The Wiccamical Chaplet a selection of original poetry; comprising smaller poems, serious and comic; classical trifles; sonnets; inscriptions and epitaphs; songs and ballads; mock-heroics, epigrams, fragments, &c. &c. Edited by George Huddesford |
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SMALLER POEMS, AND ODES.
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VERSES,
Intended to have been addressed to the Duke of Portland, at his Installation as Chancellor of the University of Oxford, in the Year 1793.
In evil hour, and with unhallow'd voice,
Profaning the pure gift of Poesy,
Did he begin to sing, he, first, who sung
Of arms and combats, and the proud array
Of warriors on th'embattled plain, and rais'd
Th'aspiring spirit to hopes of fair renown
By deeds of violence!—For since that time
Th'imperious victor oft, unsatisfy'd
With bloody spoil and tyrannous conquest, dares
To challenge fame and honour; and too oft
The poet, bending low, to lawless pow'r
Hath paid unseemly reverence, yea, and brought
Streams clearest of th'Aonian fount to wash
Blood-stain'd Ambition. If the stroke of war
Fell certain on the guilty head, none else;
If they that make the cause might taste th'effect,
And drink, themselves, the bitter cup they mix,
Then might the bard (tho' child of peace) delight
To twine fresh wreaths around the Conqu'ror's brow;
Or haply strike his high-ton'd harp, to swell
The trumpet's martial sound, and bid them on
When Justice arms for vengeance: but, alas!
That undistinguishing and deathful storm
Beats heaviest on th'exposed innocent,
And they that stir its fury, while it raves,
Stand at safe distance; send their mandate forth
Unto the mortal ministers that wait
To do their bidding.—Ah! who then regards
The widow's tears, the friendless orphan's cry,
And famine, and the ghastly train of woes
That follow at the dogged heels of war?
They, in the pomp and pride of victory
Rejoicing, o'er the desolated earth,
As at an altar wet with human blood,
And flaming with the fire of cities burnt,
Sing their mad hymns of triumph; hymns to God,
On the destruction of his gracious works!
Hymns to the Father, o'er his slaughter'd sons!—
Detested be their sword! abhorr'd their name,
And scorn'd the tongues that praise them!—Happier Thou,
Of peace and science friend, hast held thy course
Blameless and pure; and such is thy renown.
And let that secret voice within thy breast
Approve thee, then shall these high sounds of praise
Which thou hast heard, be as sweet harmony,
Beyond this Concave to the starry sphere
Ascending, where the spirits of the blest
Hear it well pleas'd:—For Fame can enter Heav'n,
If Truth and Virtue lead her; else, forbid,
She rises not above this earthy spot;
And then her voice, transient and value-less,
Speaks only to the herd.—With other praise
And worthier duty may she tend on Thee,
Follow thee still with honour, such as time
Shall never violate; and with just applause,
Such as the wise and good might love to share.
Profaning the pure gift of Poesy,
Did he begin to sing, he, first, who sung
Of arms and combats, and the proud array
Of warriors on th'embattled plain, and rais'd
Th'aspiring spirit to hopes of fair renown
By deeds of violence!—For since that time
Th'imperious victor oft, unsatisfy'd
With bloody spoil and tyrannous conquest, dares
To challenge fame and honour; and too oft
The poet, bending low, to lawless pow'r
Hath paid unseemly reverence, yea, and brought
Streams clearest of th'Aonian fount to wash
Blood-stain'd Ambition. If the stroke of war
Fell certain on the guilty head, none else;
If they that make the cause might taste th'effect,
And drink, themselves, the bitter cup they mix,
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To twine fresh wreaths around the Conqu'ror's brow;
Or haply strike his high-ton'd harp, to swell
The trumpet's martial sound, and bid them on
When Justice arms for vengeance: but, alas!
That undistinguishing and deathful storm
Beats heaviest on th'exposed innocent,
And they that stir its fury, while it raves,
Stand at safe distance; send their mandate forth
Unto the mortal ministers that wait
To do their bidding.—Ah! who then regards
The widow's tears, the friendless orphan's cry,
And famine, and the ghastly train of woes
That follow at the dogged heels of war?
They, in the pomp and pride of victory
Rejoicing, o'er the desolated earth,
As at an altar wet with human blood,
And flaming with the fire of cities burnt,
Sing their mad hymns of triumph; hymns to God,
On the destruction of his gracious works!
Hymns to the Father, o'er his slaughter'd sons!—
Detested be their sword! abhorr'd their name,
And scorn'd the tongues that praise them!—Happier Thou,
Of peace and science friend, hast held thy course
Blameless and pure; and such is thy renown.
And let that secret voice within thy breast
Approve thee, then shall these high sounds of praise
Which thou hast heard, be as sweet harmony,
Beyond this Concave to the starry sphere
Ascending, where the spirits of the blest
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If Truth and Virtue lead her; else, forbid,
She rises not above this earthy spot;
And then her voice, transient and value-less,
Speaks only to the herd.—With other praise
And worthier duty may she tend on Thee,
Follow thee still with honour, such as time
Shall never violate; and with just applause,
Such as the wise and good might love to share.
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THE LOVE OF OUR COUNTRY.
A Prize-Poem at Oxford, 1771.
Εις οιωνος αριστος αμυνεσθαι περι πατρης.
Hom. Who fights his Country's battle,
Does in his bosom feel a golden omen
Of victory.
Hom. Who fights his Country's battle,
Does in his bosom feel a golden omen
Of victory.
Ye souls illustrious, who in days of yore
With peerless might the British target bore;
Who, clad in wolf-skin, from the scythed car
Frown'd on the iron brow of mailed war;
Who dar'd your rudely-painted limbs oppose
To Chalybéan steel and Roman foes:
And ye of later age, tho' not less fame,
In tilt and tournament, the princely game
Of Arthur's barons, wont, by hardiest sport,
To claim the fairest guerdon of the court;
Say, holy Shades, did e'er your gen'rous blood
Roll thro' your faithful sons in nobler flood,
Than late, when George bade gird on ev'ry thigh
The myrtle-braided sword of Liberty?
Say, when the high-born Druids' magic strain
Rous'd, on old Mona's top, a female train
To madness, and with more than mortal rage
Bade them, like furies, in the fight engage;
Frantic when each unbound her bristling hair,
And shook a flaming torch, and yell'd in wild despair;
Or when, in Cressy's plain, the sable might
Of Edward dar'd four monarchs to the fight;
Say, holy Shades, did patriotic heat
In your big hearts with quicker transport beat
Than in your Sons, when forth, like storms, they pour'd,
In Freedom's cause, the fury of the sword;
Who rul'd the main, or gallant armies led,
With Hawke who conquer'd, or with Wolfe who bled?
With peerless might the British target bore;
Who, clad in wolf-skin, from the scythed car
Frown'd on the iron brow of mailed war;
Who dar'd your rudely-painted limbs oppose
To Chalybéan steel and Roman foes:
And ye of later age, tho' not less fame,
In tilt and tournament, the princely game
Of Arthur's barons, wont, by hardiest sport,
To claim the fairest guerdon of the court;
Say, holy Shades, did e'er your gen'rous blood
Roll thro' your faithful sons in nobler flood,
Than late, when George bade gird on ev'ry thigh
The myrtle-braided sword of Liberty?
Say, when the high-born Druids' magic strain
Rous'd, on old Mona's top, a female train
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Bade them, like furies, in the fight engage;
Frantic when each unbound her bristling hair,
And shook a flaming torch, and yell'd in wild despair;
Or when, in Cressy's plain, the sable might
Of Edward dar'd four monarchs to the fight;
Say, holy Shades, did patriotic heat
In your big hearts with quicker transport beat
Than in your Sons, when forth, like storms, they pour'd,
In Freedom's cause, the fury of the sword;
Who rul'd the main, or gallant armies led,
With Hawke who conquer'd, or with Wolfe who bled?
Poor is his triumph, and disgrac'd his name,
Who draws the sword for empire, wealth, or fame:
For him tho' wealth be blown on ev'ry wind,
Tho' Fame announce him mightiest of mankind,
Tho' twice ten nations crouch beneath his blade,
Virtue disowns him, and his glories fade:
For him no pray'rs are pour'd, no pœans sung,
No blessings chaunted from a nation's tongue:
Blood marks the path to his untimely bier;
The curse of widows, and the orphan's tear
Cry to high Heav'n for vengeance on his crimes:
The pious Muse, who, to succeeding times,
Unknowing flattery, and unknown to kings,
Fair Virtue only and her votaries sings,
Shall shew the Monster in his hideous form,
And mark him as an earthquake, or a storm.
Who draws the sword for empire, wealth, or fame:
For him tho' wealth be blown on ev'ry wind,
Tho' Fame announce him mightiest of mankind,
Tho' twice ten nations crouch beneath his blade,
Virtue disowns him, and his glories fade:
For him no pray'rs are pour'd, no pœans sung,
No blessings chaunted from a nation's tongue:
Blood marks the path to his untimely bier;
The curse of widows, and the orphan's tear
Cry to high Heav'n for vengeance on his crimes:
The pious Muse, who, to succeeding times,
Unknowing flattery, and unknown to kings,
Fair Virtue only and her votaries sings,
Shall shew the Monster in his hideous form,
And mark him as an earthquake, or a storm.
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Not so the patriot Chief, who dar'd withstand
The base invader of his native land;
Who made her weal his noblest, only end;
Rul'd, but to serve her; fought, but to defend
“Her voice in council, and in war her sword;
“Lov'd as her father, as her God ador'd;”
Who, firmly virtuous, and severely brave,
Sunk with the freedom that he could not save!
On worth like his the Muse delights to wait,
Reveres alike in triumph or defeat;
Crowns with true glory, and with spotless fame,
And honours Paoli's more than Cæsar's name.
The base invader of his native land;
Who made her weal his noblest, only end;
Rul'd, but to serve her; fought, but to defend
“Her voice in council, and in war her sword;
“Lov'd as her father, as her God ador'd;”
Who, firmly virtuous, and severely brave,
Sunk with the freedom that he could not save!
On worth like his the Muse delights to wait,
Reveres alike in triumph or defeat;
Crowns with true glory, and with spotless fame,
And honours Paoli's more than Cæsar's name.
Here let the Muse withdraw the blood-stain'd veil,
And shew the boldest son of public zeal:
Lo! Sydney, pleading o'er the block! his mien,
His voice, his hand, unshaken, clear, serene:
Yet no harangue, proudly declaim'd aloud,
To gain the plaudit of a wayward croud;
No specious vaunt death's terrors to defy,
Still death delaying, as afraid to die;
But sternly silent down he bow'd; and prov'd
A calm, firm, martyr to the cause he lov'd.
Unconquer'd patriot! form'd by ancient lore
The love of ancient freedom to restore;
Who nobly acted what he boldly thought,
And seal'd, by death, the lesson that he taught.
And shew the boldest son of public zeal:
Lo! Sydney, pleading o'er the block! his mien,
His voice, his hand, unshaken, clear, serene:
Yet no harangue, proudly declaim'd aloud,
To gain the plaudit of a wayward croud;
No specious vaunt death's terrors to defy,
Still death delaying, as afraid to die;
But sternly silent down he bow'd; and prov'd
A calm, firm, martyr to the cause he lov'd.
Unconquer'd patriot! form'd by ancient lore
The love of ancient freedom to restore;
Who nobly acted what he boldly thought,
And seal'd, by death, the lesson that he taught.
Dear is the tye, that links the anxious sire
To the fond babe that prattles round his fire;
Dear is the love, that prompts the grateful youth
His sire's sond cares and drooping age to sooth:
Dear is the brother, sister, husband, wife;
Dear all the charities of social life:
Nor wants firm Friendship holy wreaths to bind
In mutual sympathy the faithful mind:
But not th'endearing springs that fondly move
To filial duty, or parental love;
Not all the ties that kindred bosoms bind,
Nor all in friendship's holy wreaths entwin'd,
Are half so dear, so potent to controul
The gen'rous workings of the patriot soul,
As is that holy voice, that cancels all
These ties, that bids him for his country fall.
To the fond babe that prattles round his fire;
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His sire's sond cares and drooping age to sooth:
Dear is the brother, sister, husband, wife;
Dear all the charities of social life:
Nor wants firm Friendship holy wreaths to bind
In mutual sympathy the faithful mind:
But not th'endearing springs that fondly move
To filial duty, or parental love;
Not all the ties that kindred bosoms bind,
Nor all in friendship's holy wreaths entwin'd,
Are half so dear, so potent to controul
The gen'rous workings of the patriot soul,
As is that holy voice, that cancels all
These ties, that bids him for his country fall.
Nor yet doth Glory, tho' her port be bold,
Her aspect radiant, and her tresses gold,
Guide thro' the walks of death alone her car
Attendant only on the din of war;
She ne'er disdains the gentle vale of Peace,
Or olive shades of philosophic ease,
Where heav'n-taught minds to woo the Muse resort,
Create in colours, or in sounds transport;
Where youths court science, or where sages teach;
Where statesmen plan, where mitred fathers preach;
More pleas'd on Isis' silent marge to roam,
Than bear in pomp the spoil of battles home.
Her aspect radiant, and her tresses gold,
Guide thro' the walks of death alone her car
Attendant only on the din of war;
She ne'er disdains the gentle vale of Peace,
Or olive shades of philosophic ease,
Where heav'n-taught minds to woo the Muse resort,
Create in colours, or in sounds transport;
Where youths court science, or where sages teach;
Where statesmen plan, where mitred fathers preach;
More pleas'd on Isis' silent marge to roam,
Than bear in pomp the spoil of battles home.
To read, with Newton's ken, the starry sky,
And God the same in all his orbs descry;
To lead forth Merit from her humble shade,
Extend to rising Arts a patron's aid;
Build the nice structure of the gen'rous Law,
That holds the freeborn soul in willing awe;
To swell the sail of Trade, the barren plain
To bid with fruitage blush, and wave with grain;
O'er pale Misfortune drop, with anxious sigh,
Pity's mild balm, and wipe Affliction's eye,
These, these are deeds Britannia must approve,
Must nurse their growth with all a parent's love;
These are the deeds that public Virtue owns,
And, just to public virtue, Glory crowns.
And God the same in all his orbs descry;
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Extend to rising Arts a patron's aid;
Build the nice structure of the gen'rous Law,
That holds the freeborn soul in willing awe;
To swell the sail of Trade, the barren plain
To bid with fruitage blush, and wave with grain;
O'er pale Misfortune drop, with anxious sigh,
Pity's mild balm, and wipe Affliction's eye,
These, these are deeds Britannia must approve,
Must nurse their growth with all a parent's love;
These are the deeds that public Virtue owns,
And, just to public virtue, Glory crowns.
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ODE, WRITTEN AT THE FOOT OF SNOWDON,
In the Name of a Gentleman who was much struck, in the Isle of Anglesey, with a Miss Wright.
On rocky Mona's sea-girt shore
What scenes could wild Imagination trace?
Around the western blast should howl and roar,
The clashing flood its deaf'ning surges pour;
While Cromlechs, steep'd in human gore,
With barb'rous laws and rites mark'd a rude savage race.
What scenes could wild Imagination trace?
Around the western blast should howl and roar,
The clashing flood its deaf'ning surges pour;
While Cromlechs, steep'd in human gore,
With barb'rous laws and rites mark'd a rude savage race.
Ferocious manners, and an uncouth tongue,
Convivial joy, dash'd with tumultuous strife,
Harsh features of an untam'd spirit breathe;
And to the hardy boist'rous native leave,
Save now and then the soft harp, sweetly strung,
Scarce one of all the blandishments of life.—
Convivial joy, dash'd with tumultuous strife,
Harsh features of an untam'd spirit breathe;
And to the hardy boist'rous native leave,
Save now and then the soft harp, sweetly strung,
Scarce one of all the blandishments of life.—
Total Reverse! to these gay scenes belong
Beauty, fair order, and the choral song,
The hospitable roof and sprightly dance,
And temper'd mirth, and dress and elegance.
Beauty, fair order, and the choral song,
The hospitable roof and sprightly dance,
And temper'd mirth, and dress and elegance.
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No! 'twas no Druid's blood-stain'd
grove
First struck my aching sight;
But in a grove,
The haunt of love,
It was the form of beauty, mild and bright.
First struck my aching sight;
But in a grove,
The haunt of love,
It was the form of beauty, mild and bright.
The Flame that from that Altar mildly shone,
Was touch'd (I fable not) with heav'n's own fire
No Druid worship there, no heart of stone:
There pure Devotion dwelt and young Desire.
But my fears say, when I approach this Shrine,
With awful step and downcast eyes,
One barb'rous Rite remains:—tho' else divine,
It still may love the human Sacrifice!
Was touch'd (I fable not) with heav'n's own fire
No Druid worship there, no heart of stone:
There pure Devotion dwelt and young Desire.
But my fears say, when I approach this Shrine,
With awful step and downcast eyes,
One barb'rous Rite remains:—tho' else divine,
It still may love the human Sacrifice!
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ODE, ADDRESSED TO A FRIEND,
On an unexpected Separation.
D---, in sweet friendship's firmest bandsLink'd to my inmost soul! now pensive Eve
Steals slowly thro' yon misty meads,
What polish'd page of Rome, or wiser Greece,
Say, shall we next enraptur'd turn?
Shall we by murm'ring Mincio rove? or sit
Beneath the darksome pines that Pan
Planted in that Sicilian valley wild,
True region of poetic bliss?
Or in Achilles' loudly-thund'ring car
Be whirl'd o'er Troy's ensanguin'd plain;
Or see him strive Patroclus' shrieking ghost,
Poor unsubstantial shade! to clasp
With eager arms?—But let us never fail
Nightly to visit the soft bard
Best suited to the tender, feeling heart,
Compassion's throne: O joy refin'd!
To watch the big tear from thy meaning eye
Steal secret, while Medea's soul
With jealousy, maternal love, with rage
And haughty indignation fir'd,
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Now, touch'd with nature, hurls away
The deathful steel! Or while Orestes starts
In madness from the opiate couch
Where his fond Pylades for many a day,
And many a bitter night, had watch'd
His limbs convuls'd, and ghastly staring eyes
Fix'd on the Furies! Milder scenes
Invite us next—the grove where Comus built
His magic dome, and Echo heard
The nymph's distress:—or where, in cavern deep
Sweet Melancholy sits, to hear
The bubb'ling brook, or awful bell, or plaint
Of ever-wakeful Philomel.—
Thus with the Muses pass the blissful hours
Till, dearest Youth, snatch'd far away,
In solitude thou leav'st thy weeping Friend.
Who then with cordial looks and smiles
Can lull my cares? To whom can I unfold
My secret breast? Whom else can trust?
Whom else can love? Beneath cold Midnight's gleam
Thy absence will I oft lament,
Stretch'd in thy fav'rite grove, near Itchin's stream,
Close to those ivy'd mould'ring walls,
While the lone Cloysters echo to my woes.
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ODE, TO AN ANGRY MISTRESS.
As mortals, when a low'ring sky
Shews an offended Deity,
Bring the meek offering of Pray'r
T'avert th'impending plague, nor dare
With his high pow'r expostulate—
So I, now threaten'd with your hate,
To calm the anger of your eyes,
Present this Verse, my sacrifice.
Shews an offended Deity,
Bring the meek offering of Pray'r
T'avert th'impending plague, nor dare
With his high pow'r expostulate—
So I, now threaten'd with your hate,
To calm the anger of your eyes,
Present this Verse, my sacrifice.
Spirits, whose unweary'd care
Tends the beauties of the fair,
Bring the sweetness and the grace
That is seen in Myra's face;
Bring the dimples of her cheek,
And the smile that's wont to speak,
Like a pure Intelligence,
Love's diviner eloquence;
Lest the frowns she gathers now
Cloud that heav'nly arch, her brow;
Lest pale Anger dim the rose
That upon her count'nance glows;
Or, approaching near her breast,
Scare the young Loves from their nest:
Then, when ye behold her mien
Once more smiling and serene,
In her ear this counsel mild
Gently breathe: “Be reconcil'd,
“Transient sway is beauty's claim;
“Kindness feeds Love's lasting flame.”
Tends the beauties of the fair,
Bring the sweetness and the grace
That is seen in Myra's face;
Bring the dimples of her cheek,
And the smile that's wont to speak,
Like a pure Intelligence,
Love's diviner eloquence;
Lest the frowns she gathers now
Cloud that heav'nly arch, her brow;
Lest pale Anger dim the rose
That upon her count'nance glows;
Or, approaching near her breast,
Scare the young Loves from their nest:
Then, when ye behold her mien
Once more smiling and serene,
In her ear this counsel mild
Gently breathe: “Be reconcil'd,
“Transient sway is beauty's claim;
“Kindness feeds Love's lasting flame.”
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ODE TO A COUNSEL IN SOUTH WALES,
Who made strong Declarations against Poetry, to which he was much devoted.
Shall no fair one of all the fair throng
Rise the theme of thy amorous lay?
Tho', like Philomel, weeping in song,
Or tho' wild as the wood-lark in May?
Rise the theme of thy amorous lay?
Tho', like Philomel, weeping in song,
Or tho' wild as the wood-lark in May?
Does the Muse, in the trammel of laws,
Now flutter her pinions in vain?
Does she faulter o'er briefs and old saws,
And grovel in this sink of gain?
Now flutter her pinions in vain?
Does she faulter o'er briefs and old saws,
And grovel in this sink of gain?
Shall the fond foster-child of that Muse
Soft nurst in the jessamine bower,
Her shell, like an ingrate, refuse,
To become the first blood-hound of Power?
Soft nurst in the jessamine bower,
Her shell, like an ingrate, refuse,
To become the first blood-hound of Power?
In his fastness the Briton to seek,
And drive, like the Pict, to the sea?
With the rod of oppression to break—
And sacrifice fame to his fee?
And drive, like the Pict, to the sea?
With the rod of oppression to break—
And sacrifice fame to his fee?
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Ah, never on Towy's fair shore
Be the tale to the Oreads told,
Who Grongar's recesses explore,
And tend the wild thyme on the wold!
Be the tale to the Oreads told,
Who Grongar's recesses explore,
And tend the wild thyme on the wold!
Ah, never on that hallow'd sweard
Where, while Corydon slept, in the air
Druidical numbers were heard,
Ere he painted the landscape so fair,
Where, while Corydon slept, in the air
Druidical numbers were heard,
Ere he painted the landscape so fair,
Shall the dissonant bray of the Courts,
Shall the sound of the whip, or the thong,
Ever drive the fair Train from their sports,
Or obstruct the sweet flow of their song!
Shall the sound of the whip, or the thong,
Ever drive the fair Train from their sports,
Or obstruct the sweet flow of their song!
Then, friendly to nature and truth,
Foe to jargon, ambition, and hire,
Resume the lov'd Arms of your youth,
And war with the Myrtle and Lyre!
Foe to jargon, ambition, and hire,
Resume the lov'd Arms of your youth,
And war with the Myrtle and Lyre!
18
ODE TO THE CROW.
Say, weary Bird, whose level flight,
Thus at the dusky hour of night
Tends thro' the midway air,
Why yet beyond the verge of day
Is lengthen'd out thy dark delay,
Adding another to the hours of Care?
Thus at the dusky hour of night
Tends thro' the midway air,
Why yet beyond the verge of day
Is lengthen'd out thy dark delay,
Adding another to the hours of Care?
The wren within her mossy nest
Has hush'd her little brood to rest:
The wood-wild pigeon, rock'd on high,
Has coo'd his last soft note of love;
And fondly nestles by his dove,
To guard their downy young from an inclement sky.
Has hush'd her little brood to rest:
The wood-wild pigeon, rock'd on high,
Has coo'd his last soft note of love;
And fondly nestles by his dove,
To guard their downy young from an inclement sky.
Each twittering bill and busy wing,
That flits thro' morning's humid spring,
Is still;—list'ning perhaps so late
To Philomel's enchanting lay,
Who now, asham'd to sing by day,
Trills the sweet sorrows of her fate.
That flits thro' morning's humid spring,
Is still;—list'ning perhaps so late
To Philomel's enchanting lay,
Who now, asham'd to sing by day,
Trills the sweet sorrows of her fate.
Haste, Bird, and nurse thy callow brood,
They call on heav'n and thee for food,
Bleak—on some cliff's neglected tree;
Haste, weary bird, thy lagging flight—
It is the chilling hour of night;
Fit hour of rest for Thee!
They call on heav'n and thee for food,
Bleak—on some cliff's neglected tree;
Haste, weary bird, thy lagging flight—
It is the chilling hour of night;
Fit hour of rest for Thee!
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ODE TO THE LYRIC MUSE.
STROPHE I.
Fair Sov'reign of the golden lyre,Descend, Thalia, from th'inchanted grove
Of Mona, where thou lov'st to rove,
List'ning the echoes of thy Druid quire;
The ling'ring sounds that yet respire
Wak'd by the breezes of the western main;
And bring some high and solemn strain,
Such as was heard that fatal day
When Rome's dread Eagle stoop'd to prey
On Mona's free-born sons, while Liberty
Struck on the magic harp her dying song.—
Dealing vengeance on her foes,
The mortal Genïus of battle rose,
And call'd Despair and Death to lead her host along.
STROPHE II.
O, Muse divine! whene'er thy strainDevotes the tyrant head to shame,
The Patriot Virtues brighten in thy train;
And Glory hears the loud appeal;
And thou, unconquerable flame,
First-born of ancient Freedom, Public Zeal:
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When Tyranny her dragon-wing outspread,
And Sloth a sullen influence shed,
And every coward Vice that loves the night
Revell'd on Corsica's ill-fated shore;
Thou didst one dauntless heart inflame,
Lo, Paoli, father of his country, came,
And with a giant-voice
Cried, “Liberty!” unto the drowsy race
That slept in Slav'ry's dull embrace;
Rouz'd at the sound, they hail'd thy glorious choice,
And ev'ry manly breast
Shook off th'unnerving load of rest;
And Virtue chasing the foul forms of Night,
Rose like a summer sun, and shed a golden light.
ANTISTROPHE I.
But, ah! how sunk her veiled Head,Untimely dimm'd by Gaul's o'ershadowing pow'r
And shalt thou rise, fair isle, no more?
Thy patriot heroes sleep among the dead:
Thy gallant virtues all are fled;
Save Fortitude, sole refuge from despair.
O Gaul, oppression's blood-stain'd heir
Let me not tell how, taught by thee,
England's rude sons smote Liberty
On Vincent's sable rock, her Indian throne:
Not unaveng'd; for in her cause the sky
Storms and fiery vapours pour'd,
While Pestilence wav'd wide his tainted sword
To smite [OMITTED]
21
ANTISTROPHE II.
[OMITTED]EPODE.
Then, O Thalia! let thy sacred shellWake the lofty sounds that swell
With rapture unreprov'd the patriot breast!
Rob'd in her many-colour'd vest
On Isis' banks shall Science stand,
Waving in her bounteous hand
A wond'rous chaplet; high reward
Of toils, by public virtue dar'd:
And while, to claim the envied meed
Fair Fame his vot'ries leads, thy voice,
O Muse, shall join th'applauded choice
That fix'd the glorious wreath on Frederic's honour'd head!
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