THE LORD TREASURER GODOLPHIN.

WHILE kings and nations on thy counfels wait,

And Anna trufts to thee the British state;

While fame, to thee, from every foreign coaft,
Flies with the news of empires won and loft,
Relates whate'er her bufy eyes beheld,
And tells the fortune of each bloody field;
While, with officious duty, crowds attend,
To hail the labours of thy god-like friend,
Vouchsafe the Muse's humbler joy to hear;
For facred numbers fhall be ftill thy care;
Though mean the verfe, though lowly be the ftrain,
Though leaft regarded be the Mufe, of all the tuneful
train,

Yet rife, neglected nymph, avow thy flame,
Affert th' infpiring god, and greatly aim
To make thy numbers equal to thy theme.
From heaven derive thy verse; to heaven belong
The counfels of the wife, and battles of the ftrong.
To heaven the royal Anna owes, alone,

The virtues which adorn and guard her throne;
Thence is her juftice wretches to redress,
Thence is her mercy and her love of place;

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Thence

Thence is her power, her fceptre uncontrol'd,
To bend the stubborn, and reprefs the bold;
Her peaceful arts fierce factions to affwage,
To heal their breaches, and to footh their rage;
Thence is that happy prudence, which prefides
In each defign, and every action guides;
Thence is the taught her fhining court to grace,
And fix the worthieft in the worthiest place,
To truft at home Godolphin's watchful care,
And fend victorious Churchill forth to war.

Arise, ye nations rescued by her sword,
Freed from the bondage of a foreign lord,
Arife, and join the heroine to bless,

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Behold the fends to fave you from diftrefs;

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Rich is the royal bounty the bestows,

'Tis plenty, peace, and fafety from your foes.

And thou, Iberia! rous'd at length, difdain
To wear inflav'd the Gallic tyrant's chain.
For fee! the British genius comes, to chear
Thy fainting fons, and kindle them to war.
With her own glorious fires their fouls fhe warms,
And bids them burn for liberty and arms.
Unhappy land! the foremost once in fame,
Once lifting to the ftars thy noble name,
In arts excelling, and in arms fevere,
The western kingdoms' envy, and their fear :
Where is thy pride, thy confcious honour, flown,
Thy ancient valour, and thy first renown?
How art thou funk among the nations now!
How haft thou taught thy haughty neck to bow,
And dropt the warrior's wreath inglorious from thy

brow!

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Not thus of old her valiant fathers bore
The bondage of the unbelieving Moor,
But, oft, alternate, made the victors yield,

And prov'd their might in many a well-fought field;
Bold in defence of liberty they stood,

And doubly dy'd their cross in Moorish blood:
Then in heroic arms their knights excell'd,
The tyrant then and giant then they quell'd,
Then every nobler thought their minds did move,
And those who fought for freedom, figh'd for love.
Like one, thofe facred flames united live,
At once they languish, and once revive;

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Alike they fun the coward and the flave,
But blefs the free, the virtuous, and the brave.
Nor frown, ye fair, nor think my verfe untrue;
Though we difdain that man fhould man fubdue,
Yet all the free-born race are flaves alike to you.
Yet, once again that glory to reftore,
The Britons feek the Celtiberian fhore.
With echoing peals, at Anna's high command,
Their naval thunder wakes the drowfy land;
High at their head, Iberia's promis'd lord,
Young Charles of Auftria, waves his fhining fword;.
His youthful veins with hopes of empire glow,
Swell his bold heart, and urge him on the foe :
With joy he reads, in every warrior's face,
Some happy omen of a fure fuccefs;

Nor fate denies, what firft his wishes name,

Proud Barcelona owns his jufter claim,

With

With the first laurel binds his youthful brows,

And, pledge of future crowns, the mural wreath beftows. But foon the equal of his youthful years,

Philip of Bourbon's haughty line appears ; Like hopes attend his birth, like glories grace, (If glory can be in a tyrant's race)

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In numbers proud, he threats no more from far, But nearer draws the black impending war; He views his höft, then fcorns the rebel town, And doom's to certain death the rival of his crown. Now fame and empire, all the nobler spoils That urge the hero, and reward his toils, Plac'd in their view, alike their hopes engage, And fire their breafts with more than mortal rage. Not lawless love, not vengeance, nor despair, Sò daring, fierce, untam'd, and furious are, As when ambition prompts the great to war; As youthful kings, when, ftriving for renown, They prove their might in arms, and combat for a crown. Hard was the cruel ftrife, and doubtful long Betwixt the chiefs fufpended conqueft hung; Till, forc'd at length, difdaining much to yield, 105. Charles to his rival quits the fatal field. Numbers and fortune o'er his right prevail, And ev'n the British valour feems to fail; And yet they fail'd not all. In that extreme, Confcious of virtue, liberty, and fame, They vow the youthful monarch's fate to fhare, Above diftrefs, unconquer'd by defpair,

Still to defend the town, and animate the war.

But

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But lo! when every better hope was past, When every day of danger seem'd their last, Far on the diftant ocean, they furvey, Where a proud navy plows its watery way. Nor long they doubted, but with joy defcry, Upon the chief's tall top-mafts waving high, The British cross and Belgic lion fly. Loud with tumultuous clamour, loud they rear Their cries of ecstasy, and rend the air; In peals on peals the fhouts triumphant rife, Spread fwift, and rattle through the spacious skies; While, from below, old ocean groans profound, The walls, the rocks, the fhores, repel the found, Ring with the deafening fhock, and thunder all around. Such was the joy the Trojan youth exprefs'd Who, by the fierce Rutilian's fiege distress'd, Were by the Tyrrhene aid at length releas'd; When young Afcanius, then in arms first try'd, Numbers and every other want supply'd, And haughty Turnus from his walls defy'd; Sav'd in the town an empire yet to come,

And fix'd the fate of his imperial Rome.

But oh! what verfe, what numbers, shall reveal Thofe pangs of rage and grief the vanquish'd feel! Who fhall retreating Philip's fhame impart,

And tell the anguish of his labouring heart'

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What paint, what speaking pencil, shall express 140 The blended paffions ftriving in his face!

Hate, indignation, courage, pride, remorse,

With thoughts of glory past, the loser's greatest curse.

Fatal