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them where they break;

       The skies with long ascending flames are bright,

       And all the sea reflects a quivering light.

       Thus Ætna, when in fierce eruptions broke,

       Fills heaven with ashes, and the earth with smoke;

       Here crags of broken rocks are twirled on high,

       Here molten stones and scattered cinders fly:

       Its fury reaches the remotest coast,

       And strows the Asiatic shore with dust.

       _160

       Now does the sailor from the neighbouring main

       Look after Gallic towns and forts in vain;

       No more his wonted marks he can descry,

       But sees a long unmeasured ruin lie;

       Whilst, pointing to the naked coast, he shows

       His wondering mates where towns and steeples rose,

       Where crowded citizens he lately view'd,

       And singles out the place where once St. Maloes stood.

       Here Russel's actions should my Muse require;

       And, would my strength but second my desire,

       _170

       I'd all his boundless bravery rehearse,

       And draw his cannons thundering in my verse:

       High on the deck should the great leader stand,

       Wrath in his look, and lightning in his hand;

       Like Homer's Hector, when he flung his fire

       Amidst a thousand ships, and made all Greece retire.

       But who can run the British triumphs o'er,

       And count the flames dispersed on every shore?

       Who can describe the scattered victory,

      And draw the reader on from sea to sea?

       _180

       Else who could Ormond's godlike acts refuse,

       Ormond the theme of every Oxford Muse?

       Fain would I here his mighty worth proclaim,

       Attend him in the noble chase of fame,

       Through all the noise and hurry of the fight,

       Observe each blow, and keep him still in sight.

       Oh, did our British peers thus court renown,

       And grace the coats their great forefathers won,

       Our arms would then triumphantly advance,

       Nor Henry be the last that conquered France!

       _190

       What might not England hope, if such abroad

       Purchased their country's honour with their blood:

       When such, detained at home, support our state

       In William's stead, and bear a kingdom's weight,

       The schemes of Gallic policy o'erthrow,

       And blast the counsels of the common foe;

       Direct our armies, and distribute right,

       And render our Maria's loss more light.

       But stop, my Muse, the ungrateful sound forbear,

       Maria's name still wounds each British ear:

       _200

       Each British heart Maria still does wound,

       And tears burst out unbidden at the sound;

       Maria still our rising mirth destroys,

       Darkens our triumphs, and forbids our joys.

       But see, at length, the British ships appear!

       Our Nassau comes! and, as his fleet draws near,

       The rising masts advance, the sails grow white,

       And all his pompous navy floats in sight.

       Come, mighty prince, desired of Britain, come!

       May heaven's propitious gales attend thee home!

       _210

       Come, and let longing crowds behold that look

       Which such confusion and amazement strook

       Through Gallic hosts: but, oh! let us descry

       Mirth in thy brow, and pleasure in thy eye;

       Let nothing dreadful in thy face be found;

       But for awhile forget the trumpet's sound;

       Well-pleased, thy people's loyalty approve,

       Accept their duty, and enjoy their love.

       For as, when lately moved with fierce delight,

       You plunged amidst the tumult of the fight,

       _220

       Whole heaps of dead encompassed you around,

       And steeds o'erturned lay foaming on the ground:

       So crowned with laurels now, where'er you go,

       Around you blooming joys and peaceful blessings flow.

      A TRANSLATION OF ALL

      VIRGIL'S FOURTH GEORGIC,

      EXCEPT THE STORY OF ARISTÆUS.

      Ethereal sweets shall next my Muse engage,

       And this, Maecenas, claims your patronage.

       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 so the poet's praise,

       If great Apollo and the tuneful Nine

       First, for your bees a proper station find,

       _10

       That's fenced about, and sheltered from the wind;

       For winds divert them in their flight, and drive

       The swarms, when loaden homeward, from their hive.

       Nor sheep, nor goats, must pasture near their stores,

       To trample underfoot the springing flowers;

       Nor frisking heifers bound about the place,

       To spurn the dew-drops off, and bruise the rising grass;

       Nor must the lizard's painted brood appear,

       Nor wood-pecks, nor the swallow, harbour near.

       They waste the swarms, and, as they fly along,

       _20

       Convey the tender morsels to their young.

       Let purling streams, and fountains edged with moss,

       And shallow rills run trickling through the grass;

       Let branching olives o'er the fountain grow;

       Or palms shoot up, and shade the streams below;

       That when the youth, led by their princes, shun

       The crowded hive and sport it in the sun,

       Refreshing springs may tempt them from the heat,

       And shady coverts yield a cool retreat.

       Whether the neighbouring water stands or runs,

       _30

       Lay twigs across and bridge it o'er with stones

       That if rough storms, or sudden blasts of wind,

       Should dip or scatter those that lag behind,

      

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