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PROSPECT OF PEACE,
Α Ρ Ο Ε Μ.
Fronde Super MITRAM, et fælici comptus olivå. Virc.
Ontending kings, and fields of death, too long
Have been the subject of the British song.
Who hath not read of fam'd Ramilia's plain,
Bavaria’s fall, and Danube choakd with slain
Exhausted themes! A gentler note I raise,
And fing returning Peace in fofter lays.
Their fury quell'd, and martial rage állay'd,
I wait our heroes in the fylvan shade.
Difbanding hosts are imag'd to my mind,
And warring pow'rs in friendly leagues combin'd;
While ease and pleasure make the nations smile,
And heav'n and ANNA blefs Britannia's ifle.
Well fends our Queen her mitred Bristol forth,
For early counsels fan’d, and long-try'd worth,
Who, thirty rolling years, had oft with-held
The Suede and Saxon from the dusty field;
Compleatly form’d, to heal the Christian wounds,
To name the kings, and give each kingdom bounds ;
The face of ravag'd nature to repair,
By leagues to foften earth, and heav'n by pray'r;
To gain by love, where rage and Naughter fail,
And make the crosier o'er the sword prevail.
So when great Mofes, with JeHOVAH's wand,
Had scatter'd plagues o'er stubborn Pharaoh's land,
Now spread an host of locusts round the shore,
Now turn’d Nile's fattning streams to putrid gore;
Plenty and gladness mark'd the priest of God,
And sudden almonds shot from Aaron's rod.
O thou, from whom these bounteous blefings flow,
To whom, as chief, the hopes of peace we owe,
(For next to thee, the man whom kings contend
To stile companion, and to make their friend,
Great StraffORD, rich in every courtly grace,
With joyful pride accepts the second place)
From Britain's isle, and Ifis' sacred spring
One hour, oh! liften while the Muses fing.
Though ministers of mighty monarchs wait,
With beating hearts, to learn their master's fate,
One hour forbear to speak thy Queen's commands,
Nor think the world, thy charge, neglected stands;
The blissful prospects, in my verfe display'd,
May lure the stubborn, the deceiv'd persuade,
Ev’n thou to peace fhalt speedier urge the way,
And more be haften'd by this short delay.
The haughty Gaul, in ten campaigns o'erthrown,
Now ceas'd to think the western world his own.
Oft had he mourn'd his boasting leaders bound,
And his proud bulwarks smoaking on the ground;
In vain with pow’rs renew'd he fill'd the plain,
Made tim'rous vows,
and brib'd the faints in vain;
As oft his legions did the fight decline,
Lurk'd in the trench, and skulk'd behind the line.
Before his eyes the fancy'd javelin gleams ;
At feasts he starts, and seems dethron'd in dreams ;
On glory past reflects with secret pain,
On mines exhausted, and on millions slain.
To Britain's Queen the scepter'd suppliant bends,
To her his crowns and infant race commends,
Who grieves her fame with christian blood to buy,
Nor asks for glory at a price fo high.
At her decree the war suspended stands,
And Britain's heroes hold their lifted hands :
Their open brows no threatning frowns disguise,
But gentler passions sparkle in their eyes.
The Gauls, who never in their courts could find
Such temper'd fire with manly beauty join'd,
Doubt if they're those, whom dreadful to the view
In forms fo fierce their fearful fancies drew,
At whose dire names ten thousand widows press'd
Their helpless orphans clinging to the breaft.
In filent rapture each his fợe surveys,
They vow firm friendship, and give mutual praise.
Brave minds, howe'er at war, are secret friends,
Their gen'rous discord with the battle ends;
In peace they wonder whence diffention rose,
And ask how souls so like could e'er be foeş.
Methinks I hear more friendly fhouts rebound,
And social clarions mix their sprightly found ;
The British flags are furld, her troops disband,
And scatter'd armies seek their native land.
The hardy veteran, proud of many a scar,
The manly charms and honours of the war,
Who hop'd to share his friend's illustrious doom,
And in the battle find a soldier's tomb,
Leans on his spear to take his farewel view,
And fighing bids the glorious camp adieu.
Ye generous fair, receive the brave with smiles,
O’erpay their sleepless nights, and crown their toils;
Soft beauty is the gallant soldier's due,
For you they conquer, and they bleed for you.
In vain proud Gaul with boastful Spain conspires,
When Englifh valour English beauty fires;
The nations dread your eyes, and kings despair
Of chiefs fo brave, 'till they have nymphs fo fair.
See the fond wife, in tears of transport drown'd,
Hugs her rough lord, and weeps o'er every wound;
Hangs on the lips, that fields of blood relate,
And smiles and trembles, at his various fate.
Near the full bowl he draws the fancied line,
And marks feign'd trenches in the flowing wine,
Then sets th' invested fort before her eyes,
And mines that whirpd battalions to the kies ;
His little liftning progeny turn pale,
And beg again to hear the dreadful tale.
Such dire atchievements fings the bard that tells
Of palfrey'd dames, bold knights, and magic spells;
Where whole brigades one champion's arms o'erthrow,
And cleave a giant at a random blow;
Slay panyms vile, that force the fair; and tame
The goblin's fury, and the dragon's flame.
Our eager youth to diftant nations run,
To visit fields their valiant fathers won ;
From Flandria's fhore their country's fame they trace,
"Till far Germania fhews her blasted face.
Th' exulting Briton asks his mournful guide,
Where his hard fate the loft Bavaria try'd ;
Where Stepney gray'd the stone to Anna's fame :
He points to Blenheim, once a vulgar name;