With what amazing strength the forts were won,
Whilst the whole pow'r of France stood looking on.

But stop not here: behold where Berkley stands,
And executes his injur'd King's commands;
Around thy coast his bursting bombs he pours
On flaming cittadels and falling tow'rs;

With hizzing streams of fire the air they streak,
And hurl destruction round 'em where they break;
The skies with long ascending flames are bright,
And all the sea reflects a quivering light.

Thus Etna, when in fierce eruptions broke,
Fills heav'n 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:

Addison met Boileau, he may have recalled, perhaps, a celebrated ode of the French poet, and particularly the following lines:—

Accourez, Nassau, Bavière,

De ces murs l'unique espoir!
A couvert d'une rivière,
Venez, vous pouvez tout voir.
Considérez ces approches!
Voyez grimper sur ces roches
Ces athlètes belliqueux;

Et dans les eaux, dans la flamme
Louis, à tout donnant l'âme,

Marcher, courir avec eux.

Racine, who, as royal historiographer, was present at the first siege of Namur, has given many interesting details of it in his letters to Boileau. -G.

'Berkley. Lord Berkley's bombardment of Havre, Dieppe, &c., and his repulse before Brest, would hardly seem to be a fit subject of panegyric for a gentle nature like Addison's. The English endeavored to throw the blame of this mode of warfare upon the French and struck a medal, alluding to the use of bombs as a French invention by the inscription, Suis perit ignibus auctor; upon which a philosophic historian justly remarks, "L'exemple du crime ne justifie point celui qui l'imite.”—G.

Its fury reaches the remotest coast,

And strews the Asiatick shore with dust.

Now does the sailor from the neighbouring main

Look after Gallick towns and forts in vain;

No more his wonted marks he can descry,

But sees a long unmeasur'd ruine lie;
Whilst, pointing to the naked coast, he shows

His wond'ring 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,
I'd all his boundless bravery rehearse,
And draw his cannons thund'ring in my verse:
High on the deck shou'd 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 disperst on ev'ry shore?
Who can describe the scatter'd victory,
And draw the reader on from sea to sea?
Else who could Ormond's god-like acts refuse,
Ormond the theme of ev'ry Oxford muse?
Fain wou'd I here his mighty worth proclaim,
Attend him in the noble chase of fame,

Through all the noise and hurry of the fight,

Observe each blow, and keep him still in sight.

'Here Russel's actions, &c. Russel commanded at the battle of the Hogue, though he was at the time, like Marlborough and several other leading men, engaged in a secret, and therefore, traitorous correspondence with James.-G.

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 conquer'd France.
What might not England hope, if such abroad
Purchas'd their country's honour with their blood:
When such, detain'd at home, support our state
In William's stead, and bear a kingdom's weight,
The schemes of Gallick policy o'er-throw,
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, th' ungrateful sound forbear
Maria's name still wounds each British ear:
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 Nassau 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, desir'd of Britain, come!
May heav'n's propitious gales attend thee home!

1 Maria's name. Queen Mary died Dec. 28, 1694, and perhaps no better proof can be given of William's feelings as a husband, than his answer to Lord Somers, who coming to the king upon business of the highest moment, found him sitting at the end of his closet in an agony of grief—“My lord, do what you will: I can think of no business."—G.

■ Does wound. An unlucky blemish in this, otherwise, pretty passage.Yet it is a mistake to think that these feeble expletives, do, does, did, &c. as Pope calls them, are never to have a place in our verse: the rule is, "they should not be coupled with the verb." The reason is obvious

Come and let longing crowds behold that look,
Which such confusion and amazement strook
Through Gallick 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 a-while forget the trumpet's sound;
Well-pleas'd thy people's loyalty approve,
Accept their duty and enjoy their love.
For as when mov'd with fierce delight,
You plung'd amidst the tumult of the fight,
Whole heaps of dead encompass'd you around,
And steeds o'er-turned lay foaming on the ground:
So crown'd with laurels now, where-e'er you go,
Around you blooming joys, and peaceful blessings flow.

[Or this poem Addison gives the following account in a letter to E. Montague:-"During my passage over the mountains (the Alps, from Italy to Geneva, Dec. 1701), I made a rhyming epistle to my Lord Halifax, which perhaps I will trouble you with a sight of, if I don't find it to be nonsense upon a review."

Johnson says (Life of Addison, p. 75): "Whatever were his other employments in Italy, he there wrote the letter to Lord Halifax, which is justly considered as the most elegant, if not, the most sublime, of his poetical productions." And again (p. 106): "The letter from Italy has been always praised, but has never been praised beyond its merit. It is more correct, with less appearance of labor, and more elegant, with less ambition of ornament, than any other of his poems."

This poem was translated into Italian by Salvini, and the translation published both by Tickell and Hurd. We have omitted it in this edition. Salvini was an excellent grammarian and worthy representative of the Crusca, but a very feeble poet.

For a sketch of Lord Halifax see Johnson's Lives of the Poets-Halifax.-G.]

The subject, so inviting to our classical traveller, seems to have raised his fancy, and brightened his expression. Mr. Pope used to speak very favorably of this poem.