An Ode on Martial Virtue To which are prefixed Observations on Taste, and The Present State of Poetry in England [by Thomas Cooke] |
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 | An Ode on Martial Virtue |  |
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AN ODE ON Martial Virtue.
TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE Sir JOHN LIGONIER.
I.
Go, says the Centaur to Pelides, go,Win in thy Flow'r of Youth a fair Renown,
Let all thy Deeds from Honour's Fountain flow,
Then shall immortal Fame thy Labours crown:
Take the Sword which Justice draws;
Men and Gods approve the Cause:
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Who prefer'd the fleeting Joy
To the rich Pleasure which from Virtue springs,
Let the bold Adulterer feel,
Full on his odour-scented Brow,
The Weight of the vindictive Steel:
All Heav'n will justify the Blow,
When injur'd Honour strikes for-injur'd Kings.
Thus Chiron spoke, the great Thessalian Sage,
Who form'd heroic Youth, and tutor'd Age.
II.
High in Ida's peaceful Shade,See the wanton Trojan lay'd,
While the gentle Spartan Dame
With her Kisses fans his Flame:
Joys they taste not, but devour,
Wasting Nature's genial Pow'r:
Tho Venus smiles to see them sped,
Chast Juno will not bless the Bed.
A-while the thoughtless Lovers steep
Their weary'd, panting, Limbs in Sleep,
While the Sun gilds the Trojan Wall,
Devoted by their Crimes to fall.
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III.
Soon the rude Clash of Arms invades their Ears,The Trumpet wakes them from their Dreams of Bliss,
Now Horror, and Remorse, and Doubts, and Fears,
Drive from their trembling Lips the balmy Kiss:
Now no more the fragrant Bow'r,
Deck'd with ev'ry vernal Flow'r,
Calls the Pair to Love's Repast,
Too ecstatic all to last.
The angry Brow of Heav'n's deform'd with Clouds:
Down ev'ry Side of Ida's Hill
Roaring the rapid Torrent rowls,
While terror-bearing Thunders fill
With Anguish their affrighted Souls,
And curling Smoke proud Ilion's Glory shrouds:
All Greece reveng'd, while Heav'n approv'd their Cause,
The impious Breach of hospitable Laws.
IV.
All in vain the royal Fair,Giving to the Winds her Hair,
Full and frantic with the God,
Saw the Phrygian Turrets nod,
All in vain, with streaming Eyes,
Utter'd these prophetic Cries:
Troy is no more, her Empire falls;
And Paris, Paris, shakes her Walls!
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And Paris does the murd'rous Deeds:
Troy is no more, her Fate's at Hand;
And Paris is the burning Brand!
V.
Now turn, O! Muse, the bold Pindaric SongTo Ligonier, for he deserves it well;
Well has he serv'd thy Sister Pallas long;
And long he shall adorn the martial Shell.
Hiero , of antient Worth,
Gave to Lays divine their Birth,
Tho the Dread of punic Pow'r,
Gentle in the peaceful Hour:
Mild is thy Soldier as the Breez of May;
But, if the brazen Tongue of War
Commands him to th' embattel'd Plain,
He mounts with Joy the warlike Car,
Or guides th' impatient Courser's Rein,
Where Victory, or Death, must close the Day:
Reward him, O! reward him with Renown;
Be his the mural, his the civic, Crown!
VI.
While the Youth of British Race,Scorn of Britain and Disgrace,
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In their soft polluted Bow'rs,
Drowning ev'ry Sense of Soul
In the dithyrambic Bowl,
The gallant Chief, bright Son of Fame,
Purchas'd in Fields of Blood a Name,
A Name that shall my Song adorn,
Example to an Age unborn:
Princes may Rank and Titles give;
But 'tis the Muse must bid him live.
VII.
Sweet the Remembrance of heroic Deeds,And beauteous as the Landskips of the Spring!
Graceful the Files of War, when Virtue leads
Against the Pow'rs of a tyrannic King!
Rapid Swiftness to pursue,
Strength to draw the twanging Yew,
Skill to aim the flying Dart,
Fierceness of a Lion's Heart,
Can win no Praise, unless their Ends are good:
Who will decree the laurel Crown
Or to the Tyger, or the Bear,
Who to the Leopard give Renown,
Because the savage Warriors dare
Lay waste the quiet Empire of the Wood?
Unprais'd behold the watry Deluge run;
Unprais'd alike be Philip's frantic Son!
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VIII.
Monuments of endless PraiseClio rais'd, and still shall raise,
To the Chiefs of mighty Name,
Just Inheritors of Fame:
Thus, by her eternal Laws,
Live her Churchill and Nassaus.
This Gift, O! Ligonier, receive,
A Garland which the Muses weave,
Not of the fading Verdure made
Which grows in Chiswick's aweful Shade,
But of immortal Blossoms wove
From Pindus and th' Aonian Grove.
THE END.
| An Ode on Martial Virtue | |