ODES. CLASS THE SEVENTH. ODE I. ON THE SPANISH SUCCESSION. BY THE REV. SAMUEL COBB, M. A. THE Muse, who taught the Theban swan Old smiling Janus blest the new-born century; (Not always the companion of the great) To honor things of meaner state, And to my song attentive bends. Vol. XV.. As Cytherea's feign'd to fly From amorous Gods, and leave the sky, And there disclose the lustre of her eye, She calls me with a voice, that would excel To vindicate Euridice from Hell. Lo! from this abject Earth she seems to bear Like Virgil's Fame, she flies O'er tracts of sea, and spacious land Her foot upon the ground, her head above the skies. Whose beams more happily unite In the great monarch of the day. Not all the rolling lamps above will dare With the Phoebean to compare. Nor can the united wit of man below, As the Nassovian influence. Of the wrong'd priest, and ravish'd maid, What heroes, through thy passion slain, The pious virgin to detain, And combat against innocence and prayer! Wrongs to revenge, and succour the distress'd, William was always nigh,` At the soft warning of a sigh, To thousand ills exposed his valiant breast. And sunk into the womb of night, Soon as that hydra, Faction, rose, She saw, and stagger'd at his dazzling shine, Nor durst her multiplying heads oppose To virtue so divine. For William, if his counsel fails, When he hurl'd Typhon from th' affected skies Bruis'd with the marks of heavenly wrath, he fries In rolling sulphur, and whene'er He shifts his brawny side below, Above he shakes th' eternal snow, Still eager to renew his ancient war, Still to retort new mountains at the Thunderer. In vain he tosses fire, in vain He bites his adamantine chain, Struggles with Heaven's decree, and everlasting pain : Just penance! for the wretch who dare War against the Gods declare. Though to the vulgar this a fable seem, Dorset, sagacious Halifax, and those And with Lyncean eye, Conceal'd to meaner sight, the depth of this vast stream descry. In Typhon they behold the fall Of the vain Russian and ambitious Gaul. Ten thousand giants are no odds to Jove. Let Narva tell, how many leagues the slain Tell, how her waters blush'd with an inglorious stain, Nor stops the Northern worthy here, Th' apostate Saxon quakes, and warlike Polander, pursues The steps of William, and creates new business for the Muse. Next to Godlike William's name, In the eternal Book of Fame, Write him, O Clio, and prepare a place |