Fleuron from 'Poems on Several Occasions' by William Broome, 2nd edition published in 1739
THE
Seat of War in Flanders, &c.
Secessus mei non desidiæ nomen, sed tranquillitatis accipiant.Plin.
Happy, thou Flandria, on whose fertile Plains, In wanton Pride luxurious Plenty reigns; Happy! had Heav'n bestow'd one Blessing more, And plac'd thee distant from the Gallic Pow'r! But now in vain thy Lawns attract the View, They but invite the Victor to subdue: War, horrid War, the Sylvan Scene invades, And angry Trumpets pierce the Woodland Shades; Here shatter'd Tow'rs, proud Works of many an Age, Lie dreadful Monuments of human Rage; There Palaces, and hallow'd Domes display Majestic Ruins, awful in Decay! Thy very dust, tho' undistinguish'd trod, Compos'd, perhaps, some Hero, great and good, Who nobly for his Country lost his Blood! Ev'n with the Grave, the haughty Spoilers war, And Death's dark Mansions wide disclose to Air: O'er Kings and Saints insulting stalk, nor dread To spurn the Ashes of the glorious dead.
See! the Britannic Lyons wave in Air! See! mighty Marlbro' breathing Death and War! From Albion's Shores, at Anna's high Commands, The dauntless Hero pours his martial Bands: As when in wrath stern Mars the Thund'rer sends To scourge his Foes; in Pomp the God descends, He mounts his Iron Car: with Fury burns: The Car fierce-rattling thunders as it turns. Gloomy he grasps his Adamantine Shield, And scatters Armies o'er th' ensanguin'd Field: With delegated Wrath thus Marlbro' glows, In Vengeance rushing on his Country's Foes. See! round the hostile Tow'rs embattled stands His banner'd Host, embodied Bands by Bands! Hark! the shrill Trumpet sends a mortal Sound, And prancing Horses shake the solid Ground; The surly Drums beat terrible afar, With all the dreadful Music of the War; From the drawn Swords effulgent Flames arise, Flash o'er the Plains, and lighten to the Skies; The Heav'ns above, the Fields and Floods beneath, Glare formidably bright, and shine with Death; In fiery Storms descends a murd'rous Show'r, Thick flash the Lightnings, fierce the Thunders roar: As when in wrathful mood Almighty Jove, Aims his dire Bolts red-hissing from above; Thro' the sing'd Air, with unresisted sway, The forky Vengeance rends its flaming way; And while the Firmament with Thunder roars, From their Foundations hurls imperial Tow'rs; So rush the Globes with many a fiery Round, Tear up the Rock, or rend the stedfast Mound: Death shakes aloft her Dart, and o'er her Prey Stalks with dire Joy, and marks in Blood her Way; Mountains of Heroes slain deform the Ground, The Shape of Man half bury'd in the Wound; And lo! while in the Shock of War they close, While Swords meet Swords, and Foes encounter Foes, The treacherous Earth beneath their Footsteps cleaves, Her Entrails tremble, and her Bosom heaves; Sudden in Bursts of Fire Eruptions rise, And whirl the torn Battalions to the Skies.
Thus Earthquakes rumbling with a thund'ring Sound, Shake the firm World, and rend the cleaving Ground, Rocks, Hills, and Groves are toft into the Sky, And in one mighty Ruin Nations die.
See! thro' th'encumber'd Air the pond'rous Bomb Bears Magazines of Death within its Womb, The glowing Orb displays a blazing Train, And darts bright Horrour thro' th' Ethereal Plain; It mounts tempestuous, and with hideous Sound Wheels down the Heav'ns, and thunders o'er the Ground: Th' imprison'd Deaths rush dreadful in a blaze, And mow a thousand Lives, a thousand Ways; Earth floats with Blood, while spreading Flames arise From Palaces, and Domes, and kindle half the Skies.
Thus terribly in Air the Comets roul, And shoot malignant Gleams from Pole to Pole; 'Tween Worlds and Worlds they move, and from their Hair Shake the blue Plague, the Pestilence, and War.
But who is he, who stern bestrides the Plain, Who drives triumphant o'er huge Hills of Slain? Serene, while Engines from the hostile Tow'r Rain from their brazen Mouths an iron Show'r? While turbid fiery Smoke obscures the Day, Hews thro' the deathful Breach his desp'rate way? Sure Jove descending joins the Martial Toil, Or is it Marlbro', or the Great Argyle?
Thus when the Grecians, furious to destroy, Levell'd the Structures of Imperial Troy; Here angry [1]Neptune hurl'd his vengeful Mace, There Jove o'erturn'd it from its inmost Base; Tho' brave, yet vanquish'd, she confess'd the odds, Her Sons were Heroes, but they fought with Gods.
Ah! what new Horrours rise? in deep Array The Squadrons form! aloft the Standards play! The Captains draw the Sword! on every Brow Determin'd Valour low'rs! the Trumpets blow! See! the brave Briton delves the cavern'd Ground Thro' the hard Entrails of the stubborn Mound! And undismay'd by Death, the Foe invades Thro' dreadful Horrours of infernal Shades! In vain the Wall's broad Base deep-rooted lies, In vain an hundred Turrets threat the Skies! Lo! while at ease the Bands immur'd repose, Nor careless dream of subterranean Foes, Like the Cadmæan Host, embattled Swarms Start from the Earth, and clash their sounding Arms, And pouring War and Slaughter from beneath, Wrap Tow'rs, Walls, Men, in Fire, in Blood, in Death.
So some fam'd Torrent dives within the Caves Of op'ning Earth, ingulph'd with all his Waves; High o'er the latent Stream the Shepherd feeds His wand'ring Flock, and tunes the sprightly Reed Till from some rifted Chasm the Billows rise, And foaming burst tumultuous to the Skies; Then roaring dreadful o'er the delug'd Plain, Sweep Herds, and Hinds in thunder to the Main.
Bear me, ye friendly Pow'rs, to gentler Scenes, To shady Bow'rs, and never-fading Greens! Where the shrill Trumpet never sounds Alarms, Nor martial Din is heard, nor Clash of Arms; Hail ye soft Seats! ye limpid Springs and Floods! Ye flow'ry Meads, ye Vales, and mazy Woods! Ye limpid Floods, that ever murmuring flow! Ye verdant Meads, where Flow'rs eternal blow! Ye shady Vales, where Zephyrs ever play! Ye Woods, where little Warblers tune their Lay!
Here grant me, Heav'n, to end my peaceful days, And steal myself from Life by slow Decays; Draw Health from Food the temp'rate Garden yields, From Fruit, or Herb, the Bounty of the Fields; Nor let the loaded Table groan beneath Slain Animals, the horrid Feast of Death: With Age unknown to Pain, or Sorrow blest, To the dark Grave retiring as to Rest; While gently with one Sigh this mortal Frame Dissolving turns to Ashes whence it came, While my freed Soul departs without a Groan, And joyful, wings her flight to Worlds unknown.
Ye gloomy Grots! ye awful solemn Cells, Where holy thoughtful Contemplation dwells, Guard me from splendid Cares and tiresome State, That pompous Misery of being Great! Happy! if by the wise and learn'd belov'd; But happiest above all if self-approv'd! Content with Ease, ambitious to despise Illustrious Vanity, and glorious Vice! Come thou chaste Maid, here ever let me stray, While the calm Hours steal unperceiv'd away; Here court the Muses, while the Sun on high Flames in the Vault of Heav'n, and fires the Sky; Or while the Night's dark Wings this Globe surround, And the pale Moon begins her solemn Round; Bid my free Soul to starry Orbs repair, Those radiant Worlds that float in ambient Air, And with a regular Confusion stray Oblique, direct, along th' aëreal Way: Or when Aurora, from her golden Bow'rs, Exhales the Fragrance of the balmy Flow'rs, Reclin'd in Silence on a mossy Bed, Consult the learned Volumes of the Dead: Fal'n Realms, and Empires in description view, Live o'er past Times, and build whole Worlds anew, Or from the bursting Tombs in Fancy raise The Sons of Fame, who liv'd in antient Days; And lo! with haughty Stalk the Warriour treads! Stern Legislators frowning lift their Heads! I see proud Victors in triumphal Cars, Chiefs, Kings, and Heroes, seam'd with glorious Scars! Or listen till the raptur'd Soul takes Wings, While Plato reasons, or while Homer sings.
Charm me, [2]ye sacred Leaves, with loftier Themes, With opening Heav'ns, and Angels robe'd in Flames: Ye restless Passions, while I read, be aw'd! Hail ye mysterious Oracles of God! Here I behold how Infant Time began, How the Dust mov'd and quicken'd into Man; Here thro' the flow'ry Walks of Eden rove, Court the soft Breeze, or range the spicy Grove; There tread on hallow'd Ground where Angels trod, And Rev'rend Patriarchs talk'd as Friends with God; Or hear the Voice to slumbring Prophets giv'n, Or gaze on Visions from the Throne of Heav'n.
But nobler yet, far nobler Scenes advance! Why leap the Mountains? why the Forests dance! Why flashes Glory from the golden Spheres? Rejoice, O Earth, a God, a God appears! A God, a God, descending Angels sing, And mighty Seraphs shout, behold your King! Hail Virgin-born! lift, lift ye Blind your Eyes! Sing O! ye Dumb! and O! ye Dead arise! Tremble ye Gates of Hell! in noblest Strains Tell it aloud, ye Heav'ns! the Saviour reigns!
Thus lonely, thoughtful may I run the race Of transient Life, in no unuseful Ease! Enjoy each Hour, nor as it fleets away Think Life too short, and yet too long the Day; Of Right observant, while the Soul attends Each Duty, and makes Heav'n and Angels friends. And thou, fair Peace, from the wild Floods of War Come Dove-like, and thy blooming Olive bear; Tell me, ye Victors, what strange Charms ye find In Conquest, that Destruction of Mankind! Unenvy'd may your Laurels ever grow, That never flourish but in human Woe, If never Earth the Wreath triumphal bears, Till drench'd in Heroes Blood, or Orphans Tears.
Let Ganges from afar to Slaughter train His fable Warriors on th' embattled Plain; Let Volga's Sons in iron Squadrons rise, And pour in Millions from her frozen Skies; Thou gentle Thames, flow thou in peaceful Streams, Bid thy bold Sons restrain their martial Flames; In thy own Laurel's Shade Great Marlbro' stay, There charm the Thoughts of conquer'd Worlds away; Guardian of England! born to scourge her Foes, Speak, and thy Word gives half the World Repose; Sink down, ye Hills, eternal Rocks subside, Vanish ye Forts, thou Ocean drain thy Tide, We Safety boast, defended by thy Fame, And Armies—in the Terrour of thy Name! Now fix o'er Anna's Throne thy Victor Blade, War be thou chain'd! ye Streams of Blood be stay'd! Tho' wild Ambition her just Vengeance feels, She wars to save, and where she strikes, she heals.
So Pallas with her Javelin smote the Ground, And peaceful Olives flourish'd from the Wound.
Endpiece from 'Poems on Several Occasions' by William Broome (1739, 2nd edition)
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