To fruitful , or fair  Gate
What Tidings shall the Messenger convey?
Shall the loud Herald our Success relate,
Or mitred Priest appoint the Solemn Day?
Alas! my Praises They no more must Sing;
They to my Statue now must Bow no more:
Broken, repuls'd is their Immortal King:
Fall'n, fall'n for ever is the  Pow'r —
The  is Master of the War:
Earth She has freed by Arms, and vanquish'd Heav'n by Pray'r.