Kings, in modest triumph led, Graced the SABLE VICTOR’S arms:[260] His conquering lance, the battle’s dread;— His courtesy the conquered charms. The lion-heart soft pity knows, To raise with soothing cares his prostrate foes; The vanquished head true valour ne’er oppress’d, Nor shunn’d to succour the distress’d. E. 2. Spirit of great ELIZABETH! inspire High thoughts, high deeds, worthy our ancient fame; Breathe through our ardent ranks the patriot fire, Kindled at Freedom’s ever-hallowed flame; Baffled and scorned, the Iberian tyrant found, Though half a world his iron sceptre bound, The gallant Amazon could sweep away, Armed with her people’s love, the “INVINCIBLE” array.[261] S. 3. The BOLD USURPER[262] firmly held The sword by splendid treasons gained; And Gallia’s fiery genius quelled, And Spain’s presumptuous claims restrained: When lust of sway, by flattery fed,[263] To venturous deeds the youthful monarch led, In the full flow of victory’s swelling tide Britain checked his power and pride. A. 3. To the great BATAVIAN’S name[264] Ceaseless hymns of triumph raise! Scourge of tyrants, let his fame Live in songs of grateful praise. Thy turrets, BLENHEIM,[265] glittering to the sun, Tell of bright fields from warlike Gallia won; Tell how the mighty monarch mourned in vain His impious wish the world to chain. E. 3. And ye famed heroes, late retired to heaven, Whose setting glories still the skies illume, Bend from the blissful seats to virtue given— Avert your long-defended country’s doom. Earth from her utmost bounds shall wondering tell How victory’s meed ye gained, or conquering fell; Britain’s dread thunders bore from pole to pole, Wherever man is found, or refluent oceans roll. S. 4. Names embalmed in honour’s shrine, Sacred to immortal praise, Patterns of glory, born to shine In breathing arts or pictured lays: See WOLFE, by yielding numbers pressed, Expiring smile, and sink on victory’s breast! See MINDEN’S plains and BISCAY’S billowy bay Deeds of deathless fame display. A. 4. O! tread with awe the sacred gloom, Patriot Virtue’s last retreat; Where Glory, on the trophied tomb, Joys their merit to repeat; There CHATHAM lies, whose master-hand Guided through seven bright years the mighty band, That round his urn, where grateful Memory weeps, Each in his hallowed marble sleeps.