_50 Our late posterity, with secret dread, Shall view thy battles, and with pleasure read How, in the b.l.o.o.d.y field, too near advanced, The guiltless bullet on thy shoulder glanced.

The race of Na.s.saus 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.

_60 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, _70 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, _80 An undistinguished heap of dust is found, And all the pile lies smoking on the ground, His toils, for no ign.o.ble 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.

_90 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 G.o.ds 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 sh.o.r.e With horror hear the British engines roar; _100 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.

_110 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; _120 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.

_130 Or if no milder thought can calm thy mind, Behold the great avenger of mankind, See mighty Na.s.sau 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.

_140 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; _150 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 aetna, 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 sh.o.r.e 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 rehea.r.s.e, 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 sh.o.r.e?

Who can describe the scattered victory,

And draw the reader on from sea to sea?

_180 Else who could Ormond's G.o.dlike acts refuse, Ormond the theme of every Oxford Muse?

Fain would I here his mighty worth proclaim, Attend him in the n.o.ble 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 Na.s.sau 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 encompa.s.sed 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 ARISTaeUS.

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 gra.s.s; 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 gra.s.s; 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, Here they may settle on the friendly stone, And dry their reeking pinions at the sun.

Plant all the flowery banks with lavender, With store of savory scent the fragrant air; Let running betony the field o'erspread, And fountains soak the violet's dewy bed.

Though barks or plaited willows make your hive, _40 A narrow inlet to their cells contrive; For colds congeal and freeze the liquors up, And, melted down with heat, the waxen buildings drop.

The bees, of both extremes alike afraid, Their wax around the whistling crannies spread, And suck out clammy dews from herbs and flowers, To smear the c.h.i.n.ks, and plaster up the pores; For this they h.o.a.rd up glue, whose clinging drops, Like pitch or bird-lime, hang in stringy ropes.

They oft, 'tis said, in dark retirements dwell, _50 And work in subterraneous caves their cell; At other times the industrious insects live In hollow rocks, or make a tree their hive.

Point all their c.h.i.n.ky lodgings round with mud, And leaves must thinly on your work be strow'd; But let no baleful yew-tree flourish near, Nor rotten marshes send out steams of mire; Nor burning crabs grow red, and crackle in the fire: Nor neighbouring caves return the dying sound, Nor echoing rocks the doubled voice rebound.

_60 Things thus prepared---- When the under-world is seized with cold and night, And summer here descends in streams of light, The bees through woods and forests take their flight.

They rifle every flower, and lightly skim The crystal brook, and sip the running stream; And thus they feed their young with strange delight, And knead the yielding wax, and work the slimy sweet.

But when on high you see the bees repair, Borne on the winds through distant tracts of air, _70 And view the winged cloud all blackening from afar; While shady coverts and fresh streams they choose, Milfoil and common honeysuckles bruise, And sprinkle on their hives the fragrant juice.

On brazen vessels beat a tinkling sound, And shake the cymbals of the G.o.ddess round; Then all will hastily retreat, and fill The warm resounding hollow of their cell.

If once two rival kings their right debate, And factions and cabals embroil the state, _80 The people's actions will their thoughts declare; All their hearts tremble, and beat thick with war; Hoa.r.s.e, broken sounds, like trumpets' harsh alarms, Run through the hive, and call them to their arms; All in a hurry spread their shivering wings, And fit their claws, and point their angry stings: In crowds before the king's pavilion meet, And boldly challenge out the foe to fight: At last, when all the heavens are warm and fair, They rush together out, and join; the air _90 Swarms thick, and echoes with the humming war.

All in a firm round cl.u.s.ter mix, and strow With heaps of little corps the earth below, As thick as hailstones from the floor rebound, Or shaken acorns rattle on the ground.

No sense of danger can their kings control, Their little bodies lodge a mighty soul: Each obstinate in arms pursues his blow, Till shameful flight secures the routed foe.

This hot dispute and all this mighty fray _100 A little dust flung upward will allay.

But when both kings are settled in their hive, Mark him who looks the worst, and, lest he live Idle at home in ease and luxury, The lazy monarch must be doomed to die; So let the royal insect rule alone, And reign without a rival in his throne.

The kings are different; one of better note, All speck'd with gold, and many a shining spot, Looks gay, and glistens in a gilded coat; _110 But love of ease, and sloth, in one prevails, That scarce his hanging paunch behind him trails: The people's looks are different as their kings', Some sparkle bright, and glitter in their wings; Others look loathsome and diseased with sloth, Like a faint traveller, whose dusty mouth Grows dry with heat, and spits a mawkish froth.

The first are best---- From their o'erflowing combs you'll often press Pure luscious sweets, that mingling in the gla.s.s _120 Correct the harshness of the racy juice, And a rich flavour through the wine diffuse.

But when they sport abroad, and rove from home, And leave the cooling hive, and quit the unfinished comb, Their airy ramblings are with ease confined, Clip their king's wings, and if they stay behind No bold usurper dares invade their right, Nor sound a march, nor give the sign for flight.

Let flowery banks entice them to their cells, And gardens all perfumed with native smells; _130 Where carved Priapus has his fixed abode, The robber's terror, and the scarecrow G.o.d.

Wild thyme and pine-trees from their barren hill Transplant, and nurse them in the neighbouring soil, Set fruit-trees round, nor e'er indulge thy sloth, But water them, and urge their shady growth.

And here, perhaps, were not I giving o'er, And striking sail, and making to the sh.o.r.e, I'd show what art the gardener's toils require, Why rosy paestum blushes twice a year; _140 What streams the verdant succory supply, And how the thirsty plant drinks rivers dry; With what a cheerful green does parsley grace, And writhes the bellying cuc.u.mber along the twisted gra.s.s; Nor would I pa.s.s the soft acanthus o'er, Ivy nor myrtle-trees that love the sh.o.r.e; Nor daffodils, that late from earth's slow womb Unrumple their swoln buds, and show their yellow bloom.

For once I saw in the Tarentine vale, Where slow Galesus drenched the washy soil, _150 An old Corician yeoman, who had got A few neglected acres to his lot, Where neither corn nor pasture graced the field, Nor would the vine her purple harvest yield; But savoury herbs among the thorns were found, Vervain and poppy-flowers his garden crown'd, And drooping lilies whitened all the ground.

Blest with these riches he could empires slight, And when he rested from his toils at night, The earth unpurchased dainties would afford, _160 And his own garden furnished out his board: The spring did first his opening roses blow, First ripening autumn bent his fruitful bough.

When piercing colds had burst the brittle stone, And freezing rivers stiffened as they run, He then would prune the tenderest of his trees, Chide the late spring, and lingering western breeze: His bees first swarmed, and made his vessels foam With the rich squeezing of the juicy comb.

Here lindens and the sappy pine increased; _170 Here, when gay flowers his smiling orchard dressed, As many blossoms as the spring could show, So many dangling apples mellowed on the bough.

In rows his elms and knotty pear-trees bloom, And thorns enn.o.bled now to bear a plum, And spreading plane-trees, where, supinely laid, He now enjoys the cool, and quaffs beneath the shade.

But these for want of room I must omit, And leave for future poets to recite.

Now I'll proceed their natures to declare, _180 Which Jove himself did on the bees confer Because, invited by the timbrel's sound, Lodged in a cave, the almighty babe they found, And the young G.o.d nursed kindly under-ground.

Of all the winged inhabitants of air, These only make their young the public care; In well-disposed societies they live, And laws and statutes regulate their hive; Nor stray like others unconfined abroad, But know set stations, and a fixed abode: _190 Each provident of cold in summer flies Through fields and woods, to seek for new supplies, And in the common stock unlades his thighs.

Some watch the food, some in the meadows ply, Taste every bud, and suck each blossom dry; Whilst others, labouring in their cells at home, Temper Narcissus' clammy tears with gum, For the first groundwork of the golden comb; On this they found their waxen works, and raise The yellow fabric on its gluey base.

_200 Some educate the young, or hatch the seed With vital warmth, and future nations breed; Whilst others thicken all the slimy dews, And into purest honey work the juice; Then fill the hollows of the comb, and swell With luscious nectar every flowing cell.

By turns they watch, by turns with curious eyes Survey the heavens, and search the clouded skies, To find out breeding storms, and tell what tempests rise.

By turns they ease the loaden swarms, or drive _210 The drone, a lazy insect, from their hive.

The work is warmly plied through all the cells, And strong with thyme the new-made honey smells.

So in their caves the brawny Cyclops sweat, When with huge strokes the stubborn wedge they beat, And all the unshapen thunderbolt complete; Alternately their hammers rise and fall; Whilst griping tongs turn round the glowing ball.

With puffing bellows some the flames increase, And some in waters dip the hissing ma.s.s; _220 Their beaten anvils dreadfully resound, And aetna shakes all o'er, and thunders under-ground.

Thus, if great things we may with small compare, The busy swarms their different labours share.

Desire of profit urges all degrees; The aged insects, by experience wise, Attend the comb, and fashion every part, And shape the waxen fret-work out with art: The young at night, returning from their toils, Bring home their thighs clogged with the meadows' spoils.

_230 On lavender and saffron buds they feed, On bending osiers and the balmy reed, From purple violets and the teile they bring Their gathered sweets, and rifle all the spring.

All work together, all together rest, The morning still renews their labours past; Then all rush out, their different tasks pursue, Sit on the bloom, and suck the ripening dew; Again, when evening warns them to their home, With weary wings and heavy thighs they come, _240 And crowd about the c.h.i.n.k, and mix a drowsy hum.

Into their cells at length they gently creep, There all the night their peaceful station keep, Wrapt up in silence, and dissolved in sleep.

None range abroad when winds and storms are nigh, Nor trust their bodies to a faithless sky, But make small journeys with a careful wing, And fly to water at a neighbouring spring; And lest their airy bodies should be cast In restless whirls, the sport of every blast, _250 They carry stones to poise them in their flight, As ballast keeps the unsteady vessel right.

But, of all customs that the bees can boast, 'Tis this may challenge admiration most; That none will Hymen's softer joys approve, Nor waste their spirits in luxurious love, But all a long virginity maintain, And bring forth young without a mother's pain: From herbs and flowers they pick each tender bee, And cull from plants a buzzing progeny; _260 From these they choose out subjects, and create A little monarch of the rising state; Then build wax kingdoms for the infant prince, And form a palace for his residence.

But often in their journeys, as they fly, On flints they tear their silken wings, or lie Grovelling beneath their flowery load, and die.

Thus love of honey can an insect fire, And in a fly such generous thoughts inspire.

Yet by repeopling their decaying state, _270 Though seven short springs conclude their vital date, Their ancient stocks eternally remain, And in an endless race their children's children reign.

No prostrate va.s.sal of the East can more With slavish fear his haughty prince adore; His life unites them all; but, when he dies, All in loud tumults and distractions rise; They waste their honey and their combs deface, And wild confusion reigns in every place.

Him all admire, all the great guardian own, _280 And crowd about his courts, and buzz about his throne.

Oft on their backs their weary prince they bear, Oft in his cause, embattled in the air, Pursue a glorious death, in wounds and war.

Some, from such instances as these, have taught, 'The bees' extract is heavenly; for they thought The universe alive; and that a soul, Diffused throughout the matter of the whole, To all the vast unbounded frame was given, And ran through earth, and air, and sea, and all the deep of heaven; _290 That this first kindled life in man and beast, Life, that again flows into this at last.

That no compounded animal could die, But when dissolved, the spirit mounted high, Dwelt in a star, and settled in the sky.'