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Of bright Lenæan fire, Her barren drought
He quench'd, and with inspiring Nect'rous Juice
Her drooping Spirits chear'd, aloft the towres
Born on stiff Pennons, and of Wars alarms,
And Trophies won, in loftiest Numbers sings:
'Tis thou the Hero's breast to Martial Acts,
And resolution bold, and ardour brave
Excit'st, thou check'st Inglorious lolling ease,
And sluggish minds with gen'rous fires inflam'st,
O thou, that first my quickned Soul engag'd,
Still with thy Aid assist me, What is dark
Illumin, What is low raise and support,
That to the height of this great Argument,
Thy Universal Sway o're all the World,
In everlasting Numbers, like the Theme
I may record, and sing thy matchless Worth.
Had the Oxonian Bard thy Praise rehears'd,
His Muse had yet retain'd her wonted height;
Such as of late o're Blenheims Field she soard
Aerial, now in Ariconian Bogs
She lies Inglorious floundring like her Theme
Languid and Faint, and on damp Wing immerg'd
In acid Juice, in vain attempts to rise.
With
