The Poetical Works of William Julius Mickle :: :: University of Virginia Library

The wood-lark wakes, the throstle hails the dawn,
The lambkins bleating pour along the green;
In festive pomp, advancing o'er the lawn,
The nymphs of Liberty surround their Queen.

Embosom'd in a grove her temple rose,
Where oaks and laurels form'd a grateful shade;
Her walks adorn'd with every flower that blows,
Her walks where with the loves the muses play'd.

In awful state, on Parian columns rais'd,
With silver palms entwin'd, appear'd the throne,
In heaven's own colours, where the altars blaz'd,
The glories of her reign illustrious shone.

The first of times their native joys display;
Beneath his vine the rural patriarch sleeps;
The cattle o'er the boundless common stray,
And nature one unblemish'd sabbath keeps.

There o'er the landscape dark ambition lowers;
From council deep the awful patriots rise,
There sudden vengeance blasts the traitors towers,
And prostrate in the dust the tyrant lies.

Here shone thy heroes, Greece, thy fathers, Rome,
Ere Persian luxe your better times defac'd;
But shone not all whose deeds your pride would plume,
Here Brutus lower'd in shades ambiguous cast.

A gloomy horror there invests the skies:
'Tis there your polish'd chiefs their trophies raise;
With mingled grief and rage the native eyes
Wide o'er his fields the hostile standards blaze;

His wife, his altars, babes and hoary sire
Rush on his thoughts—the battle fires his breast;
Thus glows, Caractacus, thy noble ire,
With all the Goddess in thy mien confest.

With holy mitre crown'd, and awful eye,
There Mattathias frowns, and points the place
Where low on earth his country's altars lie,
And bids his sons revenge the foul disgrace.

The barbed spears seem trembling in their hands,
While ardour kindling in their eye-balls glows;
With sword half drawn, the godlike Judas stands,
And victory fires his soul, and marks the foes.

Fair o'er the rest, the shrine of Alfred shone,
From Gothic night the muses guard his toils;
There juries sit; the laws support his throne,
And freedom o'er the piece triumphant smiles.

High o'er the dome the festive standard flows,
The nymphs obey the sign, and leave the dells
Where blooms the lilac, where the wild rose blows,
Where hermit peace with mild contentment dwells.

Sublime as Pallas, arm'd with helm and spear,
(The tyrant's dread) the Goddess march'd along;

Bare was one knee, one snowy breast was bare,
The bow and quiver o'er her shoulder hung.

Her woodland train in solemn pomp she led,
(The muse beheld them trip the sacred ground,)
Fair freedom o'er their mien its graces shed,
Their brows with oak and purple blossoms bound.

The rocky cliffs and winding dales reply,
While to their Queen they raise the votive strain;
“Wide o'er the world,” they sung, “from sky to sky,
“Extend, O Goddess, thy benignant reign.

“Tho' constant summer clothes the Indian soil,
“Tho' Java's spicy fields embalm the gale,
“Tho' Ganges sees unbidden harvests smile,
“All, all these sweets without thee nought avail.

“The fainting native eyes with dumb despair
“The swelling clusters of the bending vine,
“The fruitful lawns confess his toilful care,
“Alas! the fruits his languid hopes resign!

“On Tigris' banks still rise the palmy groves,
“And still Euphrates boasts his fertile plains;
“Ah! vain the boast—'tis there the murd'rer roves,
“'Tis there wild terror solitary reigns!

“On Tadmore's site the lonely shepherd stands,
“And as he views the solemn waste around,
“With eager watch explores the Turkish bands,
“And dreads the plund'rer's rage in every sound.

“Return, O Queen, O patroness of joy!
“With antient splendour to thy Greece return:
“Ignoble slaves thy once lov'd seats destroy,
“On Pindus, thee, the silent muses mourn!

“Nor Po's fair banks, nor Baia's sands invite;
“Fallen Genius there her broken urns deplores;

“Nor Gallia's fairest landscapes please the sight,—
“Thy dictates exil'd from her hostile shores.

“But o'er the realms, where thy mild influence beams,
“O'er Britain's plains, the muse delighted roves,
“Delighted wanders o'er the banks of Thames,
“Or rests secure in Clifden's rural groves.

“There by the dawn, elate with lightsome glee,
“The joyous shepherd and the hind are seen,
“The voice of mirth, when evening shades the lea,
“Heard loud and nat'ral o'er the village-green.

“No tyrant there the peasant's field invades,
“Secure the fold, his labour's all his own;
“No ravisher profanes his osier shades,
“His labours wealth and independence crown.”

'Twas thus the chorus struck the muse's ear
As thro' Elisian shades she sportive rov'd—
The British nymphs in mournful pomp appear,
The British nymphs to freedom best belov'd.

Loose to the wind their snow-white vestments flow,
The cypress binds their locks with darksome green;
Yet grateful raptures mid their sorrows flow,
While thus with Fred'ric's praise they hail their Queen.

“'Twas not in vain thy dictates swell'd his breast,
“'Twas not in vain he vow'd his heart to thee;
“Fair, midst thy heroes, stands his name confest,
“The friend of men, the patron of the free.

“Tho' cypress now his lowly bed adorns,
“Tho' long ere eve at life's bright noon he fell,
“Yet shall the song, oft as this day returns,
“At freedoms shrine his happy labours tell.

“The drooping spirit of a downward age,
“Beneath his smile with ancient splendour rose,
“Corruption blasted, fled his virtuous rage,
“And Britain triumph'd o'er her bosom foes.—

“Oh! whether, sportive o'er the cowslip beds,
“You thro' the haunted dells of Mona glide,
“Or brush the upland lea when Cynthia sheds
“Her silver light on Snowdon's hoary side.

“Hither, ye British Muses, grateful come,
“And strew your choicest flowers on Fred'ric's bier!
“'Tis Liberty's own nymphs that raise the tomb,
“While o'er her Son the Goddess drops a tear.

“Fair to his name your votive altars raise;
“Your bowers he rear'd, to him your strains belong;
“Even virtue joins to gain the Muse's praise,
“Him loves the Muse whose deeds demand the song!”

Guadet enim virtus testes sibi jungere musas;
Carmen amat quisquis carmine digna geri.

—OV.