 | The complete works, poetry and prose, of the Rev. Edward Young prefixed, a life of the author, by John Doran ... With eight illustrations on steel, and a portrait. In two volumes |  |
52
THE FOREIGN ADDRESS:
OR, THE BEST ARGUMENT FOR PEACE.
OCCASIONED BY THE BRITISH FLEET, AND THE POSTURE OF AFFAIRS, WHEN THE PARLIAMENT MET, 1734.
Musa dedit fidibus divos, puerosque deorum.
Horatius De Arte Poeticá, 83.
Horatius De Arte Poeticá, 83.
MDCCXXXIV.
1
Ye guardian gods, who wait on kings,And gently touch the secret springs
Of rising thought! solicit, I beseech,
For a poor stranger, come from far;
Procure a suppliant traveller
“Ease of access and the soft hour of speech.”
2
'Tis gain'd:—Hail, monarchs great and wise!From distant climes and dusky skies,
O'er seas and lands I flew, your ear to claim:
Yours is the sun, and purple vine;
Deep in the frozen north I pine;
Nor vine nor sun could warm me like my theme.
3
A theme how great! On yonder tide,A leafless forest spreading wide,
The labour of the deep, my Muse surveys;
A fleet, whose empire o'er the wave,
You grant, Time strengthens, Nature gave;
Now big with death, the terror of the seas!
4
Ye great by sea! ye shades adored,Who fired the bomb, and bathed the sword!
Arise, arise, arise! 'tis Britain charms:
Arise, ye boast of former wars,
And, pointing to your glorious scars,
Rouse me to verse, your martial sons to arms!
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5
'Tis done: and see, sweet Clio bringsFrom heaven her deep-resounding strings.
Clio! the god which gave thy charming shell,
Demands its most exalted strain,
To sing the sovereign of the main:
Of ocean's queen what wonders wilt thou tell?
6
Such wonders as may pass for sportOr vision in a southern court:
But, mighty thrones! those truths which make me glow,
Your fathers saw, your sons shall see:
Then quit your infidelity;
Some truths 'tis better to believe than know.
7
Believe me, kings: at Britain's nod,From each enchanted grove and wood,
Huge oaks stalk down the' unshaded mountain's side;
The lofty pines assume new forms,
Fly round the globe, and live in storms,
And tread and triumph on the wandering tide.
8
She nods again: the labouring earthDiscloses a stupendous birth;
In smoking rivers runs her molten ore;
Thence monsters of enormous size
And hideous nature, frowning, rise,
Flame from the deck, from trembling bastions roar.
9
These ministers of wrath fulfil,On empires wide, an island's will;
If friends insulted, or sworn treaties broke,
Or sacred Reason's injured cause,
Or nations' violated laws,
Britannia's vengeance and the gods' provoke.
10
As yet, Peace sheaths her courage keen,And spares her nitrous magazine;
Her cannon slumber, at the world's desire:
But, give just cause, at once they blaze,
At once they thunder from the seas,
Touch'd by their injured master's soul of fire.
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11
Then Furies rise; the battle raves,And rends the skies, and warms the waves,
And calls a tempest from the peaceful deep,
In spite of Nature, spite of Jove;
While, all-serene and hush'd, above,
The boisterous winds in azure chambers sleep.
12
This, this, my monarchs, is the sceneFor hearts of proof, for gods of men;
Here War's whole sting is shot, whole heart is spent.
You sport in arms: how pale, how tame,
How lambent is Bellona's flame,
How her storms languish, on the continent!
13
A swarm of deaths the mighty bombNow scatters from her glowing womb;
Now the chain'd bolts, in dread alliance join'd,
Red-wing'd with an expanding blast,
Sweep, in black whirlwinds, man and mast,
And leave a singed and naked hull behind.
14
Now—but I'm struck with pale despair:My patrons! what a burst was there!
The strong-ribb'd barks at once disploding fly.
Insatiate Death! compendious Fate!
Deep wound to some brave bleeding state!
One moment's guilt, a thousand heroes die.
15
The great, gay, graceful, young, and brave,(Short obsequies!) the sable wave
Involves in endless night. Ye graveless dead,
Where are your conquests? Now you rove,
Pale, pensive, through the coral grove,
Or shrink from Britain in your oozy bed.
16
While virgins fair, with tender toil,Of fragrant blooms their gardens spoil,
Low lie the brows for which the wreath's design'd,
In sea-weed wrapp'd. Alas! how vain
The hope, the joy, the care, the pain,
The love, and godlike valour of mankind!
17
Of brass his heart who durst explore,—Lock'd up in triple brass, and more,
Who, when explored, the secret durst explain,—
How, in one instant, at one blow,
The maiden's sigh, the mother's throe,
Of half a widow'd land, to render vain.
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18
See yon cowl'd friar in his cell,With sulphur, flame, and crucible;
And can the charms of gold that saint inspire?
O cursed cause! O curs'd event!
O wondrous power of accident!
He rivals gods, and sets the globe on fire.
19
But the rank growth of modern illToo well deserved that fatal skill,
The skill by which Destruction swiftly runs,
And seas and lands and worlds lays waste,
With far more terror, far more haste,
Than ancient Nimrod and his haughty sons.
20
In frown and force old War must yield:The chariot scythed, which mow'd the field,
The ram, the castled elephant, were tame;
Tame to ranged ordnance, which denies
Superior terror to the skies,
And claims the cloud, the thunder, and the flame.
21
The flame, the thunder, and the cloud,The night by day, the sea of blood,
Hosts whirl'd in air, the yell, the sinking throng,
The graveless dead, an ocean warm'd,
A firmament by mortals storm'd,—
To wrong'd Britannia's angry brow belong.
22
Or do I dream, or do I rave?Or do I see the gloomy cave,
Where Jove's red bolts the giant brothers frame?
The swarthy gods of toil and heat
Loud peals on mountain-anvils beat,
While panting tempests rouse the roaring flame.
23
Ye sons of Ætna, hear my call!Let your unfinish'd labours fall,
That shield of Mars, Minerva's helmet blue.
Suspend your toils, ye brawny throng!
Charm'd by the magic of my song,
Drop the feign'd thunder, and attempt the true.
24
Begin, and, first, take winged flight,Fierce flames, and clouds of thickest night,
And trembling terror, paler than the dead;
Then borrow from the North his roar;
Mix groans and death; one vial pour
Of dread Britannia's wrath, and it is made.
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25
Yet, Peace celestial, may thy charmsStill fire our breasts, though clad in arms:
If scenes of blood avenging Fates decree,
For thee the sword brave Britons wield;
For thee charge o'er the' embattled field;
Or plunge through seas, through crimson seas, for thee.
26
E'en now for peace the gods are press'd;We woo the nations to be bless'd;
For peace, victorious kings, we call to you.
For peace, on pinions of the dove,
Soft emblem of eternal love,
Through wintry, black, tempestuous skies I flew.
27
My former lays of rough contents,Of waves, and wars, and armaments,
Were but as peals of ordnance to confess
Your height of dignity; to clear
Your deaf, your late obstructed ear;
And wake attention to more mild address.
28
Have I not heard you both declare,Your souls detest the purple war,
And melt in anguish for the world's repose?
Hail, then, all hail! your wish is crown'd,
Your god-like zeal through time renown'd,
Through Europe bless'd; with joy her heart o'erflows.
29
Your friend, your brother of the north,To meet your arms, comes smiling forth,
And leads soft-handed Peace: how powerful he!
His numerous race, the blossoms bright
Of golden empire,—radiant sight!—
Endless beam on into eternity.
30
What long allies!—The virgin trainYour most obdurate foes may gain:
See, how their charms in lineal lustre shine!
Through every genuine branch the sire
Has darted rays of temper'd fire,
The mother breathed soft air and bloom divine.
31
How fair the field! ye Aonian bees!The flowers ambrosial fondly seize,
Luxurious draw the sweet Hyblæan strain;
57
And my throned patrons' ravish'd ear
The soul's rich nectar drink, and thirst again.
32
E'en mine they taste, and with success:Ambition's fumes my strains repress;
The fever flies; no noxious thoughts ferment;
No frenzy, taking friends for foes:
The pulse subsides; they seek repose:
Nor I my winged embassy repent.
33
No; by the blood of Blenheim's plain,I swear, the rumour'd war is vain:
Shall Gallic faith and friendship ever cease?
I swear by Europe's lovely dread,
I swear by great Eliza's shade,
The wise Iberian is the friend of Peace.
34
Yet, lest I fail, (for, prophets oldNot all infallibly foretold,)
We set our naval terrors in array.
Know, Britons! an Augustus reigns:
If foes compel, send forth your chains,
While haughty thrones, uncensured, might obey.
35
O could I sing as you have fought,I'd raise a monument of thought,
Bright as the sun!—How you burn at my heart!
How the drums all around
Soul-rousing resound!
Swift drawn from the thigh,
How the swords flame on high!
How the cannon, deep knell,
Fates of kingdoms foretell!
How to battle, to battle, sick of feminine art,
How to battle, to conquest, to glory, we dart!
36
But who gives conquest? He whose rayTo darkness sinks the blaze of day;
Whose boundless favour far out-flows the main;
Whose power the raging waves can still:—
O curb more rebel human will!
With peace O bless us, or in war sustain!
37
Dost Thou sustain?—Ye twinkling fry!That swim the seas, glide gently by;
Though your scales glitter, though your numbers swarm,
58
Nor dare leviathan awake,
Who spouts a river, and who breathes a storm.
38
Would you a nation's genius know?Alike her bards and warriors glow.
High sounds my song? Immortal breathes the lyre?
Along the chords that ardour runs
Which stings Britannia's rushing sons
To flaming deeds might nobler lays inspire.
39
If still vain hopes of conquest swell,How vain e'en conquest, ponder well:
It stains, it brands, but when the cause is good.
Are you not men? Think, what are they
Your wanton wars reduce to clay;
Nor lay the summer's dust with kindred blood.
40
Is there a charm in dying groans?See yonder vale of human bones!
The generous heart would melt, that won the day;
Would melt, and with the prophet cry,
“To breathe new souls, ye Zephyrs, fly;
Ye winged brothers all, haste, haste away!”
41
Frown you? Frown on; your hour is past!The signal wafted in that blast
Speaks Britain's awful senate met: beware
Lest in her scale, (the womb of right!)
With all your arms, you're found too light,
Till smiles increase that weight your frowns impair.
42
For, mark the scene of deep debate,Where Britons sit on Europe's fate;
What loom'd exploit adorns it and inspires?
The walls, the very walls advise,
Each mean, degenerate thought chastise,
And rouse the sons with all their fathers' fires;
43
Teach them the style they used of old.Would Britain have her anger told?
O, never let a meaner language sound
Than that which through black ether rolls,
Than that which prostrates human souls,
And rocks pale realms, when angry gods have frown'd.
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44
Gods, and their noblest offspring here,Soft terms refused, impose severe:
Ye nations, know! know, all ye sceptred powers!
In sulphurous night, and massy balls,
And floods of flame, the tempest falls,
When Pride presumes, and Britain's senate lours.
45
A brighter era is begun;Our fame advances with the sun;
A virgin senate blooms: her bosom heaves
With something great, with something new;
Something our god-like sires may view,
And not abash'd shrink back into their graves.
46
No; Britain's slumbering genius wakes:What other Churchills, other Drakes?—
What Castle nods? what Lilies cease to smile?
What Lion roars? what Fleets in flight?
What Towns in flames? (prophetic sight!)
What Eagle mounting from the burning pile?
47
And now, who censures this Address?Thus crowns, states, common men, make peace:
They swell, soothe, double, dive, swear, pray, defy;
And when rank Interest has prevail'd,
And Artifice the treaty seal'd,
Stark Love and Conscience own the bastard tie.
48
Ambassadors, ye mouths of kings!Ye missive monarchs, empire's wings!
What, though the Muse your province proudly chose?
'Tis a reprisal fairly made;
Her province you long since invade,
Ye perfect poets, in the vale of prose!
49
More safe, O Muse! that humble valeThan the proud surge and stormy gale:
Thy dangerous seas with wrecks are cover'd o'er;
Dulness and Frenzy curse thy streams,
Rocks infamous for murder'd names:
O strike thy swelling sails, and make to shore!
50
While warmer climes, in cooler strains,On tented fields or dusty plains,
The bleeding horse and horseman hurl to ground,
60
That mighty shock, that dreadful burst
Of war, which bellows through the seas profound.
51
Nor mean the song, or great my blame:When such the patrons, such the theme,
Who might not glow, soar, paint, with rage divine?
Truth, simple Truth, I proudly dress'd
In Fancy's robe; her flowery vest
Dipp'd in the curious colours of the Nine.
52
But, ah! 'tis past: I sink, I faint;Nor more can glow, or soar, or paint;
The refluent raptures from my bosom roll:
To heaven returns the sacred maid,
And all her golden visions fade,
Ne'er to revisit my tumultuous soul.
53
My vocal shell, which Thetis form'dBeneath the waves, which Venus warm'd
With all her charms, (if ancient tales be true,)
And in thy pearly bosom glow'd,
Ere Pæan silver chords bestow'd!
My shell, which Clio gave, which kings applaud,
Which Europe's bleeding Genius call'd abroad!
Adieu, pacific lyre! My laurell'd thrones, adieu!
Hear, Atticus! your sailor's song; I sing, I live for you.
| The complete works, poetry and prose, of the Rev. Edward Young prefixed, a life of the author, by John Doran ... With eight illustrations on steel, and a portrait. In two volumes | |