Jadis si prompts à marcher,
Qui devoient de la Tamise,
Et de la Drâve soumise,
Jusqu'à Paris nous chercher?

Cependant l'effroy redouble
Sous les remparts de Namur
Son gouverneur qui se trouble
S'enfuit sous son dernier mur.
Déja jusques à ses portes
Je voy monter nos cohortes,

La flame et le fer en main:
Et sur les monceaux de piques,
De corps morts, de rocs, de briques,
S'ouvrir un large chemin.

C'en est fait. Je viens d'entendre
Sur ces rochers éperdus
Battre un signal pour se rendre :
Le feu cesse. Ils sont rendus.
Dépoüillez vôtre arrogance,
Fiers ennemis de la France,
Et desormais gracieux,
Allez à Liege, à Bruxelles,
Porter les humbles nouvelles

De Namur pris à vous yeux.

Would it not spoil his noble task,

If any foolish Phrygian there is Impertinent enough to ask,

How far Namur may be from Paris?

Two stanzas more before we end,

Of death, pikes, rocks, arms, bricks, and fire; Leave them behind you, honest friend,

And with your countrymen retire.
Your ode is spoil'd; Namur is freed:
For Dixmuyd something yet is due ;
So good Count Guiscard may proceed";
But, Boufflers, sir, one word with you-

'Tis done. In sight of these commanders
Who neither fight nor raise the siege,
The foes of France march safe through Flanders,
Divide to Bruxelles or to Liege.

Send, Fame, this news to Trianon,

That Boufflers may new honours gain ;
He the same play by land has shown,
As Tourville did upon the main3.
Yet is the Marshal made a peer:
O, William! may thy arms advance,
That he may lose Dinant next year,
And so be Constable of France.

4 Count Guiscard was commander of the town of Namur, and Marshal Boufflers of the castle.

5 M. de Tourville commanded the French squadron, which engaged Admiral Russell off La Hogue, in 1692.

THE

GARLAND.

THE pride of every grove I chose,
The violet sweet and lily fair,
The dappled pink and blushing rose,
To deck my charming Chloe's hair.
At morn the nymph vouchsafed to place
Upon her brow the various wreath;
The flowers less blooming than her face,
The scent less fragrant than her breath.
The flowers she wore along the day,

And every nymph and shepherd said, That in her hair they look'd more gay Than glowing in their native bed. Undress'd at evening, when she found Their odours lost, their colours pass'd, She changed her look, and on the ground Her garland and her eye she cast. That eye dropp'd sense distinct and clear, As any Muse's tongue could speak, When from its lid a pearly tear

Ran trickling down her beauteous cheek. Dissembling what I knew too well,

My love, my life, (said I) explain

This change of humour; pr'ythee tell,

That falling tear-what does it mean?' She sigh'd; she smiled; and to the flowers Pointing, the lovely moralist said, 'See, friend, in some few fleeting hours, See yonder what a change is made!

Ah me! the blooming pride of May
And that of Beauty are but one;
At morn both flourish, bright and gay,
Both fade at evening, pale and gone.

At dawn poor Stella danced and sung,
The amorous youth around her bow'd;
At night her fatal knell was rung;

I saw and kiss'd her in her shroud. Such as she is who died to-day, Such I, alas! may be to-morrow; Go, Damon, bid thy Muse display The justice of thy Chloe's sorrow.'

THE VICEROY.

A BALLAD.

To the tune of Lady Isabella's Tragedy; or, the Stepmother's Cruelty.'

OF Nero1, tyrant, petty king,

Who heretofore did reign
In famed Hibernia, I will sing,
And in a ditty plain.

He hated was by rich and poor,
For reasons you shall hear;
So ill he exercised his power,
That he himself did fear.

1 This satire was justly levelled at Lord Coningsby, for his mal-administration when he was one of the Lords Justices of

Ireland.

Full proud and arrogant was he,
And covetous withall;

The guilty he would still set free,
But guiltless men inthral.

He with a haughty impious nod
Would curse and dogmatize,
Not fearing either man or God,
Gold he did idolize.

A patriot' of high degree,
Who could no longer bear
This upstart Viceroy's tyranny,
Against him did declare.

And, arm'd with truth, impeach'd the Don
Of his enormous crimes,
Which I'll unfold to you anon,

In low but faithful rhymes.

The articles recorded stand
Against this peerless peer,
Search but the archives of the land,
You'll find them written there 3.

Attend, and justly I'll recite
His treasons to you all,

The heads set in their native light,
(And sigh poor Gaphny's fall.)

That traitorously he did abuse
The power in him reposed,
And wickedly the same did use,
On all mankind imposed.

2 The Earl of Bellamont impeached Coningsby of hightreason in the English parliament.

3 Sabbati, 16 die Decembris, 5 Gulielmi et Mariæ, 1693.