Secret and swift behold the chief advance; Sees half the empire joined, and friend to France; The British general dooms the fight; his sword Dreadful he draws-the captains wait the word. Anne and St George! the charging hero cries; Shrill echo from the neighbouring wood replies, Anne and St George.-At that auspicious sign The standards move; the adverse armies join. Of eight great hours, Time measures out the sands; And Europe's fate in doubtful balance stands; The ninth, Victoria comes:-O'er Marlborough's head Confessed she sits; the hostile troops recede: Triumphs the goddess, from her promise freed. The eagle, by the British lion's might Unchained and free, directs her upward flight; Nor did she e'er with stronger pinions soar From Tyber's banks, than now from Danube's shore. Fired with the thoughts which these ideas raise, And great ambition of my country's praise;
The English Muse should like the Mantuan rise, 179 Scornful of earth and clouds, should reach the skies, With wonder (though with envy still) pursued by
But we must change the style-just now I said,
I ne'er was master of the tuneful trade;
Or the small genius which my youth could boast,
In prose and business lies extinct and lost,
Blessed if I may some younger muse excite,
Point out the game, and animate the flight;
That from Marseilles to Calais, France may know,
As we have conquerors, we have poets too;
And either laurel does in Britain grow;
That, though amongst ourselves, with too much heat, We sometimes wrangle, when we should debate;
(A consequential ill which freedom draws;
A bad effect, but from a noble cause ;)
We can with universal zeal advance,
To curb the faithless arrogance of France;
Nor ever shall Britannia's sons refuse
To answer to thy master or thy muse;
Nor want just subject for victorious strains;
While Marlborough's arm eternal laurels gains;
And where old Spenser sung, a new Eliza reigns.
FOR THE PLAN OF A FOUNTAIN.
On which are the Effigies of the Queen on a Triumphal Arch, the Duke of Marlborough beneath, and the chief Rivers of the World round the whole Work.
YE active streams, where'er your waters flow,
Let distant climes and furthest nations know
What ye from Thames and Danube have been taught, How Anne commanded, and how Marlborough fought.
Quacunque æterno properatis, flumina, lapsu,
Divisis latè terris, populisque remotis,
Dicite, nam vobis Tamisis narravit et Ister,
Anna quid imperiis potuit, quid Marlburus armis.
THE CHAMELEON.
As the Chameleon, who is known
To have no colours of his own;
But borrows from his neighbour's hue
His white or black, his green or blue;
And struts as much in ready light,
Which credit gives him upon sight.
As if the rainbow were in tail
Settled on him, and his heirs male;
So the young squire, when first he comes
From country school to Will's or Tom's: 1
And equally, in truth is fit
To be a statesman or a wit;
Without one notion of his own,
He saunters wildly up and down;
Till some acquaintance, good or bad,
Takes notice of a staring lad;
Admits him in among the gang;
They jest, reply, dispute, harangue;
He acts and talks, as they befriend him,
Smeared with the colours which they lend him. 20
Thus merely, as his fortune chances,
His merit or his vice advances.
If haply he the sect pursues,
That read and comment upon news;
He takes up their mysterious face:
He drinks his coffee without lace.
This week his mimic-tongue runs o'er
What they have said the week before;
His wisdom sets all Europe right,
And teaches Marlborough when to fight.
Or if it be his fate to meet
With folks who have more wealth than wit;
He loves cheap port, and double bub,
And settles in the hum-drum club:
He learns how stocks will fall or rise;
Holds poverty the greatest vice;
Thinks wit the bane of conversation;
And says that learning spoils a nation.
But if, at first, he minds his hits,
And drinks champagne among the wits,
1 Two celebrated coffee-houses.
Five deep he toasts the towering lasses;
Repeats you verses wrote on glasses;
Is in the chair; prescribes the law;
And lies with those he never saw.
MERRY ANDREW.
SLY Merry Andrew, the last Southwark fair (At Bartholomew he did not much appear: So peevish was the edict of the Mayor)
At Southwark therefore as his tricks he showed,
To please our masters, and his friends the crowd;
A huge neat's tongue he in his right hand held:
His left was with a good black pudding filled.
With a grave look, in this odd equipage,
The clownish mimic traverses the stage;
Why how now, Andrew! cries his brother droll,
To-day's conceit, methinks, is something dull:
Come on, Sir, to our worthy friends explain,
What does your emblematic worship mean?
Quoth Andrew; Honest English let us speak:
Your emble (what d'ye call 't?)-is heathen Greek.
To tongue or pudding thou hast no pretence;
Learning thy talent is, but mine is sense.
That busy fool I was, which thou art now;
Desirous to correct, not knowing how:
With very good design, but little wit,
Blaming or praising things, as I thought fit.
I for this conduct had what I deserved;
And dealing honestly, was almost starved.
But, thanks to my indulgent stars, I eat;
Since I have found the secret to be great.
O, dearest Andrew, says the humble droll,
Henceforth may I obey, and thou control;
Provided thou impart thy useful skill.—
Bow then, says Andrew; and, for once, I will.-
Be of your patron's mind, whate'er he says;
Sleep very much; think little; and talk less;
Mind neither good nor bad, nor right nor wrong,
But eat your pudding, slave; and hold your tongue.
A reverend prelate stopped his coach and six,
To laugh a little at our Andrew's tricks.
But when he heard him give this golden rule,
Drive on (he cried); this fellow is no fool.
DEAR Thomas, didst thou never pop
Thy head into a tin-man's shop?
There, Thomas, didst thou never see
('Tis but by way of simile)
A squirrel spend his little rage,
In jumping round a rolling cage?
The cage, as either side turned up,
Striking a ring of bells a-top?—
Moved in the orb, pleased with the chimes,
The foolish creature thinks he climbs:
But here or there, turn wood or wire,
He never gets two inches higher.
So fares it with those merry blades,
That frisk it under Pindus' shades,
In noble songs, and lofty odes,
They tread on stars, and talk with gods;
Still dancing in an airy round,
Still pleased with their own verses' sound;
Brought back, how fast soe'er they go,
Always aspiring, always low.
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