ON THE GLORIOUS VICTORY OBTAINED BY THE HEROICK KING OF PRUSSIA OVER THE IMPERIAL ARMY NEAR NEWMARK IN SILESIA THE 5TH DECEMBER 1757.
My muse! again attempt the lyre; Rouse! rouse! thy whole poetic fire! Great FREDRICK'S deeds do still require More ample praise. Let his great acts the verse inspire, And tuneful be thy lays.
Illustrious HANNIBAL of old, CAESAR the brave and SCIPIO bold, For battles won stand high enroll'd In hist'ry's page! Let Fred'rick's name with theirs be told, The HERO of his age!
_Rosbach!_ thy plain the VICTOR owns! 'Twas fill'd with shrieks and dying groans, And mangled limbs and shatter'd bones-- In heaps they lay! The vanquished _Gaul_ as yet bemoans That inauspicious day.
Yea FRED'RICK bent on conquests new, Doth ALEXANDER-like pursue, As if the world he would subdue-- Undaunted prince! That thou 'rt a _Hero_ great and true Each action doth evince.
_Silesia_ first demands relief, His losses there augment his grief; Thitherward the _Prussians_ and their CHIEF, To BEVERN'S aid Make hasty marches; and in brief Their parts they nobly play'd.
See! see! the godlike MAN proceed! And vet'ran bands to battle lead, Inur'd to toil, and warlike deed, A hardy race! Such troops are princes' friends indeed, And do their LEADER grace.
The trumpet's sound, and loudest noise Of martial drums, increase their joys; Not by compulsion led, but choice, And bold to fight, Their _Country's_ cause in mind they poise; _War! War!_ is their delight!
Now they engage with furious shout; And join in battle fierce and stout, Th' invet'rate _Foe_ at length they rout; And loud they cry-- O! matchless _Prussians_! ne'er give out; Pursue! Cut off! Destroy!
Th' intrepid victors far and near Spread fierce destruction on the rear, Their enemies with trembling fear Their arms lay down; Who whilom haughty and severe, Had deem'd the field their own.
See them triumphant bear away Th' imperial standards waving gay! A thousand trophies line the way; As they return, Beneath their feet, a hapless prey, The vanquish'd mourn.
Behold the blood impurpled plain, And shiver'd armour of the slain! Their dreams of honour, ah! how vain? Gasping they lie! Now of their wounds complain, Now sink and faint and die.