The fanciad. An heroic poem. In six cantos. To His Grace the Duke of Marlborough, on the turn of his genius to arms

Table of contents

- [titlepage]

- THE PREFACE.

- [tableofcontents]

- CANTO I.

- CANTO II.

- CANTO III.

- CANTO IV.

- CANTO V.

- CANTO VI.

THE FANCIAD.

FINIS

THE FANCID.

AN HEROIC POEM. In SIX CANTOS.

To His GRACE the Duke of MARLBOROUGH, ON THE TURN of His GENIUS to ARMS.

Up, Sword: and know thou a more proper Time.

HAMLET.

LONDON: Printed for J. OSBORN, at the Golden Bail in Paternoster Row. M.DCC.XLIII.

THE PREFACE.

IT will be easily perceiv'd, why no Address, by way of Dedication, cou'd be proper to this Poem: Yet, the Verses ought perhaps to have been offer'd, before printed, to the View of One Great Family (lest, among Ideas, of so complicated a Variety, there shou'd be some, wherewith it might not, as to Point of Delicacy, have been found eligible to associate Names, of such sincere Distinction and Importance). But the Writer recollected, that the mere Omission of an Act of Ceremony cou'd not, equitably, be complain'd of, in a Poem where he has not arrogated, to Himself, the Freedom to give PRAISE, or CENSURE: All, that points at either One or Other, being narrative Recital only; and That, too, from the Voices of such Speakers, as the Public daily hears, expressing more, upon both Subjects, than they are represented in this Place, as uttering.

As to the general Disposition of the Purpose, if Any too bold Strokes of Liberty shou'd chance to be suspected in it, let it be remember'd in the Writer's Favour, that he is no better than an empty Visionary! And This is not the first Time, that a Man, in a Dream, has been a very impertinent Fellow, who, in his waking Intervals, has kept within the Bounds of due Decorum.

Concerning LUXURY especially, none ought to make the Muse accountable for what she prattles in her Sleep: Since 'tis about a Power she never corresponds with, but in Slumber. And, if TRADE is touchy, and won't bear to have it credited, that Daughters come by means of Mothers,—who could shun the Hazard of offending such a choleric Petulance?—The Writer had no Licence to restrain, or castrate, Sentiments he but reports, from Personages, to whome his Country owes a Reverence that forbids the Boldness of curtailing their Ideas.—Neither has he given the captious Coquette above-nam'd the least Occasion of Offence, without Hard-straining and Partiality; for, Who can look upon it as an Undervaluing of Trade, that she is represented as not overmuch dispos'd to carry Arms Herself; nor over-fond, indeed, of Those she pays for carrying them?—Authorities enough might probably be found, to prove plain Truth no Slander. But he rather pleads the Merit of that prophesied Expedient, toward the End of the Vth Canto, for a perfect Reconciliation between the Drum, and Warehouse.—If, notwithstanding This, the waking Poet must be charg'd with the Vagaries of his dreaming Muse, He can but borrow Comfort from this tit-for-tat Reflection:—That, since Trade is naturally dispos'd to think, with Dulness and Contempt, of Poetry, the Poet in his Turn, may, by Right of Equivalent, assume the same dull Privilege; and prate, as foolishly, of Traffick.

To pass, at once, from Poetry,—to Prose, and Truth, and serious History:—The great, and nobly-judging, Lady, to whome, in the VIth Canto, an Advice of no small Consequence is offer'd, by a bold, tho' naked, Friend, (of whome she never yet was known to be asham'd, however bare, and out of Fashion, she approach'd her) will reflect, with some Attention, on the Proposition; after hearing what Foundation It was grounded on.

About the Year 1735, a private Person, not worth naming, but an ardent Lover of his Country's Reputation, became difpossess'd of a mistaken Notion, (which had been at first imbib'd by Conversation with the Prejudic'd, but gradually confirm'd and heighten'd, by much Reading, Speculation, and Reflection, upon military Subjects) that the most celebrated English Conqueror, of this last Age, (It might, I think, be added, without Flattery, above Any, of the Former) was not pre-meditatively, and by Force of his superior Skill, the Author of his own unprecedented Victories.—The Mistaker grounded his Conclusion on that Great General's Letters, written from the Fields of Battle, with the first Accounts of his Successes.—It is visible beyond Dispute, that, there, one meets with none of those descriptive and explanatory Circumstances, whereby the skilful Captains, of all Ages, took such cautionary Care to guard against unjust Impressions of their Conduct; by unfolding it, in Plan, in Progress, and Accomplishment: that, not their Fortune only, but their Foresight, and Superiority of Genius, might be noted, in their Victories. It is hence, that in so many of the Antient's, and in some great Modern's, written Narratives, we see, and understand, minutely, the whole Ground-plots, Dispositions, Oppositions, and clear Out-break, of the Actions: Not in their bald Success alone; but with their previous Motives, their impending Agitations, and eventual Over-balance, and Conclusion: Whereas, from all the publish'd Letters of our more than equal Executer of his own unequall'd Purposes, we gather nothing further, than that the Army He commanded was triumphant; and that He seems to think each Leader, in it, more deserving his Remark, than the Elucidation of his own Designs, in their reported Execution.

In a Visit made, about the Time just mention'd, to another English General, a Noble Lord, since dead, at a small Garden Seat of his, near London, These Observations were inlarg'd upon, (as they had often been to others) in a Conversation on the military Character of our great Favourite of Fortune: whome, it has been thought, the Lord here meant had, formerly, regarded with some Rival Pangs of Emulation. It were therefore an ungenerous Coldness to his Memory, to conceal the noble Sentiments wherewith he clos'd the Conversation on this Subject!—"You have (said he) misunderstood His Character, and done it the same Wrong, that many Thousands do, and will continue to do, from but the natural Consequence of his sincere and modest Negligence of Ostentation.—He thought it, equally, His Duty to subdue the Enemy, and His own Sensibility of Triumph for subduing him.—He made, I think, but one Mistake in his Field Conduct: But That was a Mistake of such unlucky Consequence, that It has been able to do more, against Himself, than Ten French Armies cou'd: for It obscures (you see) the Lustre of his Genius.—He trusted History, for Explanations, which, He shou'd have known, It cou'd not make (but in a lame and superficial manner) for want of Lights, which He alone had Power to furnish, who was the only Person dis-inclinable to wish 'em furnish'd."

The Impression which this truly noble Answer made, and the Reflections which It gave Occasion to, have often, since, presented to Imagination as a National Misfortune, the Possibility of some destructive Accident, to those invaluable Original Papers, which contain ('tis said) sufficient Matter, in His Family's Possession, to immortalize, as well That Great Man's Temper, Wisdom, Suavity, Skill, MODES, and MEANS, of Conquest, as the Reputation merely, of the Victories themselves.—The Last, it must be own'd, is Glory: But it is a Glory of a barren and unpropagative Species: 'Tis the Glory of a Nimrod, a Sesostris, Hercules, Arthur, and Pendragon: Names, of aweful Cloudinessl but uneffectual Admiration!—because heard of, more than shown:—Not Lights, of Living History; by whose Help, the Caesars and the Alexanders are not only, in Themselves, immortal; but by their Force of Emulative Inspiration, have been, are, and will continue to the End of Time, the military Fathers, of new Sons of Glory, in all Nations, and throughout all Ages.

Who, therefore, cou'd too much lament an Accident of such severe Importance, shou'd it happen to the mention'd Papers, before That glorious Use has been drawn from them, which is hinted in the Close of the last Canto? Where that the Writer may not seem impertinent, he has, here, assign'd his Reasons, for conceiving it both a Domestic, and a Public Duty, on the Care of That illustrious Conqueror's Representatives.—But where the Hand is to be found, in all Points, equal to an Undertaking of such arduous Difficulty, is a Wish, that may be added to the List of those Desiderata, rather hinted at, than hop'd for, by the boldest Enterprizers, in the Commonwealth of Learning!

CONTENTS of CANTO I.

Exordium. Duties of a Poet's Character. Verse too low, if it but looks like Flattery. Invocation. Apology for too light a Title. The Time's Fault, not the Writer's. Duke of Marlborough in his Library. The Library describ'd. Apparition of the Spirit of a late Great Conqueror, from the Leaves of a Book. Speech of the illustrious Spirit. Reproach of Insults too tamely submitted to. Present Times compared with the Past. Excitement of the Noble Owner of the Library to vindicate the warlike Destiny of his triumphant Race. Confessed Sensation, that It cannot, yet, be practicable. Celestial Spirit, scenting the Approach of an Infernal One, gives Notice, and then vanishes.

CONTENTS of CANTO II.

DEscription of a dark cold Horror, that precedes the Entrance of a frightful Monster, The Fury described. Who she is. Her self-distracting War of Tongues. Persons, and Measures, accused, and satirized, in Charges, and Recriminations. Corruption's Daemon pointed out, and cursed emphatically. The Curses retorted, from an opposite Quarter. Qualities of the Mock-Patriot. Of the true Patriot. Fury driven away by a sudden Irruption of Lustre. Gives a dreadful Alarm to the City. Circulating Progression of the Uproar. Its Advance throughout Three Intire Kingdoms.

CONTENTS of CANTO III.

CHariot of Fancy. How drawn. Who rides in it. Who taken into it. Whither carried; and with what Purpose. Why the Power in the Chariot affects so airy an Equipage. Approach to the Edge of the Atlantic. Terrible, but Majestic, Appearance of a Spectre. Who the Spectre is. Why hid, and asleep, under the Ocean. Shakes Three Kingdoms at once, by a Grasp with her Left Hand. Shoots her Shadow to the American Continent. Hushes the Roar of the Fury. Corrects and exposes her Impertinence. Paid Partakers have no Right to be Murmurers. How Bribes might as easily be broken, as Bubbles. Thieves are impudent, when they spurn at their Fetters. Why our Fathers were dreadful, abroad. Why their Sons are contemptible. Arms inconsistent with Luxury. Who They are, whome Liberty cannot save. Poverty was Strength, among the Antients. Wealth, among the Moderns, is Weakness. Some past Exceptions but the Blazes of Comets. Prediction of one more such, to come.

CONTENTS of CANTO IV.

HOW Commerce affects War. Impolitie Blindnesses in Trade. Antient Armies not Mercenaries. Rough Sons of old England describ'd. Modern Lightness and Affectations, in Military Postures, expos'd.—Compar'd with the Archer's more manly Appearance, at his Holiday Exercises. Transition, to a Description of their March to, and Behaviour in, the Battle of Cressi. The French a brave Nation. What the true Cause of our Victories over them. War not wag'd, in those Days, by Hirelings. Armies, un-fear'd, un-paid, and un-standing. Always ready. And skilful alike, in the Sword, and the Plow-share. Who hinders the same Practice at present. Luxury a Sun-shewn Cobweb. What Effects It has produc'd, and where. Saints in Arms: and Thieves in Discipline.

CONTENTS of CANTO V.

A National Danger, that lately hung over these Kingdoms. Strength, natural and political, of France. Her Purpose discern'd, and prevented: and by whome, and by what Means. A wily Spirit put into Possession of the Brain of Cardinal Fleury. Effect of this Spirit's Impression on the Cardinal's Ideas: And of the Cardinal's wrong Turn of Head, on his Nation. Shortsightedness of modern Kings, and Politicians. Lazy Logs, that load Thrones, conceive no Storm, till they feel it. France, and another Country, equally balanc'd for the future, may, now, quarrel securely. Ridiculous Maxim corrected. Money not the Sinews of War. What, more truly her Sinews. Where experienc'd, and from whome. Apostrophe, to Trade. Removeable Remora's and Impediments to War. A Prediction that they shall be remov'd. Martial Medium, at last, will be hit. Trade, War, Power, and Liberty, reconcil'd in one Centre. What that Centre is. Clouds, first to be pass'd over. In the Interim, Design goes to sleep. Care frighted away to the Hills of Armenia. All, hush'd, compos'd, and contented!

CONTENTS of CANTO VI.

FANCY drops from her Chariot, and tumbles into the Sea. Narrow Escape of the Power she was Guide to. Advice to the Duke of Marlborough, for suspending his Military Warmth, till due Season, and why. Just Encomium, however, on the Greatness and Generosity of his Purpose. Mistaken Injustice of its Censurers. Party's Cell. Who at Work, there: and on what. Fruits of factious Partialities. False Scale for weighing the Great, and the Thinking. In Spite of what, and of whome, and when, and for what Time, they shall triumph. Transition, to a Misfortune to be lamented by the Nation: but, peculiarly, by the Marlborough Family. The Remedy: by a Care that calls loudly on the present Duke. If not, first, made unnecessary to Him, by the noble Taste of Glory, so conspicuous in the DUCHESS DOWAGER. Brass and Marble too perishable, to immortalize the late Duke's, yet not half understood, Great Character. By what Means she may, more surely, effect it. The Resolution, recommended to Her fine Spirit. It will re-marry Her own Fame to Her Consort's: and make Both, jointly, and deservedly, Immortal.

CANTO I.

POETS whome Truth inspires, and Genius draws,

Court not a Patron, but assert a Cause:

Heedless of Censure, thoughtless of Reward,

They shun Dependence, to demand Regard.

Proud is the Muse they serve; unbred to wait:

And willing Stranger, to the Great Man's Gate.

YET, while their Ivy scorns to taint its Green,

Far from their Thoughts be Arrogance, or Spleen!

Self-subject be the Mind: but let the Heart

Flow for Mankind, and heave with social Smart.

What, but not Who, the Writer, deign to know.—

Verse, that but looks like Flatt'ry, stoops too low.

ALL, pond'ring,—nor seduc'd, by Taste, nor Pride,

From Rights of Reason, to Belief's blind Side,

Piercing thro' Names, to Things, and taught to dare

What Conscience bids, tho' Devils should bid beware:

Fir'd for my Country's Fame, hear, MARLBRO'! hear:

The Muse unvenal claims the Patriot's Ear.

No hackn'ydPlunger, Mine—no Birth-Day Drone,

That hums hir'd Nonsense, and benumbs a Throne.

She sings unpension'd, and a Bribe disdains:

No black, appropriate, Mark her Forehead stains,

Unbadg'd to Power; and, but by Truth, confin'd;

Her Anger hateless: nor her Pity blind.

Detesting Party, and unfool'd by Forms,

She hails no Sun-shine; and she flies no Storms:

But weighs, unbiass'd, (Hope and Hate disclaim'd)

A W—flatter'd: or a B—defam'd.

O, Thou!—Sustainer of a deathless Name!

Whom Glory waits for, and whom Vict'ries claim!

Thou, length'ning Stream, that drawn through springless Lands,

Must flow self-deep'ning, or be lost in Sands!

Sigh, and forgive, with a Reflecter's Pain,

Too light a TITLE, to so grave a Strain.

'Tis the Time's Curse, when Truth attracts no Eyes,

Till Art conceals her, in the Fool's Disguise.

But, Thou, invok'd, expect no light Address:

Thy Race claims Rev'rence: nor thy Virtues less.

Thine be the Verse—nor, lov'd by Both, refuse

Joint-Off'ring, from the Poet, and the Muse.

LATE, when He, first, thy LEARN'D COLLECTION view'd,

Each Shelf's long Lading his Retreat pursu'd:

Clung to pleas'd Mem'ry, till Idea blaz'd;

And, on Night's Waste, this vision'd Fabric rais'd.

DEEP, in that letter'd Mansion of the Dead,

Where Souls long linger, after Forms are fled;

Where hostile Tongues concur, in Learning's Right;

And Turk, Jew, Pope, and Pagan, All, unite;

Where slow-distinguish'd Merit shines, too late;

And Estimation casts off Name, for Weight:

Till many a gilt-back'd Wretch, in Death, grows gay,

Whose Life, in Want's bare Weeds, was wept away:

Pond'ring his deathless Store, with Joy survey'd,

Each Path to Science pensive Marlbro' weigh'd.

Silence and solemn Night had hush'd the Scene,

And thin-plac'd Tapers grey'd the Gloom between:

While, here and there, he stopp'd; as Doubts engage:

Eas'd a try'd Shelf; and turn'd th' examin'd Page.

Bent on a Theme that all his Ardour claim'd,

His Grandsire's Glory, and his Country fam'd!

While suppliant France he view'd, and victim Spain,

Prostrate Adorners of a female Reign,

Back, from the flutt'ring Leaves, that flash'd with Light,

He starts—in more than earthly Lustre, bright!

Wide, round th'infoliate Fire, in sparkly Glow,

Legions of undulating Glories flow:

No Form, distinguish'd, limb'd the living Blaze,

But a soft Sound thus voic'd th'emitted Rays.

WHY art thou here, when half my Trophies fade?

The Field requires thee, in my Mem'ry's Aid.

Too proud th' Hesperian, and the Gaul too vain!

They shake the Continent! they bar the Main!

Quit thy learn'd Ease, Teach the tame War to shine:

Fate is thy Family's—and Conquest Thine.

Troy, till ACHILLES came, cou'd fear no Fall:

And Bourbon's Insults for a MARLBRO' call.

TOUCH'D to the Soul, th'ingodded Offspring glow'd:

And paid in rev'rent Joy, the Vows he ow'd.

While, from the Centre, through th' incircling Rays,

Th'unbody'd Parent thus re-voic'd the Blaze.

LEND Practice, to thy Pow'r: nor, longer drain

Ideal Springs, of All that Arts contain.

Givethy Books Rest: thou hold'st th' exhausted Store,

Where Mem'ry's magic Muster runs it o'er.

Rous'd from theoric Search, un-load thy Freight:

And roll War's Thunder, with THY added Weight.

Go: 'tis thy Right, th' aspiring Gaul to thwart:

Go: shake remember'd Marlbro', o'er his Heart.

Go—build new Blenheims, for succeeding Fame:

And, to past Triumphs, prove thy RACE's Claim.

Heard, thy known Purpose charms thy Friends Above:

Thy Edwards, and thy Henrys, look—and love!

Eliza glows! calm Anna's Hopes it warms!

'Twas Force Prophetic, fir'd thy Soul to Arms.

Oh! were It TIME!—But, go. Thy Country aid.

Some Cramp's cold Torpor does her Nerves invade!

Never, till now, she sigh'd, at threaten'd Blood:

Too rash, too prompt, she push'd th' advancing Flood.

Sprung to the Plain, impatient of a Foe:

And knew no Insult: for she spar'd no Blow.

Now, cautious Vengeance, coldly, halts—to hear:

While muzzling Fore-cast fetters Rage, by Fear!

I felt, in Realms of Joy, th' unlikely Shame!

Impassive Spirit mourn'd, for suff'ring Name.

I call'd—Thou heardst: but War's wrong'd Soul, was fled!

Fame was despis'd: and Love of Glory dead!

Brave Minds, whom Fashion's changeful Starts misdrew,

At length, fear'd Danger: as the Mode most new!

Fear'd non-existing Shades; and Shapes of Air:

A Gorgon's Tresses!—a Chimaera's Glare!

Fear'd Monsters, never form'd, by Time, nor Chance;

From Spain, fear'd Rashness!—Steadiness, from France!

Hung, hesitated, stopp'd.—Resolve, re-dread;

All the long Windings of Reluctance tread.

Weigh'd, and prepar'd—prepar'd, and weigh'd, once more;

Treated, re-treated, thumb'd Expedients o'er:

Lost, like a nodding Jove, in Sleep's soft Band;

Loose-grasping idle Thunders, in his Hand!

Go: vindicate, in Arms, thy Birthright's Claim,

Nor let all Sense be lost, of antient Fame.

Lest Arrogance, un-humbled, climb too high:

And Bourbon call Fifth Henry's Acts a LYE.

Be, All, I was. Be, if thou canst be, more!

Be, All, in one great Name, that blaz'd before!

Be, what thy Country was, when Richard fought;

Or each dire Edward War's red Lesson taught:

When neither Distance, Clime, nor Wants, cou'd tire;

Nor Winds, nor Seas, nor Sickness, damp'd her Fire:

'Till Sun-burnt Syria, by untawny Hands,

Saw circly Slaughter drench her smoaking Sands.

Be, what thy Country was, when, haughty Spain,

Blushful in Blood, bewail'd Eliza's Reign.

Then, iron hearted Biscay shook, with Dread!

Then, warring Squadrons no tame Canvas, spread.

But, now!—'Tis painful, All!—

Spirits, exempt from Insult, feel—and shrink:

And shock'd Arch-Angel Guardians turn, and wink.

(Fall'n their Supporter) shield-shown Lilies fade!

—Shake thy Sword's Lightning o'er the cumbent Shade.

Rouse the Log Lion, into Sense of Pain:

Couch'd, in his Den; talon'd and tooth'd, in vain!

Fright those rash Frogs, that leap, disdainful o'er:

Rampant, and rais'd, re-wake his dreadful Roar.

Bid thy Name's Thunder shake th' Iberian Strand.

Vict'ry shall hear: and own thy fated Hand!

Gaul shall pant hush'd; remindful of the Sound:

Safe-shrunk, behind Pyrene's shieldy Mound.

BUT, Time resists!—Some Fury blasts thy Aim!

It must not, now, succeed.—Suspend the Flame.

Pause: but stand firm. Th'incumbent Cloud blows o'er.

Call'd to recede, farewell!—I must no more.

Baleful! and dire! th' effluviate Scent of Hell

Breathes near!—I feel th'intrusive Pest!—Farewell.

CANTO II.

TH' immortal Spirit stopp'd.—'Twas Light no more:

Black refluent Shadows gloom'd the Lustres o'er.

Sweet, in slow Falls, the soft'ning Notes decay:

And, lost in loose Expansion, die away.

Charm'd hung the filial Virtue, fix'd profound:

List'ning, and length'ning out the last, lov'd Sound.

'Till silent Horror, touching cold, as Death,

Struck, and drove inward, his suspended Breath.

Wond'ring, he turn'd—and, near th' admissive Door,

Met a pale Gleam, that crawl'd along the Floor.

Mid the streak'd Greyness of the dusky Ray,

Dwelt an imperfect Shape, that barr'd his Way.

Angry and fierce it seem'd: yet, came not on.

Formless, and indistinct, It dimly shone.

Tongues, from a War of Heads, loud Jargon threw:

Feet, without Number, strode, with struggling View.

Hands battling Hands, Feet Feet, Tongue crossing Tongue,

One endless Length of aimless Larum rung:

Idly, contentious! Limb to Limb unkind—

Yet, the whole busy Bug-bear weak, and blind!

NEED it be told?—'Twas FACTION's imag'd Soul,

Faction! that shakes the World, from Pole to Pole.

Plaintive, forever, never un-distrest:

Destroy'd, by Motion, yet despising Rest!

Builds, and confounds, with never-ceasing Din:

Without, All Thunder! and All Smoke, within!

WHAT wouldst thou do, th'illusive Scare-crow cry'd—

What mad Presumption moves thy martial Pride?

Are These fit Times? shall Want's weak Blows restrain

Steel-handed France, and Silver-breasted Spain?

Bats might, as well, pounce Eagles!—Curs, as soon,

Yelping their midnight Howls, bark down the Moon!

Fame? 'tis Romantic!—Liberty's at Stake.

Our Ground-work rises: and our Pillars shake.

Ere, stop-gap Stakes, in foreign Fields, we stand,

Mark, what Home Breaches ask a Mender's Hand.

When Freedom's Friends can sep'rate Int'rest slight,

When Valour finds no Foes, but Those in Fight;

Then, Patriot Tints may touch that hueless Race,

Whose Pray'r is Pension, and whose God is Place.

Then, conscious Thought th' Elect's loose Joke reclaim,

Who buys th'Elector's Right to laugh at Shame.

Then, Boys in Senates, veil'd in manlier Air,

Absolve th'unthinking Choice, that plac'd'em there.

Stripp'd to the naked Soul, light Slaves of Dress,

Who live for Pastime in a State's Distress,

Wond'ring at Pow'r to blush, may, then, first, find,

That more than Tailor goes, to make a Mind.

TRY, cry'd an interruptive Tide of Tongue,

Old Wills to quicken, or unfire the Young.

Reason the Brib'd, to Dread, of courted Shame:

Bid the neglected Proud sit pleas'd, and tame.

Teach Shops, for Virtue, to relinquish Gain.

Teach Indolence and Ease, to rev'rence Pain.

From Love's loose Garland, break the Soft away.

Call off keen Sportsmen, to sublimer Prey.

Teach flatt'ring Priests to damn th' advowzon'd Friend:

Bid flatt'ring Pens discarded Worth defend.

THEN, Love of Fame may strike a Soul-sunk Race:

And rouse insulted Fleghm, to feel Disgrace!

Till then—fond Ardour!—Whence shou'd Vict'ry come?

Why wave yon Ensigns? and why beats that Drum?

Why pours that Trumpet forth it's angry Strains?

—Mark the capp'd Racers, of those gentler Plains!

Frighted, they fly dispers'd, from Plates un-won:

As Rooks rise, kaw-full, round th' alarming Gun!

WHENCE, ye pale Pow'rs! should War derive Success,

If Swords are padlock'd, to prevent Redress?

O, dire Dis-relish of derided Fame!

Thou sink'st Ambition, into Self's low Claim:

In sensual Fetters bind'st the sneaking Heart;

And know'st no Blessing, if thou shar'st no Part.

Thine, the Corruptor's Whisper! Thine, the Sneer,

That, to bought Baseness, lends the witling Fleer!

Thine, the chain'd Ay, that longs to dare dissent:

Yet, backward, winds th' unductile Argument.

Thine, the poor Craft, where Question courts Delay,

Till Ranks, too thin, can mend their loose Array,

Ek'd, in long, wrangling Drawl, to tire Debate:

Load the tugg'd Ear, and bid Decision wait.

Thine, the mouth'd Cerberus, whose Bark frights Hell;

Till (the Sop swallow'd) All is hush'd, and well.

OUT-BURSTING here, fierce Roars, with Roars combin'd,

Mix'd their clash'd Curses, wild as fighting Wind.

Some charging, some recriminating spoke;

And, first and loudest, out This Torrent broke.

Curs'd be the Wretch,—if such a Wretch there be,

Curs'd, till no Devil is half so damn'd, as He!

Who, working upward, in fermenting Times,

With Trick of Talking, and a Cloak for Crimes,

Ris'n to a Pitch too dreadful for his Brain,

Looks down with Horror; yet, crawls on, with Pain:

And, inly trembling, for his own fear'd Fall,

Buys one Man's Safety, with the Rights of All.

Who, neither nerv'd for War, nor brain'd for Peace,

Shepherds the hounded Flock, to filch the Fleece.

Maz'd, amid clueless Folds of timid Care,

Still hunts Evasion: and still starts Despair.

Winds, and un-winds; and, weaving Error's Nets,

In all the puzzling Plunge of Myst'ry, sweats.

With Mind audacious, but with Heart afraid,

Invites Assaulters, by seducing Aid:

Whose Means too narrow, and whose Ends too bold;

Retreats too hasty, and Resolves too cold.

Whose Dread is Penetration,—Jest, Regret—

Whose War is See-saw, and whose Peace is Debt.

Who bears his Country's Wrongs, buys off his own:

Or cries, Pelt on—and skulks behind a Throne.

—Such if there live, so lost, in Public Trust,

Thus, let Corruption hear her Daemon curs'd!

THEN, hostile Sounds on Sounds, invasive broke:

And diff'rent Powers, with diff'rent Vows, invoke.

Frenzy, from disappointed Hope! they cry'd;

Curses, for Curses, blast your spleenful Pride!

Be doubly curs'd, ye dire, malignant, Minds;

Whom Envy cankers,—not Confusion blinds!

Who, piqu'd at Person, disregard Intent:

And smoth'ring Conscience, give Detraction vent!

With bitter Foretaste, pre-enjoy the Woe,

Your Friend must weep at—FOR, 'twill hurt your Foe.

Untaught the godlike Power, the gen'rous Art,

To shame the Judgment, yet attract the Heart:

Untaught the patriot Pang, to hold back Sense

Of private Wrongs,—in Public Preference:

To aid, and guide, Perverseness, you despise;

To pour Discernment on unthankful Eyes:

To serve your Country, tho' your Schemes are cross'd:

To task your Pity, at your Anger's Cost:

And, nobly lending an Opposer Weight,

Wreathe the lost Laurel, for a Head you hate.

SWIFT, from above, down rush'd a Flood of Light,

And, rolling radiant, swept the Fiend of Night.

Up flew the Fury.—Raving loud she rose,

And o'er the Roof, out-bursting, louder grows:

Augusta hears: and, thro' her marbly Throats,

Winding, re-multiplies the clashing Notes.

Broad Execration, thence, extending fast,

From circling Millions, swells th' expanded Blast.

Round her, above, below, enrag'd Despair

Rings thro' the Winds, and climbs the vocal Air.

Concurring Slander meets th' assisted Sound,

And, in reverb'rate Tempest, drives it round:

Rock-ribb'd Cornavia joins old Cantium's Roar.

Thence, the voic'd Earthquake shakes th' East-Anglian Shore.

Northward, increas'd, and wid'ning as it goes,

O'er the sky'd Grampian, deaf'ning Clamour flows.

Consenting Mona hugs th' excursive Blast:

And moist Iérne hears, and howls, the Last!

CANTO III.

STUNN'D at the Noise, the pensive Peer revolves

Thy Sweets, fair Candour! and thy calm Resolves:

Shock'd at th' intemp'rate Fury's formless Brawl,

And doubtful ev'n of Truths, so mix'd with Gall.

But starts from Thought,—involv'd in Seas of Light!

And hears soft Angels, whisp'ring, on his Right.

" Just, and too wise, a Mind-like Thine, brave Youth!

" Torev'rence Faction!—Thou wert born, for Truth.

" And, lo! the Present Pow'r asserts her Claim:

" White, and unsully'd, as thy Grandsire's Fame.

WARM'D into Rapture, at th' inspiring Sound,

Quick as his Eye-beam's Glance, he turns him round:

There, charm'd and wond'ring, thinks, he sees, below,

Descended Deities, that, near him, glow!

Horses, whose Coats outstreak'd the Morning's Hue;

Pranc'd, amid Flames, that from their Boundings, flew:

Tipt were their pearly Manes, with roseate Bloom,

And ev'ry streamy Nostril neigh'd Perfume.

Rein'd in a gemmy Chariot's radiant Blaze,

That shone with dazzling, yet with lambent, Rays,

FANCY, gay Driver! full of Eyes, they drew;

Bright, in a flaky Robe, of changeful Blue:

Wing'd, were her starry Eyes: and playful Spires

Wav'd their soft silv'ry Tips, in feath'ry Fires.

Sparks, at each spangly Movement, scatt'ring fly:

And bow-bent Cupids dance, from ev'ry Eye.

CALM, on the tow'ry Seat, superior plac'd,

Sat TRUTH, majestic! obvious to the Waist.

Candid, in naked Loveliness of Air;

Thin-veil'd by length'ning Falls of loosen'd Hair.

Broad, on her Breast, a Sun's down-darted Rays

Pour'd, round her Charms, impenetrable Blaze.

Come: to my Guidance trust thy Worth, she cry'd:

Will'd for my Care! and form'd, to grace my Side!

Come, trace this baneful Fury's plaintive Yells;

To wat'ry Wastes, where Albion's Guardian dwells:

There shall the Pow'r appeal'd, responsive, rise,

Check this rash Turbulence, and warn the Wise.

Great, tho' thy Purpose, and thy Soul sublime,

Halt, in thy March—and wait th' Advance of TIME.

Come,—the best Judge shall War's wide Wants reveal:

Her, whome thy Soul reveres, thy Heart will feel.

BENDING, she smil'd; and stretch'd her Hand below:

Up sprung th' invited Charge, and kiss'd it's Snow:

Sharing the spotless Seat, irradiate shone,

And felt th' aspiring Coursers bounding on.

—SAVE me, enthusiast Muse!—Alost, they spring,

Swift and all-scatt'ring, as the Light'ning's Wing!

Bright, thro' th' involving Atmosphere they ride:

And o'er pass'd Seas, and sky-topp'd Mountains, glide!

THUS while (outstripping Winds) soft Air they press'd,

Th' unerring Guide bespoke her wond'ring Guest.

—Had my plain Pow'r suffic'd, o'er Faction's Rage,

To lift my Vot'ries, in this partial Age,

Pleas'd without Pomp, self-conscious, and alone,

Nor rais'd, thus light, on FANCY's airy Throne,

Thou had'st beheld me, grave, severe, serene;

Bold, like thy Virtue: modest, as thy Mien!

—But Passion's Phalanx, no calm Influence breaks;

Truth, till strong-mounted, ev'ry Danger shakes.

Now, tho' contending Worlds shou'd bar our Way,

Safe shall we pass—nor can false Friends betray.

—Mark, hence,—th' alarming Thunder's circly Sound

Has heav'd th' Atlantic, thro' yon dark Profound!

Look down—Behold Hibernia's Western Shore:

Here, Europe's Sea-wash'd Skirts emerge no more.

Mark! from the Surge, That Form, up-heaving, slow,

Grows, into Heav'n!—yet walks in Seas below!

Rous'd at the Din, she wakes; bless'd Pow'r!—'tis SHE!

Albion's lost GENIUS!—hid, beneath her Sea!

Here, in faint Hope, she waits some happier Day:

Sleeps, to shun Sorrow: and wears Shame away.

Here, her sad Head reclines, on Connaught's Sand:

While her stretch'd Feet annect Nov-Albion's Strand!

'Tis for Her sought Decision, These big Roars,

Loudly appealing, rock th' awak'ning Shotes.

Hark! the bold Rush of Grievance pains her Ear.

Weigh'd is her Answer: with due Rev'rence hear.

Thy Country's Genius best it's Wants detects:

Best knows its Pow'r—and feels it's dark Defects.

STERN, in rough Majesty, slow-marking round,

Broad and immense, th' up-rising Spectre frown'd.

Brown o'er the Surface gloom'd the wat'ry Glade!

—On, shot, from World to World, th'out-length'ning Shade.

She moves!—Three Tridents, her Right Hand displays:

O'er her broad Forehead, Three crown'd Turrets blaze.

Honour'd, immortal, long-lost Queen!—she stood:

Struck the sky'd Surge, and aw'dth' uncurling Flood.

" Silence, ye Lands, she cry'd, whose Hills I shake:"

—'Twixt her Left Grasp, Three conscious Kingdoms quake!

Cold, thro'their inmost Vales, in Fear's flat Creep,

Steal, their hush'd Souls—and soft'ning Thunders sleep.

Hark! she begins.—Her Heav'n-turn'd Voice descends!

Air spreads it, Earth receives, and Truth attends.

WHY am I wak'd, by Faction's Rage, in vain?

Ill-judg'd Complaint deserves Increase of Pain.

BACK'NING, rebuk'd, th' in-murm'ring Monster groan'd:

Hung her hush'd Heads—and, dumbly sullen, moan'd.

WHOME, but yourselves, ye Caitiffs! wou'd you blame?

Ye Slaves of Luxury! ye Shreds of Shame!

Wou'd ye shun Woe, shun Guilt: and dare be PURE.

Curses avail not: 'tis Contempt, must cure.

Scorn'd is your Anger, at Events you aid:

What Right have paid Partakers, to upbraid?

Have the Few wrong'd ye? Let the Many blush!

Where Union shelters, Weight wants Pow'r to crush!

But venal Shrinkers arm th' Oppressor's Hand:

All justify th' Abuse, which none withstand.

Sell not your Freedom, or your Frowns restrain:

'Tis Impudence, in Thieves, to spurn their Chain!

GOLD's effluent Lentor lulls a languid State,

Not from who gives, but who receives the Bait.

Check'd, with the Boldness of an honest Scorn,

Bribes are, like Bubbles, burst, as soon as born.

Perish this blind Propensity to rail!

Let the Wise rectify—The Weak, bewail.

AT home low-rated, and despis'd abroad,

Vainly you rage, that Insult acts, un-aw'd.

What shou'd it fear?-your warlike Sires, 'tis true,

More Realms once trembled at, than smile at you.

Sons, to their Names; not to their Fame, ye rose:

Dare yebetaught, whence Allthis Diff'rence grows?

Know your Pain's ROOT.—Never did partial Fate

At once, to Arms and Lux'ry, form a State.

Wealth is the Bane of War.-Where Av'rice flames,

Honour and Enterprize are empty Names.

Dropsy'd by Plenty, lazy Virtue lags:

Help halts, at Murmur: Zeal expires, in Brags.

False Want, by Auction, sells all Taste of Fame,

All Search of Wisdom, and all Sense of Shame.

Dream not, deceiv'd, that Liberty can save,

Whome Vice enfeebles, and low Thoughts enslave.

Base Love of Gain, to Hate of Danger, ty'd,

In War, breeds Diffidence: in Safety, Pride.

No Frame of Freedom e'er was built, to last,

Where Independence held not Virtue fast.

Commerce, and Wealth, may paint an Empire's Face:

But aid her Beauty to her Strength's Disgrace.

Lean Poverty mov'd light,—and, limb'd for Toil,

Was pleas'd with Marches, and content with Spoil:

Possessing little, had no Loss to dread:

But, brisk and hopeful, was to Vict'ry led.

Wealth is Incumbrance, and to Fears ally'd;

Held back, by Fore-cast; dis-inclin'd by Pride:

Un-nerv'd, by Privilege; by Faction, fir'd;

In Peace, contentious; and, in Action, tir'd.

WHAT! tho' One Son of mine, thro' Darkness bright,

Beam'd Indistinction: and emblazon'd Night?

CAESARS, sometimes, and sometimes MARLBRO's rise:

Comets! that sweep new Tracks, and fright the Skies!

Not to be measur'd, These, by War's known Laws:

Form'd, for excentric Fame, and learn'd Applause!

No Gen'ral System circumscribes their Ways.

They move, un-rival'd: and were born, to blaze!

These make, like DEITIES, the Men they lead:

Dust, in their Hands, grows Life! and Languor, Speed!

These, I except—as bursting Nature's Chains:

No Rule includes them: and no Chance restrains!

ONE MARLBRO' bless'd me, thus!—nor One the Last:

Heav'n sees the future, kindling at the past!

Son, of his Soul, ANOTHER SUCH shall shine:

Ah!—were his Speed unclogg'd—He, NOW, were mine!

Such, ere Ten Winters wane, thro' Fate I see—

Brings on new Wonders: and shall shine for ME.

TRUTH, smiling on her Guest, that Fate apply'd:

Conscious, He bow'd, and blush'd—and look'd aside.

CANTO IV.

LEARN, cry'd the Genius, and resum'd her Clue;

Learn, with what groundless Hope the Sword ye drew.

Find, in your Trade's Extent, your Triumph's Bar:

You courting Commerce, Commerce cumb'ring War!

Who, but a God, can guard a State from Harms,

Too rich for Virtue, and too proud for Arms!

Where Stall-fed Plumpness rails out lazy Life;

And murm'ring Millions lend but Tongues to Strife!

Where Fools of Fortune grasp their Purse, with Care;

Yet, hurl the guardian Sword, to rash Despair!

Scorn the poor Soldier, whose Defence they buy:

Yet dread those Dregs of Want, they hire to die!

Trust, where they fear—yet, injure, where they trust:

With Heads unheedful, and with Hearts unjust.

Starve, and provoke, Distress, which ARM'D, they see!

And dream THOSE Slaves, by whome Themselves are free!

Where, shunning Musters, Pride bids Pen'ry dare:

And Fame's a Toy, beneath a Tradesman's Care!

BUT, 'twas not, always, so!—Not always bled

Low, mercenary Breasts, by Hunger led.

Once, there was nobler War.—Else, France! thy Fields

Had lost no Lilies, to my EDWARD's Shields.

There was a Time, when Kings, of martial Soul,

In Death's black Bands, cou'd Yeomens Hearts enrol:

When Thames, and Trent, and Tracts where Severn runs,

" Pour'd at their Prince's Feet their dreadful Sons:"

Youths, whome no raw Resentment's idiot Start

Snatch'd, from a Sweet-heart's Frown, or Parent's Heart:

But, vers'd in Arms, from Boy-hood's op'ning Bloom;

Aspects, of surly Force, and threat'ning Gloom!

No puny Postures spaniel'd native Glow:

No mincing Motions jirk'd, th' undancing Bow.

Scornful of Tricks, and Twists, and apish Fling;

The thigh-struck Hand-clap, and the heel-twirl'd Spring;

The toe-toss'd Strut, the down-thump'd Firelock's Bang;

The Stare of Promptness, and the time-kept Clang.

Needless Parade, to Limbs, from infant Dawn,

Nerv'd into Menace, and fatigu'd, to Brawn!

Churls, whome each Festival to Practice led,

Brac'd for the shafted Butt, with sin'wy Tread:

Prais'd, by the Nymphs they lov'd, by Friends caress'd;

And, by pleas'd Groups of joy-touch'd Parents, bless'd!

Firm, as a Pyramid's broad Base, they stood:

And sternly meas'ring, ey'd the whiten'd Wood:

Each strong-strain'd Muscle, hard retracting, bent,

Back'd the tugg'd Arrow, to it's Length's Extent:

Then, the String struggling, out the Mischief flew—

Shook, in the Mark: and shook th' Observers too!

THESE were the Limbs, by Nature form'd, to kill!

Big-bon'd Athletics! bred, to Brawls, and Skill!

Theirs, were the Hands for Blows! the Eyes for Fight!

The Voice for Startling! and the Scorn for Flight!

EV'N now, rough Sons! pleas'd Mem'ry paints 'em gay!

Muscly, they march,—to CRESSI's dreadful Day!

Swarms of light GAULS, in vain, broad Plains, o'erfill:

Shine, from each Steep, and quicken ev'ry Hill.

Conscious, in vain, pale Genii lend their Aid;

Cowr o'er each Standard: scream from ev'ry Shade!

In vain, Streams, Woods, Rocks, Walls, and Turrets, lin'd,

With vocal Thunder arm th' impregnate Wind.

Onward we press'd—slow meas'ring hostile Ground;

Unreck'ning Number, and un-answ'ring Sound.

With Look fix'd forward, dreadfully serene!

My sour-soul'd Archers mov'd, with surly Mien.

Dumbly severe, the hers'd Arrangement clos'd:

And one long Weft, of War-knit Strength, compos'd.

No Smoak's involving Night their Frowns conceal'd:

No roar'd Explosion stunn'd the deaf'ning Field.

Hush'd, as the Shades of Death, whose Shafts they bore,

Majestic Stillness breath'd stern Rev'rence, o'er!

Aweful Attention watch'd, th' unsounding Sign:

Till the rais'd Finger warn'd th'awak'ning Line.

Then, back'ning aimful, Rank from Rank reclin'd,

Their String-strain'd Arrows loosen'd to the Wind—

Prone, and point-blanc, the Front's barb'd Tempest drove;

While, in curv'd Cloud, the Rear's slop'd Lightnings rove.

Storms, foll'wing Storms, a steely Deluge rain:

And Drifts of feath'ry Death deface the Plain!

WHY were these Glories Ours?—'Twere poor, to boast!

Brave is the Gaul! and forms no feeble Host!

All that was Man's was Theirs.—Who wrongs his Foe,

Shames his own Triumph, and disclaims his Blow.

—What, then, prevail'd—o'er Courage, Numbers, Laws?

'Twas—that no venal Hireling stain'd my Cause.

Then, War was Freehold Tenure: farm'd no Aid:

Limp'd on no golden Legs—expos'd no Trade:

No lukewarm Shout, in Death's dire Field was known;

For, each touch'd Pleader felt the Cause his own.

Then, firy Barons bled, for England's Fame:

And kindling Tenants catch'd their Landlord's Flame.

One, vast, un-listed, Host, whole Albion fram'd:

March'd, conquer'd, and dispers'd—to Cotts reclaim'd:

Active, alike, the Death-dy'd Sword to wield,

Or wind the Plow-share's Point, to tame the Field.

To Bribes, unbow'd: yet ductile in Command:

Their Heart, their Country's—and their King's, their Hand,

STILL-but how chang'd! -thus, thus, were Armies taught;

Un-paid, thus tractile; and thus rais'd, un-bought:

Forever standing, and yet never fear'd;

By Rights, held Freemen, and, to Homes, endear'd:

Nor Time, nor Envy, shou'd your Safety shake:

Nor Nimrod's Hunters your Inclosures break.

BUT, Trade's exempted Pride no Arms will bear:

She sells her Scarlet; and bids Mis'ry wear!

Her silken Sons, and Drum's big Sound chagrines:

Her End is Safety—but she scorns the MEANS!

OH, Lux'ry! Sun-shown Cobweb! weakly fine!

Thy soft Seduction, none cou'd e'er resign:

Till wrapt in Ruin, (which Thy Love made Fate)

Thou falling—with thee fell th'unjointed State!

Name not her glitt'ring Face: proud Shade.—'twas She,

Gave Carthage up—to Rome, poor, brave, and free.

Again, 'twas She, to naked Vandals, gave

Rome, rich, proud, base, a Coward, and a Slave.

'Twas Wealth's fat Indolence, superbly weak!

To Lydian Wand'rers, sold th' Imperial Greek.

Hard, as their native Hills, descending Swarms

Of Thieves, in Penury, and Saints, in Arms,

Plund'ring Byzantium's GOLD, it's Influence felt:

And, now, wait, rip'ning—for the Woes they dealt.

So mourn'd the tutelary Pow'r; and paus'd:

Pensively touch'd, for Ills by Affluence caus'd!

While a thin Pediment, of colour'd Clouds,

Truth, and her Chariot's flamy Driver, shrouds:

O'er the curl'd Windings of whose wavy Flow,

That, wid'ning vast, o'ercop'd the Depth below;

FANCY, in firy Rings, on Air's soft Field,

Round, and still round, th' impatient Coursers wheel'd.

CANTO V.

LONG, sigh'd the Genius, thoughtfully begloom'd;

At length, broke Silence; and her Theme resum'd.

DREAD, what you heard, my Sons! and shun this Doom

Of Greece, rich Carthage, and all-conqu'ring ROME.

Let your near Danger, now 'tis past, be known!

Th' impending Suff'ring was design'd your own!

Yes, Boaster France! had'st thou but known thy Day;

Known, where thy Strength, cluded Samson, lay:

Known, what resistless Odds, in War, befriend

The Sons of Steel, where Slaves of Gold contend;

Abstemious Patience Pride's great Work had done;

Commerce had still been lost—but Empire won!

(HEAV'N!) to my frighted Fancy, let me paint

What, late, France was—then, boast her tim'd Restraint!

Twenty prompt Millions press'd her peopled Plains;

Who fed no Factions; and who felt no Chains:

Despotic Pow'r grew there, in plaintless Soil;

Peasants, who sung, in Want; and danc'd, in Toil!

Dependent Nobles, fir'd for martial Fame:

A Church, All linking to one Sov'reign Claim.

Her Sons too poor for Pride, too fierce for Trade:

Her King, too stor'd, to need a Merchant's Aid!

VAST, and self-mov'd, on came this Giant Soul!

Each Part connected, to propel the Whole:

For Conquest apt, and panting to begin:

And bursting ev'ry Rein, that held her in.

I saw th' all-daring Pow'r! Too near, she stood:

Hung o'er her Cliffs, and darken'd Half my Flood!

—Is there, I cry'd, in vast Ambition's Walk,

No dim proud Corner, where Mistake might stalk?

With fancy'd Forms, to scare misjudging Sight,

Till Shade seem Substance, and Deception Light?

There IS!—Blind Envy shall contend, to share

Disputed COMMERCE—and enervate WAR:

Bloat humble Want, to wealthy Discontent:

Feed Strength, to Weakness: and give Faction Vent:

Till fading Lilies, by rank Weeds, o'ergrown,

The Priest's false Step shall shake the Prince's Throne.

IN Heav'n's kind Ear, I lodg'd th' accepted Pray'r:

(Still reigns my MARLBRO's living Influence there!)

Walking, with Seraph Pow'rs, th' eternal Round,

Th' immortal Captain caught th' imploring Sound:

Where, on War's Theme, with MICHAEL, he conferr'd,

And Caesar's silent Soul, attentive, HEARD.

Strait, from unbounded Voids of azure Light,

Where Spirits, freed from Flesh, and bleach'd from Night,

Gliding, from Sun to Sun, new Worlds survey,

That roll, by Millions, and adorn their Way:

Th' all-rev'renc'd Leader call'd a wily Mind,

That left all Tinge of bodied Flegm behind;

One, that had Popes and Jesuits Ardour fir'd;

And slow-soul'd Mufties solemn Spleens inspir'd:

Now, stript and naked, skimm'd th' eternal Space,

Anxious for Office, and in Wait, for Place.

Go, cry'd the Voice Seraphic, faithful! try'd!—

In Fleury's brainy Cells, thy Entrance hide:

Heedful attend, where Thought's dim Embryos lie:

Fan the speck'd Fire—but bend its Flame awry.

Lure him th' Effects of pow'rful WEALTH to dread:

And to try'd Traffick turn the Frenchman's Head.

THERE! conqu'ring Guardian, of thy Country's Fame

Bless'd be thy Spirit! deathless be thy Name!

There sprung the MINE, shall cost th' unwary Foe

A hundred Blenheims, in one, peaceful, Blow!

Now, Seas and Lands, Gaul's grasping Talon strains:

And rich Obstruction cloggs her tumid Veins.

Bound down to Av'rice, and improv'd, for Prey,

Terror shall hesitate Resolves away:

Reclaim of Rights revolt each stubborn Town,

And slic'd Exemptions lop the curtail'd Crown:

Heavy, on slow, chock'd, Wheels, th' encumber'd State

Shall drag stretch'd Faction's all-retarding Weight.

O, Policy! short-sighted Shade of Skill!

How small thy Grasp is! how immense, thy Will!

WHO weigh'd the Weakness, of this dreaded Man?

WHO mark'd, his Purpose blasted, by his Plan?

How have rash Kings concurr'd, to swell thy Fame,

Calm Fleury!—how be-gemm'd thy faded Name!

Blind to thy Scheme's Event, they fail'd to see

Republics rais'd on ruin'd Monarchy:

Fail'd to foremark th' exalted Peasant's Tread,

High in Trade's Sandals, o'er the Noble's Head:

And this fear'd Priest—prais'd Idol, of an Hour!

With nurs'd Rebellion, blast his PRINCE's Pow'r!

So fall the lazy Logs, that load a Throne;

Lump Lords, of All Mens Passions, but their own!

Whose truant 'Scape from Care conceives no Storm,

Till the Waves reach them, and the Winds deform;

Then start they, half awake! stare, stamp, and rail;

Void and tempestuous, as th' o'ertaking Gale!

Fierce, in hot Fright, unhelm one erring Tool:

And, to new Masters, put their Faith to School.

HAIL, my sav'd Sons!—now, smile at threat'ning France,

Declin'd for ever, by misjudg'd Advance!

One glitt'ring Weakness light'ning both your Scales,

Quarrel secure, while neither's Weight prevails:

By one false Maxim, two fierce Nations cool'd—

That War's tough Sinews owe their Strength to GOLD!

Trite Blindness!—Thousand falling States shall feel,

No Pow'r can e'er want GOLD, whose Nerves are STEEL.

This, Rome's old Gen'rals, born for Conquest, knew:

For whome, unsown, Earth's hostile Harvests grew.

This, knew lean Hunns, devouring Rome's Increase!

This, Greeks in Persia knew: and Turks, in Greece.

This, Goth Gustavus, meas'ring German Soil:

And ALL, th' un-number'd Wasters, paid by Spoil.

O, Trade! fair Dalilah!—thy wanton Charms

Bind lap-laid Slumb'rers, while thy Fear disarms!

How sweet thy Smile! how dazzling is thy Glare!

Witchcraft thy Accents! Paradise thy Air!

Yet, weak'ning Wantonness thy Slaves destroys:

Nerveless thy Vot'ries! indolent thy Joys!

Sunk, and absorb'd, within thy soft Embrace,

Pants the lull'd Virtue, and forgets Disgrace.—

With Sense, too abject, and with Claim, too proud,

Thou shrink'st the Noble: and thou swell'st the Crowd.

Too tasteful Those, to leave luxurious Seats,

For Sun-burnt Marches, or for Sea-shook Fleets!

And These too want-less, to be train'd to Awe;

Where Mobs make Magistrates, and Brib'ry Law!

UNMARK'D, these Remoras, close cleaving, deep,

Hang on War's Motions, and retard her Sweep:

But Time's slow Scythe th' encumber'd Keel shall free,

Point the strait Course, and smooth th' obstructed Sea.

Thou, Faction! HEAD by HEAD, sop-silenc'd, fast,

Shalt rest thy Heels; and fold thy Arms at last!

Then, un-impeded Councils, lab'ring long,

Shall hit that Martial Medium, safely strong:

Where Trade, War, Pow'r, and Freedom, cen'tring, meet!

—ASKILL'D MILITIA! and a GUARDIAN FLEET!

TILL then—(long, intervening Shades I see!)

Darkness and Diffidence require not ME.

Farewel—your Howl shall break my Rest no more.

Bawl—till Sleep's destin'd Gag suspends your Roar.

HERE stopp'd the Genius.—Three wip'd Tears she shed:

And Clouds descending veil'd her tow'ry Head.

Three times, she sigh'd: then, lost, in slow Descent,

Sunk, thro' th' embracing Surge's press'd Extent:

Strait, dull, surrounding Flatness smooth'd the Deep;

Hush'd Winds, half whisp'ring, lull Design to sleep;

Fat stagnant Reeks unbrace reposing Air.

Wide, o'er Armenian Hills, flew frighted Care.

Happy Content saw Fame's close Curtain drawn:

And Three stretch'd Nations shar'd one pangless Yawn.

CANTO VI.

QUENCH'D, and down-rushing, like a falling Star,

Off dropp'd chill'd FANCY, from her flamy Car:

In shrunk her Fires: her wing'd Ideas die;

And dim Suffusion darken'd ev'ry Eye.

Whirl'd, like ejected Phaeton, she fell:

And o'er her, murm'ring, clos'd, th' unfathom'd Swell.

Active, no more, th' ethereal Coursers neigh:

No more flash'd Lightnings mark their burning Way.

Tame, hung their drooping Necks: Each loos'ning Trace

Drags false—and all th' exulting Nerves unbrace.

Half the plung'd Harness, now, the Sea conceals:

Now, hissing Waves half quench the smoaking Wheels!

When, stooping mild, calm Truth her Danger spy'd:

Snatch'd the sav'd Reins—Herself her surest Guide!

Up, from th' engulphing Deep's defeated Flow,

Rose the drawn Chariot—steady! solemn! slow!

Beamless, and bald of Fires: but heav'nly White!

Rich, without Pomp, and, without Dazzling bright.

Soft gliding homeward, thro' unruffled Air,

Thus spoke th' Immortal, to her pensive Care.

OH, Pain-touch'd Marlbro'! mitigate thy Grief:

Check thy warm Wish, till Heav'n prepares Relief.

Wait thy due Glories: born, an Age too late;

When Fear grew Wisdom, and Contempt was FATE!

Snatch'd to thy letter'd Pile, indulge Retreat:

Suspend thy Purpose; and disarm thy Heat.

Bear back thy unpermitted Pow'r to shine:

While gath'ring Darkness spreads, by Doom Divine!

While Genius quits an un-aspiring Race;

Where War is pinion'd: and Corruption Grace!

Where, Solids sinking, only Bubbles swim:

Where Fame is Quixotism! and Virtue Whim!

YET, be thy Brav'ry bless'd! that dar'd intend!

Bless'd thy skill'd Means, that match'd thy Patriot End!

Bless'd thy Soul's gen'rous Start from Home, to flame

Expansive, for Redress of Alien Shame!

And was there? cou'd there be? whose angry Zeal

Disclaim'd this Fervor! or declin'd to feel!

Which, wid'ning with a God's impartial Call,

Left some dissatisfy'd, to care for ALL!

Oh! hush'd, forever, be the rash Complaint,

That saw such Greatness, with an Eye so faint!

—Is there a Breast, o'erwhelm'd with willing Woe?

That can, for Public, private Joys forego?

Sigh, for his Pains, O World!—since one, who bears

For All—gives ALL Distress, by sep'rate Shares.

SHAME on that lock'd Recess, in Party's Cell,

Where grov'ling Pique, and brow-bent Censure, dwell!

Where in-look'd Arrogance sits, crippling Sense:

Help'd, by pain'd Pride, and angry Eminence!

Lab'ring, each Heave, of Pity's Heart, to quell;

And squeeze whole Nature into Self's hard Shell!

O, Spleen!—Thy Gall has Reason's Mark effac'd:

Till Human Weakness measures Truth, by Taste!

Our Deeds catch Colour from Opinion's Hue:

And Right and Wrong take Name, from Place, and View!

These are thy Triumphs, thou detractive Cheat,

Cloak'd Faction! perch'd in Freedom's sully'd Seat.

Narrow'd Contraction suits thy shorten'd Sight:

As Owls owe Eye-beams to the Dusk of Night.

Lost, to Perception of the Soul's Extent,

Thou feel'st no Greatness, stretch'd beyond thy Bent.

Merit, thou try'st by Service: Guilt, by Hate.

Call'st Malice Vigilance: and Knav'ry, Weight.

Worth, in a Foe, thy Eyes want Strength to see:

And no Tear touches, till it flows for THEE.

SUCH are the Scales, in which the Great are weigh'd!

And by such Optics is the Muse survey'd!

Yet, spite of Envy, Slander, Wrongs, and Time,

The Great shall triumph, and the Muse shall climb.

When the pale Meteors of a State's dark Day

Fall, from their Heights, and steam their Stench away:

When All the Chance-mix'd Mobs of Pow'r shall die,

And, lost in titled Dust, forgotten lie:

When Ministry, and Pomp, and Wealth, and Trade,

And Place, and Pride, and Hopes, and Fears, shall fade:

When, silent as their Grave's forsaken Gloom!

Kings, justly bury'd, shall no Life resume;

Then, shall immortal Triumph swell the Name,

That fought, for Glory: or that thought, for Fame.

Then ev'n th' obscurer Sons, of future Praise,

Whose Heads wore Diadems, or Genius, Bays,

Ris'n, from Oppression's Wound, or Want's Restraint,

From Foes too furious, or from Friends too faint;

In second Life, past Fortune's Guilt atone;

And, one Age lost, claim All the Rest, their own.

Bright, in distinguish'd Orbs, of Wit, and War,

Mark Hist'ry's measur'd Heav'n, from Star, to Star.

HERE, pause;—and sigh one Pain, supremely Thine:

Thou, great Transmitter, of a MARLBRO's Line!

—While, nobly negligent of CAESAR's Care,

No self-shown Comments conscious Skill, declare;

Greatly content, to save and serve, Mankind,

Yet, lose Himself, and leave no Lights, behind!

Where are the PENS, that, aidful of his Fame,

Fight his past Battles, and ungloom his Claim?

TRUE, the dry Drones of Care can Facts enrol,

Call Annals HIST'RY: and forget, but, SOUL.

True, ev'n thro' Clouds like Theirs, His Acts can blaze!

—But, mass-mix'd Piles profane His hallow'd Praise.

Tis not with wide-spread Smoak, from Side Events,

To veil schem'd Views, and darken lost Intents:

'Tis, thro' the thought-perplexing Deeps of War,

Skilful, to hold in View the GUIDING STAR!

From one, chief Part, educe the pendent Whole:

Till acting Body proves, but acted Soul.

THINK!—in the Sun-set of a conqu'ring State,

Shou'd Gaul's vain Sons dispute their Conqu'ror's Weight?

Or partial German (socializing Fame)

Bid Indistinction drown connected Name?

Where is the Proof so plain, the Light so strong,

Cou'd shame th' Encroachment, and repel the Wrong?

The Saver of Half Europe, who cou'd save?—

No grateful Pen re-pays the Fame, He gave!

Where cou'd we boast His full-drawn Length, design'd,

In Strokes, that vivify the pictur'd Mind?

Where is that Hand, that, copying from the Heart,

Can trace it's Compass, and its Depth impart?

And, skill'd, to justify deduc'd Applause,

Hunt the due Glory, thro' the darken'd Cause?

Shew Actions done, compar'd with Measures meant?

Give, the Soul's Conquest, in the Plan's Extent?

From laurell'd Councils, wind the Triumph down;

And trust no Pow'r to Chance, to stain Renown?

Drawn, for Eternal Taste, and ev'ry Clime,

Lend Marlbro's lengthen'd Life, to dateless Time?

O! tis a dreadful Task! and claims Thy Care:

Thou, his Name's Guardian! and his Glory's Heir!

—If, (first) not HERS, th' accomplish'd Purpose shine,

Whose Right stands foremost—and precludes ev'n Thine.

Hers, to whose Choice his Love-drawn Heart inclin'd:

The soft, sole, CONQU'ROR, He was born to find!

SHE—nobly touch'd, for Heroes Taste of Fame!

Bids Brass and Marble breathe th' attested Flame.

But, Brass and Marble must, Themselves, decay:

No Life possessing, These no Life convey.

These, Time shall eat; and Love's lost Sigh be vain:

Nor (ev'n in Heav'n!) Her Soul escape One Pain!

But,—wou'd her pious Hand engrave his Name,

Deeper than Brass can bear, or Stone proclaim:

Let her some Life's devoted Length engage,

Skilful, to lead him, down th' illumin'd Page:

Mark'd like Himself: all shown, all felt, all read—

And living fresh, when Blenheim's Tow'rs are dead.

BUT, Who?—What Strength such Atlas Weight, can bear?

The Pen's vast Spirit, like the Chief's, must dare!

Wing'd withHISFire, like Lightning, sweep the Plain:

Yet, tow'r, all temp'rate, to the Conqu'ror's Brain!

SUCH, may your House's happy Judgment find!

Ere Fate, or Fortune, gives it to the Wind.

Worn or consum'd, ere PAPERS quit their Trust:

And the wrong'd Shade lament the mould'ring Dust!

Information about this book

Title statement

The fanciad. An heroic poem. In six cantos. To His Grace the Duke of Marlborough, on the turn of his genius to arms

Hill, Aaron, 1685-1750.

Publication

Distributor

University of Oxford Text Archive
Oxford University Computing Services
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OX2 6NN
ota@oucs.ox.ac.uk

ID [ota]

http://ota.ox.ac.uk/id/3976

ID [isbn10]

1106009754

ID [isbn13]

9781106009753

ID [TCP]

K037240.000

ID [BIBNO]

CW3314390574

ID [ECLL]

0670002500

Availability

Distributed by the University of Oxford under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License

Source

— The fanciad. An heroic poem. In six cantos. To His Grace the Duke of Marlborough, on the turn of his genius to arms, Hill, Aaron, 1685-1750.. [2],viii,[6],54p. ; 8⁰. London :: printed for J. Osborn,. 1743.. [Attributed to Aaron Hill.] [On Charles Spencer, 3rd Duke of Marlborough.] [Reproduction of original from the British Library.] [Foxon, H214-5] [English Short Title Catalog, ESTCT35353.] [Electronic data. Farmington Hills, Mich. : Thomson Gale, 2003. Page image (PNG). Digitized image of the microfilm version produced in Woodbridge, CT by Research Publications, 1982-2002 (later known as Primary Source Microfilm, an imprint of the Gale Group).]

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