The Poetical Works of the Late Thomas Warton ... Fifth Edition, Corrected and Enlarged. To which are now added Inscriptionum Romanarum Delectus, and An Inaugural Speech As Camden Professor of History, never before published. Together with Memoirs of his Life and Writings; and Notes, Critical and Explanatory. By Richard Mant |
 | I, II. |
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| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXI. |
| XXII. |
| XXIII. |
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 | The Poetical Works of the Late Thomas Warton |  |
ODE XI. ON THE APPROACH OF SUMMER.
Te, dea, te fugiunt venti, te nubila cœli,
Adventumque tuum; tibi suaveis dædala tellus
Summittit flores; tibi rident æquora ponti;
Placatumque nitet diffuso lumine cœlum.
Lucret.
Adventumque tuum; tibi suaveis dædala tellus
Summittit flores; tibi rident æquora ponti;
Placatumque nitet diffuso lumine cœlum.
Lucret.
(Published in 1753.)
Hence, iron-scepter'd Winter, haste
To bleak Siberian waste!
Haste to thy polar solitude;
Mid cataracts of ice,
Whose torrents dumb are stretch'd in fragments rude,
From many an airy precipice,
Where, ever beat by sleety show'rs,
Thy gloomy Gothic castle tow'rs;
Amid whose howling iles and halls,
Where no gay sun-beam paints the walls,
On ebon throne thou lov'st to shroud
Thy brows in many a murky cloud.
To bleak Siberian waste!
Haste to thy polar solitude;
Mid cataracts of ice,
2
From many an airy precipice,
Where, ever beat by sleety show'rs,
Thy gloomy Gothic castle tow'rs;
Amid whose howling iles and halls,
Where no gay sun-beam paints the walls,
On ebon throne thou lov'st to shroud
Thy brows in many a murky cloud.
E'en now, before the vernal heat,
Sullen I see thy train retreat:
Thy ruthless host stern Eurus guides,
That on a ravenous tiger rides,
Dim-figur'd on whose robe are shown
Shipwrecks, and villages o'erthrown:
Grim Auster, dropping all with dew,
In mantle clad of watchet hue:
And Cold, like Zemblan savage seen,
Still threatening with his arrows keen;
And next, in furry coat embost
With icicles, his brother Frost.
Sullen I see thy train retreat:
3
That on a ravenous tiger rides,
Dim-figur'd on whose robe are shown
Shipwrecks, and villages o'erthrown:
Grim Auster, dropping all with dew,
In mantle clad of watchet hue:
And Cold, like Zemblan savage seen,
Still threatening with his arrows keen;
And next, in furry coat embost
With icicles, his brother Frost.
Winter farewell! thy forests hoar,
Thy frozen floods delight no more;
Farewell the fields, so bare and wild!
But come thou rose-cheek'd cherub mild,
Sweetest Summer! haste thee here,
Once more to crown the gladden'd year.
Thee April blithe, as long of yore,
Bermudas' lawns he frolick'd o'er,
With muskie nectar-trickling wing,
(In the new world's first dawning spring,)
To gather balm of choicest dews,
And patterns fair of various hues,
With which to paint, in changeful die,
The youthful earth's embroidery;
To cull the essence of rich smells
In which to dip his new-born bells;
Thee, as he skim'd with pinions fleet,
He found an infant, smiling sweet;
Where a tall citron's shade imbrown'd
The soft lap of the fragrant ground.
There on an amaranthine bed,
Thee with rare nectarine fruits he fed;
Till soon beneath his forming care,
You bloom'd a goddess debonnair;
And then he gave the blessed isle
Aye to be sway'd beneath thy smile:
There plac'd thy green and grassy shrine,
With myrtle bower'd and jessamine:
And to thy care the task assign'd
With quickening hand, and nurture kind,
His roseate infant-births to rear,
Till Autumn's mellowing reign appear.
Thy frozen floods delight no more;
4
But come thou rose-cheek'd cherub mild,
Sweetest Summer! haste thee here,
Once more to crown the gladden'd year.
Thee April blithe, as long of yore,
Bermudas' lawns he frolick'd o'er,
With muskie nectar-trickling wing,
5
To gather balm of choicest dews,
And patterns fair of various hues,
With which to paint, in changeful die,
The youthful earth's embroidery;
To cull the essence of rich smells
In which to dip his new-born bells;
6
He found an infant, smiling sweet;
Where a tall citron's shade imbrown'd
The soft lap of the fragrant ground.
There on an amaranthine bed,
Thee with rare nectarine fruits he fed;
Till soon beneath his forming care,
You bloom'd a goddess debonnair;
7
Aye to be sway'd beneath thy smile:
There plac'd thy green and grassy shrine,
With myrtle bower'd and jessamine:
And to thy care the task assign'd
With quickening hand, and nurture kind,
His roseate infant-births to rear,
Till Autumn's mellowing reign appear.
Haste thee, nymph! and hand in hand,
With thee lead a buxom band;
Bring fantastic-footed Joy,
With Sport, that yellow-tressed boy:
Leisure, that through the balmy sky
Chases a crimson butterfly.
Bring Health, that loves in early dawn
To meet the milk-maid on the lawn;
Bring Pleasure, rural nymph, and Peace,
Meek, cottage-loving shepherdess!
And that sweet stripling, Zephyr, bring,
Light, and for ever on the wing.
Bring the dear Muse, that loves to lean
On river-margins, mossy green.
But who is she, that bears thy train,
Pacing light the velvet plain?
The pale pink binds her auburn hair,
Her tresses flow with pastoral air;
'Tis May, the Grace—confest she stands
By branch of hawthorn in her hands:
Lo! near her trip the lightsome Dews,
Their wings all ting'd in iris-hues;
With whom the pow'rs of Flora play,
And paint with pansies all the way.
With thee lead a buxom band;
Bring fantastic-footed Joy,
With Sport, that yellow-tressed boy:
8
Chases a crimson butterfly.
Bring Health, that loves in early dawn
To meet the milk-maid on the lawn;
Bring Pleasure, rural nymph, and Peace,
Meek, cottage-loving shepherdess!
And that sweet stripling, Zephyr, bring,
Light, and for ever on the wing.
Bring the dear Muse, that loves to lean
On river-margins, mossy green.
9
Pacing light the velvet plain?
The pale pink binds her auburn hair,
Her tresses flow with pastoral air;
'Tis May, the Grace—confest she stands
By branch of hawthorn in her hands:
Lo! near her trip the lightsome Dews,
Their wings all ting'd in iris-hues;
With whom the pow'rs of Flora play,
And paint with pansies all the way.
10
Oft when thy season, sweetest Queen,
Has dress'd the groves in liv'ry green;
When in each fair and fertile field
Beauty begins her bow'r to build;
While Evening, veil'd in shadows brown,
Puts her matron-mantle on,
And mists in spreading steams convey
More fresh the fumes of new-shorn hay;
Then, Goddess, guide my pilgrim feet
Contemplation hoar to meet,
As slow he winds in museful mood,
Near the rush'd marge of Cherwell's flood;
Or o'er old Avon's magic edge,
Whence Shakespeare cull'd the spiky sedge,
All playful yet, in years unripe,
To frame a shrill and simple pipe.
There thro' the dusk but dimly seen,
Sweet ev'ning objects intervene:
His wattled cotes the shepherd plants,
Beneath her elm the milk-maid chants,
The woodman, speeding home, awhile
Rests him at a shady stile.
Nor wants there fragrance to dispense
Refreshment o'er my soothed sense;
Nor tangled woodbines balmy bloom,
Nor grass besprent to breathe perfume:
Nor lurking wild-thyme's spicy sweet
To bathe in dew my roving feet:
Nor wants there note of Philomel,
Nor sound of distant-tinkling bell:
Nor lowings faint of herds remote,
Nor mastiff's bark from bosom'd cot:
Rustle the breezes lightly borne
O'er deep embattled ears of corn:
Round ancient elm, with humming noise,
Full loud the chaffer-swarms rejoice.
Meantime, a thousand dies invest
The ruby chambers of the West!
That all aslant the village tow'r
A mild reflected radiance pour,
While, with the level-streaming rays
Far seen its arched windows blaze:
And the tall grove's green top is dight
In russet tints, and gleams of light:
So that the gay scene by degrees
Bathes my blithe heart in ecstasies;
And Fancy to my ravish'd sight
Pourtrays her kindred visions bright.
At length the parting light subdues
My soften'd soul to calmer views,
And fainter shapes of pensive joy,
As twilight dawns, my mind employ,
Till from the path I fondly stray
In musings lap'd, nor heed the way;
Wandering thro' the landscape still,
Till Melancholy has her fill;
And on each moss-wove border damp
The glow-worm hangs his fairy lamp.
Has dress'd the groves in liv'ry green;
When in each fair and fertile field
Beauty begins her bow'r to build;
While Evening, veil'd in shadows brown,
Puts her matron-mantle on,
11
More fresh the fumes of new-shorn hay;
Then, Goddess, guide my pilgrim feet
Contemplation hoar to meet,
As slow he winds in museful mood,
Near the rush'd marge of Cherwell's flood;
Or o'er old Avon's magic edge,
Whence Shakespeare cull'd the spiky sedge,
All playful yet, in years unripe,
To frame a shrill and simple pipe.
There thro' the dusk but dimly seen,
Sweet ev'ning objects intervene:
His wattled cotes the shepherd plants,
12
The woodman, speeding home, awhile
Rests him at a shady stile.
Nor wants there fragrance to dispense
Refreshment o'er my soothed sense;
Nor tangled woodbines balmy bloom,
Nor grass besprent to breathe perfume:
Nor lurking wild-thyme's spicy sweet
To bathe in dew my roving feet:
13
Nor sound of distant-tinkling bell:
Nor lowings faint of herds remote,
Nor mastiff's bark from bosom'd cot:
Rustle the breezes lightly borne
O'er deep embattled ears of corn:
Round ancient elm, with humming noise,
Full loud the chaffer-swarms rejoice.
Meantime, a thousand dies invest
14
That all aslant the village tow'r
A mild reflected radiance pour,
While, with the level-streaming rays
Far seen its arched windows blaze:
And the tall grove's green top is dight
In russet tints, and gleams of light:
So that the gay scene by degrees
Bathes my blithe heart in ecstasies;
And Fancy to my ravish'd sight
Pourtrays her kindred visions bright.
15
My soften'd soul to calmer views,
And fainter shapes of pensive joy,
As twilight dawns, my mind employ,
Till from the path I fondly stray
In musings lap'd, nor heed the way;
Wandering thro' the landscape still,
Till Melancholy has her fill;
And on each moss-wove border damp
The glow-worm hangs his fairy lamp.
But when the Sun, at noon-tide hour,
Sits throned in his highest tow'r;
Me, heart-rejoicing Goddess, lead
To the tann'd haycock in the mead:
To mix in rural mood among
The nymphs and swains, a busy throng;
Or, as the tepid odours breathe,
The russet piles to lean beneath:
There as my listless limbs are thrown
On couch more soft than palace down;
I listen to the busy sound
Of mirth and toil that hums around;
And see the team shrill-tinkling pass,
Alternate o'er the furrow'd grass.
Sits throned in his highest tow'r;
16
To the tann'd haycock in the mead:
To mix in rural mood among
The nymphs and swains, a busy throng;
Or, as the tepid odours breathe,
The russet piles to lean beneath:
There as my listless limbs are thrown
On couch more soft than palace down;
I listen to the busy sound
Of mirth and toil that hums around;
And see the team shrill-tinkling pass,
Alternate o'er the furrow'd grass.
But ever, after summer-show'r,
When the bright sun's returning pow'r,
With laughing beam has chas'd the storm,
And cheer'd reviving Nature's form;
By sweet-brier hedges, bath'd in dew,
Let me my wholesome path pursue;
There issuing forth the frequent snail
Wears the dank way with slimy trail,
While, as I walk, from pearled bush
The sunny-sparkling drop I brush;
And all the landscape fair I view
Clad in robe of fresher hue:
And so loud the black-bird sings,
That far and near the valley rings.
From shelter deep of shaggy rock
The shepherd drives his joyful flock;
From bowering beech the mower blithe
With new-born vigour grasps the scythe;
While o'er the smooth unbounded meads
His last faint gleam the rainbow spreads.
When the bright sun's returning pow'r,
17
And cheer'd reviving Nature's form;
By sweet-brier hedges, bath'd in dew,
Let me my wholesome path pursue;
There issuing forth the frequent snail
Wears the dank way with slimy trail,
While, as I walk, from pearled bush
The sunny-sparkling drop I brush;
18
Clad in robe of fresher hue:
And so loud the black-bird sings,
That far and near the valley rings.
From shelter deep of shaggy rock
The shepherd drives his joyful flock;
From bowering beech the mower blithe
With new-born vigour grasps the scythe;
While o'er the smooth unbounded meads
His last faint gleam the rainbow spreads.
19
But ever against restless heat,
Bear me to the rock-arch'd seat,
O'er whose dim mouth an ivy'd oak
Hangs nodding from the low-brow'd rock;
Haunted by that chaste nymph alone,
Whose waters cleave the smoothed stone;
Which, as they gush upon the ground,
Still scatter misty dews around:
A rustic, wild, grotesque alcove,
Its side with mantling woodbines wove;
Cool as the cave where Clio dwells,
Whence Helicon's fresh fountain wells;
Or noon-tide grot where Sylvan sleeps
In hoar Lycæum's piny steeps.
Bear me to the rock-arch'd seat,
O'er whose dim mouth an ivy'd oak
Hangs nodding from the low-brow'd rock;
Haunted by that chaste nymph alone,
Whose waters cleave the smoothed stone;
Which, as they gush upon the ground,
Still scatter misty dews around:
A rustic, wild, grotesque alcove,
Its side with mantling woodbines wove;
20
Whence Helicon's fresh fountain wells;
Or noon-tide grot where Sylvan sleeps
In hoar Lycæum's piny steeps.
21
Me, Goddess, in such cavern lay,
While all without is scorch'd in day;
Sore sighs the weary swain, beneath
His with'ring hawthorn on the heath;
The drooping hedger wishes eve,
In vain, of labour short reprieve!
Meantime, on Afric's glowing sands,
Smote with keen heat, the trav'ler stands:
Low sinks his heart, while round his eye
Measures the scenes that boundless lie,
Ne'er yet by foot of mortal worn,
Where Thirst, wan pilgrim, walks forlorn.
How does he wish some cooling wave
To slake his lips, or limbs to lave!
And thinks, in every whisper low,
He hears a bursting fountain flow.
While all without is scorch'd in day;
Sore sighs the weary swain, beneath
His with'ring hawthorn on the heath;
The drooping hedger wishes eve,
In vain, of labour short reprieve!
22
Smote with keen heat, the trav'ler stands:
Low sinks his heart, while round his eye
Measures the scenes that boundless lie,
Ne'er yet by foot of mortal worn,
Where Thirst, wan pilgrim, walks forlorn.
How does he wish some cooling wave
To slake his lips, or limbs to lave!
23
He hears a bursting fountain flow.
Or bear me to yon antique wood,
Dim temple of sage Solitude!
There within a nook most dark,
Where none my musing mood may mark,
Let me in many a whisper'd rite
The Genius old of Greece invite,
With that fair wreath my brows to bind,
Which for his chosen imps he twin'd,
Well nurtur'd in Pierian lore,
On clear Ilissus' laureate shore.—
Till high on waving nest reclin'd,
The raven wakes my tranced mind!
Dim temple of sage Solitude!
There within a nook most dark,
Where none my musing mood may mark,
Let me in many a whisper'd rite
The Genius old of Greece invite,
With that fair wreath my brows to bind,
Which for his chosen imps he twin'd,
24
On clear Ilissus' laureate shore.—
Till high on waving nest reclin'd,
The raven wakes my tranced mind!
Or to the forest-fringed vale,
Where widow'd turtles love to wail,
Where cowslips, clad in mantle meek,
Nod their tall heads to breezes weak:
In the midst, with sedges gray
Crown'd, a scant riv'let winds its way,
And trembling thro' the weedy wreaths,
Around an oozy freshness breathes.
O'er the solitary green,
Nor cot, nor loitering hind is seen:
Nor aught alarms the mute repose,
Save that by fits an heifer lows:
A scene might tempt some peaceful Sage
To rear him a lone hermitage;
Fit place his pensive eld might chuse
On virtue's holy lore to muse.
Where widow'd turtles love to wail,
Where cowslips, clad in mantle meek,
Nod their tall heads to breezes weak:
25
Crown'd, a scant riv'let winds its way,
And trembling thro' the weedy wreaths,
Around an oozy freshness breathes.
O'er the solitary green,
Nor cot, nor loitering hind is seen:
Nor aught alarms the mute repose,
Save that by fits an heifer lows:
A scene might tempt some peaceful Sage
To rear him a lone hermitage;
Fit place his pensive eld might chuse
On virtue's holy lore to muse.
Yet still the sultry noon t'appease,
Some more romantic scene might please;
Or fairy bank, or magic lawn,
By Spenser's lavish pencil drawn:
Or bow'r in Vallombrosa's shade,
By legendary pens pourtray'd.
Haste, let me shroud from painful light,
On that hoar hill's aerial height,
In solemn state, where waving wide,
Thick pines with darkening umbrage hide
The rugged vaults, and riven tow'rs
Of that proud castle's painted bow'rs,
Whence Hardyknute, a baron bold,
In Scotland's martial days of old,
Descended from the stately feast,
Begirt with many a warrior guest,
To quell the pride of Norway's king,
With quiv'ring lance and twanging string.
As thro' the caverns dim I wind,
Might I that holy legend find,
By fairies spelt in mystic rhymes,
To teach enquiring later times,
What open force, or secret guile,
Dash'd into dust the solemn pile.
Some more romantic scene might please;
26
By Spenser's lavish pencil drawn:
Or bow'r in Vallombrosa's shade,
By legendary pens pourtray'd.
Haste, let me shroud from painful light,
On that hoar hill's aerial height,
In solemn state, where waving wide,
Thick pines with darkening umbrage hide
The rugged vaults, and riven tow'rs
Of that proud castle's painted bow'rs,
27
In Scotland's martial days of old,
Descended from the stately feast,
Begirt with many a warrior guest,
To quell the pride of Norway's king,
With quiv'ring lance and twanging string.
As thro' the caverns dim I wind,
Might I that holy legend find,
By fairies spelt in mystic rhymes,
To teach enquiring later times,
28
Dash'd into dust the solemn pile.
But when mild Morn in saffron stole
First issues from her eastern goal,
Let not my due feet fail to climb
Some breezy summit's brow sublime,
Whence Nature's universal face
Illumin'd smiles with new-born grace;
The misty streams that wind below
With silver-sparkling lustre glow;
The groves and castled cliffs appear
Invested all in radiance clear;
O! every village charm beneath!
The smoke that mounts in azure wreath!
O beauteous, rural interchange!
The simple spire, and elmy grange!
Content, indulging blissful hours,
Whistles o'er the fragrant flow'rs,
And cattle, rouz'd to pasture new,
Shake jocund from their sides the dew.
First issues from her eastern goal,
Let not my due feet fail to climb
Some breezy summit's brow sublime,
Whence Nature's universal face
Illumin'd smiles with new-born grace;
The misty streams that wind below
With silver-sparkling lustre glow;
29
Invested all in radiance clear;
O! every village charm beneath!
The smoke that mounts in azure wreath!
O beauteous, rural interchange!
The simple spire, and elmy grange!
30
Whistles o'er the fragrant flow'rs,
And cattle, rouz'd to pasture new,
Shake jocund from their sides the dew.
'Tis thou, alone, O Summer mild,
Canst bid me carol wood-notes wild:
Whene'er I view thy genial scenes;
Thy waving woods, embroider'd greens;
What fires within my bosom wake,
How glows my mind the reed to take!
What charms like thine the muse can call,
With whom 'tis youth and laughter all;
With whom each field's a paradise,
And all the globe a bow'r of bliss!
With thee conversing, all the day,
I meditate my lightsome lay.
These pedant cloisters let me leave,
To breathe my votive song at eve,
In valleys, where mild whispers use
Of shade and stream, to court the muse;
While wand'ring o'er the brook's dim verge,
I hear the stock-dove's dying dirge.
Canst bid me carol wood-notes wild:
31
Thy waving woods, embroider'd greens;
What fires within my bosom wake,
How glows my mind the reed to take!
What charms like thine the muse can call,
With whom 'tis youth and laughter all;
With whom each field's a paradise,
And all the globe a bow'r of bliss!
32
I meditate my lightsome lay.
These pedant cloisters let me leave,
To breathe my votive song at eve,
In valleys, where mild whispers use
Of shade and stream, to court the muse;
While wand'ring o'er the brook's dim verge,
I hear the stock-dove's dying dirge.
But when life's busier scene is o'er,
And Age shall give the tresses hoar,
I'd fly soft Luxury's marble dome,
And make an humble thatch my home,
Which sloping hills around inclose,
Where many a beech and brown oak grows;
Beneath whose dark and branching bow'rs
Its tides a far-fam'd river pours:
By Nature's beauties taught to please,
Sweet Tusculane of rural ease!
Still grot of Peace! in lowly shed
Who loves to rest her gentle head.
For not the scenes of Attic art
Can comfort care, or sooth the heart:
Nor burning cheek, nor wakeful eye,
For gold and Tyrian purple fly.
And Age shall give the tresses hoar,
I'd fly soft Luxury's marble dome,
And make an humble thatch my home,
Which sloping hills around inclose,
Where many a beech and brown oak grows;
Beneath whose dark and branching bow'rs
Its tides a far-fam'd river pours:
By Nature's beauties taught to please,
33
Still grot of Peace! in lowly shed
Who loves to rest her gentle head.
For not the scenes of Attic art
Can comfort care, or sooth the heart:
Nor burning cheek, nor wakeful eye,
For gold and Tyrian purple fly.
Thither, kind Heav'n, in pity lent,
Send me a little, and content;
The faithful friend, and cheerful night,
The social scene of dear delight:
The conscience pure, the temper gay,
The musing eve, and idle day.
Give me beneath cool shades to sit,
Rapt with the charms of classic wit:
To catch the bold heroic flame,
That built immortal Græcia's fame.
Nor let me fail, meantime, to raise
The solemn song to Britain's praise:
To spurn the shepherd's simple reeds,
And paint heroic ancient deeds:
To chant fam'd Arthur's magic tale,
And Edward, stern in sable mail;
Or wand'ring Brutus' lawless doom,
Or brave Bonduca, scourge of Rome.
Send me a little, and content;
34
The social scene of dear delight:
The conscience pure, the temper gay,
The musing eve, and idle day.
Give me beneath cool shades to sit,
Rapt with the charms of classic wit:
To catch the bold heroic flame,
That built immortal Græcia's fame.
Nor let me fail, meantime, to raise
The solemn song to Britain's praise:
35
And paint heroic ancient deeds:
To chant fam'd Arthur's magic tale,
36
Or wand'ring Brutus' lawless doom,
Or brave Bonduca, scourge of Rome.
O ever to sweet Poesy
Let me live true votary!
She shall lead me by the hand,
Queen of sweet smiles, and solace bland!
She from her precious stores shall shed
Ambrosial flow'rets o'er my head:
She, from my tender youthful cheek,
Can wipe, with lenient finger meek,
The secret and unpitied tear,
Which still I drop in darkness drear.
She shall be my blooming bride;
With her, as years successive glide,
I'll hold divinest dalliance,
For ever held in holy trance.
Let me live true votary!
She shall lead me by the hand,
Queen of sweet smiles, and solace bland!
She from her precious stores shall shed
Ambrosial flow'rets o'er my head:
37
Can wipe, with lenient finger meek,
The secret and unpitied tear,
Which still I drop in darkness drear.
She shall be my blooming bride;
With her, as years successive glide,
I'll hold divinest dalliance,
For ever held in holy trance.
38
ODE XII. THE CRUSADE.
(Published in 1777.)
[_]
ADVERTISEMENT.
King Richard the first, celebrated for his achievements in the Crusades, was no less distinguished for his patronage of the Provencial minstrels, and his own compositions in their species of poetry. Returning from one of his expeditions in the holy land, in disguise, he was imprisoned in a castle of Leopold duke of Austria. His favourite minstrel, Blondel de Nesle, having traversed all Germany in search of his master, at length came to a castle, in which he found there was only one prisoner, and whose name was unknown. Suspecting that he had made the desired discovery, he seated himself under a window of the prisoner's apartment; and began a song, or ode, which the King and himself had formerly composed together. When the prisoner, who was King Richard, heard the song, he knew that Blondel must be the singer: and when Blondel paused about the middle, the King began the remainder, and completed it. The following ode is supposed to be this joint composition of the Minstrel and King Richard. W.
Bound for holy Palestine,
Nimbly we brush'd the level brine,
All in azure steel array'd;
O'er the wave our weapons play'd,
And made the dancing billows glow;
High upon the trophied prow,
Many a warrior-minstrel swung
His sounding harp, and boldly sung:
Nimbly we brush'd the level brine,
39
O'er the wave our weapons play'd,
40
High upon the trophied prow,
Many a warrior-minstrel swung
His sounding harp, and boldly sung:
“Syrian virgins, wail and weep,
“English Richard ploughs the deep!
“Tremble, watchmen, as ye spy,
“From distant towers, with anxious eye,
“The radiant range of shield and lance
“Down Damascus' hills advance:
“From Sion's turrets as afar
“Ye ken the march of Europe's war!
“Saladin, thou paynim king,
“From Albion's isle revenge we bring!
“On Acon's spiry citadel,
“Though to the gale thy banners swell,
“Pictur'd with the silver moon;
“England shall end thy glory soon!
“In vain, to break our firm array,
“Thy brazen drums hoarse discord bray:
“Those sounds our rising fury fan:
“English Richard in the van,
“On to victory we go,
“A vaunting infidel the foe.”
“English Richard ploughs the deep!
41
“From distant towers, with anxious eye,
“The radiant range of shield and lance
“Down Damascus' hills advance:
42
“Ye ken the march of Europe's war!
“Saladin, thou paynim king,
“From Albion's isle revenge we bring!
“On Acon's spiry citadel,
“Though to the gale thy banners swell,
43
“England shall end thy glory soon!
“In vain, to break our firm array,
“Thy brazen drums hoarse discord bray:
“Those sounds our rising fury fan:
“English Richard in the van,
“On to victory we go,
“A vaunting infidel the foe.”
Blondel led the tuneful band,
And swept the wire with glowing hand.
Cyprus, from her rocky mound,
And Crete, with piny verdure crown'd,
Far along the smiling main
Echoed the prophetic strain.
And swept the wire with glowing hand.
44
And Crete, with piny verdure crown'd,
Far along the smiling main
Echoed the prophetic strain.
Soon we kiss'd the sacred earth
That gave a murder'd Saviour birth;
Then, with ardour fresh endu'd,
Thus the solemn song renew'd.
That gave a murder'd Saviour birth;
Then, with ardour fresh endu'd,
Thus the solemn song renew'd.
“Lo, the toilsome voyage past,
“Heaven's favour'd hills appear at last!
“Object of our holy vow,
“We tread the Tyrian valleys now.
“From Carmel's almond-shaded steep
“We feel the cheering fragrance creep:
“O'er Engaddi's shrubs of balm
“Waves the date-empurpled palm,
“See Lebanon's aspiring head
“Wide his immortal umbrage spread!
“Hail Calvary, thou mountain hoar,
“Wet with our Redeemer's gore!
“Ye trampled tombs, ye fanes forlorn,
“Ye stones, by tears of pilgrims worn;
“Your ravish'd honours to restore,
“Fearless we climb this hostile shore!
“And thou, the sepulchre of God!
“By mocking pagans rudely trod,
“Bereft of every awful rite,
“And quench'd thy lamps that beam'd so bright;
“For thee, from Britain's distant coast,
“Lo, Richard leads his faithful host!
“Aloft in his heroic hand,
“Blazing, like the beacon's brand,
“O'er the far-affrighted fields,
“Resistless Kaliburn he wields.
“Proud Saracen, pollute no more
“The shrines by martyrs built of yore!
“From each wild mountain's trackless crown
“In vain thy gloomy castles frown:
“Thy battering engines, huge and high,
“In vain our steel-clad steeds defy;
“And, rolling in terrific state,
“On giant-wheels harsh thunders grate.
“When eve has hush'd the buzzing camp,
“Amid the moon-light vapours damp,
“Thy necromantic forms, in vain,
“Haunt us on the tented plain:
“We bid those spectre-shapes avaunt,
“Ashtaroth, and Termagaunt!
“With many a demon, pale of hue,
“Doom'd to drink the bitter dew
“That drops from Macon's sooty tree,
“Mid the dread grove of ebony.
“Nor magic charms, nor fiends of hell,
“The christian's holy courage quell.
“Heaven's favour'd hills appear at last!
“Object of our holy vow,
“We tread the Tyrian valleys now.
“From Carmel's almond-shaded steep
“We feel the cheering fragrance creep:
45
“Waves the date-empurpled palm,
46
“Wide his immortal umbrage spread!
“Hail Calvary, thou mountain hoar,
“Wet with our Redeemer's gore!
“Ye trampled tombs, ye fanes forlorn,
“Ye stones, by tears of pilgrims worn;
“Your ravish'd honours to restore,
“Fearless we climb this hostile shore!
“And thou, the sepulchre of God!
“By mocking pagans rudely trod,
47
“And quench'd thy lamps that beam'd so bright;
“For thee, from Britain's distant coast,
“Lo, Richard leads his faithful host!
“Aloft in his heroic hand,
“Blazing, like the beacon's brand,
“O'er the far-affrighted fields,
“Resistless Kaliburn he wields.
“Proud Saracen, pollute no more
“The shrines by martyrs built of yore!
“From each wild mountain's trackless crown
“In vain thy gloomy castles frown:
48
“In vain our steel-clad steeds defy;
“And, rolling in terrific state,
“On giant-wheels harsh thunders grate.
“When eve has hush'd the buzzing camp,
“Amid the moon-light vapours damp,
“Thy necromantic forms, in vain,
“Haunt us on the tented plain:
“We bid those spectre-shapes avaunt,
“Ashtaroth, and Termagaunt!
“With many a demon, pale of hue,
“Doom'd to drink the bitter dew
49
“Mid the dread grove of ebony.
“Nor magic charms, nor fiends of hell,
“The christian's holy courage quell.
“Salem, in ancient majesty
“Arise, and lift thee to the sky!
“Soon on thy battlements divine
“Shall wave the badge of Constantine.
“Ye Barons, to the sun unfold
“Our Cross with crimson wove and gold!”
“Arise, and lift thee to the sky!
50
“Shall wave the badge of Constantine.
“Ye Barons, to the sun unfold
“Our Cross with crimson wove and gold!”
51
ODE XIII. THE GRAVE OF KING ARTHUR.
(Published in 1777.)
[_]
ADVERTISEMENT.
King Henry the Second, having undertaken an expedition into Ireland, to suppress a rebellion raised by Roderick King of Connaught, commonly called O'Connor Dun, or the brown monarch of Ireland, was entertained, in his passage through Wales, with the songs of the Welsh Bards. The subject of their poetry was King Arthur, whose history had been so disguised by fabulous inventions, that the place of his burial was in general scarcely known or remembered. But in one of these Welsh poems sung before Henry, it was recited, that King Arthur, after the battle of Camlan in Cornwall, was interred at Glastonbury Abbey, before the high altar, yet without any external mark or memorial. Afterwards Henry visited the abbey, and commanded the spot, described by the Bard, to be opened: when digging near twenty feet deep, they found the body, deposited under a large stone, inscribed with Arthur's name. This is the ground-work of the following Ode: but, for the better accommodation of the story to our present purpose, it is told with some slight variations from the Chronicle of Glastonbury. The castle of Cilgarran, where this discovery is supposed to have been made, now a romantic ruin, stands on a rock descending to the river Teivi in Pembrokeshire; and was built by Roger Montgomery, who led the van of the Normans at Hastings. W.
52
Stately the feast, and high the cheer:
Girt with many an armed peer,
And canopied with golden pall,
Amid Cilgarran's castle hall,
Sublime in formidable state,
And warlike splendour, Henry sate;
Prepar'd to stain the briny flood
Of Shannon's lakes with rebel blood.
Girt with many an armed peer,
And canopied with golden pall,
Amid Cilgarran's castle hall,
53
And warlike splendour, Henry sate;
Prepar'd to stain the briny flood
Of Shannon's lakes with rebel blood.
Illumining the vaulted roof,
A thousand torches flam'd aloof:
From massy cups, with golden gleam
Sparkled the red metheglin's stream:
To grace the gorgeous festival,
Along the lofty-window'd hall,
The storied tapestry was hung:
With minstrelsy the rafters rung
Of harps, that with reflected light
From the proud gallery glitter'd bright:
While gifted bards, a rival throng,
(From distant Mona, nurse of song,
From Teivi, fring'd with umbrage brown,
From Elvy's vale, and Cader's crown,
From many a shaggy precipice
That shades Ierne's hoarse abyss,
And many a sunless solitude
Of Radnor's inmost mountains rude,)
To crown the banquet's solemn close,
Themes of British glory chose;
And to the strings of various chime
Attemper'd thus the fabling rime.
A thousand torches flam'd aloof:
From massy cups, with golden gleam
Sparkled the red metheglin's stream:
54
Along the lofty-window'd hall,
The storied tapestry was hung:
With minstrelsy the rafters rung
55
From the proud gallery glitter'd bright:
While gifted bards, a rival throng,
(From distant Mona, nurse of song,
From Teivi, fring'd with umbrage brown,
56
From many a shaggy precipice
That shades Ierne's hoarse abyss,
57
Of Radnor's inmost mountains rude,)
To crown the banquet's solemn close,
Themes of British glory chose;
And to the strings of various chime
Attemper'd thus the fabling rime.
58
“O'er Cornwall's cliffs the tempest roar'd,
“High the screaming sea-mew soar'd;
“On Tintaggel's topmost tower
“Darksome fell the sleety shower;
“Round the rough castle shrilly sung
“The whirling blast, and wildly flung
“On each tall rampart's thundering side
“The surges of the tumbling tide:
“When Arthur rang'd his red-cross ranks
“On conscious Camlan's crimson'd banks:
“By Mordred's faithless guile decreed
“Beneath a Saxon spear to bleed!
“Yet in vain a paynim foe
“Arm'd with fate the mighty blow;
“For when he fell, an elfin queen,
“All in secret, and unseen,
“O'er the fainting hero threw
“Her mantle of ambrosial blue;
“And bade her spirits bear him far,
“In Merlin's agate-axled car,
“To her green isle's enamell'd steep,
“Far in the navel of the deep.
“O'er his wounds she sprinkled dew
“From flowers that in Arabia grew:
“On a rich inchanted bed
“She pillow'd his majestic head;
“O'er his brow, with whispers bland,
“Thrice she wav'd an opiate wand;
“And to soft music's airy sound,
“Her magic curtains clos'd around.
“There, renew'd the vital spring,
“Again he reigns a mighty king;
“And many a fair and fragrant clime,
“Blooming in immortal prime,
“By gales of Eden ever fann'd,
“Owns the monarch's high command:
“Thence to Britain shall return,
“(If right prophetic rolls I learn)
“Borne on Victory's spreading plume,
“His ancient sceptre to resume;
“Once more, in old heroic pride,
“His barbed courser to bestride;
“His knightly table to restore,
“And brave the tournaments of yore.”
“High the screaming sea-mew soar'd;
“On Tintaggel's topmost tower
“Darksome fell the sleety shower;
“Round the rough castle shrilly sung
“The whirling blast, and wildly flung
“On each tall rampart's thundering side
“The surges of the tumbling tide:
“When Arthur rang'd his red-cross ranks
“On conscious Camlan's crimson'd banks:
59
“Beneath a Saxon spear to bleed!
“Yet in vain a paynim foe
“Arm'd with fate the mighty blow;
“For when he fell, an elfin queen,
“All in secret, and unseen,
“O'er the fainting hero threw
“Her mantle of ambrosial blue;
60
“In Merlin's agate-axled car,
“To her green isle's enamell'd steep,
“Far in the navel of the deep.
“O'er his wounds she sprinkled dew
“From flowers that in Arabia grew:
61
“She pillow'd his majestic head;
“O'er his brow, with whispers bland,
62
“And to soft music's airy sound,
“Her magic curtains clos'd around.
“There, renew'd the vital spring,
“Again he reigns a mighty king;
“And many a fair and fragrant clime,
“Blooming in immortal prime,
63
“Owns the monarch's high command:
“Thence to Britain shall return,
“(If right prophetic rolls I learn)
“Borne on Victory's spreading plume,
“His ancient sceptre to resume;
“Once more, in old heroic pride,
“His barbed courser to bestride;
“His knightly table to restore,
“And brave the tournaments of yore.”
They ceas'd: when on the tuneful stage
Advanc'd a bard, of aspect sage;
His silver tresses, thin besprent,
To age a graceful reverence lent;
His beard, all white as spangles frore
That clothe Plinlimmon's forests hoar,
Down to his harp descending flow'd;
With Time's faint rose his features glow'd;
His eyes diffus'd a soften'd fire,
And thus he wak'd the warbling wire.
Advanc'd a bard, of aspect sage;
64
To age a graceful reverence lent;
His beard, all white as spangles frore
That clothe Plinlimmon's forests hoar,
Down to his harp descending flow'd;
With Time's faint rose his features glow'd;
His eyes diffus'd a soften'd fire,
And thus he wak'd the warbling wire.
“Listen, Henry, to my read!
“Not from fairy realms I lead
“Bright-rob'd Tradition, to relate
“In forged colours Arthur's fate;
“Though much of old romantic lore
“On the high theme I keep in store:
“But boastful Fiction should be dumb,
“Where Truth the strain might best become.
“If thine ear may still be won
“With songs of Uther's glorious son,
“Henry, I a tale unfold,
“Never yet in rime enroll'd,
“Nor sung nor harp'd in hall or bower;
“Which in my youth's full early flower,
“A minstrel, sprung of Cornish line,
“Who spoke of kings from old Locrine,
“Taught me to chaunt, one vernal dawn,
“Deep in a cliff-encircled lawn,
“What time the glistening vapours fled
“From cloud-envelop'd Clyder's head;
“And on its sides the torrents gray
“Shone to the morning's orient ray.
“Not from fairy realms I lead
65
“In forged colours Arthur's fate;
“Though much of old romantic lore
“On the high theme I keep in store:
66
“Where Truth the strain might best become.
“If thine ear may still be won
“With songs of Uther's glorious son,
“Henry, I a tale unfold,
“Never yet in rime enroll'd,
“Nor sung nor harp'd in hall or bower;
“Which in my youth's full early flower,
67
“Who spoke of kings from old Locrine,
“Taught me to chaunt, one vernal dawn,
“Deep in a cliff-encircled lawn,
“What time the glistening vapours fled
“From cloud-envelop'd Clyder's head;
“And on its sides the torrents gray
“Shone to the morning's orient ray.
“When Arthur bow'd his haughty crest,
“No princess, veil'd in azure vest,
“Snatch'd him, by Merlin's potent spell,
“In groves of golden bliss to dwell;
“Where, crown'd with wreaths of misletoe,
“Slaughter'd kings in glory go:
“But when he fell, with winged speed,
“His champions, on a milk-white steed,
“From the battle's hurricane,
“Bore him to Joseph's towered fane,
“In the fair vale of Avalon:
“There, with chaunted orison,
“And the long blaze of tapers clear,
“The stoled fathers met the bier;
“Through the dim iles, in order dread
“Of martial woe, the chief they led,
“And deep intomb'd in holy ground,
“Before the altar's solemn bound.
“Around no dusky banners wave,
“No mouldering trophies mark the grave:
“Away the ruthless Dane has torn
“Each trace that Time's slow touch had worn;
“And long, o'er the neglected stone,
“Oblivion's veil its shade has thrown:
“The faded tomb, with honour due,
“'Tis thine, O Henry, to renew!
“Thither, when Conquest has restor'd
“Yon recreant isle, and sheath'd the sword,
“When Peace with palm has crown'd thy brows,
“Haste thee, to pay thy pilgrim vows.
“There, observant of my lore,
“The pavement's hallow'd depth explore;
“And thrice a fathom underneath
“Dive into the vaults of death.
“There shall thine eye, with wild amaze,
“On his gigantic stature gaze;
“There shalt thou find the monarch laid,
“All in warrior-weeds array'd;
“Wearing in death his helmet-crown,
“And weapons huge of old renown.
“Martial prince, 'tis thine to save
“From dark oblivion Arthur's grave!
“So may thy ships securely stem
“The western frith: thy diadem
“Shine victorious in the van,
“Nor heed the slings of Ulster's clan:
“Thy Norman pike-men win their way
“Up the dun rocks of Harald's bay:
“And from the steeps of rough Kildare
“Thy prancing hoofs the falcon scare:
“So may thy bow's unerring yew
“Its shafts in Roderick's heart imbrew.”
“No princess, veil'd in azure vest,
68
“In groves of golden bliss to dwell;
“Where, crown'd with wreaths of misletoe,
“Slaughter'd kings in glory go:
“But when he fell, with winged speed,
“His champions, on a milk-white steed,
“From the battle's hurricane,
“Bore him to Joseph's towered fane,
69
“There, with chaunted orison,
“And the long blaze of tapers clear,
“The stoled fathers met the bier;
70
“Of martial woe, the chief they led,
“And deep intomb'd in holy ground,
“Before the altar's solemn bound.
“Around no dusky banners wave,
“No mouldering trophies mark the grave:
“Away the ruthless Dane has torn
“Each trace that Time's slow touch had worn;
71
“Oblivion's veil its shade has thrown:
“The faded tomb, with honour due,
“'Tis thine, O Henry, to renew!
“Thither, when Conquest has restor'd
“Yon recreant isle, and sheath'd the sword,
“When Peace with palm has crown'd thy brows,
“Haste thee, to pay thy pilgrim vows.
“There, observant of my lore,
“The pavement's hallow'd depth explore;
“And thrice a fathom underneath
“Dive into the vaults of death.
“There shall thine eye, with wild amaze,
“On his gigantic stature gaze;
72
“All in warrior-weeds array'd;
73
“And weapons huge of old renown.
“Martial prince, 'tis thine to save
“From dark oblivion Arthur's grave!
“So may thy ships securely stem
“The western frith: thy diadem
“Shine victorious in the van,
“Nor heed the slings of Ulster's clan:
“Thy Norman pike-men win their way
“Up the dun rocks of Harald's bay:
74
“Thy prancing hoofs the falcon scare:
“So may thy bow's unerring yew
“Its shafts in Roderick's heart imbrew.”
Amid the pealing symphony
The spiced goblets mantled high;
With passions new the song impress'd
The listening king's impatient breast:
Flash the keen lightnings from his eyes;
He scorns awile his bold emprise;
E'en now he seems, with eager pace,
The consecrated floor to trace,
And ope, from its tremendous gloom,
The treasure of the wondrous tomb:
E'en now he burns in thought to rear,
From its dark bed, the ponderous spear,
Rough with the gore of Pictish kings:
E'en now fond hope his fancy wings,
To poise the monarch's massy blade,
Of magic-temper'd metal made;
And drag to day the dinted shield
That felt the storm of Camlan's field.
O'er the sepulchre profound
E'en now, with arching sculpture crown'd,
He plans the chauntry's choral shrine,
The daily dirge, and rites divine.
The spiced goblets mantled high;
With passions new the song impress'd
The listening king's impatient breast:
Flash the keen lightnings from his eyes;
He scorns awile his bold emprise;
75
The consecrated floor to trace,
And ope, from its tremendous gloom,
The treasure of the wondrous tomb:
76
From its dark bed, the ponderous spear,
Rough with the gore of Pictish kings:
E'en now fond hope his fancy wings,
To poise the monarch's massy blade,
Of magic-temper'd metal made;
And drag to day the dinted shield
That felt the storm of Camlan's field.
O'er the sepulchre profound
E'en now, with arching sculpture crown'd,
77
The daily dirge, and rites divine.
78
XIV. ODE FOR MUSIC.
[_]
As performed at the Theatre in Oxford, on the 2d of July, 1751, being the Anniversary appointed by the late Lord Crew, Bishop of Durham, for the Commemoration of Benefactors to the University.
Quique sacerdotes casti, dum vita manebat;
Quique pii vates, & Phœbo digna locuti;
Inventas aut qui vitam excoluere per artes;
Quique sui memores alios fecere merendo;
Omnibus his ------
Virgil.
Quique pii vates, & Phœbo digna locuti;
Inventas aut qui vitam excoluere per artes;
Quique sui memores alios fecere merendo;
Omnibus his ------
Virgil.
I.
Recitat./Accomp.Where shall the Muse, that on the sacred shell,
Of men in arts and arms renown'd,
The solemn strain delights to swell;
Oh! where shall Clio choose a race,
Whom Fame with every laurel, every grace,
Like those of Albion's envied isle, has crown'd?
Chorus.
Daughter and mistress of the sea,
All-honoured Albion hail!
Where'er thy Commerce spreads the swelling sail,
79
So brave, so learned, and so free;
All-honour'd Albion hail!
II.
Recit.But in this princely land of all that's good and great,
Would Clio seek the most distinguish'd seat,
Most blest, where all is so sublimely blest,
That with superior grace o'erlooks the rest,
Like a rich gem in circling gold enshrin'd;
Air I.
Where Isis' waters wind
Along the sweetest shore,
That ever felt fair Culture's hands,
Or Spring's embroider'd mantle wore,
Lo! where majestic Oxford stands;
Chorus.
Virtue's awful throne!
Wisdom's immortal source!
Recit.
Thee well her best belov'd may boasting Albion own,
Whence each fair purpose of ingenuous praise,
All that in thought or deed divine is deem'd,
80
From age to age has still successive stream'd;
Where Learning and where Liberty have nurs'd,
For those that in their ranks have shone the first,
Their most luxuriant growth of ever-blooming bays.
III.
Recitative/Accomp.In ancient days, when She, the Queen endu'd
With more than female fortitude,
Bonduca led her painted ranks to fight;
Oft times, in adamantine arms array'd,
Pallas descended from the realms of light,
Imperial Britonesse! thy kindred aid.
As once, all-glowing from the well-fought day,
The Goddess sought a cooling stream,
By chance, inviting with their glassy gleam,
Fair Isis' waters flow'd not far away.
Eager she view'd the wave,
On the cool bank she bar'd her breast,
To the soft gale her locks ambrosial gave;
And thus the wat'ry nymph address'd.
Air II.
“Hear, gentle nymph, whoe'er thou art,
“Thy sweet refreshing stores impart:
81
“Asks of thy crystal stream to drink:
“Lo! Pallas asks the friendly gift;
“Thy coral-crowned tresses lift,
“Rise from the wave, propitious pow'r,
“O listen from thy pearly bow'r.”
IV.
Recit.Her accents Isis' calm attention caught,
As lonesome, in her secret cell,
In ever-varying hues, as mimic fancy taught,
She rang'd the many-tinctur'd shell:
Then from her work arose the Nais mild;
Air III.
She rose, and sweetly smil'd
With many a lovely look,
That whisper'd soft consent:
Recit.
She smil'd, and gave the goddess in her flood
To dip her casque, tho' dy'd in recent blood;
While Pallas, as the boon she took,
Thus pour'd the grateful sentiment.
Air IV.
“For this, thy flood the fairest name
“Of all Britannia's streams shall glide,
“Best fav'rite of the sons of fame,
“Of every tuneful breast the pride:
“For on thy borders, bounteous queen,
“Where now the cowslip paints the green
“With unregarded grace,
82
“As lonesome o'er the breezy reeds
“She bends her silent pace;
“Lo! there, to wisdom's Goddess dear,
“A far-fam'd City shall her turrets rear,
Recit.
“There all her force shall Pallas prove;
“Of classic leaf with every crown,
“Each olive, meed of old renown,
“Each ancient wreath, which Athens wove,
“I'll bid her blooming bow'rs abound;
“And Oxford's sacred seats shall tow'r
“To thee, mild Nais of the flood,
“The trophy of my gratitude!
“The temple of my pow'r!”
V.
Recit.Nor was the pious promise vain;
Soon illustrious Alfred came,
And pitch'd fair Wisdom's tent on Isis' plenteous plain.
Alfred, on thee shall all the Muses wait,
Air V. & Chorus.
Alfred, majestic name,
Of all our praise the spring!
Thee all thy sons shall sing,
Deck'd with the martial and the civic wreath:
In notes most awful shall the trumpet breathe
To thee, Great Romulus of Learning's richest state.
83
VI.
Recit.Nor Alfred's bounteous hand alone,
Oxford, thy rising temples own:
Soon many a sage munificent,
The prince, the prelate, laurel-crowned crowd,
Their ample bounty lent
To build the beauteous monument,
That Pallas vow'd.
Recit./Accomp.
And now she lifts her head sublime,
Majestic in the moss of time;
Nor wants there Græcia's better part,
'Mid the proud piles of ancient art,
Whose fretted spires, with ruder hand,
Wainflet and Wickham bravely plann'd;
Nor decent Doric to dispense
New charms 'mid old magnificence;
And here and there soft Corinth weaves
Her dædal coronet of leaves;
Duet.
While, as with rival pride, their tow'rs invade the sky,
Radcliffe and Bodley seem to vie,
Which shall deserve the foremost place,
Or Gothic strength, or Attic grace.
VII.
Recit.O Isis! ever will I chant thy praise:
Not that thy sons have struck the golden lyre
84
With every fairest flower of Helicon,
The sweetest swans of all th' harmonious choir;
And bade the musing mind
Of every science pierce the pathless ways,
And from the rest the wreath of wisdom won;
Air VI.
But that thy sons have dar'd to feel
For Freedom's cause a sacred zeal;
With British breast, and patriot pride,
Have still Corruption's cup defy'd;
In dangerous days untaught to fear,
Have held the name of honour dear.
VIII.
Recit.But chief on this illustrious day,
The Muse her loudest Pæans loves to pay.
Erewhile she strove with accents weak
In vain to build the lofty rhyme;
At length, by better days of bounty cheer'd,
She dares unfold her wing.
Air VII.
Hail hour of transport most sublime!
In which, the man rever'd,
Immortal Crew commands to sing,
And gives the pipe to breathe, the string to speak.
IX.
Chorus.Blest prelate, hail!
Most pious patron, most triumphant theme!
85
On Isis' tow'rs new beauties beam,
New praise her Nursing Fathers gain;
Immortal Crew!
Blest prelate, hail!
Recit.
E'en now fir'd fancy sees thee lead
To Fame's high-seated fane
The shouting band!
O'er every hallow'd head
Fame's choicest wreaths she sees thee spread;
Alfred superior smiles the solemn scene to view;
Air VIII.
And bids the Goddess lift
Her loudest trumpet to proclaim,
O Crew, thy consecrated gift,
And echo with his own in social strains thy name.
[Chorus repeated.
86
ODE XV. ON HIS MAJESTY's BIRTH-DAY, JUNE 4th, 1785.
I.
Amid the thunder of the war,True glory guides no echoing car;
Nor bids the sword her bays bequeath,
Nor stains with blood her brightest wreath;
No plumed hosts her tranquil triumphs own;
Nor spoils of murder'd multitudes she brings,
To swell the state of her distinguish'd kings,
And deck her chosen throne.
On that fair throne, to Britain dear,
With the flow'ring olive twin'd
High she hangs the hero's spear,
And there with all the palms of peace combin'd,
Her unpolluted hands the milder trophy rear.
To kings like these, her genuine theme,
The Muse a blameless homage pays;
To George of kings like these supreme
87
Nor prostitutes the tribute of her lays.
II.
'Tis his to bid neglected genius glow,And teach the regal bounty how to flow.
His tutelary sceptre's sway
The vindicated arts obey,
And hail their patron king;
'Tis his to judgment's steady line
Their flights fantastic to confine,
And yet expand their wing;
The fleeting forms of fashion to restrain,
And bind capricious Taste in Truth's eternal chain.
Sculpture, licentious now no more,
From Greece her great example takes,
With Nature's warmth the marble wakes,
And spurns the toys of modern lore:
In native beauty simply plann'd,
Corinth, thy tufted shafts ascend;
The Graces guide the painter's hand,
His magic mimicry to blend.
III.
While such the gifts his reign bestows,Amid the proud display,
Those gems around the throne he throws,
That shed a softer ray:
88
He wafts his favour's universal gale,
With those sweet flow'rs he binds a crown,
That bloom in Virtue's humble vale:
With rich munificence the nuptial tie
Unbroken he combines,
Conspicuous in a nation's eye
The sacred pattern shines.
Fair Science to reform, reward, and raise,
To spread the lustre of domestic praise,
To foster Emulation's holy flame,
To build society's majestic frame,
Mankind to polish, and to teach,
Be this the monarch's aim;
Above Ambition's giant-reach
The monarch's meed to claim.
89
ODE XVI. FOR THE NEW YEAR, 1786.
I.
“Dear to Jove, a genial isle“Crowns the broad Atlantic wave;
90
“And vernal blossoms clothe the fruitful prime:
91
“Dwell the Spirits of the brave,
“And braid with amaranth their brows sublime.”
So feign'd the Grecian bards, of yore;
And veil'd in Fable's fancy-woven vest
A visionary shore,
That faintly gleam'd on their prophetic eye
Through the dark volume of futurity:
Nor knew that in the bright attire they dress'd
Albion, the green-hair'd heroine of the West;
Ere yet she claim'd old Ocean's high command,
And snatch'd the trident from the Tyrant's hand.
92
II.
Vainly flow'd the mystic rhyme?Mark the deeds from age to age,
That fill her trophy-pictur'd page:
And see, with all its strength, untam'd by time,
Still glows her valour's veteran rage.
O'er Calpe's cliffs, and steepy tow'rs,
When stream'd the red sulphureous showers,
And Death's own hand the dread artillery threw;
While far along the midnight main
Its glaring arch the flaming volley drew;
How triumph'd Elliott's patient train,
Baffling their vain confederate foes;
And met th' unwonted fight's terrific form;
And hurling back the burning war, arose
Superior to the fiery storm!
III.
Is there an ocean that forgets to rollBeneath the torpid pole,
93
Her hardy keel the stubborn billow cleaves.
The rugged Neptune of the wint'ry brine
In vain his adamantine breast-plate wears:
To search coy Nature's guarded mine,
She bursts the barriers of th' indignant ice;
O'er sunless bays the beam of Science bears:
And rousing far around the polar sleep,
Where Drake's bold ensigns fear'd to sweep,
94
She speeds, at George's sage command,
Society from deep to deep,
And zone to zone she binds;
From shore to shore, o'er every land,
The golden chain of commerce winds.
IV.
Meantime her patriot-cares exploreHer own rich woof's exhaustless store;
Her native fleece new fervour feels,
And wakens all its whirling wheels,
And mocks the rainbow's radiant die;
More wide the labours of the loom she spreads,
In firmer bands domestic commerce weds,
And calls her Sister-isle to share the tie:
Nor heeds the violence that broke
From filial realms her old parental yoke!
V.
Her cities, throng'd with many an Attic dome,95
Firm as the castle's feudal roof,
Stands the Briton's social home.—
96
Right, Order, Law, protect her simplest plain;
Nor scorn to guard the shepherd's nightly fold,
And watch around the forest cot.
With conscious certainty, the swain
Gives to the ground his trusted grain,
With eager hope the reddening harvest eyes;
And claims the ripe autumnal gold,
The meed of toil, of industry the prize.
For ours the King, who boasts a parent's praise,
Whose hand the people's sceptre sways;
Ours is the Senate, not a specious name,
Whose active plans pervade the civil frame:
Where bold debate its noblest war displays,
And, in the kindling strife, unlocks the tide
Of manliest eloquence, and rolls the torrent wide.
VI.
Hence then, each vain complaint, away,Each captious doubt, and cautious fear!
97
That anxious waits the spring's slow-shooting ray:
Nor deem that Albion's honours cease to bloom.
With candid glance, th' impartial Muse,
Invok'd on this auspicious morn,
The present scans, the distant scene pursues,
And breaks Opinion's speculative gloom:
Interpreter of ages yet unborn,
Full right she spells the characters of Fate,
That Albion still shall keep her wonted state!
Still in eternal story shine,
Of Victory the sea-beat shrine;
The source of every splendid art,
Of old, of future worlds the universal mart.
98
ODE XVII. FOR HIS MAJESTY's BIRTH-DAY, JUNE 4th, 1786.
I.
When Freedom nurs'd her native fireIn ancient Greece, and rul'd the lyre;
Her bards, disdainful, from the tyrant's brow
The tinsel gifts of flattery tore;
But paid to guiltless power their willing vow:
And to the throne of virtuous kings,
Tempering the tone of their vindictive strings,
From truth's unprostituted store,
The fragrant wreath of gratulation bore.
99
II.
'Twas thus Alcæus smote the manly chord;And Pindar on the Persian Lord
His notes of indignation hurl'd,
And spurn'd the minstrel slaves of eastern sway,
100
But o'er the diadem, by Freedom's flame
Illum'd, the banner of renown unfurl'd:
Thus to his Hiero decreed,
'Mongst the bold chieftains of the Pythian game,
The brightest verdure of Castalia's bay;
And gave an ampler meed
Of Pisan palms, than in the field of Fame
Were wont to crown the car's victorious speed:
And hail'd his scepter'd champion's patriot zeal,
Who mix'd the monarch's with the people's weal;
From civil plans who claim'd applause,
And train'd obedient realms to Spartan laws.
III.
And he, sweet master of the Doric oat,Theocritus, forsook awhile
101
The lowing vale, the bleating cote,
The clusters on the sunny steep,
And Pan's own umbrage, dark and deep,
The caverns hung with ivy-twine,
The cliffs that wav'd with oak and pine,
And Etna's hoar romantic pile:
102
In stately sounds exalting high
The reign of bounteous Ptolemy:
Like the plenty-teeming tide
Of his own Nile's redundant flood,
O'er the cheer'd nations, far and wide,
Diffusing opulence and public good;
While in the richly-warbled lays
Was blended Berenice's name,
Pattern fair of female fame,
103
Imperial splendor's dazzling rays,
The queen, the mother, and the wife!
IV.
To deck with honour due this festal day,O for a strain from these sublimer bards!
Who free to grant, yet fearless to refuse
Their awful suffrage, with impartial aim
Invok'd the jealous panegyric Muse;
Nor, but to genuine worth's severer claim,
Their proud distinction deign'd to pay,
Stern arbiters of glory's bright awards!
For peerless bards like these alone,
The bards of Greece might best adorn,
With seemly song, the Monarch's natal morn;
Who, thron'd in the magnificence of peace,
Rivals their richest regal theme:
Who rules a people like their own,
In arms, in polish'd arts supreme;
Who bids his Britain vie with Greece.
104
ODE XVIII. FOR THE NEW YEAR, 1787.
I.
In rough magnificence array'd,When ancient Chivalry display'd
The pomp of her heroic games;
And crested chiefs, and tissued dames,
Assembled, at the clarion's call,
In some proud castle's high-arch'd hall,
To grace romantic glory's genial rites:
Associate of the gorgeous festival,
The Minstrel struck his kindred string,
And told of many a steel-clad king,
Who to the turney train'd his hardy knights;
Or bore the radiant red-cross shield
Mid the bold peers of Salem's field;
Who travers'd pagan climes to quell
The wisard foe's terrific spell;
105
The Saracen's gigantic spear.
The listening champions felt the fabling rhime
With fairy trappings fraught, and shook their plumes sublime.
II.
Such were the themes of regal praiseDear to the Bard of elder days;
The songs, to savage virtue dear,
That won of yore the public ear!
Ere Polity, sedate and sage,
Had quench'd the fires of feudal rage,
Had stemm'd the torrent of eternal strife,
And charm'd to rest an unrelenting age.—
No more, in formidable state,
The castle shuts its thundering gate;
New colours suit the scenes of soften'd life;
No more, bestriding barbed steeds,
106
And now the Bard in alter'd tones
A theme of worthier triumph owns;
By social imagery beguil'd,
He moulds his harp to manners mild;
Nor longer weaves the wreath of war alone,
Nor hails the hostile forms that grac'd the Gothic throne.
III.
And now he tunes his plausive layTo Kings, who plant the civic bay;
Who choose the patriot sovereign's part,
Diffusing commerce, peace, and art;
Who spread the virtuous pattern wide,
And triumph in a nation's pride;
Who seek coy Science in her cloister'd nook,
Where Thames, yet rural, rolls an artless tide;
Who love to view the vale divine,
107
And clustering towers the tufted grove o'erlook;
To Kings, who rule a filial land,
Who claim a People's vows and pray'rs,
Should Treason arm the weakest hand!
To these his heart-felt praise he bears,
And with new rapture hastes to greet
This festal morn, that longs to meet,
With luckiest auspices, the laughing spring;
And opes her glad career, with blessings on her wing!
108
ODE XIX. ON HIS MAJESTY's BIRTH-DAY, JUNE 4th, 1787.
I.
The noblest Bards of Albion's choirHave struck of old this festal lyre.
Ere Science, struggling oft in vain,
Had dar'd to break her Gothic chain,
Victorious Edward gave the vernal bough
Of Britain's bay to bloom on Chaucer's brow:
Fir'd with the gift, he chang'd to sounds sublime
His Norman minstrelsy's discordant chime;
109
The banquet of Cambuscan bold;
And oft he sung (howe'er the rhyme
Has moulder'd to the touch of time)
His martial master's knightly board,
And Arthur's ancient rites restor'd;
The prince in sable steel that sternly frown'd,
And Gallia's captive king, and Cressy's wreath renown'd.
110
II.
Won from the shepherd's simple meed,The whispers wild of Mulla's reed,
111
To grace Eliza's golden sway:
O'er the proud theme new lustre to diffuse,
He chose the gorgeous allegoric Muse,
And call'd to life old Uther's elfin tale,
And rov'd thro' many a necromantic vale,
Pourtraying chiefs that knew to tame
The goblin's ire, the dragon's flame,
To pierce the dark enchanted hall,
Where Virtue sate in lonely thrall.
112
A rich romantic robe he bore;
A veil with visionary trappings hung,
And o'er his virgin-queen the fairy texture flung.
III.
At length the matchless Dryden came,To light the Muses' clearer flame;
113
And strength with melody to blend;
To triumph in the bold career of song,
And roll th' unwearied energy along.
Does the mean incense of promiscuous praise,
Does servile fear, disgrace his regal bays?
I spurn his panegyric strings,
His partial homage, tun'd to kings!
Be mine, to catch his manlier chord,
That paints th' impassion'd Persian lord,
114
Rouz'd to revenge, by love subdu'd;
And still, with transport new, the strains to trace,
That chant the Theban pair, and Tancred's deadly vase.
IV.
Had these blest Bards been call'd, to payThe vows of this auspicious day,
Each had confess'd a fairer throne,
A mightier sovereign than his own!
Chaucer had made his hero-monarch yield
The martial fame of Cressy's well-fought field
To peaceful prowess, and the conquests calm,
That braid the sceptre with the patriot's palm:
115
His colourings, warm from Fiction's loom,
Spenser had cast in scorn away,
And deck'd with truth alone the lay;
All real here, the Bard had seen
The glories of his pictur'd Queen!
The tuneful Dryden had not flatter'd here,
His lyre had blameless been, his tribute all sincere!
116
ODE XX. FOR THE NEW YEAR, 1788.
I.
Rude was the pile, and massy proof,That first uprear'd its haughty roof
On Windsor's brow sublime, in warlike state:
The Norman tyrant's jealous hand
The giant fabric proudly plann'd:
With recent victory elate,
“On this majestic steep,” he cried,
“A regal fortress, threatening wide,
“Shall spread my terrors to the distant hills;
“Its formidable shade shall throw
“Far o'er the broad expanse below,
117
“With flowery verdure, or with golden grain,
“The fairest fields that deck my new domain!
“And London's towers, that reach the watchman's eye,
“Shall see with conscious awe my bulwark climb the sky.”
II.
Unchang'd, through many a hardy race,Stood the rough dome in sullen grace;
Still on its angry front defiance frown'd:
Though monarchs kept their state within,
Still murmur'd with the martial din
The gloomy gateway's arch profound;
And armed forms, in airy rows,
Bent o'er the battlements their bows,
118
And oft its hoary ramparts wore
The rugged scars of conflict sore;
What time, pavilion'd on the neighbouring mead,
Th' indignant Barons rang'd in bright array
Their feudal bands, to curb despotic sway;
119
From John's reluctant grasp the roll of freedom bore.
III.
When lo, the king, that wreath'd his shieldWith lilies pluck'd on Cressy's field,
120
New glory cloth'd th' exulting steep,
The portals tower'd with ampler sweep;
And Valour's soften'd Genius came,
Here held his pomp, and trail'd the pall
Of triumph through the trophied hall;
And War was clad awhile in gorgeous weeds;
Amid the martial pageantries,
121
And beam'd sweet influence on heroic deeds.
Nor long, ere Henry's holy zeal, to breathe
A milder charm upon the scenes beneath,
Rear'd in the watery glade his classic shrine,
And call'd his stripling-quire, to woo the willing Nine.
IV.
To this imperial seat to lendIts pride supreme, and nobly blend
British magnificence with Attic art;
Proud Castle, to thy banner'd bowers,
Lo! Picture bids her glowing powers
Their bold historic groups impart:
122
Along thy lofty-vaulted fane,
123
Still may such arts of Peace engage
Their Patron's care! But should the rage
Of war to battle rouse the new-born year,
Britain arise, and wake the slumbering fire,
Vindictive dart thy quick-rekindling ire!
Or, arm'd to strike, in mercy spare the foe;
And lift thy thundering hand, and then withhold the blow!
124
ODE XXI. ON HIS MAJESTY's BIRTH-DAY, JUNE 4th, 1788.
I.
What native Genius taught the Britons boldTo guard their sea-girt cliffs of old?
'Twas Liberty: she taught disdain
Of death, of Rome's imperial chain.
She bade the Druid harp to battle sound,
In tones prophetic thro' the gloom profound
Of forests hoar, with holy foliage hung;
From grove to grove the pealing prelude rung;
Belinus call'd his painted tribes around,
And, rough with many a veteran scar,
Swept the pale legions with the scythed car,
125
An easier triumph on Pharsalia's plain;
And left the stubborn isle to stand elate
Amidst a conquer'd world, in lone majestic state!
II.
A kindred spirit soon to Britain's shoreThe sons of Saxon Elva bore;
Fraught with th' unconquerable soul,
Who died, to drain the warrior-bowl,
In that bright Hall, where Odin's Gothic throne
With the broad blaze of brandish'd falchions shone;
126
Of spectre chiefs, who feasted far within:
Yet, not intent on deathful deeds alone,
They felt the fires of social zeal,
The peaceful wisdom of the public weal;
Though nurs'd in arms and hardy strife,
They knew to frame the plans of temper'd life;
The king's, the people's, balanc'd claims to found
On one eternal base, indissolubly bound.
III.
Sudden, to shake the Saxons mild domain,Rush'd in rude swarms the robber Dane,
From frozen wastes, and caverns wild,
To genial England's scenes beguil'd;
127
The demons foul of Famine and of Flame:
Witness the sheep-clad summits, roughly crown'd
With many a frowning foss and airy mound,
Which yet his desultory march proclaim!—
Nor ceas'd the tide of gore to flow,
Till Alfred's laws allur'd th' intestine foe;
And Harold calm'd his headlong rage
To brave achievement, and to counsel sage;
For oft in savage breasts the buried seeds
Of brooding virtue live, and freedom's fairest deeds!
IV.
But see, triumphant o'er the southern wave,The Norman sweeps!—Tho' first he gave
New grace to Britain's naked plain,
With Arts and Manners in his train;
128
In massy pomp has mock'd the stealth of time;
And castle fair, that, stript of half its tow'rs,
From some broad steep in shatter'd glory low'rs:
Yet brought he slavery from a softer clime;
Each eve, the curfew's notes severe
(That now but soothes the musing poet's ear)
At the new tyrant's stern command,
Warn'd to unwelcome rest a wakeful land;
While proud Oppression o'er the ravish'd field
High rais'd his armed hand, and shook the feudal shield.
V.
Stoop'd then that Freedom to despotic sway,For which, in many a fierce affray,
The Britons bold, the Saxons bled,
His Danish javelins Leswin led
O'er Hastings' plain, to stay the Norman yoke?
She felt, but to resist, the sudden stroke:
The tyrant-baron grasp'd the patriot steel,
And taught the tyrant-king its force to feel;
And quick revenge the regal bondage broke.
And still, unchang'd and uncontroll'd,
129
For lo, revering Britain's cause,
A King new lustre lends to native laws,
The sacred Sovereign of this festal day
On Albion's old renown reflects a kindred ray!
130
ODE XXII. FOR HIS MAJESTY's BIRTH-DAY, JUNE 4th, 1789.
I.
As when the demon of the Summer stormWalks forth the noontide landscape to deform,
Dark grows the vale, and dark the distant grove,
And thick the bolts of angry Jove
Athwart the wat'ry welkin glide,
And streams th' aerial torrent far and wide:
If by short fits the struggling ray
Should dart a momentary day,
Th' illumin'd mountain glows awhile,
By faint degrees the radiant glance
Purples th' horizon's pale expanse,
131
Ah! fickle smile, too swiftly past!
Again resounds the sweeping blast,
With hoarser din the demon howls;
Again the blackening concave scowls;
Sudden the shades of the meridian night
Yield to the triumph of rekindling light;
The reddening sun regains his golden sway,
And nature stands reveal'd in all her bright array.
II.
Such was the changeful conflict, that possess'dWith trembling tumult every British breast,
When Albion, towering in the van sublime
Of Glory's march, from clime to clime
Envied, belov'd, rever'd, renown'd,
Her brows with every blissful chaplet bound,
When, in her mid career of state,
She felt her monarch's awful fate!
Till Mercy from th' Almighty throne
132
Her wreath, that, in the rainbow dyed,
With hues of soften'd lustre shone,
And bending from her sapphire cloud
O'er regal grief benignant bow'd;
To transport turn'd a people's fears,
And stay'd a people's tide of tears:
Bade this blest dawn with beams auspicious spring,
With hope serene, with healing on its wing;
And gave a Sovereign o'er a grateful land
Again with vigorous grasp to stretch the scepter'd hand.
133
III.
O favour'd king, what rapture more refin'd,What mightier joy can fill the human mind,
Than what the monarch's conscious bosom feels,
At whose dread throne a nation kneels,
And hails its father, friend, and lord,
To life's career, to patriot sway restor'd;
And bids the loud responsive voice
Of union all around rejoice?
For thus to thee when Britons bow,
Warm and spontaneous from the heart,
As late their tears, their transports start,
And nature dictates duty's vow.
To thee, recall'd to sacred health,
Did the proud city's lavish wealth,
Did crowded streets alone display
The long-drawn blaze, the festal ray?
Meek poverty her scanty cottage grac'd,
And flung her gleam across the lonely waste!
134
One social sacrifice of reverential love!
IV.
Such pure unprompted praise do kingdoms pay,Such willing zeal, to thrones of lawless sway?
Ah! how unlike the vain, the venal lore,
To Latian rulers dealt of yore,
O'er guilty pomp and hated power
When stream'd the sparkling panegyric shower;
And slaves, to sovereigns unendear'd,
Their pageant trophies coldly rear'd!
For are the charities, that blend
Monarch with man, to tyrants known?
The tender ties, that to the throne
A mild domestic glory lend,
Of wedded love the league sincere,
The virtuous consort's faithful tear?
Nor this the verse, that flattery brings,
Nor here I strike a Syren's strings;
Here kindling with her country's warmth, the Muse
Her Country's proud triumphant theme pursues;
E'en needless here the tribute of her lay!
Albion the garland gives on this distinguish'd day.
135
ODE XXIII. FOR HIS MAJESTY's BIRTH-DAY, JUNE 4th, 1790.
I.
Within what fountain's craggy cellDelights the Goddess Health to dwell,
Where from the rigid roof distills
Her richest stream in steely rills?
What mineral gems intwine her humid locks?
Lo! sparkling high from potent springs
To Britain's sons her cup she brings!—
Romantic Matlock! are thy tufted rocks,
136
Where the coy nymph has fix'd her favourite seat,
And hears, reclin'd along the thundering shore,
Indignant Darwent's desultory tide
His rugged channel rudely chide,
Darwent, whose shaggy wreath is stain'd with Danish gore?—
II.
Or does she dress her Naiad caveWith coral spoils from Neptune's wave,
And hold short revels with the train
Of Nymphs that tread the neighbouring main,
137
Temper the balmy beverage pure,
That, fraught with drops of precious cure,
Brings back to trembling hope the drooping bride,
That in the virgin's cheek renews the rose,
And wraps the eye of pain in quick repose?
While oft she climbs the mountain's shelving steeps,
And calls her votaries wan to catch the gale,
That breathes o'er Ashton's elmy vale,
And from the Cambrian hills the billowy Severn sweeps!—
138
III.
Or broods the Nymph with watchful wingO'er ancient Badon's mystic spring,
And speeds from its sulphureous source
The steamy torrent's secret course,
And fans th' eternal sparks of hidden fire,
In deep unfathom'd beds below
By Bladud's magic taught to glow,
Bladud, high theme of Fancy's Gothic lyre?—
139
In the rich veins of Malvern's ample mount,
From whose tall ridge the noontide wanderer views
Pomona's purple realm, in April's pride,
140
And waving groves array'd in Flora's fairest hues?—
IV.
Haunts she the scene, where Nature low'rsO'er Buxton's heath in lingering show'rs?—
Or loves she more, with sandal fleet
In matin dance the nymphs to meet,
That on the flowery marge of Chelder play?
Who, boastful of the stately train,
That deign'd to grace his simple plain,
Late with new pride along his reedy way
Bore to Sabrina wreaths of brighter hue,
And mark'd his pastoral urn with emblems new.—
Howe'er these streams ambrosial may detain
Thy steps, O genial health, yet not alone
Thy gifts the Naiad sisters own;
Thine too the briny flood, and Ocean's hoar domain.
141
V.
And lo, amid the watery roarIn Thetis' car she skims the shore,
Where Portland's brows, imbattled high
With rocks, in rugged majesty
Frown o'er the billows, and the storm restrain,
She beckons Britain's scepter'd pair
Her treasures of the deep to share!—
Hail then, on this glad morn, the mighty main!
142
To those who wear the noblest regal bays:
That mighty main, which on its conscious tide
Their boundless commerce pours on every clime,
Their dauntless banner bears sublime;
And wafts their pomp of war, and spreads their thunder wide!
| The Poetical Works of the Late Thomas Warton | |