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THE SPANISH DESCENT. A POEM.
By the Author of The True-Born Engliſhman.
LONDON: Printed in the Year 1703.
THE SPANISH DESCENT. A POEM.
[3]LOng had this Nation been amus'd in vain
With Poſts from Portugal, and News from Spain,
With Or—d's Conqueſts, and the Fleets Succeſs,
And Favours from the Moors at Maccaneſs.
The Learned Mob bought Compaſſes and Scales,
And every Barber knew the Bay of Cales,
Show'd us the Army here, and there the Fleet,
Here the Troops Land, and there the Foes Retreat.
There at St. Maries how the Spaniard runs,
and liſten cloſe as if they heard the Guns,
And ſome pretend they ſee them—the Nuns.
[4]
Others deſcribe the Caſtle and Puntalls,
And tell how eaſie 'tis to Conquer Cales;
Wiſely propoſe to let the Silver come,
And help to Pay the Nation's Debts at Home.
But ſtill they count the Spoils without the Coſt,
And ſtill the News came faſter than the Poſt.
The graver Heads, like Mountebanks of State,
Of Abdication and Revolts Debate,
Expect a Revolution ſhould appear
As Cheap and Eaſie as it had done here.
Bring the revolting Grandees to the Coaſt,
And give the Duke D' Anjou up for Loſt.
Doom him to France to ſeek Relief in vain,
And ſend the Duke of Auſtria to Spain.
Canvas the Council at Madrid, and find
How all the Spaniſh Courtiers ſtand enclin'd.
Deſcribe the ſtrange Convulſions of the State,
And Old Carreroe's Sacrific'd to Fate.
Then all the Stage of Action they Survey,
And wiſh our Generals knew as much as they.
Some have their Fancies ſo exceeding Bold,
They ſaw the Queens fall out, and heard 'em Scold:
Nor is the thing ſo ſtrange, for if they did,
'Twas Talking from Toledo to Madrid.
And now the Farce is acting o'er again,
The meaning of our Miſchiefs to Explain.
The Learned Mob c'er-read in Arms and Law,
The Cauſe of their Miſcarriages foreſaw.
Tell us the Loitering Minutes were miſ-ſpent,
Too long a going, and too few that went.
[5]Exalt the Catalonian Garriſon,
The New made Works, the Platform, and the Town.
Tell us it was Impoſſible to Land,
And all their Batteries ſunk into the Sand.
Some are all Banter, and the Voyage Deſpiſe;
For fruitleſs Actions ſeldom paſs for Wiſe.
Tell us 'twas like our Engliſh Politicks,
To think to wheedle Spain with Hereticks.
The diſproportion'd Force they Banter too;
The Ships too many, and the Men too few.
Then they find fault with Conduct, and condemn
Sometimes the Officers, ſometimes the Men:
Nor ſcapes his Grace the Satyr of the Town;
Whoever fails Succeſs, ſhall fail Renown.
Sir George comes in among the Indiſcreet;
Sometimes the Armies cenſur'd, then the Fleet;
How the abandon'd Country they deſtroy'd,
And made their early Declarations void;
Too haſty Proofs of their Protection gave,
Plundering the People they came there to Save.
As if the Spaniards were ſo plagu'd with France,
To fly to Thieves for their Deliverance.
But amongſt all the Wiſdom of the Town,
The vaſt Deſigns of Fate remains unknown,
Ungueſt at, unexpected, hid from Thoughts,
For no Man look'd for Bleſſings in our Faults.
Miſchances ſometimes are a Nation's Good,
Rightly Improv'd, and Nicely Underſtood.
Ten Years we felt the Dying Pangs of War,
And fetch'd our Grief and Miſeries from far.
[6]Our Engliſh Millions Foreign War maintains,
And Engliſh Blood has Drencht the Neighbouring Plains.
Nor ſhall we Bluſh to Boaſt what all Men own,
Uncommon Engliſh Valour has been ſhown;
The forward Courage of our Ill Paid Men,
Deſerves more Praiſe than Nature ſpares my Pen.
What cou'd they not Perform, or what Endure?
Witneſs the Mighty Baſtions of Namure.
We faſted much, and we attempted more,
But ne'er cou'd come to giving Thanks before,
Unleſs 'twas when the Fatal Strife was o're.
Some ſecret Achan Curſt our Enterprize,
And Iſrael fled before her Enemies.
Whether the Poiſonous Particles were hid
In Us that Follow'd, or in Them that Led:
What Fatal Charm benumb'd the Nations Senſe,
To ſtruggle with Eternal Providence:
Whether ſome Curſe, or elſe ſome Perjur'd Vow,
Or ſome ſtrange Guilt that's expiated now:
Was it the Pilots who ill ſteer'd the State;
Or was it the Deciſive Will of Fate;
'Tis hard to tell; but this too well we know,
All things went backward, or went on too ſlow;
Small was the Glory of our High Succeſs,
A Tedious War, and an Imperfect Peace;
Peace Dearly purchas'd, and which Coſt us more
Great Kingdoms than we Conquer'd Towns before.
Actions may miſs of their deſerv'd Applauſe,
When Heaven approves the Men, and not the Cauſe;
And well contriv'd Deſigns miſcarry when
Heaven may approve the Cauſe, but not the Men;
[7]Here then's the Ground of our Expence of Blood,
The Sword of Gideon's, not the Sword of God.
The Mighty and the Wiſe are laid aſide,
And Victory the Sex has Dignified;
We have bin us'd to Female Conqueſts here,
And Queens have bin the Glory of the War,
The Scene Revives with Smiles of Providence,
All things Declin'd before, and Proſper ſince;
And as if ill Succeſs had been Entail'd,
The Poſthume Projects are the laſt that fail'd;
As Heaven, whoſe Works are hid from Humane View,
Would blaſt our Old Deſigns, and bleſs our New.
And now the Baffl'd Enterprize grows ſtale,
Their Hopes decreaſe, and juſter Doubts prevail:
The Unattempted Town Sings Victory,
And ſcar'd with Walls, and not with Men, we Fly;
Great Conduct in our ſafe Retreat we ſhew,
And bravely Re-imbark when none Purſue;
The Guns, the Ammunitions, put on Board,
And what we could not Plunder, we Reſtor'd.
And thus we Quit the Andaluſion Shores,
Drencht with the Spaniſh Wine, and Spaniſh W—s.
With Songs of Scorn the Arragonians Sing,
And loud Te Deum make the Valleys Ring.
Uncommon Joys now raiſe the Hopes of Spain,
And Vigo does their Plate-Fleet Entertain;
The vaſt Galeons Deep-Balaſted with Ore,
Safely reach Home to the Galitian Shore.
The Double Joy ſpreads from Madrid to Rome,
The Engliſh Fled, the Silver Fleet's come Home:
From thence it reaches to the Banks of Po,
And the Loud Cannons let the Germans know.
[8]The ratling Volleys tell their Short-liv'd Joys,
And roar Te Deum out in Smoak and Noiſe.
To Milan next it flies on Wings of Fame,
There the Young Monarch and his Heroes came,
From ſad Luzara, and the Mantuan Walls,
To ſeek New Dangers, and to reſcue Cales.
His Joy for Welcome Treaſure he expreſt,
But grieves at his good Fortune in the reſt:
The Flying Engliſh he had wiſht to ſtay,
To Crown with Conqueſt One Victorious Day.
The Prieſt, in high Proceſſion ſhew their Joy,
And all the Arts of Eloquence Employ,
To feed his Pride of fancy'd Victories,
And raiſe his untry'd Valour to the Skies.
The flattering Courtiers his vain Mind poſſeſs
With Airy Hopes of Conqueſt and Succeſs.
Prompt his young Thoughts to run on new Extreams,
And Sycophantick Pride his Heart Enflames;
His Native Crime ſprings up, his Pulſe beats high,
With Thoughts of Univerſal Monarchy;
Fancies his Foreign Enemies ſuppreſt,
And Boaſts too ſoon how he'll ſubdue the reſt.
Princes, like other Men, are blind to Fate,
He only ſees the Event who does the Cauſe create.
From hence through France the Welcome Tydings fly,
To mock his Ancient Sire with Muſhroom Joy.
Raptures poſſeſs the Ambitious Heads of France,
And Golden Hopes their new Deſigns advance.
Now they Conſult to Cruſh the World agen,
And talk of rifling Chriſtendom for Men.
[9]
New Fleets, new Armies, and new Leagues contrive,
And ſwallow Men and Nations up alive;
Preſcribe no Bounds to their Ambitious Pride,
But firſt the Wealth, and then the World, Divide.
Exceſs of Pride to Airy Madneſs grows,
And makes Men ſtrange Romantick things propoſe:
The Head turns round, and all the Fancy's vain,
And makes the World as Giddy as the Brain.
Men that Conſult ſuch Weighty Things as thoſe,
All Poſſible Diſaſters ſhould ſuppoſe:
In vain great Princes mighty things Invent,
While Heaven retains the Power to prevent:
He that to General Miſchief makes Pretence,
Should firſt know how to conquer Providence.
Such ſtrive in vain, and only ſhew Mankind,
How Tyrants cloath'd with Power are all enclin'd.
Mean while our melancholy Fleet ſteers Home,
Some griev'd for paſt, for future Miſchiefs ſome:
Diſaſter ſwells the Blood, and Spleen the Face,
And ripens them for glorious Things apace.
With deep Regret they turn their Eyes to Spain,
And wiſh they once might Viſit them again.
Little they dreamt that Good which Heaven prepar'd;
No Merit from below, no Signs from Heaven appear'd;
No Hints, unleſs from their high-ripen'd Spleen,
And ſtrange ungrounded Sympathy within.
The ſilent Duke, from all Miſconduct Free,
Alone enjoys [...] Calm of Honeſty:
Fear not [...] ſhould be fairly ſhown,
And [...] England's Errors, not his own.
[10]His Conſtant Temper's all ſerene and Clear;
Firſt free from Guilt, and therefore free from Fear.
Not ſo the reſt, for conſcious Thoughts become
More reſtleſs now the nearer they come Home.
The Party-making Feuds on Board begin:
For People always Quarrel when they Sin.
Reflect with Shame upon the things miſ-done,
And ſhift their Faults about from One to One,
Prepare Excuſes, and compute their Friends,
And dread the Fate which their Deſert attends.
Some wiſh for Storms, and curſe the Wind and Sails,
And Dream, no doubt, of Gibbets, and of Jayls;
Imaginary Puniſhments appear,
And ſuited to their ſecret Guilts, their Fear,
Their haſt'ning Fate in their own Fancies Read,
And few, 'tis fear'd, their Innocence can plead.
Then their ſweet Spoils to truſty Hands convey,
And throw the rifl'd Gods of Spain away:
Diſgorge that Wealth they dare not entertain,
And wiſh the Nuns their Maiden-Heads again.
Diſmiſs their Wealth for fear of Witneſſes,
And purge their Coffers and their Conſciences,
Curſing their Ill-got Trifles, but in vain,
For ſtill the Guilt, and ſtill the Fears, remain.
Tell us ye Rabbies of abſtruſer Senſe,
Who jumble Fate and Fools with Providence;
Is this the choſen Army, this the Fleet,
For which Heaven's Praiſes ſound in every Street?
Cou'd Heaven provide them one Occaſion more,
Who had ſo Ill diſcharg'd themſelves before?
That Fleet ſo many former Millions Loſt,
So little had Perform'd, ſo much had Coſt:
[11]That Fleet ſo often Mann'd with Knaves before,
That ſerv'd us all the War to make us Poor;
That Twice had made their fruitleſs Voyage to Spain,
And ſaw the Streights, and ſo came Home again:
Our Wooden Walls that ſhould Defend our Trade,
And many a Witleſs Wooden Voyage ha' made;
How oft have they been fitted out in Vain,
Waſted our Money, and deſtroy'd our Men,
Betray'd our Merchants, and expos'd their Fleets,
And caus'd Eternal Murmurs in our Streets?
The Nation's Genius ſure prevails above,
And Heaven conceals his Anger, ſhows his Love:
The Nation's Guardian Angel has prevail'd,
And on her Guardian Queen new Favours has entail'd.
Now let glad Europe in her Turn Rejoice,
And Sing new Triumphs with exalted Voice.
See the glad Poſt of Tidings wing'd with News,
With ſuited Speed the wondring Fleet purſues:
His Haſte diſcern'd, increaſes their Surprize,
The more they wonder, and the more he flies.
Nor Wind, nor Seas, proportion'd Speed can bear;
For Joy and Hope have ſwifter Wings than Fear.
With what Surprize of Joy they meet the News!
Joys, that to every Vein new Spirits infuſe.
The wild Exceſs in Shouts and Cries appear;
For Joys and Griefs are all irregular.
Councils of War for ſake of Forms they call,
But Shame admits of no Diſputes at all:
How ſhould they differ where no Doubt can be?
But if they ſhou'd accept of Victory,
Whether they ſhou'd the great Occaſion take,
Or baffle Heaven, and double their Miſtake?
[12]Whether the naked and defenceleſs Prize
They ſhould accept; or Heaven and that Deſpiſe?
Whether they ſhou'd Revive their Reputation;
Or ſink it Twice, and Twice Betray the Nation?
Who dare the horrid Negative deſign?
Who dare the Laſt ſuggeſt, the Firſt decline?
Envy her ſelf; for Satan's always there,
And keeps his Councils with the God of War.
Tho' with her ſwelling Spleen ſhe ſeem'd to burſt,
Will'd the Deſign while the Event ſhe Curs'd.
The Word's gone out, and now they ſpread the Main
With ſwelling Sails, and ſwelling Hopes, for Spain:
To double Vengeance preſt where-e'er they come,
Reſolv'd to pay the Haughty Spaniard home:
Reſolv'd by future Conduct to atone
For all our paſt Miſtakes, and all their own.
New Life ſprings up in every Engliſh Face,
[...]nd fits them all for Glorious Things apace:
[...]he Booty ſome Excites, and ſome the Cauſe;
[...]ut more the Hope to gain their loſt Applauſe.
[...]ager their ſully'd Honour to reſtore,
[...]ome Anger whets, ſome Pride and Vengeance more.
The lazy Minutes now paſs on too ſlow,
[...]ancy flies faſter than the Winds can blow:
[...]patient Wiſhes lengthen out the Day;
[...]hey chide the loitering Winds for their delay.
[...]t Time is Nature's faithful Meſſenger,
[...]d brings up all we Wiſh, as well as all we Fear.
The Miſts clear up, and now the Scout diſcries
[...]e Subject of their Hopes and Victories:
[13]The wiſh'd for Fleets embay'd, in Harbour lye,
Unfit to fight, and more unfit to fly.
Tr [...] [...] [...]oughout the Navy flies,
Eccho'd from Shore with Terror and Surprize.
Strange [...]wer of Noiſe! which at one ſimple ſound
At once ſhall ſome Encourage, ſome Confound.
In vain the Lion tangl'd in the Snare
With Anguiſh roars, and rends the trembling Air:
'Tis vain to ſtruggle with Almighty Fate;
Vain and Impoſſible the weak Debate.
The Mighty Booms the Forts reſiſt in vain,
The Guns with fruitleſs Force in Noiſe complain.
See how the Troops intrepidly fall on!
Wiſh for more Foes, and think they fly too ſoon,
With eager Fury to their Forts purſue,
And think the odds of Four to One too few.
The Land's firſt Conquer'd, and the Prize attends;
Fate beckens in the Fleet to back their Friends:
Deſpair ſucceeds, they ſtruggle now too late,
And ſoon ſubmit to their prevailing Fate:
Courage is Madneſs when Occaſion's paſt,
Death's the ſecureſt Refuge, and the laſt.
And now the rolling Flames come threatning on,
And mighty Streams of melted Gold run down.
The flaming Oar down to its Center makes,
To Form new Mines beneath the Oazy Lakes,
Here a Galleon with Spicy Drugs enflam'd,
In Odoriferous folds of Sulphur ſtream'd.
The Gods of Old no ſuch Oblations knew,
Their Spices weak, and their Perfumes but few.
[14]The frighted Spaniards from their Treaſure fly,
Loth to forſake their Wealth, but loth to Die.
Here a vaſt Carrack flies while none purſue,
Bulg'd on the Shore by her Diſtracted Crew:
There like a mighty Mountain ſhe appears,
And groans beneath the Golden Weight ſhe bears.
Conqueſt perverts the Property of Friend,
And makes Men Ruin what they can't Defend:
Some blow their Treaſure up into the Air,
With all the wild Exceſſes of Deſpair.
Strange Fate! that War ſuch odd Events ſhou'd have;
Friends would deſtroy, and Enemies would ſave:
Others their Safety to their Wealth Prefer,
And mix ſome ſmall Diſcretion with their Fear.
Life's the beſt Gift that Nature can beſtow;
The firſt that we receive, the laſt which we forego:
And he that's vainly Prodigal of Blood,
Forfeits his Senſe to do his Cauſe no good.
All Deſparation's the Effect of Fear;
Courage is Temper, Valour can't Deſpair:
And now the Victory's compleatly gain'd;
No Ships to Conquer now, no Foes remain'd.
The mighty Spoils exceed whate'er was known,
That Vanquiſh'd ever loſt, or Victor won:
So great, if Fame ſhall Future Times remind,
They'll think ſhe Lies, and Libels all Mankind.
Well may the Pious Queen New Anthems raiſe,
Sing her own Fortunes, and Her Maker's Praiſe;
Invite the Nation willing Thanks to pay;
And well may all the Mighty Ones Obey.
[15]So may they ſing, be always ſo preſerv'd,
By Grace unwiſh'd, and Conqueſt undeſerv'd.
Now let us Welcome Home the Conquering Fleet,
And all their well aton'd Miſtakes forget:
Such high Succeſs ſhou'd all Reſentments drown'd,
Nothing but Joy and Welcome ſhould be found.
No more their paſt Miſcariages Reprove,
But bury all in Gratitude and Love;
Let their high Conduct have a juſt Regard,
And meaner Merit meet a kind Reward.
But now what Fruits of Victory remain?
To Heaven what Praiſe? What Gratitude to Man?
Let France ſing Praiſe for Shams of Victories,
And Mock their Maker with Religious Lies:
But England bleſt with thankful Hearts ſhall raiſe,
For mighty Conqueſts, mighty Songs of Praiſe.
She needs no falſe Pretences to Deceive:
What all Men ſee, all Men muſt needs believe.
Our Joy can hardly run into Exceſs,
The well known Subject all our Foes confeſs:
We can't deſire more, they can't pretend to leſs.
ANNE, like her Great Progenitor, ſings Praiſe:
Like her ſhe Conquers, and like her ſhe Prays;
Like her ſhe Graces and Protects the Throne,
And counts the Lands Proſperity her own:
Like her, and long like her, be Bleſs'd her Reign,
Crown'd with new Conqueſts, and more Fleets from Spain.
See now the Royal Chariot comes amain,
With all the willing Nation in her Train,
[16]With humble Glory, and with ſolemn Grace,
Queen in her Eyes, and Chriſtian in her Face.
With Her, Her repreſented Subjects join;
And when She Prays, th' whole Nation ſays, Amen.
With Her, in Stalls the Illuſtrious Nobles ſat,
The Cherubims and Seraphims of State:
ANNE like a Cornet in the Center ſhone,
And they like Stars that circumfere the Sun.
She Great in them, and they as Great in Her;
Sure Heaven will ſuch Illuſtrious Praiſes hear.
The crouding Millions Hearty Bleſſings pour:
Saint Paul ne'er ſaw but one ſuch Day before.
FINIS.
- Citation Suggestion for this Object
- TextGrid Repository (2020). TEI. 3488 The Spanish descent A poem By the author of The true born Englishman. University of Oxford Text Archive. . https://hdl.handle.net/21.T11991/0000-001A-5968-C