Moonlight :: :: University of Virginia Library

Now had our fleet, that, on the angry main,
Despite of France, of Holland, and of Spain,
The flag of England in full triumph bore,
Been wreck'd at last upon the Western shore.

Columbia's flag was fatal to our pride;
And we, that had the polish'd World defied,
Supreme in courage, and in nautick skill,
Were doom'd to know from petty traitors ill.

The sad reverses of inconstant Fate
Could not o'ercome our courage with their weight;
But England felt this, as a fatal blow,
To strike her colours to so mean a foe.

A foe, that swims about the wat'ry world,
Wherever Jove hath his bright thunder hurl'd,
To pick by carriage on the doubtful main
Our Island's refuse, and her thievish gain.

Long time she doubted, and long time forbore
To face the thunder of the Lion's roar:
But bribes from France, what courage could not do,
To war committed her rebellious crew.

Then the poor senate, in their broken style,
Began the Queen of Nations to revile;
And Billinsgate, by Western wit made more,
Fill'd all the echoes of their knavish shore.

The jails were open'd, and their cunning plann'd
A gen'ral search and rummage through the land,
That all the knaves, that in her bosom slept,
Like flocks of locusts, to their ships were swept.

Then their four frigates, long laid up in mud,
Were slowly dragg'd to the unwelcome flood;
That, once a year, with trumpets passed o'er,
To scare the dolphins, and dismay the Moor.

But now the Citizens the change shall know
Between a turban'd, and a Christian foe;
And Commodores, that brav'd it at Algiers,
Shall skulk in ocean, lest we crop their ears.

Their souls being little, their occasions much,
And no relief from Frenchman, or from Dutch;
With their fat dollars they our men o'er-reach,
And taint their faith with their Satanick speech.

Some, that for debt were in their jails confin'd,
And some, for crime that left our shores behind,
Some weak, some mad, from their allegiance fell,
To find, that treason is a mental Hell.

And well it was America did so,
The only hope of safety she could know;
For, let what will be, thus our fate is spun—
'Tis but by England, England is undone.

In mere despair with these their tops they fill,
And triumph o'er us by their force and skill:
The cannon, pointed by those English minds,
Awhile dispers'd our glory to the winds.

Then their few ships were of so vast a size,
That scarce our decks could to their port-holes rise;
We fought in flame, while they securely stood,
And swept our decks into the briny flood.

Oh! what brave spirits in the deep were lost,
Their friends', their country's, and their nature's boast!
Who smil'd in death, and, to their country true,
Found all their wounds were for their fame too few!

But Broke reveng'd them by his noble deed,
And in the Shannon taught his foes to bleed:
Columbia, gazing on the adverse shore,
Beheld her glory, and her cause no more.

Now, joyous light throughout our nation burns,
While he in laurels o'er the sea returns:
And, taught by Broke, Britannia now may view
What her brave Suffolk to her foes can do.

Our gracious Master, with a sweet reward,
Has shown his faith was grateful to his Lord:
And, brave himself as is the crystal light,
Has cloth'd with honour his courageous knight.

November 19th, 1813.

Sir Philip Broke is a gentleman of Suffolk.

The Prince Regent was graciously pleased to create Captain Broke a Baronet of England, for his conduct in this battle.

TO ROBERT SMIRKE, ESQ.

ON HIS BEAUTIFUL BUILDING OF COVENT GARDEN THEATRE.

When first I saw this fair and wond'rous pile,
The great example of the Dorick style,
And mark'd its wise proportions how severe,
And yet how smooth its beauty did appear,
The bright contention of each outward part,
Where Nature only was adorn'd by art,
Not overwhelm'd, as other builders use,
Who the rich stores of science still abuse,
But rais'd in separate glory to the sky,
As with the works of Nature born to vie:
Lost in delight, and in amaze I stood,
And pitied the old age, that, harsh and rude,
In humble dwellings the sweet scene pursu'd.

And as God fram'd the perfect work of Man,
Where all proportion in its search began,
To be the book and alphabet of love,
Where mighty builders their first science prove;
So this, hereafter, to our eyes shall stand,
The great Ephesian temple of our land,
And sweet Apollo, which thy art has plann'd.

Nor less in beauty, though that beauty be
Of all mankind the pure epitome,
And therefore to our architects the source
Of sweet proportion, and unerring force,
Where they may learn, from this thy rule sublime,
To charm the skies, and to out-question time;
Not less in these, than in fair use we weigh
The wond'rous genius, that these walls display,
That speak thee, Smirke, and boldly I declare
The faultless truth, the great Palladio's heir.

With fine delight, by Mathematicks taught,
A beauteous pile may to the skies be wrought,
In which the marble, or the stone, may vie
In likely form with brave eternity;

And wear a crown of beauty to outshine
Th' engilding Summer with its front divine;
But if the inward beauty be not like,
To win by use, as with delight to strike,
It shall be but a vizor, or a mask,
Which for intelligence we vainly ask;
Apollo to the eye; but to the mind
A vacant ideot, tongueless, deaf, and blind.

This faculty or soul, the light of Heaven,
Thy hand with prodigal award has giv'n,
And fram'd its various chambers to the use
Of boundless passion, bating the abuse;
For that were like the fool of elder date,
Who thought by vast dimension to be great:
Whereas in life, as in the mimick scene,
The perfect virtue lives still in the mean;
And firmly lives: this thy fine nature knew,
And gave example, when this plan you drew.

And as the wisest nature is forbid,
By silence or disuse if it be hid,

And only years and strict attention can
Discourse the perfect nature of the man;
Yet not completely, if we finely sought
From the first cradle, till his age were brought
To fill the second with o'er-lab'ring ill,
So may we read thee, and admire thee still:
Yet hope not, till this squared stone shall fall
To crumbling dust, or fire consume it all,
That, in prophetick light, in Theatres
Gives type aud fashion of the World's decease,
An element, still fatal to the Stage,
That saves it from the sad expense of age,
(Wherein of old the Pope was wont to deal,
Now Bonaparte's vex'd malice doth reveal
Itself in fire;) we hope not to pursue
The map of knowledge, which in this you drew,
To full attainment; but content to find
Each day some new provision of your mind,
Expend our lives in wisely being taught,
How the great founders in their marble wrought
The book of wisdom, and the map of thought.

Thy genius was confin'd, and yet thy art
Will not that secret to the world impart:
But, like Apelles, when he form'd in thought
His boundless picture, this brave house hast wrought:
Free, as when Phidias his keen chisel sway'd,
To carve the marble of the matchless maid,
That all the youth of Athens, in amaze
At that cold beauty, with sad tears did gaze;
(For love, t' expend itself, shall find no bar,
Or on a marble image, or a star;
But wander, in its nature unconfin'd,
As is thy genius, or th' unleased wind;)
Thou, on one side hemm'd in by th' publick ways,
Yet didst this temple to bright honour raise;
And in th' once pious Garden's near despite,
Didst lift these pillars, to outmatch the light:
Great Architect, with wonder I pursue
The fancy of thy draught; and find too few,
Had I a hundred tongues the words of praise,
Which they could yield me, while on this I gaze.

Then be it so: let silence then persuade
Thy gen'rous nature, how our hearts are sway'd:

For silence is best praise, when wonder reigns:
Yet take this versc for thy immortal pains:
Thou here hast built a temple, and a dome,
Which shall exalt thee, for all time to come;
Unless the lightning, in especial love,
Shall this fair structure to the skies remove;
Snatch'd by the hand of Jove: though earthly fire
May be the outward signal of desire.
This may be so; and yet thy name shall live,
And to our public works new glory give,
Where thou and Shakspeare uncontroul'd shall stand,
The mix'd delight and wonder of our land,
Till fire unfeign'd shall mar the world's design,
And wrap in ruin this our brave confine,
Unbounded Poet! Architect divine!

VIRGIL'S GHOST.

I walk in woods from morning until eve,
From eve to dewy night: and pitch my camp
In the sepulchral forests, where the bird,
That fled from Tereus, weeps the livelong day:
And all the starry night she weeps, and sings
Before the gate of Proserpine; a cave,
That leads from Dis into this upper World:
There dwell I, wheresoe'er that dwelling be,
Apart from kings; and with discursive ghosts,
Upon the edge of Morning, sweetly talk.
Now pale Bootes on the cavern shone;
And I, forsaking great Malvezzi's page,
Call'd with bright voice unto that ghostly herd,
Which they are wont t' obey, for Maro's soul,
T'uprise, and visit the o'er-wakeful moon.
I call'd; and Maro at the summons came:
“What would'st thou, son, with me?” I straight reply'd,
“O poet, above all divinely wise,

“To whom the Sun and Moon were strictly known,
“The sprinkled stars, and seasons, that o'er-sway
“This fickle globe, the earth, and what it bears,
“Of fruit, of creatures, of immortal man,
“With all that in the lower realms of Dis,
“Far underneath the glimpses of the moon,
“Have wakeful being; tell me now, I pray,
“What, in this wand'ring errour of the world,
“Best medicine for sorrow, may be found
“To lull the oblivious evil into peace?”
I said; and Maro, with sad tears reply'd;
While, overhead, the wakeful thunder roll'd,
As when it passes o'er Oblivion's shore:
“Great is the task, O son, and various minds
“With various solace lull the poignant woe:
“Some in wild passion steep the troubled breast,
“And some with sweet Nepenthe lull the mind,
“And some with herbs of mere forgetfulness:
“Their potency is much; and men may stay
“The orbit of the moon with herb and song;
“And so the sov'reign reason may assuage.
“But open wide the porches of thine ear;

“Believe it, with the sanction of my soul,
“That, worn with study, sought Proserpine's shore;
“A Pot of Porter, O my gracious son,
“Shall best resolve thy question, if'tis drawn
“From a sweet tap, where the resort is much.”
He said; and vanish'd, like the dews of Night.

TO ITALY, ON THE DIVINE SINGING OF MADAME CATALANI.

Not that thy beauty from the Tramontanes
Is fenc'd by mountains of eternal snow;
Not that great Jove into the silver Po
Struck Phaëton, that lost the Solar reins;
Not that the golden Orange on thy plains,
And fatt'ning Olives in full sweetness blow;
Nor that thy lakes into Avernus go,
While sparkling Summer on their surface reigns;
No; nor that that enlighten'd Hill doth shine,
The torch of Nature, through the radiant night,
Can make thy coast, O Italy, divine:
But this thy glory, this thy sacred light;
That Catalani, whom all tongues incline
To speak immortal, is by birth thy right.

Vesuvius.

THE ORANGE TREE:

A SONG.

Fair blossoms the Orange, and long may it bloom,
And yield a sweet fragrance, ungrateful to Rome;
Beneath the deep shade of its time-spreading boughs,
In the bright blushing Bacchus we steep our warm vows:
O the bright Orange,
Nassau's blooming Orange,
Long, long may it blossom, the pride of that House!

Religion first planted the beautiful tree,
And Liberty kept it from evil still free,
From blasts of the winter, and blights of the spring—
'Till, oh! a sad season misfortune did bring:
O the bright Orange,
Nassau's blooming Orange,
Again shall it blossom, the garden's sweet king!

God smiles on the Orange; and men love its shade;
For the leaves not in winter, unchanging, will fade;
Still true to its nature, it mocks the dark skies,
And, unharm'd by the lightning, the tempest defies:
O the bright Orange,
Nassau's blooming Orange,
Again in new beauty its blossoms arise!

Then bathe its sweet roots in the juice of the vine,
And in songs of bright beauty declare it divine,
Let the fairest of women still haunt the soft shade,
And the bravest of soldiers still rise for its aid!
O the bright Orange,
Nassau's blooming Orange,
Belov'd of all nature, the tree cannot fade!

TO HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS, THE PRINCE OF ORANGE AND NASSAU, SOVEREIGN PRINCE OF THE NETHERLANDS.

Thy Sov'reign honour, and thy kingly sway,
Well blazon'd by the artful poet's song,
Shall save thee, Orange, from th' unnumber'd throng,
That, like the leaves of Autumn, flit away,
Call'd by sad death, to be Oblivion's prey,
And over-heap'd by Time's invidious wrong:
Ah me, how many, thy sweet peers among
Shall wail, lamenting, for their natal day!
But thou, a star, that from the briny foam
Is finely lighted in the sparkling morn,
Shall burn in glory to thy sacred home,
And the wild air, and ocean well adorn:
I, first of poets, 'mid the darkling gloom,
Saw thee to light and fine distinction born!

TO JOHN, LORD ELDON, LORD HIGH CHANCELLOR OF GREAT BRITAIN, HIGH STEWARD OF THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD.

Like as the lights, that on the globed sphere
With fine discernment to our senses play,
And night, and the divided season sway,
With glory, and adornment of the year;
Making what is, since making to appear
What God has planted, our abode t' allay
With pleasance and with use, which else were prey,
But for that grace, to sorrow and to fear;
So shine the wise to our o'er-darken'd sense,
That great Orion in just thought is pale,
And Phosphor dim; so thy bright excellence
Against the clouds of evil doth avail;
And, from thy pure and unhurt eminence,
Above them all, doth make th' un-loyal quail!

WRITTEN ON THE THIRTY-FIRST DAY OF DECEMBER.

Wrapt in a mantle of dark clouds, the year,
The winds now sleeping, in dim rest expires,
And Julius' walls send forth their flashing fires,
And shake with thunder our rejoicing sphere:
The days of Agincourt again appear,
Poictiers, and Cressy, where our warlike sires
Saint George first planted on the Gallick spires,
And Paris shook, that London was so near!
Bourdeaux, and Bayonne view our tented host,
Whose conqu'ring horses drink their streamlets dry;
The Netherlands to France again are lost;
The Rhenish Princes from her banners fly:
Then line the ramparts, while this glorious toast,
Th' IMMORTAL REGENT! thunders to the sky.

The year 1813 ended with a thick, and almost unprecedented fog over London, for some days.

The Tower, built by Julius Cæsar.