 | The works, in verse and prose, of the late Robert Treat Paine, Jun. Esq |  |
283
ODE.
Tune—“GOD SAVE THE KING.”
Blest be the sacred fire,
Whose beams the man inspire,
Panting for praise!
Renown her laurel rears,
Not in a nation's tears,
But in the Sun, that cheers
Her hero's bays.
Whose beams the man inspire,
Panting for praise!
Renown her laurel rears,
Not in a nation's tears,
But in the Sun, that cheers
Her hero's bays.
In Afric's cells confined,
Columbia's sons had pined,
'Mid hopeless gloom:
By native land forgot,
By friend “remembered not,”
They delved their captive spot,
And hailed their tomb!
Columbia's sons had pined,
'Mid hopeless gloom:
By native land forgot,
By friend “remembered not,”
They delved their captive spot,
And hailed their tomb!
284
Who, for the brave, could feel?
Who warm, with patriot zeal,
Their country's veins?
Eaton, a glorious name!
Struck, from the flint of fame,
A spark, whose chymick flame
Dissolved their chains.
Who warm, with patriot zeal,
Their country's veins?
Eaton, a glorious name!
Struck, from the flint of fame,
A spark, whose chymick flame
Dissolved their chains.
O'er Lybia's desert sands,
He led his venturous bands,
Hovering to save;
Where Fame her wings ne'er spread
O'er Alexander's head,
Where Cato bowed and bled
On glory's grave.
He led his venturous bands,
Hovering to save;
Where Fame her wings ne'er spread
O'er Alexander's head,
Where Cato bowed and bled
On glory's grave.
Though earth no fountain yield,
Arabs their poignards wield,
Famine appal;
Eaton all danger braves,
Fierce while the battle raves,
Columbia's Standard waves,
On Derne's proud wall,
Arabs their poignards wield,
Famine appal;
Eaton all danger braves,
Fierce while the battle raves,
Columbia's Standard waves,
On Derne's proud wall,
Long to the brave be given,
The best reward of Heaven,
On earth beneath!
His country's Spartan pride,
To honest fame allied,
No serpent e're shall glide
Under his wreath,
The best reward of Heaven,
On earth beneath!
His country's Spartan pride,
To honest fame allied,
No serpent e're shall glide
Under his wreath,
285
Blest be the sacred fire,
Whose beams the man inspire,
Panting for praise!
Renown her laurel rears,
Not in a nation's tears,
But in the Sun, that cheers
Her Hero's bays.
Whose beams the man inspire,
Panting for praise!
Renown her laurel rears,
Not in a nation's tears,
But in the Sun, that cheers
Her Hero's bays.
| The works, in verse and prose, of the late Robert Treat Paine, Jun. Esq | |