And if the Muse, O BRISTOL, might decree,
Here Granville noted by the lyre should be,
The lyre for Granville, and the cross for thee.
Such.are the honours grateful Britain pays,
So patriots merit, and fo monarchs praise.
O'er diftant times fuch records fhall prevail,
When English numbers, antiquated, fail:
A trifling fong the Mufe can only yield,
And footh her foldiers panting from the field;
To fweet retirements fee them fafe convey'd,
And raise their battles in the rural fhade.
From fields of death to Woodstock's peaceful glooms
(The poet's haunt) Britannia's hero comes
Begin, my Mufe, and foftly touch the string:
Here Henry' lov'd; and Chaucer 1 learn'd to fing.
Hail fabled grotto! hail Elyfian foil!
Thou faireft fpot of fair Britannia's ifle!
Where kings of old conceal'd forgot the throne,
And beauty was content to fhine unknown;
Where love and war by turns pavilions rear,
And Henry's bow'rs near Blenheim's dome appear;
The weary'd champion lull in foft alcoves,
The nobleft boaft of thy romantic groves..
• George Granville, Efq; afterwards Lord Landsdowne.
Chaucer is faid to have written feveral of his poems at Woodstock.
Oft, if the Mufe prefage, fhall he be feen
By Rofamonda fleeting o'er the green,
In dreams be hail'd by heroes' mighty shades,
And hear old Chaucer warble through the glades
O'er the fam'd echoing vaults his name fhall bound,
And hill to hill reflect the favourite found.
Here, here at least thy love for armanfive o'er,
Nor, one world conquer'd, fondly with for more.
Vice of great fouls alone! O thirst of fame!
The Muse admires it, while fhe strives to blame;
Thy toils be now to chafe the bounding deer,
Or view the courfers ftretch in wild career;
This lovely scene fhall footh thy foul to reft,
And wear each dreadful image from thy breast;
With pleasure, by thy conquefts fhalt thou fee
Thy Queen triumphant, and all Europe free;
No cares henceforth fhall thy repofe destroy,
But what thou giv'ft the world, thyself enjoy.
Sweet folitude! when life's gay hours are past,
Howe'er we range, in thee we fix at laft;
Tofs'd through tempeftuous feas (the voyage o'er)
Pale we look back, and blefs the friendly fhore.
Our own ftrict judges, our paft life we scan,
And ask if glory hath enlarg'd the span ?
If bright the profpect, we the grave defy,
Truft future ages, and contented die.
When strangers from far-distant climes shall come,
To view the pomp of this triumphant dome!
Where rear'd aloft diffembled trophies stand, and
And breathing labours of the fculptor's hand,
Where Kneller's art fhall paint the flying Gaul,
And Bourbon's woes fhall fill the story'd wall;
Heirs of thy blood shall o'er their bounteous board
Fix Europe's guard, thy monumental fword;
Banners, that off have wav'd on conquer'd walls,
And trumps, thrown'd the groans of gafping Gauls.
Fair dames fhall oft, with curious eye, explore
The coftly robes that flaughter'd gen'rals wore,
Rich trappings from the Danube's whirlpools brought,
(Hefperian nuns the gorgeous broid'ry wrought)
Belts ftiff with gold, the Boian horfeman's pride,
And Gaul's fair flow'rs, in human crimson dy'd.
Of Churchill's race perhaps fome lovely boy
Shall mark the burnish'd steel that hangs on high;
Shall gaze tranfported on its glitt'ring charms,
And reach it ftruggling with unequal arms;
By figns the drum's tumultuous found request,
Then feek, in ftarts, the hufhing mother's breaft.
So, in the painter's animated frame,
Where Mars embraces the foft Paphian dame,
The little loves in fport the faulchion wield,
Or join their strength to heave his pond'rous fhield;
One ftrokes the plume in Tityon's gore embru'd,
And one the fpear that reeks in Typhon's blood;
Another's infant brows the helm fuftain,
He nods his creft, and frights the shrieking train,
VOL. I.
Thus, the rude tempeft of the field o'er-blown,
Shall whiter rounds of fmiling years roll on :
Our victors, bleft in peace, forget their wars,
Enjoy past dangers, and abfolve the stars.
But oh! what forrows shall bedew your urns,
Ye honour'd fhades, whom widow'd Albion mourns ?
If your thin forms yet difcontented mom,
And haunt the mangled manfions once your own;
Behold what flow'rs the pious Mufes ftrow,
And tears, which in the midst of triumph flow;
Cyprefs and bays your envy'd brows furround,
Your names the tender matron's heart fhall wound,
And the foft maid grow penfive at the found.
Accept, great ANNE, the tears their mem'ry draws Who nobly perish'd in their fov'reign's caufe: For thou in pity bid'ft the war give o'er, Mourn'ft thy flain heroes, nor wilt venture more. Vaft price of blood on each victorious day! (But Europe's freedom doth that price repay.) Lamented triumphs! when one breath muft tell That Marlborough conquer'd, and that Dormer fell. Great Queen! whofe name ftrikes haughty monarchs
On whofe juft fceptre hangs Europa's fcale;
Whofe arm like mercy wounds, decides like fate,
On whofe decree the nations anxiou wait;
Lieut. Col. Dormer, killed at the head of his fquadron, at the battle
of Almanza, 14 April 1707.
From Albion's cliffs thy wide-extended hand
Shall o'er the main to far Peru command,
So vaft a tract whofe wide domain fhall run,
Its circling kies fhall fee no fetting fun.
Thee, thee an hundred languages fhall claim, 'gre
And favage Indians fwear by ANNA's name;
The line and poles fhall own thy rightful sway,
And thy commands the fever'd globe obey.
Round the vast ball thy new dominions chain
The wat❜ry kingdoms, and controul the main ;
Magellan's freights to Gibraltar they join,
Across the feas a formidable line;
The fight of adverse Gaul we fear no more,
But pleas'd fee Dunkirk, now a guiltless fhore.
In vain great Neptune tore the narrow ground,
And meant his waters for Britannia's bound;
Her giant Genius takes a mighty ftride,
And fets his foot beyond th' incroaching tide;
On either bank the land its mafter knows,
And in the midst the fubject ocean flows.
So near proud Rhodes, across the raging flood,
Stupendous form! the vaft Coloffus flood:
(While at one foot their thronging gallies ride,
A whole hour's fail scarce reach the farther fide)
Betwixt his brazen thighs, in loofe array,
Ten thousand streamers on the billows play.
By HARLEY'S Counfels Dunkirk now reftor'd
To Britain's empire, owns her ancient lord.
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