But who can run the British triumphs o'er,
And count the flames disperst on every shore ?
Who can describe the scatter'd victory,
And draw the reader on from fea to fea?
Elfe who could Ormond's God-like acts refuse,
Ormond the theme of every Oxford Muse?
Fain would I here his mighty worth proclaim,
Attend him in the noble chace of fame,
Through all the noise and hurry of the fight,
Obferve each blow, and keep him still in fight.
Oh, did our British peers thus court renown,
And grace the coats their great fore-fathers won!
Our arms would then triumphantly advance,
Nor Henry be the laft that conquer'd France.
What might not England hope, if such abroad
Purchas'd their country's honour with their blood:
When fuch, detain'd at home, fupport our ftate
In William's ftead, and bear a kingdom's weight,
The schemes of Gallic policy o'erthrow,
And blaft the counfels of the common foe;
Direct our armies, and diftribute right,
And render our Maria's lofs more light.
But ftop, my Mufe, th' ungrateful found forbear,
Maria's name ftill wounds each British ear:
Each British heart Maria ftill does wound,
And tears burst out unbidden at the found;
Maria ftill our rising mirth deftroys,
Darkens our triumphs, and forbids our joys.
But fee, at length, the British ships appear! Our Naffau comes! and as his fleet draws near,
The rifing mafts advance, the fails grow white,
And all his pompous navy floats in fight.
Come, mighty Prince, defir'd of Britain, come!
May Heaven's propitious gales attend thee home!
Come, and let longing crowds behold that look,
Which fuch confufion and amazement struck
Through Gallic hofts: but, oh! let us defcry
Mirth in thy brow, and pleafure in thine eye;
Let nothing dreadful in thy face be found,
But for a while forget the trumpet's found:
Well-pleas'd, thy people's loyalty approve,
Accept their duty, and enjoy their love.
For as, when lately mov'd with fierce delight,
You plung'd amidst the tumult of the fight,
Whole heaps of death encompass'd you around,
And steeds o'er-turn'd lay foaming on the ground;
So crown'd with laurels now, where-e'er you go,
Around you blooming joys and peaceful bleffings
flow.
Of little creatures wondrous acts I treat,
The ranks and mighty leaders of their state,
Their laws, employments, and their wars relate.
A trifling theme provokes my humble lays :
Trifling the theme, not fo the poet's praise,
If great Apollo and the tuneful Nine
Join in the piece, and make the work divine.
First, for your bees a proper station find,
That's fenc'd about and fhelter'd from the wind;
For winds divert them in their flight, and drive
The fwarms, when loaden homeward, from their hive.
Nor fheep, nor goats, muft pafture near their stores,
To trample under foot the fpringing flowers;
Nor frisking heifers bound about the place,
To fpurn the dew-drops off, and bruise the rifing grafs :
Nor muft the lizard's painted brood appear,
Nor wood-pecks, nor the fwallow harbour near.
They waste the swarms, and as they fly along
Convey the tender morfels to their young.
Let purling ftreams, and fountains edg'd with mofs, And shallow rills, run trickling through the grass; Let branching olives o'er the fountain grow,
Or palms fhoot up, and shade the streams below; That when the youth, led by their princes, fhun The crowded hive, and sport it in the fun, Refreshing springs may tempt them from the heat, And fhady coverts yield a cool retreat.
Whether the neighbouring water stands or runs, Lay twigs acrofs, and bridge it o'er with ftones; That if rough ftorms, or fudden blafts of wind, Should dip, or fcatter thofe that lag behind, Here they may fettle on the friendly stone, And dry their reeking pinions at the fun. Plant all the flowery banks with lavender, With ftore of favory fcent the fragrant air, Let running betony the field o'erfpread, And fountains foke the violet's dewy bed.
Though barks or plaited willows make your hive, A narrow inlet to their cells contrive;
For colds congeal and freeze the liquors up,
And, melted down with heat, the waxen buildings drop:
The bees, of both extremes alike afraid,
Their wax around the whistling crannies spread,
And fuck out clammy dews from herbs and flowers,
To fmear the chinks, and plaister up the pores :
For this they hoard up glew, whose clinging drops,
Like pitch, or birdlime, hang in stringy ropes.
They oft, 'tis faid, in dark retirements dwell,
And work in fubterraneous caves their cell;
At other times th' induftrious infects live
In hollow rocks, or make a tree their hive.
Point all their chinky lodgings round with mud, And leaves must thinly on your work be ftrow'd; But let no baleful yew-tree flourish near,
Nor rotten marshes send out steams of mire;
Nor burning crabs grow red, and crackle in the fire:
Nor neighbouring caves return the dying found,
Nor echoing rocks the doubled voice rebound.
Things thus prepar'd-
When th' under-world is feiz'd with cold and night,
And fummer here descends in streams of light,
The bees through woods and forests take their flight.
They rifle every flower, and lightly skim
The cryftal brook, and fip the running ftream:
And thus they feed their young with ftrange delight,
And knead the yielding wax, and work the flimy sweet.
But when on high you fee the bees repair,
Borne on the wind, through diftant tracts of air,
And view the winged cloud all blackening from afar ;
While fhady coverts and fresh steams they chufe,
Milfoil and common honey-fuckles bruise,
And sprinkle on their hives the fragrant juice.
On brazen veffels beat a tinkling found,
And shake the cymbals of the goddess round;
Then all will haftily retreat, and fill
The warm refounding hollow of their cell.
If once two rival kings their right debate,
And factions and cabals embroil the ftate,
The people's actions will their thoughts declare;
All their hearts tremble, and beat thick with war ;
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