Nor deem, when Learning her last prize bestows,
  The glittering eminence exempt from foes;
  See, when the vulgar ’scapes, despised or awed,
  Rebellion’s vengeful talons seize on Laud. 
  From meaner minds though smaller fines content,
  The plunder’d palace, or sequester’d rent, 170
  Mark’d out by dangerous parts he meets the shock,
  And fatal Learning leads him to the block: 
  Around his tomb let Art and Genius weep,
  But hear his death, ye blockheads! hear and sleep.

   The festal blazes, the triumphal show,
  The ravish’d standard, and the captive foe,
  The senate’s thanks, the Gazette’s pompous tale,
  With force resistless o’er the brave prevail. 
  Such bribes the rapid Greek o’er Asia whirl’d;
  For such the steady Romans shook the world; 180
  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. 190

   On what foundation stands the warrior’s pride,
  How just his hopes, let Swedish Charles decide;
  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 their powers combine,
  And one capitulate, and one resign; 200
  Peace courts his hand, but spreads her charms in vain: 
  ‘Think nothing gain’d,’ he cries, ’till nought remain,
  On Moscow’s walls till Gothic standards fly,
  And all be mine beneath the polar sky.’ 
  The march begins in military state,
  And nations on his eye suspended wait;
  Stern Famine guards the solitary coast,
  And Winter barricades the realms of Frost;
  He comes, nor want nor cold his course delay;
  Hide, blushing Glory! hide Pultowa’s day:  210
  The vanquish’d hero leaves his broken bands,
  And shows his miseries in distant lands;
  Condemn’d a needy supplicant to wait,
  While ladies interpose, and slaves debate. 
  But did not Chance at length her error mend? 
  Did no subverted empire mark his end? 
  Did rival monarchs give the fatal wound,
  Or hostile millions press him to the ground? 
  His fall was destined to a barren strand,
  A petty fortress, and a dubious hand; 220
  He left the name at which the world grew pale,
  To point a moral, or adorn a tale.