Broke and diforder'd, down the steep it falls
In loud cafcades; the filver-fparkling foam
Glitters relucent in the dancing ray.

In these retreats repos'd the mighty foul
Of Churchill, from the toils of war and state,
Splendidly private, and the tranquil joy
Of contemplation felt, while Blenheim's dome
Triumphal ever in his mind renew'd

The memory of his fame, and footh'd his thoughts
With pleafing record of his glorious deeds.
So, by the rage of Faction home recall'd,
Lucullus, while he wag'd fuccefsful war
Against the pride of Afia, and the power
Of Mithridates, whose aspiring mind
No loffes could fubdue, enrich'd with spoils
Of conquer'd nations, back return'd to Rome,
And in magnificent retirement paft

The evening of his life.-But not alone,

In the calm fhades of honourable ease,

Great Marlborough peaceful dwelt: indulgent Heaven
Gave a companion to his fofter hours,
With whom converfing, he forgot all change
Of fortune, or of ftate, and in her mind
Found greatnefs equal to his own, and lov'd
Himfelf in her. Thus each by each admir'd,
In mutual honour, mutual fondness join'd:
Like two fair stars, with intermingled light,
In friendly union they together fhone,
Aiding each other's brightness, till the cloud
Of night eternal quench'd the beams of one.

Thee,

Thee, Churchill, firft the ruthless hand of death
Tore from thy confort's fide, and call'd thee hence
To the fublimer feats of joy and love;

Where fate again fhall join her foul to thine,
Who now, regardful of thy fame, erects
The column to thy praise, and fooths her woe
With pious honours to thy facred name
Immortal. Lo! where, towering in the height
Of yon aërial pillar, proudly ftands

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
Majeftic, fuch thy martial port, when Gaul
Fled from thy frown, and in the Danube fought
A refuge from thy fword.-There, where the field
Was deepest stain❜d with gore, on Hochstet's plain,
The theatre of thy glory, once was rais'd
A meaner trophy, by the Imperial hand;
Extorted gratitude! which now the rage
Of malice impotent, befeeming ill

A regal breaft, has level'd to the ground:
Mean infult! This, with better aufpices,

Shall ftand on British earth to tell the world

How Marlborough fought, for whom, and how repaid 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 thefe 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 refpectful hail

With reverence due. Such honour does the Mufe
Obtain her favourites.-But the noble pile

(My thême) demands my voice.-O fhade ador'd,
Marlborough! who now above the ftarry sphere
Dwell'ft in the palaces of heaven, enthron'd
Among the demi-gods, deign to defend
This thy abode, while prefent here below,
And facred ftill to thy immortal fame,
With tutelary care. Preferve it fafe
From Time's deftroying hand, and cruel ftroke
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 generous envy, they may dare
To emulate thy deeds.-So fhall thy name,
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.

Το

то THE

REVEREND DR. AYS COUGH,

A T OXFORD.

WRITTEN FROM PARIS IN THE YEAR 1728.

A Y, dearest friend, how roll thy hours away?
What pleafing 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 different from our modern guilty art,
Which pleases only to corrupt the heart;
Whofe curft refinements odious vice adorn,
And teach to honour what we ought to scorn!
Doft thou in fage hiftorians joy to fee

- How Roman greatnefs rofe with liberty:
How the fame hands that tyrants durft control
Their empire ftretch'd from Atlas to the Pole;
Till wealth and conqueft into flaves refin'd
The proud luxurious mafters of mankind?
Doft thou in letter'd Greece each charm admire,
Each grace, each virtue, Freedom could inspire ;
Yet in her troubled ftate fee all the woes,
And all the crimes, that giddy Faction knows;
Till, rent by parties, by corruption fold,
Or weakly carelefs, or too rafhly bold,
She funk beneath a mitigated doom,

The flave and tutorefs of protecting Rome?
VOL. LXIV

T

Does

1

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 powers of thought-to benefit mankind?
Not, like a cloyfter'd drone, to read and dose,
In undeferving, undeferv'd, repofe;

But Reafon's influence to diffuse; to clear
Th' enlighten'd world of every gloomy fear;
Difpel the mifts of error, and unbind

Thofe pedant chains that clog the freeborn mind.
Happy who thus his leifure can employ !
He knows the pureft hours of tranquil joy;
Nor vext with pangs that bufier bofoms tear,
Nor loft to focial virtue's pleafing care;
Safe in the port, yet labouring 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-flattery, 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!

* Bp. Hough.

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