voice;
Nor let thy Conquests only be her Choice:
But when She sings great Edward from the Field
Return’d, the Hostile Spear and Captive Shield
In Concord’s Temple hung, and Gallia taught to yield.
And when, as prudent Saturn shall compleat
The Years design’d to perfect Britain’s State,
The swift-wing’d Power shall take her Trump again,
To sing Her Fav’rite Anna’s wond’rous Reign;
To recollect unweary’d Marlbrô’s Toils,
Old Rufus’ Hall unequal to his Spoils;
The British Soldier from his high Command
Glorious, and Gaul thrice Vanquish’d by his Hand:
Let Her at least perform what I desire;
With second Breath the Vocal Brass inspire;
And tell the Nations in no Vulgar Strain,
What Wars I manage, and what Wreaths I gain.
And when Thy Tumults and Thy Fights are past,
And when Thy Lawrels at my Feet are cast;
Faithful may’st Thou like British Henry prove,
And Emma-like let me return Thy Love.
Renown’d for Truth let all Thy Sons appear;
And constant Beauty shall reward their Care.
Mars smil’d, and bow’d; the Cyprian Deity
Turn’d to the glorious Ruler of the Sky:
And Thou, She smiling said, Great God of Days
And Verse, behold my Deed; and sing my Praise.
As on the British Earth, my Fav’rite Isle,
Thy gentle Rays and kindest Influence smile,
Thro’ all her laughing Fields and verdant Groves,
Proclaim with Joy these memorable Loves.
From ev’ry annual Course let One great Day,
To celebrated Sports and Floral Play
Be set aside; and, in the softest Lays
Of Thy Poetic Sons, be solemn Praise,
And everlasting Marks of Honour paid,
To the true Lover, and the Nut-brown Maid.
“Te non paventis funera Galliæ,
Duræque tellus audit Iberiae:
Te crede gaudentes Sicambi
Compositis venerantur armis.” HOR.
AN ODE, HUMBLY INSCRIB’D TO THE QUEEN.
ON THE LATE GLORIOUS SUCCESS OF HER MAJESTY’S ARMS. WRITTEN IN IMITATION OF SPENCER’S STILE.
PREFACE.
WHEN I first thought of writing upon this occasion, I found the ideas so great and numerous, that I judged them more proper for the warmth of an Ode, than for any other sort of poetry: I therefore set Horace before me for a pattern, and particularly his famous ode, the fourth of the fourth book,
“Qualem ministrum fulminis alitem,” &c.
which he wrote in praise of Drusus after his expedition into Germany, and of Augustus upon his happy choice of that general. And in the follow* ing poem, though I have endeavoured to imitate all the great strokes of that ode, I have taken the liberty to go off from it, and to add variously, as the subject and my own imagination carried me. As to the style, the choice I made of following the ode in Latin determined me in English to the stanza; and herein it was impossible not to have a mind to follow our great countryman Spenser; which I have done (as well at least as I could) in the manner of my expression, and the turn of my number: having only added one verse to his stanza, which I thought made the number more harmonious; and avoided such of his words as I found too obsolete. I have, however, retained some few of them, to make the colouring look more like Spenser’s. Behest, command; band, army; prowess, strength; I weet, I know; I ween, I think; whilom, heretofore; and two or three more of that kind, which I hope the ladies will pardon me, and not judge my Muse less handsome, though for once she appears in a farthingale. I have also, in Spenser’s manner, used Cæsar for the emperor, Boya for Bavaria, Bavar for that prince, Ister for Danube, Iberia for Spain, &c.
That noble part of the Ode which I just now mentioned,
“Gens, qua cremato fortls ab Rio
Jactata Toads æquoribus,” &c.
where Horace praises the Romans as being descended from Æneas, I have turned to the honour of the British nation, descended from Brute, likewise a Trojan. That this Brute, fourth or fifth from Æneas, settled in England, and built London, which he called Troja Nova, or Troynovante, is a story which (I think) owes its original, if not to Geoffry of Monmouth, at least to the Monkish writers; yet is not rejected by our great Camden; and is told by Milton, as if (at least) he was pleased with it, though possibly he does not believe it: however, it carries a poetical authority, which is sufficient for our purpose. It is as certain that Brute came into England, as that Æneas went into Italy; and upon the supposition of these facts, Virgil wrote the best poem that the world ever read, and Spenser paid Queen Elizabeth the greatest compliment.
I need not obviate one piece of criticism, that I bring my hero
“From burning Troy, and Xanthus red with blood:”
whereas he was not born when that oily was destroyed. Virgil, in the case of his own Æneas relating to Dido, will stand as a sufficient proof, that a man in his poetical capacity is not accountable for a little fault in chronology.
My two great examples, Horace and Spenser, in many things resemble each other: both have a height of imagination, and a majesty of expression in describing the sublime; and both know to temper those talents, and sweeten the description, so as to make it lovely as well as pompous: both have equally that agreeable manner of mixing morality with their story, and that Curiosa Félicitas in the choice of their diction, which every writer aims at, and so very few have reached: both are particularly fine in their images, and knowing in their numbers. Leaving therefore our two masters to the consideration and study of those who design to excel in poetry, I only beg leave to add, that it is long since I have (or at least ought to have) quitted Parnassus, and all the flowery roads on that side the country; though I thought myself indispensably obliged, upon the present occasion, to take a little journey into those parts.
AN ODE, HUMBLY INSCRIB’D TO THE QUEEN. ON THE LATE GLORIOUS SUCCESS OF HER MAJESTY’S ARMS. WRITTEN IN IMITATION OF SPENCER’S STILE.
When great Augustus govern’d ancient Rome,
And sent his conquering bands to foreign wars,
Abroad when dreaded, and beloved at home,
He saw his fame increasing with his years,
Horace, great bard, (so fate ordain’d) arose,
And, bold as were his countryman in fight,
Snatch’d their fair actions from degrading prose,
And set their battles in eternal light:
High as their trumpets tune his lyre he strung,
And with his prince’s arms he moralized his song.
When bright Eliza ruled Britannia’s state,
Widely distributing her high commands,
And, boldly wise and fortunately great,
Freed the glad nations from tyrannic bands,
An equal genius was in Spenser found;
To the high theme he match’d his noble lays;
He travelled England o’er on fairy ground,
In mystic notes to sing his monarch’s praise:
Reciting wondrous truths in pleasing dreams
He deck’d Eliza’s head with Gloriana’s beams.
But, greatest Anna! while thy arms pursue
Paths of renown, and climb ascents of fame,
Which nor Augustus nor Eliza knew,
What poet shall be found to sing thy name?
What numbers shall record, what tongue shall say
Thy wars on land, thy triumphs on the main?
O fairest model of imperial sway!
What equal pen shall write thy wondrous reign?
Who shall attempts and feats of arms rehearse,
Nor yet by story told, nor parallel’d by verse?
Me all too mean for such a task I weet;
Yet if the sovereign Lady designs to smile
I’ll follow Horace with impetuous heat,
And clothe the verse in Spenser’s native style:
By these examples rightly taught to sing,
And smit with pleasure of my country’s praise,
Stretching the plumes of an uncommon wing,
High as Olympus I my flight will raise,
And latest times shall in my numbers read
Anna’s immortal fame and Marlborough’s hardy deed.
As the strong eagle in the silent wood,
Mindless of warlike rage and hostile care,
Plays round the rocky cliff or crystal flood,
Till by Jove’s high behests call’d out to war,
And charged with thunder of his angry king,
His bosom with the vengeful message glows,
Upward the noble bird directs his wing,
And towering round his master’s earth-born foes,
Swift he collects his fatal stock of ire,
Lifts his fierce talon high, and darts the forked fire.
Sedate and calm thus victor Marlborough sate,
Shaded with laurels, in his native land,
Till Anna calls him from his soft retreat,
And gives her second thunder to his hand:
Then leaving sweet repose and gentle ease,
With ardent speed he seeks the distant foe,
Marching o’er hills and vales, o’er rocks and seas,
He meditates and strikes the wondrous blow.
Our thought flies slower than our General’s fame;
Grasps he the bolt? (we ask) when he has hurl’d the flame.
When fierce Bavar on Judoign’s spacious plain
Did from afar the British chief behold,
Betwixt despair, and rage, and hope, and pain,
Something within his warring bosom roll’d:
He views that favourite of indulgent Fame,
Whom whilom he had met on Ister’s shore;
Too well, alas! the man he knows the same
Whose prowess there repell’d the Boyan power,
And sent them trembling thro’ the frighted lands,
Swift as the whirlwind drives Arabia’s scatter’d sands.
His former losses he forgets to grieve;
Absolves his fate with a kinder ray
It now would shine, and only give him leave
To balance the account of Blenheim’s day.
So the fell lion, in the lonely glade,
His side still smarting with the hunter’s spear,
Though deeply wounded, no way yet dismay’d,
Roars terrible, and meditates new war,
In sullen fury traverses the plain
To find the venturous foe, and battle him again.
Misguided prince, no longer urge thy fate,
Nor tempt the hero to unequal war;
Famed in misfortune, and in ruin great,
Confess the force of Malbro’s stronger star.
Those laurel groves (the merits of thy youth)
Which thou from Mahomet didst greatly gain,
While, bold assertor of resistless truth,
Thy sword did godlike Liberty maintain.
Must from thy brow their falling honours shed,
And their transplanted wreaths must deck a worthier head.
Yet cease the ways of Providence to blame,
And human faults with human grief confess;
’Tis thou art changed, while Heaven is still the same;
From thy ill counsels date thy ill success:
Impartial Justice holds her equal scales,
Till stronger virtue does the weight incline;
If over thee thy glorious foe prevails,
He now defends the cause that once was thine.
Righteous the war, the champion shall subdue,
For Jove’s great handmaid, Power, must Jove’s decrees pursue.
Hark! the dire trumpets sound their shrill alarms!
Auverqueque, branch’d from the renown’d Nassaus,
Hoary in war, and bent beneath his arms,
His glorious sword with dauntless courage draws.
When anxious Britain mourn’d her parting lord,
And all of William that was mortal died,
The faithful hero had received his sword
From his expiring master’s much-loved side:
Oft from its fatal ire has Louis flown,
Where’er great William led or Maese and Sambre run.
But brandish’d high, in an ill-omen’d hour
To thee, proud Gaul, behold thy justest fear,
The master-sword, disposer of thy power:
’Tis that which Caesar gave the British peer.
He took the gift: Nor ever will I sheath
This steel (so Anna’s high behests ordain)
The General said, unless by glorious death
Absolved, till conquest has confirm’d your reign.
Returns like these our mistress bids us make,
When from a foreign prince a gift her Britons take.
And now fierce Gallia rushes on her foes,
Her force augmented by the Boyan bands;
So Volga’s stream, increased by mountain snows,
Rolls with new fury down through Russia’s lands.
Like two great rocks against the raging tide
(If Virtue’s force with Nature’s we compare)
Unmoved the two united chiefs abide,
Sustain the impulse, and receive the war:
Round their firm sides in vain the tempest beats,
And still the foaming wave with lessen’d power retreats.
The rage dispersed, the glorious pair advance,
With mingled anger and collected might,
To turn the war, and tell aggressing France
How Britain’s sons and Britain’s friends can fight.
On conquest fix’d, and covetous of fame,
Behold them rushing through the Gallic host;
Through standing corn so runs the sudden flame,
Or eastern winds along Sicilia’s coast.
They deal their terrors to the adverse nation:
Pale Death attends their arms, and ghastly Desolation.
But while with fiercest ire Bellona glows,
And Europe rather hopes than fears her fate,
While Britain presses her afflicted foes,
What horror damps the strong and quells the great?
Whence look the soldier’s cheeks dismay’d and pale?
Erst ever dreadful, know they now to dread?
The hostile troops, I ween, almost prevail,
And the pursuers only not recede.
Alas! their lessen’d rage proclaims their grief!
For anxious, lo! they crowd around their falling chief.
I thank thee, Fate, exclaims the fierce Bavar;
Let Boya’s trumpet graceful Io’s sound;
I saw him fall, their thunderbolt of war;,
Ever to Vengeance sacred be the ground,
Vain wish! short joy! the hero mounts again
In greater glory, and with fuller light;
The evening star so falls into the main,
To rise at morn more prevalently bright.
He rises safe, but near, too near his side,
A good man’s grievous loss, a faithful servant died.
Propitious Mars! the battle is regain’d’;
The foe with lessen’d wrath disputes the field:
; The Briton fights, by favoring gods sustain’d;
Freedom must live, and lawless power must yield.
Vain now the tales which fabling poets tell,
That wavering Conquest still desires to rove!
In Marlbro’s camp the goddess knows to dwell;
Long as the hero’s life remains her love.
Again France flies, again the Duke pursues,
And on Ramilia’s plains he Blenheim’s fame renews.
Great thanks, O Captain, great in arms! receive
From thy triumphant country’s public voice;
Thy country greater thanks can only give
To Anne, to her who made those arms her choice.
Recording Schellenberg’s and Blenheim’s toils,
We dreaded lest thou should’st those toils repeat:
We view’d the palace charged with Gallic spoils,
And in those spoils we thought thy praise complete.
For never Greek we deem’d, nor Roman knight,
In characters like these did e’er his acts indite.
Yet, mindless still of ease, thy virtue flies
A pitch to old and modern times unknown:
Those goodly deeds, which we so highly prize,
Imperfect seem, great Chief, to thee alone.
Those heights, where William’s virtue might have staid,
And on the subject world look’d safely down,
By Marlbro’s pass’d, the props and steps were made
Sublimer yet to raise his Queen’s renown:
Still gaining more, still slighting what he gain’d,
Nought done the hero deem’d while ought undone remain’d.
When swift-wing’d Rumour told the mighty Gaul
How lessen’d from the field Bavar was fled,
He wept the swiftness of the champion’s fall,
And thus the royal treaty-breaker said:
And lives he yet, the great, the lost Bavar,
Ruin to Gallia in the name of friend?
Tell me how far has Fortune been severe?
Has the foe’s glory of our grief an end?
Remains there, of the fifty thousand lost,
To save our threaten’d realm, or guard our shatter’d coast?
Complete Works of Matthew Prior Page 17
