 | Poems on several occasions |  |
587
SPANISH INSULTS, 1729.
Tempora mutantur, et nos mutamur in illis.
Strange are the turns the course of ages brings,
And fickle Fortune plays with human things.
At will the Wanton roves from coast to coast,
And gives this land the worth which that has lost;
Bids mighty Valour make a mean retreat,
And steady Wisdom quit her ancient seat;
Patriots in different climes their virtue show,
And various tides of empire ebb and flow.
And fickle Fortune plays with human things.
At will the Wanton roves from coast to coast,
And gives this land the worth which that has lost;
Bids mighty Valour make a mean retreat,
And steady Wisdom quit her ancient seat;
Patriots in different climes their virtue show,
And various tides of empire ebb and flow.
How great, how awful once the British land!
When old Plantagenets and Tudors reign'd;
When Edward's arms to farthest North were known,
Or fix'd a monarch on Iberia's throne;
When vassal-crowns were conquering Henry's prize,
And Gauls aspired not to be term'd “allies.”
Nor less illustrious was our realm confess'd
In that bright period which Eliza bless'd;
While either Indies dreaded from afar
Raleigh and Drake, her thunderbolts of war.
Hither she bade the eastern spices flow:
Ours were the gems the Orient could bestow,
And treasures of Peru and Mexico.
In vain conspired the powers of Rome and Spain;
The deep beneath the' Armada groan'd in vain;
When from her arm was aim'd the' avoidless blow,
And Heaven's auxiliar storm dispersed the foe.
Great without pride, without oppression strong,
She took no insult, as she did no wrong.
Thee, too, victorious Anna, own'd so late
The glorious arbitress of Europe's fate!
Thee Philip fear'd; nor, fearing, could repine
To yield his Calpe to a hand like thine,
Worthy to hold what rightful conquest gave;
For, wise thy statesmen and thy heroes brave!
When old Plantagenets and Tudors reign'd;
When Edward's arms to farthest North were known,
Or fix'd a monarch on Iberia's throne;
When vassal-crowns were conquering Henry's prize,
And Gauls aspired not to be term'd “allies.”
Nor less illustrious was our realm confess'd
In that bright period which Eliza bless'd;
While either Indies dreaded from afar
Raleigh and Drake, her thunderbolts of war.
Hither she bade the eastern spices flow:
Ours were the gems the Orient could bestow,
And treasures of Peru and Mexico.
In vain conspired the powers of Rome and Spain;
The deep beneath the' Armada groan'd in vain;
When from her arm was aim'd the' avoidless blow,
And Heaven's auxiliar storm dispersed the foe.
588
She took no insult, as she did no wrong.
Thee, too, victorious Anna, own'd so late
The glorious arbitress of Europe's fate!
Thee Philip fear'd; nor, fearing, could repine
To yield his Calpe to a hand like thine,
Worthy to hold what rightful conquest gave;
For, wise thy statesmen and thy heroes brave!
But where, ah! where are all our glories flown?
O wounding thought! and O distressful moan!
Britannia's sons, condemn'd to new disgrace,
Now fly the spoilers they were used to chase;
Seek not to beat, but bribe, the' injurious foe;
And beg the peace they wonted to bestow;
See thousands slain, their forts besieged; nor dare
To give the' outrageous waste the name of “war;”
Submissive bow to proud Hesperian lords,
And with but passive valour meet their swords.
Wide though our stately fleets o'er ocean ride,
Mock'd is their threatening, and contemn'd their pride.
Mere farce of war! to' avenge our ravish'd trade
Forbid, and only licensed to persuade!
We share no more the rich Peruvian mine;
No second Vigo must adorn our coin.
Old patriot valour leaves this hapless land,
And, leaving, rises on a foreign strand.
'Tis hard the sad vicissitude to bear,
And see the Spaniards what the Britons were.
O wounding thought! and O distressful moan!
Britannia's sons, condemn'd to new disgrace,
Now fly the spoilers they were used to chase;
Seek not to beat, but bribe, the' injurious foe;
And beg the peace they wonted to bestow;
See thousands slain, their forts besieged; nor dare
To give the' outrageous waste the name of “war;”
Submissive bow to proud Hesperian lords,
And with but passive valour meet their swords.
Wide though our stately fleets o'er ocean ride,
Mock'd is their threatening, and contemn'd their pride.
Mere farce of war! to' avenge our ravish'd trade
Forbid, and only licensed to persuade!
We share no more the rich Peruvian mine;
No second Vigo must adorn our coin.
Old patriot valour leaves this hapless land,
And, leaving, rises on a foreign strand.
'Tis hard the sad vicissitude to bear,
And see the Spaniards what the Britons were.
| Poems on several occasions | |