The Poetical Works of Addison; Gay's Fables; and Somerville's Chase. Джозеф Аддисон

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as of late o'er pale Britannia passed,6

        Calm and serene he drives the furious blast;

        And, pleased the Almighty's orders to perform,

        Hides in the whirlwind, and directs the storm.

           But see the haughty household-troops advance!

        The dread of Europe, and the pride of France.

        The war's whole art each private soldier knows,

        And with a general's love of conquest glows;

        Proudly he marches on, and, void of fear,

        Laughs at the shaking of the British spear:

        Vain insolence! with native freedom brave,

        The meanest Briton scorns the highest slave;

        Contempt and fury fire their souls by turns,

        Each nation's glory in each warrior burns,

        Each fights, as in his arm the important day

        And all the fate of his great monarch lay:

        A thousand glorious actions, that might claim

        Triumphant laurels, and immortal fame,

        Confused in clouds of glorious actions lie,

        And troops of heroes undistinguished die.

        O Dormer, how can I behold thy fate,

        And not the wonders of thy youth relate!

        How can I see the gay, the brave, the young,

        Fall in the cloud of war and lie unsung!

        In joys of conquest he resigns his breath,

        And, filled with England's glory, smiles in death.

           The rout begins, the Gallic squadrons run,

        Compelled in crowds to meet the fate they shun;

        Thousands of fiery steeds with wounds transfixed

        Floating in gore, with their dead masters mixed,

        Midst heaps of spears and standards driven around,

        Lie in the Danube's bloody whirlpools drowned,

        Troops of bold youths, born on the distant Soane,

        Or sounding borders of the rapid Rhône,

        Or where the Seine her flowery fields divides,

        Or where the Loire through winding vineyards glides;

        In heaps the rolling billows sweep away,

        And into Scythian seas their bloated corps convey.

        From Blenheim's towers the Gaul, with wild affright,

        Beholds the various havoc of the fight;

        His waving banners, that so oft had stood,

        Planted in fields of death, and streams of blood,

        So wont the guarded enemy to reach,

        And rise triumphant in the fatal breach,

        Or pierce the broken foe's remotest lines,

        The hardy veteran with tears resigns.

           Unfortunate Tallard!7 Oh, who can name

        The pangs of rage, of sorrow, and of shame,

        That with mixed tumult in thy bosom swelled!

        When first thou saw'st thy bravest troops repelled,

        Thine only son pierced with a deadly wound,

        Choked in his blood, and gasping on the ground,

        Thyself in bondage by the victor kept!

        The chief, the father, and the captive wept.

        An English Muse is touched with generous woe,

        And in the unhappy man forgets the foe.

        Greatly distressed! thy loud complaints forbear,

        Blame not the turns of fate, and chance of war;

        Give thy brave foes their due, nor blush to own

        The fatal field by such great leaders won,

        The field whence famed Eugenio bore away

        Only the second honours of the day.

           With floods of gore that from the vanquished fell,

        The marshes stagnate, and the rivers swell.

        Mountains of slain lie heaped upon the ground,

        Or 'midst the roarings of the Danube drowned;

        Whole captive hosts the conqueror detains

        In painful bondage and inglorious chains;

        Even those who'scape the fetters and the sword,

        Nor seek the fortunes of a happier lord,

        Their raging king dishonours, to complete

        Marlborough's great work, and finish the defeat.

           From Memminghen's high domes, and Augsburg's walls,

        The distant battle drives the insulting Gauls;

        Freed by the terror of the victor's name,

        The rescued states his great protection claim;

        Whilst Ulm the approach of her deliverer waits,

        And longs to open her obsequious gates.

           The hero's breast still swells with great designs,

        In every thought the towering genius shines:

        If to the foe his dreadful course he bends,

        O'er the wide continent his march extends;

        If sieges in his labouring thoughts are formed,

        Camps are assaulted, and an army stormed;

        If to the fight his active soul is bent,

        The fate of Europe turns on its event.

        What distant land, what region, can afford

        An action worthy his victorious sword?

        Where will he next the flying Gaul defeat,

        To make the series of his toils complete?

           Where the swoln Rhine, rushing with all its force,

        Divides the hostile nations in its course,

        While each contracts its bounds, or wider grows,

        Enlarged or straitened as the river flows,

        On Gallia's side a mighty bulwark stands,

        That all the wide extended plain commands;

        Twice, since the war was kindled, has it tried

        The victor's rage, and twice has changed its side;

        As oft whole armies, with the prize o'erjoyed,

        Have the long summer on its walls employed.

        Hither our mighty chief his arms directs,

        Hence future triumphs from the war expects;

        And though the dog-star had its course begun,

        Carries his arms still nearer to the sun:

        Fixed on the glorious action, he forgets

        The change of seasons, and increase

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