Читать книгу English Poets of the Eighteenth Century - Various - Страница 42

Behold in awful march and dread array

The long-extended squadrons shape their way!

Death, in approaching terrible, imparts

An anxious horror to the bravest hearts;

Yet do their beating breasts demand the strife,

And thirst of glory quells the love of life.

No vulgar fears can British minds control:

Heat of revenge and noble pride of soul

O'er look the foe, advantaged by his post,

Lessen his numbers, and contract his host;

Though fens and floods possessed the middle space,

That unprovoked they would have feared to pass,

Nor fens nor floods can stop Britannia's bands

When her proud foe ranged on their borders stands.

But, O my Muse, what numbers wilt thou find

To sing the furious troops in battle joined!

Methinks I hear the drum's tumultuous sound

The victor's shouts and dying groans confound,

The dreadful burst of cannon rend the skies,

And all the thunder of the battle rise!

'Twas then great Malborough's mighty soul was proved,

That, in the shock of charging hosts unmoved,

Amidst confusion, horror, and despair,

Examined all the dreadful scenes of death surveyed,

To fainting squadrons sent the timely aid,

Inspired repulsed battalions to engage,

And taught the doubtful battle where to rage.

So when an angel by divine command

With rising tempests shakes a guilty land,

Such as of late o'er pale Britannia passed,

Calm and serene he drives the furious blast,

And, pleases th' Almighty's orders to perform,

Rides in the whirlwind, and directs the storm.