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But stop not here: behold where Berkley stands,
And executes his injur'd king's commands;
Around thy coasts his bursting bombs he pours
On flaming citadels, and falling tow'rs;
With hissing streams of fire the air they streak,
And hurl destruction round them where they break;
The skies with long ascending flames are bright,
And all the sea reflects a quivering light.

Thus Ætna, when in fierce eruptions broke,
Fills heav'n with ashes, and the earth with smoke;
Here crags of broken rocks are twirl’d on high,
Here molten stones and scatter'd cinders fly:
Its fury reaches the remotest coast,
And strews the Asiatic shore with dust.

Now does the sailor from the neighb'ring main
Look after Gallic towns and forts in vain;
No more his wonted marks he can descry,
But sees a long unmeasur'd ruin lie;
Whilst, pointing to the naked coast, he shows
His wond'ring mates where towns and steeples rose,
Where crowded citizens he lately view?d,
And singles out the place where once St. Maloes stood.

Here Russel's actions should my muse require;
And would my strength but second my desire,
I'd all his boundless bravery rehearse,
And draw his cannons thund'ring in my verse:
High on the deck should the great leader stand,
Wrath in his look, and lightning in his hand;
Like Homer's Hector when he flung his fire
Amidst a thousand ships, and made all Greece retire.

But who can run the British triumphs o'er,
And count the flames disperst on every shore?
Who can describe the scatter'd victory,
And draw the reader on from sea to sea ?
Else who could Ormond's godlike acts refuse,
Ormond, the theme of every Oxford muse?
Fain would I here his mighty worth proclaim,
Attend him in the noble chase of fame,
Through all the noise and hurry of the fight,

Observe each blow, and keep him still in sight.
Oh, did our British peers thus court renown,
And grace the coats their great forefathers won !
Our arms would then triumphantly advance,
Nor Henry be the last that conquer'd France.
What might not England hope, if such abroad
Purchas'd their country's honour with their blood:
When such, detain'd at home, support our state
In William's stead, and bear a kingdom's weight,
The schemes of Gallic policy o’erthrow,
And blast the counsels of the common foe;
Direct our armies, and distribute right,
And render our Maria's loss more light.

But stop, my muse, th’ungrateful sound forbear,
Maria's name still wounds each British ear:
Each British heart Maria still does wound,
And tears burst out unbidden at the sound;
Maria still our rising mirth destroys,
Darkens our triumphs, and forbids our joys.

But see, at length, the British ships appear !
Our Nassau comes ! and as his fleet draws near,
The rising masts advance, the sails grow white,
And all his pompous navy floats in sight.
Come, mighty prince, desir’d of Britain, come!
May heav'n's propitious gales attend thee home!
Come, and let longing crowds behold that look,
Which such confusion and amazement strook
Through Gallic hosts : but, oh! let us descry
Mirth in thy brow, and pleasure in thy eye;
Let nothiny dreadful in thy face be found;
But for awhile forget the trumpet's sound;
Well pleas’d, thy people's loyalty approve,
Accept their duty, and enjoy their love.
For as, when lately mov'd with fierce delight,
You plung’d amidst the tumult of the fight,
Whole heaps of dead encompass’d you around,
And steeds o'erturn’d lay foaming on the ground:
So crown'd with laurels now, where'er you go,
Around you blooming joys, and peaceful blessings flow,

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TRANSLATION

OF ALL

VIRGIL'S FOURTH GEORGIC,

EXCEPT THE

STORY OF ARISTÆUS.

ETHEREAL sweets shall next my Muse engage,
And this, Mæcenas, claims your patronage.
Of little creatures wondrous acts I treat,
The ranks and mighty leaders of their state,
Their laws, employments, and their wars relate.
A trifling theme provokes my humble lays,
Trifling the theme, not so the poet's praise,
If

great Apollo and the tuneful Nine
Join in the piece, to make the work divine.
First for

your bees a proper station find, That's fenc'd about, and shelter'd from the wind; For winds divert them in their flight, and drive The swarms, when loaden homeward, from their hive, Nor sheep, nor goats, must pasture near their stores, To trample under foot the springing flow'rs; Nor frisking heifers bound about the place, To spurn the dew-drops off, and bruise the rising grass: Nor must the lizard's painted brood appear, Nor wood-pecks, nor the swallow harbour near. They waste the swarms, and as they fly along Convey their tender morsels to their young.

Let purling streams, and fountains edg’d with moss,
And shallow rills run trickling through the grass ;
Let branching olives o'er the fountain grow,
Or palms shoot up, and shade the streams below;
That when the youth, led by their princes, shun
The crowded hive, and sport it in the sun,
Refreshing springs may tempt them from the heat,
And shady coverts yield a cool retreat.

Whether the neighbouring water stands or runs,
Lay twigs across, and bridge it o'er with stones;
That if rough storms, or sudden blasts of winds
Should dip, or scatter those that lag behind,
Here they may settle on the friendly stone,
And dry their reeking pinions at the sun.
Plant all the flow'ry banks with lavender,
With store of sav'ry scent the fragrant air,
Let running betony the field o'erspread,
And fountains soak the violet's dewy bed.

Though barks or plaited willows make your hive,
A narrow inlet to their cells contrive;
For colds congeal and freeze the liquors up,
And, melted down with heat, the waxen buildings drop.
The bees, of both extremes alike afraid,
Their wax around the whistling crannies spread,
And suck out clammy dews from herbs and flow'rs,
To smear the chinks, and plaister up the pores;
For this they hoard up glue, whose clinging drops,
Like pitch, or bird-lime, hang in stringy ropes.
They oft, ’tis said, in dark retirements dwell,
And work in subterraneous caves their cell;
At other times th' industrious insects live
In hollow rocks, or make a tree their hive.

Point all their chinky lodgings round with mud, And leaves most thinly on your work be strow'd; But let no baleful yew tree flourish near, Nor rotten marshes send out steams of mire; Nor burning crabs grow red, and crackle in the fire. Nor neighb’ring caves return the dying sound, Nor echoing rocks the doubled voice rebound.

Things thus prepar'd
When th' under world is seiz'd with cold and night,
And summer here descends in streams of light,
The bees through woods and forests take their flight.
They rifle ev'ry flow'r, and lightly skim
The crystal brook, and sip the running stream;
And thus they feed their young with strange delight,
And knead the yielding wax, and work the slimy sweet.
But when on high you see the beės repair,
Born on the winds through distant tracts of air,
And view the winged cloud all black’ning from afar ;
While shady coverts, and fresh streams they chuse,
Milfoil and common honeysuckles bruise,
And sprinkle on their hives the fragrant juice.
On brazen vessels beat a tinkling sound,
And shake the cymbals of the goddess round;
Then all will hastily retreat, and fill
The warm resounding hollow of their cell.

If once two rival kings their right debate,
And factions and cabals embroil the state,
The people's actions will their thoughts declare;
All their hearts tremble, and beat thick with war;
Hoarse broken sounds, like trumpets' harsh alarms,
Run through the hive, and call them to their arms;
All in a hurry spread their shiv’ring wings
And fit their claws, and point their angry stings:
In crowds before the king's pavilion meet,
And boldly challenge out the foe to fight:
At last, when all the heav'ns are warm and fair,
They rush together out, and join; the air
Swarms thick, and echoes with the humming war.
All in a firm round cluster mix, and strow
With heaps of little corps the earth below;
As thick as hail-stones from the floor rebound,
Or shaken acorns rattle on the ground.
No sense of danger can their kings control,
Their little bodies lodge a mighty soul :
Each obstinate in arms pursues his blow,
Till shameful flight secures the routed foe.

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