The Works of the Late Aaron Hill ... In Four Volumes. Consisting of Letters on Various Subjects, And of Original Poems, Moral and Facetious. With An Essay on the Art of Acting |
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To Lord George Grahme;
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 | The Works of the Late Aaron Hill |  |
To Lord George Grahme;
On his Action, near Ostend, on the 24th of June, 1745.
'Twas finely tim'd! third Edward's brightest days
Had, from such captains, claim'd increase of praise:
But, now, 'tis tenfold greatness, thus, to rise,
Where sense of vict'ry, lost in purse-craft, lies!
Where war but pilfers, and but bags contest;
And public honour is the public jest.
At such a time, to dare the sneerer's joke;
To rush on danger, when but foes provoke;
Un-brib'd, by profit's impulse, fight for bays,
And court no præmium, but his country's praise.
'Tis prodigy! 'tis out of nature's road;
'Tis scorn of prudence, and offence to mode.
Had, from such captains, claim'd increase of praise:
But, now, 'tis tenfold greatness, thus, to rise,
Where sense of vict'ry, lost in purse-craft, lies!
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And public honour is the public jest.
At such a time, to dare the sneerer's joke;
To rush on danger, when but foes provoke;
Un-brib'd, by profit's impulse, fight for bays,
And court no præmium, but his country's praise.
'Tis prodigy! 'tis out of nature's road;
'Tis scorn of prudence, and offence to mode.
Shake, Dunkirk! and retract thy bold extent,
Doom'd to due dust, stands each proud battlement.
Swell high, propitious surge, hide Tournay's stains,
And wash off insult, from our cow'd campaigns.
Look up, ye sea-driv'n ghosts! whom pleas'd Toulon
Saw sink, in fruitless fight, forgot too soon!
O'er the salt wave, triumphant thunders hear,
Hail the wish'd vengeance, that, at last, draws near!
While France starts wide, and wonders, whence it came,
Pale, to her trembling genius, point a Grahme!
Tell her, 'tis his, to feel his country's fire,
Hold her past fame in view, to urge it higher:
Tell her, re-waking glory waits his call,
To pour atonement, o'er the pride of Gaul.
Reclaim asserted ocean's question'd sway,
And teach the doubtful nations to obey.
Doom'd to due dust, stands each proud battlement.
Swell high, propitious surge, hide Tournay's stains,
And wash off insult, from our cow'd campaigns.
Look up, ye sea-driv'n ghosts! whom pleas'd Toulon
Saw sink, in fruitless fight, forgot too soon!
O'er the salt wave, triumphant thunders hear,
Hail the wish'd vengeance, that, at last, draws near!
While France starts wide, and wonders, whence it came,
Pale, to her trembling genius, point a Grahme!
Tell her, 'tis his, to feel his country's fire,
Hold her past fame in view, to urge it higher:
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To pour atonement, o'er the pride of Gaul.
Reclaim asserted ocean's question'd sway,
And teach the doubtful nations to obey.
Say, pitying heav'n! that sav'st a blund'ring state,
Whom hast thou late inspir'd, to lend us weight?
Blow, ye broad winds, expand his op'ning light,
Tell us, whence rose he? Do his country right;
Born, on thy bleaks, Albania! nurse of kings!
From gen'rous stock, this gen'rous Scyon springs.
Son of thy soul, Montrose! There, known, too well!
Prop of a crown, when three lost kingdoms fell!
Far be the omen from thy filial fire,
In every wreathe, but death's, transcend thy sire;
Far, from thy great forefather's suff'rings, rais'd,
For more than all his virtues, lov'd, and prais'd:
Down, thro' time's tide, transmit his length'ning fame;
O, born, above his fate, to lift his name.
Whom hast thou late inspir'd, to lend us weight?
Blow, ye broad winds, expand his op'ning light,
Tell us, whence rose he? Do his country right;
Born, on thy bleaks, Albania! nurse of kings!
From gen'rous stock, this gen'rous Scyon springs.
Son of thy soul, Montrose! There, known, too well!
Prop of a crown, when three lost kingdoms fell!
Far be the omen from thy filial fire,
In every wreathe, but death's, transcend thy sire;
Far, from thy great forefather's suff'rings, rais'd,
For more than all his virtues, lov'd, and prais'd:
Down, thro' time's tide, transmit his length'ning fame;
O, born, above his fate, to lift his name.
Oh, Mallet! this was he—sweet heav'n-fac'd boy!
Thy friend congratulates thy conscious joy:
Pride of thy care, thou led'st his earliest youth,
To court plain glory, white as robeless truth;
To scorn dark lifts, which men distinction call,
And climb, self-sinew'd—or, not rise at all,
Courage, by nature, his—thou taught'st him taste,
And innate warmth, with polish'd brightness, grac'd.
Breath'd o'er his list'ning heart reflection's breeze,
Gave him desire to know, with pow'r to please:
Thine, half the triumphs of his rising fame!
And Britain's future Flag shall bless thy name.
Thy friend congratulates thy conscious joy:
370
To court plain glory, white as robeless truth;
To scorn dark lifts, which men distinction call,
And climb, self-sinew'd—or, not rise at all,
Courage, by nature, his—thou taught'st him taste,
And innate warmth, with polish'd brightness, grac'd.
Breath'd o'er his list'ning heart reflection's breeze,
Gave him desire to know, with pow'r to please:
Thine, half the triumphs of his rising fame!
And Britain's future Flag shall bless thy name.
| The Works of the Late Aaron Hill | |