Читать книгу The Poetical Works of Addison; Gay's Fables; and Somerville's Chase - John Gay - Страница 15

When now the business of the field is o'er,

The trumpets sleep, and cannons cease to roar;

When every dismal echo is decay'd,

And all the thunder of the battle laid;

Attend, auspicious prince, and let the Muse

In humble accents milder thoughts infuse.

Others, in bold prophetic numbers skill'd,

Set thee in arms, and led thee to the field;

My Muse, expecting, on the British strand

Waits thy return, and welcomes thee to land:

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She oft has seen thee pressing on the foe,

When Europe was concerned in every blow;

But durst not in heroic strains rejoice; is

The trumpets, drums, and cannons drowned her voice:

She saw the Boyne run thick with human gore,

And floating corps lie beating on the shore:

She saw thee climb the banks, but tried in vain

To trace her hero through the dusty plain,

When through the thick embattled lines he broke,

Now plunged amidst the foes, now lost in clouds of smoke.

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Oh that some Muse, renowned for lofty verse,

In daring numbers would thy toils rehearse!

Draw thee beloved in peace, and feared in wars,

Inured to noonday sweats, and midnight cares!

But still the godlike man, by some hard fate,

Receives the glory of his toils too late;

Too late the verse the mighty act succeeds;

One age the hero, one the poet breeds.

A thousand years in full succession ran

Ere Virgil raised his voice, and sung the man

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Who, driven by stress of fate, such dangers bore

On stormy seas and a disastrous shore,

Before he settled in the promised earth,

And gave the empire of the world its birth.

Troy long had found the Grecians bold and fierce,

Ere Homer mustered up their troops in verse;

Long had Achilles quelled the Trojans' lust,

And laid the labour of the gods in dust,

Before the towering Muse began her flight,

And drew the hero raging in the fight,

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Engaged in tented fields and rolling floods,

Or slaughtering mortals, or a match for gods.

And here, perhaps, by fate's unerring doom,

Some mighty bard lies hid in years to come,

That shall in William's godlike acts engage,

And with his battles warm a future age.

Hibernian fields shall here thy conquests show,

And Boyne be sung when it has ceased to flow;

Here Gallic labours shall advance thy fame,

And here Seneffe[3] shall wear another name.

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Our late posterity, with secret dread,

Shall view thy battles, and with pleasure read

How, in the bloody field, too near advanced,

The guiltless bullet on thy shoulder glanced.

The race of Nassaus was by Heaven design'd

To curb the proud oppressors of mankind,

To bind the tyrants of the earth with laws,

And fight in every injured nation's cause,

The world's great patriots; they for justice call,

And, as they favour, kingdoms rise or fall.

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Our British youth, unused to rough alarms,

Careless of fame, and negligent of arms,

Had long forgot to meditate the foe,

And heard unwarmed the martial trumpet blow;

But now, inspired by thee, with fresh delight

Their swords they brandish, and require the fight,

Renew their ancient conquests on the main,

And act their fathers' triumphs o'er again;

Fired, when they hear how Agincourt was strow'd

With Gallic corps and Cressi swam in blood,

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With eager warmth they fight, ambitious all

Who first shall storm the breach, or mount the wall.

In vain the thronging enemy by force

Would clear the ramparts, and repel their course;

They break through all, for William leads the way,

Where fires rage most, and loudest engines play.

Namur's late terrors and destruction show

What William, warmed with just revenge, can do:

Where once a thousand turrets raised on high

Their gilded spires, and glittered in the sky,

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An undistinguished heap of dust is found,

And all the pile lies smoking on the ground,

His toils, for no ignoble ends design'd,

Promote the common welfare of mankind;

No wild ambition moves, but Europe's fears,

The cries of orphans, and the widow's tears;

Oppressed religion gives the first alarms,

And injured justice sets him in his arms;

His conquests freedom to the world afford,

And nations bless the labours of his sword.

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Thus when the forming Muse would copy forth

A perfect pattern of heroic worth,

She sets a man triumphant in the field,

O'er giants cloven down, and monsters kill'd,

Reeking in blood, and smeared with dust and sweat,

Whilst angry gods conspire to make him great.

Thy navy rides on seas before unpress'd,

And strikes a terror through the haughty East;

Algiers and Tunis from their sultry shore

With horror hear the British engines roar;

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Fain from the neighbouring dangers would they run,

And wish themselves still nearer to the sun.

The Gallic ships are in their ports confined,

Denied the common use of sea and wind,

Nor dare again the British strength engage;

Still they remember that destructive rage

Which lately made their trembling host retire,

Stunned with the noise, and wrapt in smoke and fire;

The waves with wide unnumbered wrecks were strow'd,

And planks, and arms, and men, promiscuous flow'd.

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Spain's numerous fleet, that perished on our coast,

Could scarce a longer line of battle boast,

The winds could hardly drive them to their fate,

And all the ocean laboured with the weight.

Where'er the waves in restless errors roll,

The sea lies open now to either pole:

Now may we safely use the northern gales,

And in the Polar Circle spread our sails;

Or deep in southern climes, secure from wars,

New lands explore, and sail by other stars;

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Fetch uncontrolled each labour of the sun,

And make the product of the world our own.

At length, proud prince, ambitious Louis, cease

To plague mankind, and trouble Europe's peace;

Think on the structures which thy pride has razed,

On towns unpeopled, and on fields laid waste;

Think on the heaps of corps and streams of blood,

On every guilty plain, and purple flood,

Thy arms have made, and cease an impious war,

Nor waste the lives intrusted to thy care.

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Or if no milder thought can calm thy mind,

Behold the great avenger of mankind,

See mighty Nassau through the battle ride,

And see thy subjects gasping by his side:

Fain would the pious prince refuse the alarm,

Fain would he check the fury of his arm;

But when thy cruelties his thoughts engage,

The hero kindles with becoming rage,

Then countries stolen, and captives unrestored,

Give strength to every blow, and edge his sword.

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Behold with what resistless force he falls

On towns besieged, and thunders at thy walls!

Ask Villeroy, for Villeroy beheld

The town surrendered, and the treaty seal'd,

With what amazing strength the forts were won,

Whilst the whole power of France stood looking on.

But stop not here: behold where Berkley stands,

And executes his injured king's commands!

Around thy coast his bursting bombs he pours

On flaming citadels and falling towers;

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With hissing streams of fire the air they streak,

And hurl destruction round 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.

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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,

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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,