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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 | The Wiccamical Chaplet |  |
3
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,
4
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
5
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.
| The Wiccamical Chaplet | |