Humbly inscrib'd to the KING.


LONDON: Printed for R. DODSLEY in Pall-mall; and sold by M. COOPER, in Pater-noster-Row. 1743.

[Price Six-pence.]

An ODE ON THE BATTLE of Dettingen.

ILlustrious Prince! by Heav'n design'd
To guard the Rights of Humankind,
And raise a falling State:
To scourge the Proud, support the Brave,
To check Oppressive Pow'r, and save
An Empire from it's Fate:
What Poet, with Maeonian Wing,
Shall your Immortal Praises sing,
And glorious Acts record?
Tell, how young William bravely bled;
How Bourbon's Legions trembling fled
Before your Conq'ring Sword?
The Muse admires the noble Theme;
The Muse would gladly sound your Fame;
But fearing War's Alarms,
With conscious Modesty recedes,
Unable to recite the Deeds
Of your Victorious Arms.
She trembles, when her Monarch dares
The thickest Dangers of the Wars,
Like Mars on Phrygian Ground;
Nor can she sing, how William stood,
Drenching the Field with Gallic Blood,
Regardless of his Wound.
Nor how the Mayne, with Purple dy'd,
(For Purple Streams increas'd his Tide)
Shook with the Cannon's Roar;
And while you thunder'd o'er the Plain,
Roll'd under floating Heaps of Slain,
That spread his Surface o'er.
Noailles beheld your hardy Deed;
Beheld his fainting Squadrons bleed,
And Heaps on Heaps expire:
He saw; and sounded a Retreat;
Unable to sustain the Heat
Of your resistless Fire.
Then rose the Genius of the Rhine;
(No juicy Honours of the Vine
Adorn'd his plunder'd Head;
His Front indented deep with Scars,
The recent Marks of lawless Wars;)
And thus to Noailles said:
Did ever tim'rous Sheep explore
The Lion on the Afric Shore,
Or dare the Tiger's Hate?
Did ever feeble Doves engage
Against the martial Eagle's Rage,
And court their certain Fate?
Fools that you were, to pass the Mayne,
To seek Augustus on the Plain,
Whom virtuous Glory warms!
When British Chiefs the Battle try,
Your greatest Triumph is to Fly,
And 'scape their vengeful Arms.
Contend no more for foreign Crowns;
Retreat, and fortify your Towns;
Secure your Monarch's Throne:
Lest Bourbon mourn his ruin'd State;
And GEORGE'S conq'ring Arms compleat
What Edward's but begun.
Should William once invade your Land,
The Lightning darted from his Hand
Would burn without Controul:
Your Arms may then oppose in vain;
Your Thunder wound the Youth again,
Not move his daring Soul.
For, bravely warm'd with Martial Rage,
And Courage that transcends his Age,
He imitates his Sire:
That Sire, so early known to France;
Who, scorning Danger, durst advance
Thro' Clouds of Smoke and Fire.
Muse, whither would thy Fancy soar?
These Subjects far surpass thy Pow'r,
And suit sublimer Lays:
From GEORGE'S glorious Name refrain;
Nor with thy low ignoble Strain
Degrade brave WILLIAM'S Praise.

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