And prayers in bitterness of soul preferred, Europe's loud cries, that Providence assailed, And Anna's ardent vows, at length prevailed; The day was come when heaven designed to show His care and conduct of the world below. Behold, in awful march and dread array The long-expected squadrons shape their way! _260 Death, in approaching terrible, imparts An anxious horror to the bravest hearts; Yet do their beating breasts demand the strife, And thirst of glory quells the love of life. No vulgar fears can British minds control: Heat of revenge and noble pride of soul O'erlook the foe, advantaged by his post, Lessen his numbers, and contract his host. Though fens and floods possessed the middle space, That unprovoked they would have feared to pass, _270 Nor fens nor floods can stop Britannia's bands, When her proud foe ranged on their borders stands. But, O my Muse, what numbers wilt thou find To sing the furious troops in battle joined! Methinks I hear the drum's tumultuous sound The victor's shouts and dying groans confound, The dreadful burst of cannon rend the skies, And all the thunder of the battle rise. 'Twas then great Marlborough's mighty soul was proved, That, in the shock of charging hosts unmoved, _280 Amidst confusion, horror, and despair, Examined all the dreadful scenes of war; In peaceful thought the field of death surveyed, To fainting squadrons sent the timely aid, Inspired repulsed battalions to engage, And taught the doubtful battle where to rage. So when an angel by divine command With rising tempests shakes a guilty land, Such as of late o'er pale Britannia passed,[6] Calm and serene he drives the furious blast; _290 And, pleased the Almighty's orders to perform, Hides in the whirlwind, and directs the storm. But see the haughty household-troops advance! The dread of Europe, and the pride of France. The war's whole art each private soldier knows, And with a general's love of conquest glows; Proudly he marches on, and, void of fear, Laughs at the shaking of the British spear: Vain insolence! with native freedom brave, The meanest Briton scorns the highest slave; _300 Contempt and fury fire their souls by turns, Each nation's glory in each warrior burns, Each fights, as in his arm the important day And all the fate of his great monarch lay: A thousand glorious actions, that might claim Triumphant laurels, and immortal fame, Confused in clouds of glorious actions lie, And troops of heroes undistinguished die. O Dormer, how can I behold thy fate, And not the wonders of thy youth relate! _310 How can I see the gay, the brave, the young, Fall in the cloud of war and lie unsung! In joys of conquest he resigns his breath, And, filled with England's glory, smiles in death. The rout begins, the Gallic squadrons run, Compelled in crowds to meet the fate they shun;