Vpon our Victory at Sea

I Sing the Naval Fight, whose Triumph, Fame
More loudly than our Cannon, shall proclaim.
Which with Heroick Force burst Europe's Chain,
And made fair Britain Empress of the Main.
O Britain's mighty Genius, who wer't by,
Who with new Warmth didst thy brave Sons supply,
And drive the Gallic Daemon trembling thro' the Sky!
My Breast with that immortal Fury fire,
Which did thy Godlike Combatants inspire.
Bold as their Fight, and happy be my Song,
As fierce, as great, as sounding, and as strong.
Then might my Verse be heard on ev'ry Shoar,
And in its sound Express the thundring Cannons roar.

Now whilst their Line th' impatient English form,
On comes prod Tourvile, ratling like a Storm
Sent by some Devil, to dissolve (in vain)
The two vast Empires of the Land and Main.
Whose transitory Rage the Globe annoys,
And to disturb Mankind, it self destroys.
With deafning Shouts the English rend the Skies,
Whilst Victory hov'ring o're their Pendants flies.
The Lust of Empire, and the Lust of Praise,
Does vulgar Me to God-like Courage raise:
All bravely bent the last Extreams to try,
And Conquer, or magnanimously Dye.

Now the Fleets joyn, and with their horrid shocks
Make England's Shores resound, and Gallia's Rocks,
Ship against Ship with dire Encounter knocks:
The more Resistance the brave English meet,
They their Broadsides more furiously repeat.
As th' Elm, which of its Arms the Ax bereaves,
New strength and vigor from its Wounds receives;
Their Rage, by loss of Blood, is kindled more,
And with their Guns, like Hurricanes they roar:
Like Hurricanes the knotted Oak they tear,
Scourge the vext Ocean, and torment the Air.
Whilst Earth, Air, Sea, in wild Confusion hurl'd,
With universal Wreck, and Chaos threat the World.

Such would the Noise be, should this mighty All
Crush'd and confounded into Atoms fall.
Bullets amain, unseen by mortal Eye,
Fly in whole Legions thro' the darkned Sky,
And kill and wound, like Parthians, as they fly.

Here a Granada falls, and blazing burns,
Whilst pale as Death th' amaz'd Spectator turns.
And now it bursts, and with a mortal sound
Deals horrible Destruction all around.

There a red Bullet from our Cannon blown,
Into a First-Rate's Powder-Room is thrown.
Tost by a Whirlwind of tempestuous Fire,
A thousand Wretches in the Air expire,
Howling, an impious Colony they go
At once transported to the World below.
There a Chain'd Shot with whirling Rage deprives
More than one Ship of Entrails, Limbs and Lives.
Death, who set out with it, does lagging stay,
Or limps behind it, panting in its way.

And now from the Britannia, in a Crowd,
Huge Bolts with Fury rend their nitrous Cloud,
Not mighty Iove's could pass more fierce or loud,
When brandish'd by the God, in dust they laid
Those Sons of Earth who durst his Heav'n invade.
Enceladus on Ossa Pelion casts,
When lo! all Three th' avenging Thunder blasts.
And the Britannia like Destruction hurl'd
On the Invaders of its floating World.
By her they with their moving Mountains fell,
Like vast Typhaeus flaming sent to Hell.

Great Russel does their Admirals assail
With Thunder, Lightning, and with Iron Hail.
That desperate sight t'have seen, one would have sworn
Vulcanian Islands from their Seats were torn:
That Strombolo afloat did thundring rush,
And the inferiour Isles—
With inextinguishable Fury crush.

O would that Fury animate my Verse,
That God-like Rage, which is both wise and fierce;
That Rage which in the Fight inspir'd thy Breast!
Then might thy Praise be gloriously exprest;
Thy Noble Acts in equal Numbers shown,
Which thou mightst then, Triumphant Russel! own:
But who could e're command celestial Fire?
The God does whom and when he lists inspire:
Now down he rushes, and my Breast he shakes,
And now to Heav'n his towring Flight he takes.
Then e're he leaves me, and my Blood grows cold,
The Battels vast Event in haste be told.—

The French, at last, of treacherous Aid deceiv'd,
By loudest Storms would gladly be reliev'd.
Their Ships, which in magnificent Array
But just before did their proud Flags display,
And seem'd with War and Destiny to play;
Now from our Rage, despoil'd of Rigging, Tow,
Or Burn, or up into the Air they blow.

Thus a large Row of Oaks does long remain
The Ornament and Shelter of the Plain:
With their aspiring Heads they reach the Sky,
Their huge extended Arms the Winds defy,
The Tempest ees their strength, & sighs, & passes by.
When Iove, concern'd that they so high aspire,
Amongst them sends his own revenging Fire,
Which does with dismal Havock on them fall,
Burns some, and tears up some, but rends them all:
From their dead Trunks their mangled Arms are torn,
And from their Heads their scatter'd Glories born;
Upon the Heath they blasted stand and bare,
And those whom once they shelter'd, now they scare.