LITMIR.BIZ

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        Such mountains rise, so many rivers flow:

        The toil looks lovely in the hero's eyes,

        And danger serves but to enhance the prize.

           Big with the fate of Europe, he renews

        His dreadful course, and the proud foe pursues:

        Infected by the burning Scorpion's heat,

        The sultry gales round his chafed temples beat,

        Till on the borders of the Maine he finds

        Defensive shadows and refreshing winds.

        Our British youth, with inborn freedom bold,

        Unnumbered scenes of servitude behold,

        Nations of slaves, with tyranny debased,

        (Their Maker's image more than half defaced,)

        Hourly instructed, as they urge their toil,

        To prize their queen, and love their native soil.

           Still to the rising sun they take their way

        Through clouds of dust, and gain upon the clay;

        When now the Neckar on its friendly coast

        With cooling streams revives the fainting host,

        That cheerfully its labours past forgets,

        The midnight watches, and the noonday heats.

           O'er prostrate towns and palaces they pass,

        (Now covered o'er with weeds and hid in grass,)

        Breathing revenge; whilst anger and disdain

        Fire every breast, and boil in every vein:

        Here shattered walls, like broken rocks, from far

        Rise up in hideous views, the guilt of war,

        Whilst here the vine o'er hills of ruin climbs,

        Industrious to conceal great Bourbon's crimes,

           At length the fame of England's hero drew,

        Eugenio to the glorious interview.

        Great souls by instinct to each other turn,

        Demand alliance, and in friendship burn;

        A sudden friendship, while with stretched-out rays

        They meet each other, mingling blaze with blaze.

        Polished in courts, and hardened in the field,

        Renowned for conquest, and in council skilled,

        Their courage dwells not in a troubled flood

        Of mounting spirits, and fermenting blood:

        Lodged in the soul, with virtue overruled,

        Inflamed by reason, and by reason cooled,

        In hours of peace content to be unknown,

        And only in the field of battle shown:

        To souls like these, in mutual friendship joined,

        Heaven dares intrust the cause of humankind.

           Britannia's graceful sons appear in arms,

        Her harassed troops the hero's presence warms,

        Whilst the high hills and rivers all around

        With thundering peals of British shouts resound:

        Doubling their speed, they march with fresh delight,

        Eager for glory, and require the fight.

        So the staunch hound the trembling deer pursues,

        And smells his footsteps in the tainted dews,

        The tedious track unravelling by degrees:

        But when the scent comes warm in every breeze,

        Fired at the near approach, he shoots away

        On his full stretch, and bears upon his prey.

           The march concludes, the various realms are past,

        The immortal Schellenberg appears at last:

        Like hills the aspiring ramparts rise on high,

        Like valleys at their feet the trenches lie;

        Batteries on batteries guard each fatal pass,

        Threatening destruction; rows of hollow brass,

        Tube behind tube, the dreadful entrance keep,

        Whilst in their wombs ten thousand thunders sleep:

        Great Churchill owns, charmed with the glorious sight,

        His march o'erpaid by such a promised fight.

           The western sun now shot a feeble ray,

        And faintly scattered the remains of day;

        Evening approached; but, oh! what hosts of foes

        Were never to behold that evening close!

        Thickening their ranks, and wedged in firm array,

        The close-compacted Britons win their way:

        In vain the cannon their thronged war defaced

        With tracts of death, and laid the battle waste;

        Still pressing forward to the fight, they broke

        Through flames of sulphur, and a night of smoke,

        Till slaughtered legions filled the trench below,

        And bore their fierce avengers to the foe.

           High on the works the mingling hosts engage;

        The battle, kindled into tenfold rage

        With showers of bullets and with storms of fire,

        Burns in full fury; heaps on heaps expire;

        Nations with nations mixed confus'dly die,

        And lost in one promiscuous carnage lie.

           How many generous Britons meet their doom,

        New to the field, and heroes in the bloom!

        The illustrious youths, that left their native shore

        To march where Britons never marched before,

        (O fatal love of fame! O glorious heat,

        Only destructive to the brave and great!)

        After such toils o'ercome, such dangers past,

        Stretched on Bavarian ramparts breathe their last.

        But hold, my Muse, may no complaints appear,

        Nor blot the day with an ungrateful tear:

        While Marlborough lives, Britannia's stars dispense

        A friendly light, and shine in innocence.

        Plunging through seas of blood his fiery steed

        Where'er his friends retire, or foes succeed;

        Those he supports, these drives to sudden flight,

        And turns the various fortune of the fight.

           Forbear, great man, renowned in arms, forbear

        To brave the thickest terrors of the war,

        Nor hazard thus, confused in crowds of foes,

        Britannia's safety, and the world's repose;

        Let nations, anxious for thy life, abate

        This

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