sent of a Muse unknown:
A Muse that in adventurous numbers sings
The rout of armies, and the fall of kings,
Britain advanced, and Europe's peace restored,
By Somers' counsels, and by Nassau's sword.
To you, my lord, these daring thoughts belong,
Who helped to raise the subject of my song;
_10
To you the hero of my verse reveals
His great designs; to you in council tells
His inmost thoughts, determining the doom
Of towns unstormed, and battles yet to come.
And well could you, in your immortal strains,
Describe his conduct, and reward his pains:
But since the state has all your cares engross'd,
And poetry in higher thoughts is lost,
Attend to what a lesser Muse indites,
Pardon her faults and countenance her flights.
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On you, my lord, with anxious fear I wait,
And from your judgment must expect my fate,
Who, free from vulgar passions, are above
Degrading envy, or misguided love;
If you, well pleased, shall smile upon my lays,
Secure of fame, my voice I'll boldly raise;
For next to what you write, is what you praise.

TO THE KING.

When now the business of the field is o'er,
The trumpets sleep, and cannons cease to roar;
When every dismal echo is decay'd,
And all the thunder of the battle laid;
Attend, auspicious prince, and let the Muse
In humble accents milder thoughts infuse.
Others, in bold prophetic numbers skill'd,
Set thee in arms, and led thee to the field;
My Muse, expecting, on the British strand
Waits thy return, and welcomes thee to land:
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She oft has seen thee pressing on the foe,
When Europe was concerned in every blow;
But durst not in heroic strains rejoice; is
The trumpets, drums, and cannons drowned her voice:
She saw the Boyne run thick with human gore,
And floating corps lie beating on the shore:
She saw thee climb the banks, but tried in vain
To trace her hero through the dusty plain,
When through the thick embattled lines he broke,
Now plunged amidst the foes, now lost in clouds of smoke.
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Oh that some Muse, renowned for lofty verse,
In daring numbers would thy toils rehearse!
Draw thee beloved in peace, and feared in wars,
Inured to noonday sweats, and midnight cares!
But still the godlike man, by some hard fate,
Receives the glory of his toils too late;
Too late the verse the mighty act succeeds;
One age the hero, one the poet breeds.
A thousand years