An
EPISTLE
from
the
Elector
of
BAVARIA
to
the
FRENCH
King
,
after
the
Battle
of
RAMILLIES
.
IF
yet
,
great
Sir
,
your
heart
can
comfort
know
,
And
the
returning
sighs
less
frequent
flow
;
If
yet
your
ear
can
suffer
ANNA'S
fame
,
And
bear
,
without
a
start
,
her
MARLBRO'S
name
;
If
half
the
slain
o'er
wide
Ramillia
spread
,
Are
yet
forgot
,
and
in
your
fancy
dead
:
Attend
,
and
be
yourself
,
while
I
recite
(
Oh
!
that
I
only
can
of
losses
write
!
)
To
what
a
mighty
sum
our
ills
amount
,
And
give
a
faithful
,
tho'
a
sad
account
.
Let
not
Bavaria
be
condemn'd
unheard
,
Nor
,
'till
examin'd
,
have
his
conduct
clear'd
;
Charge
not
on
me
alone
that
fatal
day
,
Your
own
commanders
bore
too
great
a
sway
.
Think
!
Sir
,
with
pity
think
!
what
I
have
lost
,
My
native
realms
and
my
paternal
coast
,
All
that
a
firm
confed'rate
could
bestow
,
Ev'n
faith
and
fame
,
if
you
believe
the
foe
.
Think
what
a
heavy
load
o'erwhelms
my
breast
,
With
its
own
sorrows
and
with
yours
opprest
;
After
one
battle
lost
,
and
country
gone
,
Vanquish'd
again
,
alas
!
and
twice
undone
.
Oh
!
where
shall
I
begin
?
what
language
find
To
heal
the
raging
anguish
of
your
mind
?
Or
if
you
deign
a
willing
ear
to
lend
,
Oh
!
where
will
my
disastrous
story
end
?
Conquest
I
often
promis'd
,
I
confess
,
And
who
from
such
a
pow'r
could
promise
less
?
There
Gallia's
force
,
and
here
Bavaria's
shines
,
Th'
experienc'd
houshold
fills
our
crowded
lines
;
Already
had
our
tow'ring
thoughts
o'erthrown
The
Belgian
host
,
while
we
survey'd
our
own
,
Destroy'd
their
provinces
with
sword
and
flame
,
Let
in
their
seas
,
and
sack'd
their
Amsterdam
;
Already
had
we
shar'd
the
fancy'd
spoil
,
(
Imaginary
trophies
crown'd
our
toil
)
Batavian
standards
to
this
temple
gave
,
In
that
the
British
crosses
doom'd
to
wave
,
A
rural
seat
assign'd
each
captive
chief
,
In
flow'ry
gardens
to
assuage
his
grief
,
And
by
his
arts
,
and
first
escape
prepar'd
,
On
MARLBRO
had
bestow'd
a
double
guard
.
Paris
impatient
for
the
conquer'd
foe
,
Hasten'd
the
tuneful
hymn
and
solemn
show
;
Triumphal
chariots
for
the
victor
stay'd
,
And
finish'd
arches
cast
a
pompous
shade
;
With
nicest
art
the
bards
had
dress'd
their
lays
,
Of
nothing
fearful
but
to
reach
our
praise
;
But
all
our
hopes
and
expectation
crost
,
What
lines
have
we
?
what
fame
has
Boileau
lost
?
Your
army
now
,
fixt
on
its
high
designs
,
Rush
forth
like
vernal
swarms
,
and
quit
their
lines
;
Eager
the
Dyle
they
pass
to
seek
the
fight
,
Judoina's
fields
with
sudden
tents
are
white
,
The
foe
descends
,
like
torrents
from
the
hills
,
And
all
the
neighb'ring
vale
tumultuous
fills
:
Preluding
cannons
tell
th'
approaching
storm
,
And
working
armies
take
a
dreadful
form
.
Soon
your
victorious
arms
,
and
stronger
force
,
Tore
all
the
left
,
and
broke
the
Belgian
horse
;
Their
scatter'd
troops
are
rally'd
to
the
fight
,
But
only
rally'd
for
a
second
flight
:
As
when
high
heav'n
on
some
aspiring
wood
,
Which
in
close
ranks
,
and
thickest
order
stood
,
Pours
its
collected
stores
of
vengeance
down
,
Cedars
are
seen
with
firs
and
oaks
o'erthrown
,
Long
ravages
and
intervals
of
waste
!
So
gor'd
their
lines
appear'd
,
and
so
defac'd
.
The
third
attack
had
ended
all
the
war
,
Sunk
their
whole
force
,
and
sav'd
your
future
care
,
Had
MARLBRO
,
only
MARLBRO
,
not
been
there
.
As
some
good
genius
flies
,
to
save
the
realms
Which
,
in
his
absence
born
,
a
plague
o'erwhelms
,
Through
op'ning
squadrons
did
the
hero
haste
,
And
rais'd
their
drooping
courage
as
he
past
.
Amidst
the
routed
Belgians
he
arriv'd
,
Turn'd
the
pursuit
,
the
fainting
fight
reviv'd
,
Supply'd
each
rank
,
fill'd
ev'ry
vacant
space
,
And
brought
the
battle
to
its
former
face
.
With
trembling
hearts
we
see
our
fate
decreed
;
Where
MARLBRO
fights
how
can
a
foe
succeed
?
To
reach
his
life
our
boldest
warriors
strive
,
On
him
the
storm
with
all
its
thunder
drive
;
He
stems
the
war
,
and
half
encompass'd
round
Still
clears
his
way
,
and
still
maintains
his
ground
:
Amaz'd
I
saw
him
in
such
dangers
live
,
And
envy'd
him
the
death
I
wish'd
to
give
.
But
how
our
rising
pleasure
shall
I
tell
?
The
thund'ring
steed
,
and
the
great
rider
,
fell
:
We
thank'd
kind
heav'n
,
and
hop'd
the
victor
slain
,
But
all
our
hopes
,
and
all
our
thanks
were
vain
:
Free
from
the
guilt
of
any
hostile
wound
Alive
he
lay
,
and
dreadful
on
the
ground
.
As
when
a
lion
in
the
toils
is
cast
,
That
uncontroul'd
had
laid
the
country
waste
,
Th'
insulting
hinds
surround
him
,
who
before
Fled
from
his
haunts
,
and
trembled
at
his
roar
;
So
round
beset
the
mighty
Briton
lies
,
And
vulgar
foes
attempt
the
glorious
prize
.
'Till
fresh
battalions
to
his
succour
brought
,
Contending
armies
for
the
hero
fought
;
The
wanted
steed
some
friendly
hand
prepar'd
,
And
met
a
fatal
,
but
a
great
,
reward
:
A
glorious
death
;
of
his
lov'd
lord
bereft
,
The
pious
office
unperform'd
he
left
.
The
rescu'd
chief
,
by
the
past
danger
warm'd
,
Our
weaken'd
houshold
with
new
fury
storm'd
:
While
all
around
to
our
admiring
eyes
Fresh
foes
,
and
undiscover'd
squadrons
,
rise
.
The
boasted
guards
that
spread
your
name
so
far
,
And
turn'd
where'er
they
fought
the
doubtful
war
,
With
heaps
of
slaughter
strow'd
the
fatal
plain
,
And
did
a
thousand
glorious
things
in
vain
;
Broke
with
unequal
force
such
numbers
die
,
That
I
myself
rejoic'd
to
see
them
fly
.
But
oh
!
how
few
preserv'd
themselves
by
flight
?
Or
found
a
shelter
from
th'
approaching
night
?
Thousands
fall
undistinguish'd
in
the
dark
,
And
five
whole
leagues
with
wide
destruction
mark
.
Scarce
at
Ramillia
did
the
slaughter
end
,
When
the
swift
victor
had
approach'd
Ostend
;
Took
in
whole
states
and
countries
in
his
way
,
Brussels
,
nor
Ghent
,
nor
Antwerp
gain'd
a
day
;
Within
the
compass
of
one
circling
moon
,
The
Lis
,
the
Demer
,
and
the
Scheld
his
own
.
What
in
the
foe's
,
and
what
in
William's
hand
,
Did
for
an
age
the
power
of
France
withstand
;
Tho'
each
campaign
she
crowded
nations
drain'd
,
And
the
fat
soil
with
blood
of
thousands
stain'd
;
Those
forts
and
provinces
does
MARLBRO
gain
In
twice
three
suns
,
and
not
a
soldier
slain
;
None
can
suspend
the
fortune
of
their
town
,
But
who
their
harvest
and
their
country
drown
;
Compell'd
to
call
(
his
valour
to
evade
)
The
less
destructive
ocean
to
their
aid
.
Oh
!
were
our
loss
to
Flandria's
plains
confin'd
!
But
what
a
train
of
ills
are
still
behind
!
Beyond
the
Adige
Vendome
feels
the
blow
,
And
Villars
now
retires
without
a
foe
,
The
fate
of
Flanders
spreads
in
Spain
the
flame
,
And
their
new
monarch
robs
of
half
his
fame
;
But
France
shall
hear
,
in
some
late
distant
reign
,
An
unborn
Lewis
curse
Ramillia's
plain
.
Whither
,
oh
!
whither
shall
Bavaria
run
?
Or
where
himself
,
or
where
the
victor
shun
?
Shall
I
no
more
with
vain
ambition
roam
,
But
my
own
subjects
rule
in
peace
at
home
?
Thence
an
abandon'd
fugitive
I'm
driven
,
Like
the
first
guilty
man
by
angry
heav'n
From
his
bless'd
mansions
,
where
th'
avenging
lord
Still
guards
the
passage
with
a
brandish'd
sword
.
Or
shall
I
to
Brabantia's
courts
retire
,
And
reign
o'er
distant
provinces
for
hire
?
Shall
I
with
borrow'd
government
dispense
,
A
royal
servant
and
another's
prince
?
These
countries
too
(
oh
my
hard
fate
!
)
are
lost
,
And
I
am
banish'd
from
a
foreign
coast
;
Now
may
I
sight
secure
of
future
toils
,
Of
no
new
countries
a
third
battle
spoils
.
Oh
,
Tallard
!
once
I
did
thy
chains
deplore
,
But
envy
now
the
fate
I
mourn'd
before
;
By
bondage
bless'd
,
protected
by
the
foe
,
You
live
contented
with
one
overthrow
;
Her
captive
,
Britain
kindly
kept
away
From
the
disgrace
of
the
last
fatal
day
.
How
does
my
fall
the
haughty
victor
raise
,
And
join
divided
nations
in
his
praise
;
Grateful
Germania
unknown
titles
frames
,
And
CHURCHILL
writes
amongst
her
sov'reign
names
.
Part
of
her
states
obey
a
British
lord
,
Small
part
!
of
the
great
empire
he
restor'd
.
From
the
proud
Spaniard
he
extorts
applause
,
And
rivals
with
the
Dutch
their
great
Nassaus
.
In
ev'ry
language
are
his
battles
known
,
The
Swede
and
Pole
for
his
,
despise
their
own
.
A
thousand
sects
in
him
their
safety
place
,
And
our
own
saints
are
thank'd
for
our
disgrace
.
England
alone
,
and
that
some
pleasure
gives
,
Envies
herself
the
blessings
she
receives
.
My
grief
each
place
renews
where-e'er
I
go
,
And
ev'ry
art
contributes
to
my
woe
;
Ramillia's
plain
each
painter's
pencil
yields
,
Bavaria
flies
in
all
their
canvas
fields
:
On
me
,
young
poets
their
rude
lays
indite
,
And
on
my
sorrows
practise
how
to
write
;
I
in
their
scenes
with
borrow'd
passion
rage
,
And
act
a
shameful
part
on
ev'ry
stage
.
In
Flandria
will
the
tale
be
ever
told
,
Nor
will
it
grow
,
with
ever
telling
,
old
:
The
lisping
infants
will
their
MARLBRO
raise
,
And
their
new
speech
grow
plainer
in
his
praise
;
His
story
will
employ
their
middle
years
,
And
in
their
latest
age
recall
their
fears
,
While
to
their
children's
children
they
relate
The
business
of
a
day
,
their
country's
fate
:
Then
lead
them
forth
,
their
thoughts
to
entertain
,
And
shew
the
wond'ring
youth
Ramillia's
plain
;
'Twas
here
they
fought
,
the
houshold
fled
that
way
,
And
this
the
spot
where
MARLBRO
prostrate
lay
.
Here
they
,
perhaps
,
shall
add
Bavaria's
name
,
Censure
his
courage
,
and
his
conduct
blame
:
'Tis
false
,
'tis
false
,
I
did
not
basely
yield
,
I
left
indeed
,
but
left
a
bloody
field
:
Believe
not
,
future
ages
,
ne'er
believe
The
vile
aspersions
which
these
wretches
give
;
If
you
too
far
my
injur'd
honour
try
,
Take
heed
,
my
ghost
,
it
will
,
it
shall
,
be
nigh
,
Rise
in
his
face
,
and
give
the
slave
the
lie
.
Why
should
the
stars
thus
on
Britannia
smile
,
And
partial
blessings
crown
the
fav'rite
isle
?
Holland
does
her
for
their
great
founder
own
;
Britannia
gave
to
Portugal
a
crown
:
Twice
by
her
queens
does
proud
Iberia
fall
;
Her
Edwards
and
her
Henrys
conquer'd
Gaul
:
The
Swede
her
arms
from
late
oppression
freed
,
And
if
he
dares
oppress
,
will
curb
the
Swede
.
She
,
from
herself
,
decides
her
neighbours
fates
,
Rescues
by
turns
,
by
turns
subdues
their
states
;
In
the
wide
globe
no
part
could
nature
stretch
Beyond
her
arms
,
and
out
of
Britain's
reach
:
Who
fear'd
,
she
e'er
could
have
Bavaria
seen
?
Such
realms
,
and
kingdoms
,
hills
,
and
seas
between
?
Yet
there
,
—
oh
sad
remembrance
of
my
woe
!
Distant
Bavaria
does
her
triumphs
show
.
Proud
state
!
must
Europe
lie
at
thy
command
,
No
prince
without
thee
rise
,
without
thee
stand
!
What
share
?
what
part
is
thine
of
all
the
spoil
?
Thine
only
is
the
hazard
and
the
toil
.
An
empire
thou
hast
sav'd
and
all
its
states
,
Iberia's
realms
have
felt
severer
fates
:
What
wou'dst
thou
more
?
still
do
thy
arms
advance
?
Heav'n
knows
what
doom
thou
hast
reserv'd
for
France
!
From
whose
wise
care
does
all
the
treasure
rise
,
That
slaughter'd
hosts
and
shatter'd
fleets
supplies
?
From
whence
such
boundless
conquest
does
she
reap
,
Purchas'd
with
all
her
boasted
millions
cheap
?
O
bless'd
!
oh
envy'd
QUEEN
!
that
does
command
At
such
a
time
,
in
such
a
happy
land
;
Great
in
her
armies
and
her
pow'rful
fleet
!
Great
in
her
treasures
!
in
her
triumphs
great
!
But
greater
still
!
and
what
we
envy
most
,
That
can
a
MARLBRO
for
her
subject
boast
!
Oh
,
Gallia
!
from
what
splendors
art
thou
hurl'd
?
The
terror
once
of
all
the
western
world
;
Thy
spreading
map
each
year
did
larger
grow
,
New
mountains
still
did
rise
,
new
rivers
flow
;
But
now
surrounded
by
thy
ancient
mounds
,
Dost
inward
shrink
from
thy
new-conquer'd
bounds
.
Why
did
not
nature
,
far
from
MARLBRO'S
worth
,
In
distant
ages
bring
her
Louis
forth
?
Each
uncontroul'd
had
conquer'd
worlds
alone
,
Happy
,
for
Europe
,
they
together
shone
.
Cease
!
Louis
,
cease
!
from
wars
and
slaughter
cease
!
Oh
!
sue
at
last
,
'tis
time
to
sue
,
for
peace
!
Urge
not
too
far
your
twice
unhappy
fate
,
Nor
MARLBRO'S
stronger
arm
confess
too
late
:
Who
never
camps
nor
rough
encounters
saw
,
Can
no
just
image
of
the
hero
draw
:
He
must
,
alas
!
that
MARLBRO
truly
knows
,
Face
him
in
battle
,
and
whole
armies
lose
.
Believe
me
,
Sir
,
on
my
unwilling
breast
,
Fate
has
his
virtues
one
by
one
imprest
:
With
what
a
force
our
Schellemberg
he
storm'd
?
And
Blenheim's
battle
with
what
conduct
form'd
?
How
great
his
vigilance
;
how
quick
his
thought
;
What
his
contempt
of
death
,
Ramillia
taught
.
These
nature
cool
for
peace
and
counsel
forms
,
For
battle
those
with
rage
and
fury
warms
;
But
to
her
fav'rite
Britain
does
impart
The
coolest
head
at
once
and
warmest
heart
;
So
does
Sicilia's
lofty
mountains
show
Flames
in
her
bosom
,
on
her
head
the
snow
.
My
youth
with
flatt'ring
smiles
did
Fortune
crown
,
The
more
severely
on
my
age
to
frown
?
Of
Pleasure's
endless
stores
I
drank
my
fill
,
Officious
Nature
waited
on
my
will
;
The
Austrian
rescu'd
,
and
the
Turk
o'erthrown
,
Europe
and
Asia
fill'd
with
my
renown
:
Blasted
are
all
my
glories
and
my
fame
,
Lost
is
my
country
and
illustrious
name
;
The
titles
from
their
present
lord
are
torn
,
Which
my
great
ancestors
so
long
had
borne
;
No
native
honours
shall
my
offspring
grace
,
The
last
elector
with
a
num'rous
race
.
Half
my
unhappy
subjects
lost
by
wars
,
The
rest
for
a
worse
fate
the
victor
spares
:
Were
they
for
this
entrusted
to
my
care
?
This
the
reward
the
brave
,
the
faithful
share
?
My
sons
lament
,
in
distant
dungeons
thrown
,
Unacted
crimes
,
and
follies
not
their
own
;
But
oh
!
my
comfort
!
—
my
o'er-flowing
eyes
Gush
forth
with
tears
,
and
all
my
sorrows
rise
,
While
the
dear
tender
exile
I
bemoan
;
Oh
royal
bride
!
oh
daughter
of
a
throne
!
Not
thus
I
promis'd
when
I
sought
thy
bed
,
Thou
didst
the
brave
,
the
great
Bavaria
wed
:
Curst
be
ambition
!
curst
the
thirst
of
pow'r
!
And
curst
that
once-lov'd
title
Emperor
!
Excuse
,
great
Sir
,
the
ravings
of
a
mind
,
That
can
so
just
a
cause
for
sorrow
find
;
My
words
too
rudely
may
a
monarch
greet
,
For
oh
!
was
ever
grief
like
mine
discreet
!
No
suff'rings
shall
my
firm
alliance
end
,
An
unsuccessful
,
but
a
faithful
friend
.