But ftop not here: behold where Berkeley stands,
And executes his injur'd King's commands;
Around thy coaft his bursting bombs he pours
On flaming citadels, and falling towers;
With hiffing streams of fire the air they streak,
And hurl deftruction round them where they break,
The skies with long afcending flames are bright,
And all the fea 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 twirl'd on high,
Here molten stones and scatter'd cinders fly :
Its fury reaches the remotest coast,
And ftrows the Afiatic fhore with duft.
Now does the failor from the neighbouring main
Look after Gallic towns and forts in vain ;
No more his wonted marks he can defcry,
But fees a long unmeafur'd ruin lie;
Whilft, pointing to the naked coast, he shows
His wondering mates where towns and steeples rofe,
Where crowded citizens he lately view'd,
And singles out the place where once St. Maloes stood.
Here Ruffel's actions should my Muse require;
And, would my strength but second my defire,
I'd all his boundless bravery rehearse,
And draw his cannons thundering in my verfe ;
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 difperft on every shore?
Who can describe the scatter'd victory,
And draw the reader on from fea to fea?
Elfe who could Ormond's God-like acts refuse,
Ormond the theme of every Oxford Muse?
Fain would I here his mighty worth proclaim,
Attend him in the noble chace of fame,
Through all the noise and hurry of the fight.
Obferve each blow, and keep him still in fight.
Oh, did our British peers thus court renown,
And grace the coats their great fore-fathers won!
Our arms would then triumphantly advance,
Nor Henry be the last that conquer'd France.
What might not England hope, if fuch abroad
Purchas'd their country's honour with their blood :
When fuch, detain'd at home, fupport our ftate
In William's ftead, and bear a kingdom's weight,
The fchemes of Gallic policy o'erthrow,
And blaft the counfels of the common foe;
Direct our armies, and diftribute right,
And render our Maria's lofs more light.
But ftop, my Muse, th' ungrateful. found forbear,
Maria's name ftill wounds each British ear:
Each British heart Maria ftill does wound,
And tears burft out unbidden at the found;
Maria ftill our rifing mirth destroys,
Darkens our triumphs, and forbids our joys.
But fee, at length, the British ships appear!
Our Naffau comes! and as his fleet draws near,
The rifing mafts advance, the fails grow white,
And all his pompous navy floats in fight.
Come, mighty Prince, defir'd of Britain, come!
May Heaven's propitious gales attend thee home!
Come, and let longing crowds behold that look,
Which fuch confufion and amazement ftruck
Through Gallic hofts: but, oh! let us defcry
Mirth in thy brow, and pleasure in thine eye;
Let nothing dreadful in thy face be found,
But for a while forget the trumpet's found:
Well-pleas'd, thy people's loyalty approve,
Accept their duty, and enjoy their love.
For as, when lately mov'd with fierce delight,
You plung'd amidst the tumult of the fight,
Whole heaps of death encompafs'd you around,
And steeds o'er-turn'd lay foaming on the ground;
So crown'd with laurels now, where-e'er you go,
Around you blooming joys and peaceful bleffings flow.
EXCEPT THE STORY OF ARISTEUS.
Thereal sweets fhall next my Muse engage, And this, Mecenas, 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 fo the poet's praise, If great Apollo and the tuneful Nine Join in the piece, and make the work divine. First, for your bees a proper station find, That's fenc'd about and fhelter'd from the wind; For winds divert them in their flight, and drive The fwarms, when loaden homeward, from their hive. Nor fheep, nor goats, must pasture near their stores, To trample under foot the springing flowers;
Nor frifking heifers bound about the place,
To fpurn the dew-drops off, and bruise the rising grafs :
Nor muft the lizard's painted brood appear,
Nor wood-pecks, nor the fwallow harbour near.
They waste the swarms, and as they fly along
Convey the tender morfels to their young.
Let purling ftreams, and fountains edg'd with mofs, And fhallow rills, run trickling through the grass; Let branching olives o'er the fountain grow,
Or palms fhoot up, and shade the streams below;
That when the youth, led by their princes, shun
The crowded hive, and sport it in the fun,
Refreshing springs may tempt them from the heat,
And fhady coverts yield a cool retreat.
Whether the neighbouring water stands or runs,
Lay twigs across, and bridge it o'er with stones;
That if rough storms, or sudden blasts of wind,
Should dip, or fcatter those that lag behind,
Here they may fettle on the friendly stone,
And dry their reeking pinions at the sun.
Plant all the flowery banks with lavender,
With ftore of favory fcent the fragrant air,
Let running betony the field o'erspread,
And fountains foke the violet's dewy bed.
Though barks or plaited willows make your hive,
A narrow inlet to their cells contrive;
For colds congele 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 fuck out clammy dews from herbs and flowers,
To finear the chinks, and plaifter up the pores:
For this they hoard up glew, whofe clinging drops,
Like pitch, or birdlime, hang in stringy ropes.
They oft, 'tis faid, in dark retirements dwell,
And work in fubterraneous caves their cell;
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