Churchill is dead! and in that Word is lost
The bravest Leader of the bravest Host;
A veteran Chief, that in the bloody Field
For forty rolling Years untaught to yield;
Through half the sever'd Globe obtain'd Renown,
And with its brightest Gems adorn'd the British Crown.

Beyond what antient Heroes could atchieve,
Beyond what future Ages will believe,
His Actions rise, by some diviner Grace
Distinguish'd from the Deeds of human Race;
Unnumber'd and unrival'd o'er his Foes
Are the great Conquests, which his Life compose;
Such vast Exploits contribute to his Fame,
So many Lawrels shade his deathless Name,
He looks like Mars, invincible in Fight,
And shines, unsullied with a single Flight.

Heav'n seem'd his matchless Glory to regard,
Which rais'd for such a Chief an equal Bard;
In Addison reviv'd the Mantuan strain,
To sing the Triumphs of but one Campaign;
Whilst in that Verse, which with the Æneid vies,
The routed Gaul before his Standard flies;
Whilst Prior triumphs o'er his Rival--Muse,
And in immortal Verse the Foe subdues;
Whilst Philips in Miltonian Phrase recites
The same unequal'd Toils and glorious Fights;
From the fam'd Chiefs of Athens and of Rome
Marlbro' shall bear the Palm in times to come;
Achilles, Ammon and the Julian Star,
With all those antient Thunderbolts of War,
To Blenheim's Victor shall resign their Claims,
And condescend to pass for vulgar Names.

In wild Ambition, in the waste of Blood,
And Acts, injurious to the publick Good,
Their Glory lay, to spread unjust Alarms,
And ravage peaceful Nations with their Arms;
To burn down Cities, to destroy and kill,
And bow the World to their imperious Will--
Thus Caesar reign'd, in wicked Arts refin'd,
Fam'd for the Scourge and Mischief of Mankind:
Thus Alexander in oppressing Right,
In Plunder and in Rapine took delight,
Smiled o'er one ruin'd World, with impious Joy,
And wept for others, only to destroy.

By different Toils, more glorious and sublime,
Up the steep Hill of Fame did Marlbro' climb;
In Freedom's Cause he drew the righteous Blade,
And fought to rescue Nations, not invade;
From homebred Tyrants and from foreign Foes
To free Mankind and give the World repose.

Barbarian States those antient Chiefs subdu'd,
Artless of Warfare, and in Manners rude;
Nations that in Disorder throng'd the Field,
Unskilful to assault and prone to yield;
Of martial Prowess and of Conduct void,
By their own Numbers easily destroy'd.

Far other Wars our British Heroe wag'd,
With Foes, the terror of the World, engag'd;
Foes, who the Slights of Battle understood,
Long vers'd in Camps and disciplin'd in Blood;
A martial People, though a People vain,
Slaves, that o'er free--born Souls aspir'd to reign--
Germania trembled when their Hosts drew near,
And half the western World was seiz'd with Fear:
'Twas then great Marlbro' in his Rage, went forth
To curb these proud Oppressors of the Earth;
Such were his Queen's Commands; and at the Word,
Firm by his Side he binds his faithful Sword;
Britannia's Sons upon their Leader wait,
And her strong Barks receive the warlike Freight;
To Flandria's Coast the Winds obedient blow,
And bear them to the Gaul, their antient Foe;
Soon as they touch the Strand, their brave Allies
Hail them with Shouts, that rend the joyful Skies;
Onward they move, a firm united Train,
And by laborious Marches reach the Plain;
There pitch their Camp, which, dreadful to their Foes,
In a few Hours a canvas City rose.

Then Marlbro' paus'd, and to his sumptuous Tent
For the chief Captains of the Nations sent;
Awful they took their Seats, in Order plac'd,
And Auverquerque the great Assembly grac'd.

To him the British Chief: ''O famed in Fight,
''Bold to oppose and punish lawless Might,
''Thee, old in War, in early Camps renown'd,
''I joy to meet on this insulted Ground;
''Me Britain's Princess, weighing in her Mind
''The fatal Scheme by Europe's Foe design'd,
''Sends with her choicest Sons, a trusty Band,
''With you these rash Invaders to withstand,
''The Pride of false Bavaria to chastise,
''And bid the Roman Eagle tow'r her native Skies.

''Behold! how fresh the goodly Troops appear,
''In Hardship train'd, and panting for the War;
''Their lusty Nerves the Thirst of Glory fires,
''And their own native Liberty inspires;
''Their sanguine Cheeks with martial Ardours glow,
''And their Hearts beat against the distant Foe.

''Say (for to us belongs the common Care,
''The Discipline and Order of the War)
''Shall Battles, or shall Sieges first be form'd?
''Shall Hosts be vanquish'd or shall Towns be storm'd?
''Shall we provoke these Boasters to the Field?
''Or force the well--arm'd Garrisons to yield?
''Quick let us give the Word, redeem the Lands,
''And wrest the Forts from their usurping Hands;
''Teach their proud Hearts to bend, and make them know
''What is the Strength of a Confederate Foe.

Whilst yet he spake, his comely Features glow'd,
And the just Anger of his Bosom show'd;
The mingled Chieftains listned to his Voice,
And with Applause confirm'd Britannia's Choice.

Now in the Wind the British Ensigns play,
And the stern Legions march in firm Array;
From Gravenbroek they drive the faithless Gauls;
From Venlo's threatning Tow'rs and Ruremond's Walls;
To Stevenswaert extend their dreadful Course,
And Liege submits to their victorious Force,
That wealthy City, fortify'd in vain,
Crowns the great Triumphs of the first Campaign.

Mean while desponding Boufflers drops his Pride,
And fears in equal Battle to confide;
From Camp to Camp he flies the conquering Host,
And mourns the Frontier Towns already lost.

The wintering Army ceases from its Toil,
And their brave Leader seeks his native Soil;
The Belgian States their kind Deliverer meet,
And their own Safety in his Triumphs greet;
From thence to Britain's longing Court he sails,
Driv'n to the Coast by fresh, auspicious Gales;
Before his Queen, deliver'd from her Fears,
Calm in the midst of Conquest he appears;
His smiling Queen extends her gracious Hand,
And with new Titles honours his Command;
The Senate his successful Zeal approve,
And recommend him to their Country's Love;
With Joy the People on his Aspect gaze,
And the whole Nation joins in Marlbro's Praise.

While these Applauses on the Victor wait,
Behold! an unexpected Blow of Fate!
Heav'n takes his only Son, the lovely Boy,
Heir of his Virtues and his Age's Joy;
Where Cam, the Subject of the Poet's Song,
Dispersing Streams of Science, rolls along,
Blooming in Knowledge, and in Learning's Pride,
The graceful Youth, by all lamented, dy'd.
But noble Minds surmount domestick Cares,
Suppress their bursting Sighs and check their Tears,
Prefer the publick Joy to private Grief,
And in their Country's Welfare find Relief.

The Spring returns, and to the tented Plain,
Calls Britain's great Commander forth again;
There he forgets his sharp, paternal Woe,
Lost in his Triumphs o'er the common Foe;
For still did Conquest round his Ensigns play;
And Fame still follow'd, where he led the VVay:
Bonn feels his Wrath, invested with Alarms,
And vainly strives with the Confederate Arms;
Against her Walls erected Batteries pour
Of Bombs and whistling Balls an Iron show'r;
Soon was she forc'd to yield, her Peace to claim,
And add new Lustre to the British Name.

From Maestrict next he chas'd the crafty Foe,
And sav'd the Town from a clandestine Blow;
Far from her Walls the flying Rout he drives,
Which dreads the fatal Ground, where he arrives.

Still in his Thought new Labours he designs,
To mix in Fight, or force the hostile Lines;
To mix in Fight the skulking Gaul denies,
And Belgia shuns the second Enterprize;
Sway'd by her Fears, Himself untouch'd with Fear,
He leaves that Glory for another Year:
Yet in the search of Dangers unconfin'd,
And restless in the Cause of human kind,
New Sieges charm; and e'er he quits the Field,
Limburg and Huy to his Protection yield.

Again the Victor to Britannia's Shore
Returns, more welcome than he was before:
Short time of Rest the painful Warrior shares,
That in his Breast the Fate of Europe bears;
The Summer points out Labour for his Sword,
And Winter calls him to the Council--Board;
When from the Camp a short Recess he gains,
'Tis but to form the Plan of new Campaigns.

The Belgic Lords of Britain's Queen demand,
In humble Suit, the Guardian of their Land,
New Measures to concert against the Foe,
And urge his Fate by one decisive Blow:
Thither he sails, the future War to guide,
And in the Council of the States preside.

Warm, and more warm his active Genius glows,
In every Scheme more dreadful to his Foes;
In every Battle he excels the past,
In every Siege he tow'rs above the last;
And all the Trophies which have crown'd his Name,
Are but the Preludes to his future Fame.

At length the great, important Year is come,
Big with Bavaria's Fall and Bourbon's Doom;
From which bright Æra future Times shall date
Austria's reviving Strength, and Europe's Fate:
To the fam'd Heroes of this glorious Year,
Succeeding Bards their Patrons shall compare;
And when they strain their Panegyricks high,
With Eugene and with Marlbro' make them vye.

By toilsome Marches to the Danube's Shore,
Destin'd to rush in Streams of hostile Gore,
Churchill advanc'd, and with Eugenio join'd
In mutual Counsels, and an equal Mind,
Scornful of Danger, hasten'd to the Fight,
Where Schellemberg rose dreadful to the Sight;
Thro' wedg'd Battalians, up the steepy Mound
Planted with Cannons, scattering Death around;

Thro' show'rs of missive Lead, and clouds of Smoke,
Forcing their Way, the glorious Leaders broke;
Compell'd the yielding Lines, and o'er the Plain
Pursu'd the Foe, a disconcerted Train.

Where shall we find an End of Marlbro's Deeds?
Lo! Victory to Victory succeeds!
On every Conquest, greater Conquests rise,
And his Fame spreads, dilating in the Skies.

Blenheim's ennobled Field demands my Lays,
A Field so pregnant with immortal Praise;
So rich with Lawrels and triumphant Spoils,
It lessens all his former God--like Toils;
Degrades the Glory which his Arms had won,
And, till this Day, amaz'd the rolling Sun.

Methinks I see, refulgent from a Far,
The lowring Fronts advancing to the War;
From Right to Left they stretch their lengthen'd Lines,
And big with Death their polish'd Armour shines;
Aloft in Air the silken Banners fly,
And the loud Trumpet speaks the Battle nigh;
From Rank to Rank the busy Leaders move,
Firing their Soldiers with their Country's Love:
The Charge begins, tumultuous Thunders rise,
Thick Lightnings gleam, and Smoke involves the Skies;
The shouts of War, and mingled Groans resound,
And Heaps of Carnage strew the ghastly Ground.
Long did the struggling Foe disdain to yield
The golden Prize of this important Field;
Well hop'd his Monarch's Losses to o'er pay
With the Success of this conclusive Day;
The Glory of his Nation to restore,
And vindicate the Battles lost before.

In vain they trust to the superiour Ground,
With Rivers and Morasses fenc'd around;
In vain do their exulting Hearts confide
In Villages well man'd on either side;
In vain from Numbers and unequal Might,
Their swelling Hearts anticipate the Fight:
All these Advantages of War are lost,
When Freedom fires, and Churchill leads the Host.

In firm Plattoons the British Cohorts fire,
And now in Crouds the Gallick Troops retire;
Whole Squadrons press the Plain, besmear'd with Blood,
And Squadrons plunge into the rapid Flood;
From Churchill fly for Refuge to the Deep,
And in the Whirlpools of the Danube sleep:
Some on the Victor's Clemency rely,
And others wildly in Confusion fly,
Nor yet escape; o'er--taken in the Flight,
They feel dishonest Wounds and shame the Sight;
Or, led in captive Chains, draw servile Breath,
And drag a Life, to Soldiers worse than Death.

Such, O Tallard! was thy unhappy Fate,
Seiz'd, and in Bondage kept, a Slave of State;
How didst thou curse, in Wrath, thy tim'rous Bands,
That tamely left Thee in the Victor's Hands:
Doom'd by thy Foes in Britain to remain
A stalking Monument of Hockstet's Plain?

Flush'd with two Conquests, so immensely great,
Well might the Victor from the Field retreat;
Grant a short Respite to his shatter'd Foes,
And o'er his Lawrels for a while repose;
But warm in Action, Churchill's God--like Breast
Demands no Pauses, nor his Eye--lids Rest;
Who, after all these mighty Battles won,
Esteems the great Campaign but just begun.

Through every Scene, 'twere endless to pursue,
And keep the flying Conquerour in View;
His Laurels far out--strip the Poet's Wing,
And flourish faster than the Muse can sing;
Unnumber'd Actions of no vulgar Fame,
Each worthy to support a deathless Name;
Camps, Battles, Sieges, Storms, a shining Roll,
That all proclaim his vast, unwearied Soul;
Too long for Verse, in the Historian's Page,
Shall warm the Readers of a future Age;
(That Work, O Steele, from thy sufficient Hands
Churchill's illustrious Progeny demands)
Landau subdu'd, Ramillia's lawrell'd Plain,
Lisle, Audenard, Blarignia, and Bouchain,
Which after Blenheim, to describe were vain.

Ordain'd by Heav'n the ravag'd World to bless,
For ten long Summers, with unchang'd Success;
To distant Lands the British Arms he bore,
Where Britain's Glory never reach'd before;
The Maese, the Rhine, the Danube, and the Scheld,
Wond'ring the Terrors of his Arm beheld;
Freed by his Sword from their usurping Foes,
For his own Lord each happy River flows;
Austria's young Monarch views with secret Pride,
His lawful Realms secur'd on every side;
The Boian Rebel, by his Crimes defac'd
Sees his sad Country, now a Desart waste:
Warm with just Rage, the German Troops advance,
Swift to revenge their Wrongs on haughty France;
Louis begins to fear, oppress'd with Shame,
And sickens at the Sound of Churchill's Name.

Contending Nations vy'd in his Applause,
And styl'd him the Preserver of their Laws;
His Merit Kings in Gratitude confest,
And Emperours his martial Virtues blest;
Ev'n Britain (that odd Nation of the Earth,
Still forward to degrade her native Worth)
Charm'd with the first strong Glories of his Fame,
Join'd in his Praises and extoll'd his Name;
With publick Honours crown'd his restless Toil,
And voted him the Father of her Isle.

Here might I end! and Britain's Madness spare,
When factious Envy took up all her Care!
Never did Subject with so warm a Zeal,
Deserve so nobly from the Publick Weal;
Never was Subject, by a grateful Land,
Rewarded with so bountiful an Hand;
Yet!--by a People, from their Virtue stray'd,
Never was such a Chief so ill repaid!--

On brazen Columns, and on Coins of Gold,
Let it in lasting Characters be told,
That for her Victor, this rejoycing Isle,
Near Woodstock's Grotto, rais'd the stately Pile;
That his just Queen augmented his Renown
With ancient Mannors of the British Crown;
And that the Senate, anxious for his Fame,
By a new Law immortaliz'd his Name.
But in late Ages may it ne'er be known,
That Churchill was disgrac'd, from Favour thrown:
Was call'd a Traytor, made the Rabble's Sport,
And driven an Exile to a foreign Court--
Be all his Honours, to remove that Blot,
Remember'd! his Indignities forgot!

Thro' five successive Reigns his Virtues ran,
And finish'd, by degrees, the God--like Man;
Loyal in all, to every Monarch true,
Whilst to each Monarch Loyalty was due;
But with Oppressors of his native Land
Scorn'd to combine or lend his venal Hand;
Fir'd, by these Motives, with a noble Pride,
He fled from James and fought on William's side.

But see! the sad Procession moves along,
And from his living Deeds diverts my Song;
How slow and solemn thro' the crowded Street,
How truly worthy of a Charge so great;
The Hearse proceeds, with pompous Emblems crown'd,
And Trophies of his Actions blazon'd round:
His veteran Troops, Companions of his Wars,
Grown white in Arms, and mark'd with glorious Scars,
(Their last sad March!) upon their Chief attend,
And to his Tomb in mournful Order bend;
Each drooping Head the Heart's deep Anguish speaks,
And the Tears trickle down their manly Cheeks;
The Drum and Trumpet yield a doleful Sound,
And wait upon their Master to the Ground.

But who is that amidst the weeping Train,
That stalks along with insolent Disdain?
Malignant Joy his laughing Eyes disclose,
And interrupt the Scene of publick Woes,
Lo! on his Temples, blanch'd with silver Hairs,
A faded Crown of Royalty he wears.
Inward he seems to grieve for Empire lost;
Alas! the same; 'tis Bourbon's restless Ghost;
Stooping to Earth the wrinkled Form declines,
And mutt'ring thus, at Providence repines.

''Is this the Man, the Terrour of our Host,
''By whose fam'd Arm so many Fields we lost?
''Is this the Man, that on inferior Ground,
''Vanquish'd our boasted List of Warriours round?
''That fatten'd Flandria's Plains with Gallick Blood,
''And with our Subjects choak'd the Danube's Flood?
''Is this the mighty Chief, by Fate design'd
''The Scourge of Tyrants and Protector of Mankind?

''Behold! how calm his Eagle--Eyes appear,
''No longer striking Hosts with pannick Fear;
''Now like his Foes he seems, subdu'd in War,
''And awes no more than Louis or Bavar.

''Oh! that kind Death had clos'd those hated Eyes,
''Long e'er his Banners wav'd in Flandrian Skies!
''Or that by Heav'n 'twere given me to revive,
''And once again the Gallick Monarch live;
''Again with Europe to dispute the Day,
''And wage my Claim to universal Sway!--
''Alas! does Envy then pursue the Dead?
''O wild Ambition! whither am I led?
''Yet were it vain! for still this warlike Isle,
''Boasts other Leaders, Mordaunt and Argyle;
''Still lives the Partner of his ten Campaigns,
''Still the same Genius in Cadogan reigns.

''To him does Brunswick trust the great Command,
''And puts the British Truncheon in his Hand;
''With this, says he, maintain the World's Repose,
''And be another Churchil to my Foes.

Stung with these Thoughts, the Tyrant--Shade descends,
And vents his Rage amongst his Fellow Fiends.

To those dark Regions and malignant Glooms,
Where the Sun's chearful Radiance never comes,
Of Churchill's Foes sink all the wicked Rage,
And frantick Zeal of an ungrateful Age;
There sleep for ever the degenerate Arts
Of base reviling Tongues and thankless Hearts;
The foul Aspersions and the factious Lies,
Which the worst Men against the best devise;
Of those unhappy Spirits chain'd below,
Provok'd by endless Bitterness of Woe,
Be the poor Task to blacken envy'd Fame,
And next to Michael, gnash at Marlbro's Name.