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What distant Land, what Region can affordAn Action worthy his Victorious Sword?Where will he next the flying Gaul defeat,To make the Series of his Toils compleat?
Where the swoln Rhine rushing with all its Force,Divides the Hostile Nations in its Course,While Each contracts its Bounds, or wider grows,Enlarg'd or straiten'd as the River flows;On Gallia's Side a mighty Bulwark stands,That all the wide extended Plain commands:Twice, since the War was kindled, has it try'dThe Victor's Rage, and twice has chang'd its Side:As oft whole Armies, with the Prize o'er-joy'd,Have the long Summer on its Walls employ'd.Hither our mighty Chief his Arms directs;Hence future Triumphs from the War expects:And, tho' the Dog-star had its Course begun,Carries his Arms still nearer to the Sun.Fix'd on the glorious Action, he forgetsThe Change of Seasons, and Increase of Heats.No Toils are painful that can Danger show;No Climes unlovely that contain a Foe.
The roving Gaul, to his own Bounds restrain'd,Learns to Encamp within his Native Land;But soon as the Victorious Host he spies,From Hill to Hill, from Stream to Stream he flies:Such dire Impressions in his Heart remainOf MARLBRO's Sword, and HOCKSTET's fatal Plain.In vain Britannia's mighty Chief besetsTheir shady Coverts, and obscure Retreats:They fly the Conqueror's approaching Fame,That bears the Force of Armies in his Name.
Austria's Young Monarch, whose Imperial SwaySceptres and Thrones are destin'd to obey;
Whose
