No monarchs are thy rivals here.
The court of Beauty built sublime,
Defies all pow’rs but heaven and time;
Envy, that clouds the hero’s sky,
Aims but in vain her shafts so high.
Not Blenheim’s field, nor Ister’s flood,
Nor standards dyed in Gallic blood,
Torn from the foe, add nobler grace
To Churchill’s house than Spenser’s face.
The warlike thunder of his arms