Where Fate again shall join her foul to thine,
Who now, regardful of thy fame, erects
The column to thy praife, and fooths her woe
With pious honours to thy facred name
Immortal. Lo! where tow'ring on the height
Of
yon aërial pillar proudly stands
Thy image, like a guardian god, fublime,
And awes the subject plain: beneath his feet,
The German eagles spread their wings, his hand
Grafps Victory, its flave. Such was thy brow
Majestic, fuch thy martial port, when Gaul
Fled from thy frown, and in the Danube sought
A refuge from thy fword.-There, where the field
Was deepest stain'd with gore, on Hochftet's plain,
The theatre of thy glory, once was rais'd
A meaner trophy, by th' Imperial hand;
Extorted gratitude; which now the rage
Of Malice impotent, befeeming ill
A regal breast, has levell'd to the ground:
Mean infult! this with better aufpices
Shall stand on British earth, to tell the world
HOW MARLB'ROUGH fought, for whom, and how repay'd His fervices. Nor fhall the conftant love
Of her who rais'd this monument be loft
In dark oblivion: That fhall be the theme
Of future bards in ages yet unborn,
Infpir'd with Chaucer's fire, who in these groves
First tun'd the British harp, and little deem'd
His humble dwelling should the neighbour be
Of BLENHEIM, house fuperb; to which the throng
Of travellers approaching, fhall not pass
His roof unnoted, but respectful hail
With rev'rence due. Such honour does the Muse
Obtain her favourites. But the noble pile
(My theme) demands my voice.▬▬▬▬▬▬
MARLB'ROUGH! who now above the ftarry sphere
Dwell'ft in the palaces of heav'n, enthron'd
Amongst the demi-gods, deign to defend
This thy abode, while present here below,
And facred still to thy immortal fame,
With tutelary care. Preferve it safe
From Time's destroying hand, and cruel stroke
of factious Envy's more relentless rage.
Here may, long ages hence, the British youth,
When Honour calls them to the field of war,
Behold the trophies which thy valour rais'd;
The proud reward of thy fuccefsful toils
For Europe's freedom, and Britannia's fame:
That fir'd with gen'rous envy, they may dare
To emulate thy deeds.-
Dear to thy country, ftill infpire her fons
With martial virtue; and to high attempts
Excite their arms, till other battles won,
And nations fav'd, new monuments require,
And other BLENHEIMS fhall adorn the land.
Written from PARIS in the Year 1728.
7, dearest friend, how roll thy hours away
What pleasing study cheats the tedious day? Doft thou the facred volumes oft explore
Of wife Antiquity's immortal lore,
Where virtue by the charms of wit refin'd,
At once exalts and polishes the mind?
How diff'rent from our modern guilty art,
Which pleases only to corrupt the heart;
Whofe curs'd refinements odious Vice adorn,
And teach to honour what we ought to scorn!
Doft thou in fage Hiftorians joy to fee
How Roman Greatness rose with Liberty;
How the fame hands that tyrants durft controul,
Their empire stretch'd from Atlas to the Pole;
'Till wealth and conqueft into flaves refin'd
The proud luxurious masters of mankind?
Doft thou in letter'd Greece each charm admire,
Each grace, each virtue Freedom could infpire;
Yet in her troubled ftates fee all the woes
And all the crimes that giddy Faction knows ;
'Till rent by parties, by corruption fold,
Or weakly careless, or too rafhly bold,
She funk beneath a mitigated doom,
The flave and tut'refs of protecting Rome?
Does calm Philofophy her aid impart,
To guide the paffions, and to mend the heart?
Taught by her precepts, haft thou learnt the end
To which alone the wife their ftudies bend;
For which alone by nature were defign'd
The pow'rs of thought-to benefit mankind?
Not like a cloyster'd drone, to read and doze,
In undeferving, undeferv'd repofe;
But reafon's influence to diffufe; to clear
Th' enlighten'd world of every gloomy fear;
Difpel the mists of error, and unbind
Those pedant chains that clog the freeborn mind.
Happy who thus his leifure can employ !
He knows the pureft hours of tranquil joy;
Nor vex'd with pangs that busier bosoms tear,
Nor loft to focial Virtue's pleafing care;
Safe in the port, yet lab'ring to sustain
Those who still float on the tempeftuous main.
So Locke the days of ftudious quiet spent ;
So Boyle in wisdom found divine content;
So Cambray, worthy of a happier doom,
The virtuous flave of Louis and of Rome.
Good* Wor'fter thus fupports his drooping age,
Far from court-flatt'ry, far from party rage;
He, who in youth a tyrant's frown defy'd,
Firm and intrepid on his country's fide,
Her boldeft champion then, and now her mildest guide.
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