University of Virginia Library

Britain!—that word pronounced is an alarm;
It warms the blood, though frozen in our veins;
Awakes the soul, and sends her to the field,
Enamour'd of the glorious face of Death.
Britain!—there's noble magic in the sound.
O what illustrious images arise!
Embattled round me blaze the pomps of war.
By sea, by land, at home, in foreign climes,
What full-blown laurels on our fathers' brows!
Ye radiant trophies and imperial spoils!
Ye scenes, astonishing to modern sight!
Let me at least enjoy you in a dream.
Why vanish? Stay, ye godlike strangers, stay!
Strangers!—I wrong my countrymen: they wake;
High beats the pulse; the noble pulse of War
Beats to that ancient measure, that grand march,
Which then prevail'd when Britain highest soar'd,
And every battle paid for heroes slain.
No more our great forefathers stain our cheeks
With blushes; their renown our shame no more.
In military garb and sudden arms,
Up starts Old Britain; crosiers are laid by;
Trade wields the sword, and Agriculture leaves
Her half-turn'd furrow: other harvests fire
A nobler avarice,—avarice of renown;
And laurels are the growth of every field.
In distant courts is our commotion felt,
And less like gods sit monarchs on their thrones.
What arm can want or sinews or success,
Which, lifted from an honest heart, descends,
With all the weight of British wrath, to cleave
The Papal mitre or the Gallic chain
At every stroke, and save a sinking land?