The Poetical Works of Addison; Gay's Fables; and Somerville's Chase. Джозеф Аддисон

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        Crossing the provinces himself had won,

        Till the Moselle, appearing from afar,

        Retards the progress of the moving war.

        Delightful stream, had Nature bid her fall

        In distant climes, far from the perjured Gaul;

        But now a purchase to the sword she lies,

        Her harvests for uncertain owners rise,

        Each vineyard doubtful of its master grows,

        And to the victor's bowl each vintage flows.

        The discontented shades of slaughtered hosts,

        That wandered on her banks, her heroes' ghosts,

        Hoped, when they saw Britannia's arms appear,

        The vengeance due to their great deaths was near.

           Our godlike leader, ere the stream he passed,

        The mighty scheme of all his labours cast,

        Forming the wondrous year within his thought;

        His bosom glowed with battles yet unfought.

        The long, laborious march he first surveys,

        And joins the distant Danube to the Mæse,

        Between whose floods such pathless forests grow,

        Such mountains rise, so many rivers flow:

        The toil looks lovely in the hero's eyes,

        And danger serves but to enhance the prize.

           Big with the fate of Europe, he renews

        His dreadful course, and the proud foe pursues:

        Infected by the burning Scorpion's heat,

        The sultry gales round his chafed temples beat,

        Till on the borders of the Maine he finds

        Defensive shadows and refreshing winds.

        Our British youth, with inborn freedom bold,

        Unnumbered scenes of servitude behold,

        Nations of slaves, with tyranny debased,

        (Their Maker's image more than half defaced,)

        Hourly instructed, as they urge their toil,

        To prize their queen, and love their native soil.

           Still to the rising sun they take their way

        Through clouds of dust, and gain upon the clay;

        When now the Neckar on its friendly coast

        With cooling streams revives the fainting host,

        That cheerfully its labours past forgets,

        The midnight watches, and the noonday heats.

           O'er prostrate towns and palaces they pass,

        (Now covered o'er with weeds and hid in grass,)

        Breathing revenge; whilst anger and disdain

        Fire every breast, and boil in every vein:

        Here shattered walls, like broken rocks, from far

        Rise up in hideous views, the guilt of war,

        Whilst here the vine o'er hills of ruin climbs,

        Industrious to conceal great Bourbon's crimes,

           At length the fame of England's hero drew,

        Eugenio to the glorious interview.

        Great souls by instinct to each other turn,

        Demand alliance, and in friendship burn;

        A sudden friendship, while with stretched-out rays

        They meet each other, mingling blaze with blaze.

        Polished in courts, and hardened in the field,

        Renowned for conquest, and in council skilled,

        Their courage dwells not in a troubled flood

        Of mounting spirits, and fermenting blood:

        Lodged in the soul, with virtue overruled,

        Inflamed by reason, and by reason cooled,

        In hours of peace content to be unknown,

        And only in the field of battle shown:

        To souls like these, in mutual friendship joined,

        Heaven dares intrust the cause of humankind.

           Britannia's graceful sons appear in arms,

        Her harassed troops the hero's presence warms,

        Whilst the high hills and rivers all around

        With thundering peals of British shouts resound:

        Doubling their speed, they march with fresh delight,

        Eager for glory, and require the fight.

        So the staunch hound the trembling deer pursues,

        And smells his footsteps in the tainted dews,

        The tedious track unravelling by degrees:

        But when the scent comes warm in every breeze,

        Fired at the near approach, he shoots away

        On his full stretch, and bears upon his prey.

           The march concludes, the various realms are past,

        The immortal Schellenberg appears at last:

        Like hills the aspiring ramparts rise on high,

        Like valleys at their feet the trenches lie;

        Batteries on batteries guard each fatal pass,

        Threatening destruction; rows of hollow brass,

        Tube behind tube, the dreadful entrance keep,

        Whilst in their wombs ten thousand thunders sleep:

        Great Churchill owns, charmed with the glorious sight,

        His march o'erpaid by such a promised fight.

           The western sun now shot a feeble ray,

        And faintly scattered the remains of day;

        Evening approached; but, oh! what hosts of foes

        Were never to behold that evening close!

        Thickening their ranks, and wedged in firm array,

        The close-compacted Britons win their way:

        In vain the cannon their thronged war defaced

        With tracts of death, and laid the battle waste;

        Still pressing forward to the fight, they broke

        Through flames of sulphur, and a night of smoke,

        Till slaughtered legions filled the trench below,

        And bore their fierce avengers to the foe.

           High on the works the mingling hosts engage;

        The battle, kindled into tenfold rage

        With showers of bullets and with storms of fire,

        Burns in full fury; heaps on heaps expire;

        Nations with nations mixed confus'dly die,

        And lost in one promiscuous carnage lie.

           How many generous Britons meet their doom,

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