ODE XII. TO THE NAVAL OFFICERS OF GREAT BRITAIN.
February 11, 1779.
I. 1.
Hence to thy Hell! thou Fiend accurst,
Of Sin's incestuous brood, the worst
Whom to pale Death the spectre bore:
Detraction hence! 'tis Truth's command;
She launches, from her seraph hand,
The shaft that strikes thee to th' infernal shore.
Old England's Genius leads her on
To vindicate his darling Son,
Whose fair and veteran fame
Thy venom'd tongue had dar'd defile:
The Goddess comes, and all the isle
Feels the warm influence of her heav'nly flame.
I. 2.
But chief in those, their country's pride,
Ordain'd, with steady helm, to guide
The floating bulwarks of her reign,
It glows with unremitting ray,
Bright as the orb that gives the day;
Corruption spreads her murky mist in vain:
To virtue, valour, glory true,
They keep their radiant prize in view
Ambition's sterling aim;
They know that titles, stars, and strings,
Bestow'd by kings on slaves of kings,
Are light as air when weigh'd with honest fame.
I. 3.
Hireling courtiers, venal peers
View them with fastidious frown,
Yet the Muse's smile is theirs,
Theirs her amaranthine crown.
Yes, gallant Train, on your unsullied brows,
She sees the genuine English spirit shine,
Warm from a heart where ancient honour glows,
That scorns to bend the knee at Interest's shrine.
Lo! at your poet's call,
To give prophetic fervor to his strain,
Forth from the mighty bosom of the main
A giant Deity ascends:
Down his broad breast his hoary honours fall;
He wields the trident of th' Atlantic vast;
An awful calm around his pomp is cast,
O'er many a league the glassy sleep extends.
He speaks; and distant thunder, murmuring round,
In long-drawn volley rolls a symphony profound.
II. 1.
Ye thunders cease! the voice of Heav'n
Enough proclaims the terrors given
To me, the Spirit of the Deep;
Tempests are mine; from shore to shore
I bid my billows when to roar,
Mine the wild whirlwind's desolating sweep.
But meek and placable I come
To deprecate Britannia's doom,
And snatch her from her fate;
Ev'n from herself I mean to save
My sister sov'reign of the wave;
A voice immortal never warns too late.
II. 2.
Queen of the Isles! with empire crown'd,
Only to spread fair freedom round,
Wide as my waves could waft thy name;
Why did thy cold reluctant heart
Refuse that blessing to impart,
Deaf to great Nature's universal claim?
Why rush, through my indignant tide,
To stain thy hands with parricide?
—Ah, answer not the strain!
Thy wasted wealth, thy widow's sighs,
Thy half-repentant embassies
Bespeak thy cause unblest, thy councils vain.
II. 3.
Sister sov'reign of the wave!
Turn from this ill-omen'd war:
Turn to where the truly brave
Will not blush thy wrath to bear;
Swift on th' insulting Gaul, thy native foe,
For he is Freedom's, let that wrath be hurl'd;
To his perfidious ports direct thy prow,
Arm every bark, be every sail unfurl'd;
Seize this triumphant hour,
When, bright as gold from the refining flame,
Flows the clear current of thy Keppel's fame.
Give to the hero's full command
Th' imperial ensigns of thy naval power;
So shall his own bold auspices prevail,
Nor Fraud's insidious wiles, nor Envy pale
Arrest the force of his victorious band;
The Gaul subdued, fraternal strife shall cease,
And firm, on Freedom's base, be fixt an empire's peace.
