For such in distant lands the Britons shine,

And stain with blood the Danube or the Rhine; This power has praise that virtue scarce can

warm,

Till fame supplies the universal charm. Yet Reason frowns on War's unequal game, Where wasted nations raise a single name ; And mortgaged states their grandsires' wreaths

regret,

From age to age in everlasting debt ; Wreaths which at last the dear-bought right

convey, To rust on medals, or on stones decay.

On what foundation stands the warrior's

pride,

How just his hopes, let Swedish Charles de- cide ;

A frame of adamant, a soul of fire, No dangers fright him, and no labours tire ; O'er love, o'er fear, extends his wide domain, Unconquer'd lord of pleasure and of pain ; No joys to him pacific sceptres yield ; War sounds the trump, he rushes to the field. Behold surrounding kings theirpowercombine, And one capitulate, and one resign ; Peace courts his hand, but spreads her charms

in vain ; "Think nothing gain'd," he cries, "till nought

remain,

�� �