Click in the field, then press CTRL+C to copy the HTML code
<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=457086" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>A Letter To Monsieur Boileau Despreaux, Occasioned By The Victory At Blenheim</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Since hired for life, thy servile Muse must sing<br>Successive conquests and a glorious King;<br>Must of a man immortal vainly boast,<br>And bring him laurels whatsoe'er they cost,<br>What turn wilt thou employ, what colours lay,<br>On the event of that superior day,<br>In which one English subject's prosperous hand<br>(So Jove did will, so Anna did command)<br>Broke the proud column of thy master's praise,<br>Which sixty winters had conspired to raise?<br>From the lost field a hundred standards brought<br>Must be the work of Chance, and Fortune's fault.<br>Bavaria's stars must be accused, which shone,<br>That fatal day the mighty work was done,<br>With rays oblique upon the Gallic sun.<br>Some demon envying France misled the sight,<br>And Mars mistook, though Louis order'd right.<br>When thy young Muse invoked the tuneful Nine,<br>To say how Louis did not pass the Rhine,<br>What work had we with Wageninghen, Arnheim, <br>Places that could not be reduced to rhyme?<br>And though the poet made his last efforts,<br>Wurts -- who could mention in heroic -- Wurts?<br>But, tell me, hast thou reason to complain<br>Of the rough triumphs of the last campaign?<br>The Danube rescued and the Empire saved,<br>Say, is the majesty of verse retrieved? <br>And would it prejudice thy softer vein<br>To sing the princes Louis and Eugene?<br>Is it too hard in happy verse to place<br>The Vans and Vanders of the Rhine and Maese?<br>Her warriors Anna sends from Tweed and Thames,<br>That France may fall by more harmonious names.<br>Canst thou not Hamilton or Lumley bear?<br>Would Ingoldsby or Palmes offend thy ear?<br>And is there not a sound in Marlbro's name<br>Which thou and all thy brethren ought to claim,<br>Sacred to verse, and sure of endless fame?<br>Cutts is in metre something harsh to read;<br>Place me the valiant Gouram in his stead;<br>Let the intention make the number good;<br>Let generous Sylvius speak for honest Wood, <br>And though rough Churchill scarce in verse will stand,<br>So as to have one rhyme at his command.<br>With ease the bard reciting Blenheim's plain,<br>May close the verse, remembering but the Dane.<br>I grant, old friend, old foe, (for such we are<br>Alternate as the chance of peace and war)<br>That we poetic folks, who must restrain<br>Our measured sayings in an equal chain,<br>Have troubles utterly unknown to those <br>Who let their fancy loose in rambling prose.<br>For instance, now, how hard is it for me<br>To make my matter and my my verse agree?<br>In one great day, on Hochstets fatal plain,<br>French and Bavarians twenty thousand slain;<br>Push'd through the Danube to the shores of Styx<br>Squadrons eighteen, battalions twenty-six;<br>Officers captive made, and private men,<br>Of these twelve hundred, of those thousands ten;<br>Tents, ammunition, colours, carriages,<br>Cannons, and kettle-drums, -- sweet numbers these<br>But is it thus you English bards compose?<br>With Runic lays thus tag insipid prose?<br>And when you should your hero's deeds rehearse<br>Give us a commissary's list in verse?<br>Why, faith, Despreaux, there's sense in what you say;<br>I told you where my difficulty lay:<br>So vast, so numerous, were great Blenheim's spoils,<br>They scorn the bounds of verse, and mock the muse's toils.<br>To make the rough recital aptly chime,<br>Or bring the sum of Gallia's loss to rhyme,<br>'Tis mighty hard: what poet would essay<br>To count the streamers of my Lord Mayor's day?<br>To number all the several dishes dress'd<br>By honest Lamb last coronation-feast?<br>Or make arithmetic and epic meet,<br>And Newton's thoughts in Dryden's style repeat?<br>O Poet, had it been Apollo's will<br>That I had shared a portion of thy skill;<br>Had this poor breast received the heavenly beam,<br>Or could I hope my verse might reach my theme;<br>Yet, Boileau, yet the labouring muse should strive<br>Beneath the shades of Marlbro's wreaths to live;<br>Should call aspiring gods to bless her choice,<br>And to their favourite's strain exalt her voice,<br>Arms and a Queen to sing, who, great and good,<br>From peaceful Thames to Danube's wondering flood,<br>Sent forth the terror of her high commands,<br>To save the nations from invading hands,<br>To prop fair Liberty's declining cause,<br>And fix the jarring world with equal laws.<br>The queen should sit in Windsor's sacred grove<br>Attended by the gods of War and Love;<br>Both should with equal zeal her smiles implore,<br>To fix her joys, or to extend her Power.<br>Sudden the Nymphs and Tritons should appear<br>And as great Anna smiles dispel their fear;<br>With active dance should her observance claim:<br>With vocal shell should sound her happy name;<br>Their master Thames should leave the neigh'bring shore<br>By his strong anchor known and silver oar;<br>Should lay his ensigns at his sovereign's feet,<br>And audience mild with humble grace entreat.<br>To her, his dear defence, she should complain,<br>That whilst he blesses her indulgent reign,<br>Whilst further seas are by his fleets survey'd,<br>And on his happy banks each India laid,<br>His brethren Maese, and Waal, and Rhine, and Saar,<br>Feel the hard burden of oppressive war;<br>That Danube scarce retains his rightful course<br>Against two rebel armies' neighbouring force;<br>And all must weep, sad captive to the Seine,<br>Unless unchain'd and freed by Britain's queen.<br>The valiant Sovereign calls her general forth,<br>Neither recites her bounty nor his worth;<br>She tells him he must Europe's fate redeem,<br>And by that labour merit her esteem;<br>She bids him wait her to the sacred hall,<br>Shows him Prince Edward, and the conquer'd Gaul;<br>Fixing the bloody cross upon his breast,<br>Says he must die, or succour the distrest.<br>Placing the saint an emblem by his side,<br>She tells him Virtue arm'd must conquer lawless Pride.<br>The hero bows obedient, and retires:<br>The Queen's commands exalt the warrior's fires:<br>His steps are to the silent woods inclined,<br>The great designs revolving in his mind,<br>When to his sight a heavenly form appears,<br>Her hand a palm, her head a laurel wears.<br>Me, she begins, the fairest child of Jove,<br>Below for ever sought, and bless'd above;<br>Me, the bright source of wealth, and power and fame, <br>(Nor need I say Victoria is my name)<br>Me the great Father down to thee has sent;<br>He bids me wait at thy distinguish'd tent,<br>To execute what Anna's wish would have;<br>Her subject thou, I only am her slave.<br>Dare, then, thou much beloved by smiling Fate;<br>For Anna's sake, and in her name, be great:<br>Go forth, and be to distant nations known,<br>My future favourite, and my darling son:<br>At Schellenberg I'll manifest, sustain<br>Thy glorious cause, and spread thy wings again,<br>Conspicuous o'er thy helm, in Blenheim's plain. <br>The goddess said, nor would admit reply,<br>But cut the liquid air, and gain'd the sky.<br>His high commission is through Britain known,<br>And thronging armies to his standard run; <br>He marches thoughtful, and he speedy sails;<br>(Bless him, ye seas, and prosper him, ye gales!)<br>Belgia receives him welcome to her shores,<br>And William's death with lessen'd grief deplores:<br>His presence only must retrieve that loss;<br>Marl'brough to her must be what William was:<br>So when great Atlas, from these low abodes<br>Recall'd, was gather'd to his kindred gods,<br>Alcides, respited by prudent Fate,<br>Sustain'd the ball, nor droop'd beneath the weight.<br>Secret and swift behold the chief advance;<br>Sees half the empire join'd, and friend to France:<br>The British General dooms the fight; his sword<br>Dreadful he draws: the captains wait the word.<br>Anne and St. George, the charging hero cries:<br>Shrill Echo from the neighbouring wood replies,<br>Anne and St. George -- At that auspicious sign<br>The standards move, the adverse armies join.<br>Of eight great hours Time measures out the sands,<br>And Europe's fate in doubtful balance stands;<br>The ninth, Victoria comes:-- o'er Marl'brough's head<br>Confess'd she sits: the hostile troops recede;--<br>Triumphs the goddess, from her promise freed.<br>The Eagle, by the British Lion's might<br>Unchain'd and free, directs her upward flight;<br>Nor did she e'er with stronger pinions soar<br>From Tyber's banks, than now from Danube's shore.<br>Fired with the thoughts which these ideas raise,<br>And great ambition of my country's praise,<br>The English Muse should like the Mantuan rise,<br>Scornful of earth and clouds, should reach the skies,<br>With wonder (though with envy still) pursued by human eyes.<br>But we must change the style -- Just now I said <br>I ne'er was master of the tuneful trade;<br>Or the small genius which my youth could boast,<br>In prose and business lies extinct and lost;<br>Bless'd if I may some younger muse excite,<br>Point out the game, and animate the flight;<br>That from Marseilles to Calais France may know,<br>As we have conquerors, we have poets too,<br>And either laurel does in Britain grow;<br>That, though amongst ourselves, with too much heat,<br>We sometimes wrangle when we should debate,<br>(A consequential ill, which freedom draws;<br>A bad effect, but from a nobler cause)<br>We can with universal zeal advance<br>To curb the faithless arrogance of France,<br>Nor ever shall Britannia's sons refuse<br>To answer to thy Master or thy Muse;<br>Nor want just subject for victorious strains,<br>While Marl'brough's arm eternal laurels gains,<br>And where old Spenser sung a new Eliza reigns.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Matthew+Prior">Matthew Prior</a><div class=q>
<img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share">
<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=457086" data-title="A Letter To Monsieur Boileau Despreaux, Occasioned By The Victory At Blenheim de Matthew Prior" data-description="Since hired for life, thy servile Muse must sing
Successive conquests and a glorious King;
Must of a man immortal vainly boast,
And bring him laurels whatsoe'er they cost,
What turn wilt thou employ, what colours lay,
On the event of that superior..."></div>
</div>
</div>