 | The Viceroy |  |
iii
ADDRESSED TO THE EARL OF HALIFAX.
1
THE VICEROY.
'Twas on Time's birth-day, when the voice divine
Wak'd sleeping Nature, while her infant eye,
Yet trembling, struggled with created light;
The heaven-born Muse, sprung from the source sublime
Of Harmony immortal, first receiv'd
Her sacred mandate. “Go, seraphic maid,
“Companion still to Nature! from her works
“Derive thy lay melodious, great, like those,
“And elegantly simple. In thy train,
“Glory, and fair renown, and deathless fame
“Attendant ever, each immortal name,
“By thee deem'd sacred, to yon starry vault
“Shall bear, and stamp in characters of gold.
“Be thine the care, alone where truth directs
“The firm heart, where the love of human kind
“Inflames the patriot spirit, there to soothe
“The toils of virtue with melodious praise:
“For those, that smiling seraph bids thee wake
“His golden lyre; for those, the young-ey'd Sun
“Gilds this fair-formed world; and genial spring
“Throws many a green wreath, liberal, from his bosom.”
So spake the voice divine, whose last sweet sound
Gave birth to Echo, tuneful nymph, that loves
The Muse's haunt, dim grove, or lonely dale,
Or high wood old; and, listening while she sings,
Dwells in long rapture on each falling strain.
Wak'd sleeping Nature, while her infant eye,
Yet trembling, struggled with created light;
The heaven-born Muse, sprung from the source sublime
2
Her sacred mandate. “Go, seraphic maid,
“Companion still to Nature! from her works
“Derive thy lay melodious, great, like those,
“And elegantly simple. In thy train,
“Glory, and fair renown, and deathless fame
“Attendant ever, each immortal name,
“By thee deem'd sacred, to yon starry vault
“Shall bear, and stamp in characters of gold.
“Be thine the care, alone where truth directs
“The firm heart, where the love of human kind
“Inflames the patriot spirit, there to soothe
“The toils of virtue with melodious praise:
“For those, that smiling seraph bids thee wake
“His golden lyre; for those, the young-ey'd Sun
“Gilds this fair-formed world; and genial spring
3
So spake the voice divine, whose last sweet sound
Gave birth to Echo, tuneful nymph, that loves
The Muse's haunt, dim grove, or lonely dale,
Or high wood old; and, listening while she sings,
Dwells in long rapture on each falling strain.
O Halifax, an humble Muse, that dwells
In scenes like these, a stranger to the world,
To thee a stranger, late has learnt thy fame,
Even in this vale of silence; from the voice
Of Echo learnt it, and, like her, delights,
With thy lov'd name, to make these wild woods vocal.
In scenes like these, a stranger to the world,
To thee a stranger, late has learnt thy fame,
Even in this vale of silence; from the voice
Of Echo learnt it, and, like her, delights,
With thy lov'd name, to make these wild woods vocal.
Spirits of ancient time, to high renown
By martial glory rais'd, and deeds august,
Atchiev'd for Britain's freedom! Patriot hearts,
That, fearless of a tyrant's threatening arm,
Embrac'd your bleeding country! o'er the page,
Where history triumphs in your holy names,
O'er the dim monuments that mark your graves,
Why streams my eye with pleasure? 'Tis the joy
The soft delight that thro' the full breast flows,
From sweet remembrance of departed virtue!
By martial glory rais'd, and deeds august,
4
That, fearless of a tyrant's threatening arm,
Embrac'd your bleeding country! o'er the page,
Where history triumphs in your holy names,
O'er the dim monuments that mark your graves,
Why streams my eye with pleasure? 'Tis the joy
The soft delight that thro' the full breast flows,
From sweet remembrance of departed virtue!
O Britain, parent of illustrious names,
While o'er thy annals memory shoots her eye,
How the heart glows, rapt with high-wondering love,
And æmulous esteem! Hail, Sydney, hail!
Whether Arcadian blythe, by fountain clear,
Piping thy love lays wild, or Spartan bold,
In freedom's van distinguish'd, Sydney, hail!
Oft o'er thy laurell'd tomb from hands unseen
Fall flowers; oft in the vales of Penshurst fair
Menalcas, stepping from his evening fold,
Listeneth strange music, from the tiny breath
Of fairy minstrels warbled, which of old,
Dancing to thy sweet lays, they learned well.
While o'er thy annals memory shoots her eye,
How the heart glows, rapt with high-wondering love,
And æmulous esteem! Hail, Sydney, hail!
Whether Arcadian blythe, by fountain clear,
Piping thy love lays wild, or Spartan bold,
In freedom's van distinguish'd, Sydney, hail!
Oft o'er thy laurell'd tomb from hands unseen
5
Menalcas, stepping from his evening fold,
Listeneth strange music, from the tiny breath
Of fairy minstrels warbled, which of old,
Dancing to thy sweet lays, they learned well.
On Raleigh's grave, O strew the sweetest flowers,
That on the bosom of the green vale blow!
There hang your vernal wreaths, ye village-maids!
Ye mountain nymphs, your crowns of wild thyme bring
To Raleigh's honour'd grave! There bloom the bay,
The virgin rose, that, blushing to be seen,
Folds its fair leaves; for modest worth was his.
A mind where truth, philosophy's first born,
Held her harmonious reign: a Briton's breast,
That, careful still of freedom's holy pledge,
Disdain'd the mean arts of a tyrant's court,
Disdain'd and died! Where was thy spirit then,
Queen of sea-crowning isles, when Raleigh bled?
How well he serv'd thee, let Iberia tell!
Ask prostrate Cales, yet trembling at his name,
How well he serv'd thee; when her vanquish'd hand
Held forth the base bribe, how he spurn'd it from him,
And cried, I fight for Britain! History rise,
And blast the reigns that redden with the blood
Of those that gave them glory! Happier days,
Gilt with a Brunswick's parent smile, await
The honour'd Viceroy. More auspicious hours
Shall Halifax behold, nor grieve to find
A favour'd land ungrateful to his care.
That on the bosom of the green vale blow!
There hang your vernal wreaths, ye village-maids!
Ye mountain nymphs, your crowns of wild thyme bring
To Raleigh's honour'd grave! There bloom the bay,
The virgin rose, that, blushing to be seen,
Folds its fair leaves; for modest worth was his.
A mind where truth, philosophy's first born,
Held her harmonious reign: a Briton's breast,
That, careful still of freedom's holy pledge,
6
Disdain'd and died! Where was thy spirit then,
Queen of sea-crowning isles, when Raleigh bled?
How well he serv'd thee, let Iberia tell!
Ask prostrate Cales, yet trembling at his name,
How well he serv'd thee; when her vanquish'd hand
Held forth the base bribe, how he spurn'd it from him,
And cried, I fight for Britain! History rise,
And blast the reigns that redden with the blood
Of those that gave them glory! Happier days,
Gilt with a Brunswick's parent smile, await
The honour'd Viceroy. More auspicious hours
Shall Halifax behold, nor grieve to find
A favour'd land ungrateful to his care.
O for the Muse of Milton, to record
The honours of that day, when full conven'd
Hibernia's senate with one voice proclaim'd
A nation's high applause; when, long opprest
With wealth-consuming war, their eager love
Advanc'd the princely dignity's support,
While Halifax presided! O, belov'd
By every muse, grace of the polish'd court,
The peasant's guardian, then what pleasure felt
Thy liberal bosom! not the low delight
Of fortune's added gifts, greatly declin'd;
No; 'twas the supreme bliss that fills the breast
Of conscious virtue, happy to behold
Her cares successful in a nation's joy.
The honours of that day, when full conven'd
7
A nation's high applause; when, long opprest
With wealth-consuming war, their eager love
Advanc'd the princely dignity's support,
While Halifax presided! O, belov'd
By every muse, grace of the polish'd court,
The peasant's guardian, then what pleasure felt
Thy liberal bosom! not the low delight
Of fortune's added gifts, greatly declin'd;
No; 'twas the supreme bliss that fills the breast
Of conscious virtue, happy to behold
Her cares successful in a nation's joy.
But O, ye sisters of the sacred spring,
To sweetest accents tune the polish'd lay,
The music of persuasion! You alone
Can paint that easy eloquence that flow'd
In Attic streams, from Halifax that flow'd
When all Iërne listen'd. Albion heard,
And felt a parent's joy: no more, she cried,
No more shall Greece the man of Athens boast,
Whose magic periods smooth'd the listening wave
Of rapt Ilyssus. Rome shall claim no more
The flowery path of eloquence alone
To grace her consul's brow; for never spoke
Himeria's Viceroy words of fairer phrase,
Forgetful of Alpheus' hastening stream,
When Arethusa stop'd her golden tide,
And call'd her nymphs, and call'd her shepherd swains
To leave their sweet pipes silent. Silent lay
Your pipes, Hibernian shepherds. Liffey smil'd,
And on his soft hand lean'd his dimply cheek,
Attentive: “Once so Wharton spoke,” he cried,
“Unhappy Wharton! whose young eloquence
“Yet vibrates on mine ear.” Whatever powers,
Whatever genii old, of vale or grove
The high inhabitants, all throng'd to hear.
Sylvanus came, and from his temples grey
His oaken chaplet flung, lest haply leaf,
Or interposing bough should meet the sound,
And bar its soft approaches to his ear.
Pan ceas'd to pipe—a moment ceas'd—for then
Suspicion grew, that Phæbus in disguise
His ancient reign invaded: down he cast,
In petulance, his reed; but seiz'd it soon
And fill'd the woods with clangor. Measures wild
The wanton Satyrs danc'd, then listening stood,
And gaz'd with uncouth joy.
To sweetest accents tune the polish'd lay,
The music of persuasion! You alone
8
In Attic streams, from Halifax that flow'd
When all Iërne listen'd. Albion heard,
And felt a parent's joy: no more, she cried,
No more shall Greece the man of Athens boast,
Whose magic periods smooth'd the listening wave
Of rapt Ilyssus. Rome shall claim no more
The flowery path of eloquence alone
To grace her consul's brow; for never spoke
Himeria's Viceroy words of fairer phrase,
Forgetful of Alpheus' hastening stream,
When Arethusa stop'd her golden tide,
And call'd her nymphs, and call'd her shepherd swains
To leave their sweet pipes silent. Silent lay
Your pipes, Hibernian shepherds. Liffey smil'd,
And on his soft hand lean'd his dimply cheek,
Attentive: “Once so Wharton spoke,” he cried,
9
“Yet vibrates on mine ear.” Whatever powers,
Whatever genii old, of vale or grove
The high inhabitants, all throng'd to hear.
Sylvanus came, and from his temples grey
His oaken chaplet flung, lest haply leaf,
Or interposing bough should meet the sound,
And bar its soft approaches to his ear.
Pan ceas'd to pipe—a moment ceas'd—for then
Suspicion grew, that Phæbus in disguise
His ancient reign invaded: down he cast,
In petulance, his reed; but seiz'd it soon
And fill'd the woods with clangor. Measures wild
The wanton Satyrs danc'd, then listening stood,
And gaz'd with uncouth joy.
10
But hark? wild riots shake the peaceful plain,
The gathering tumult roars, and faction opes
Her blood-requesting eye. The frighted swain
Mourns o'er his wasted labours, and implores
His country's guardian. Previous to his wish
That guardian's care he found. The tumult ceas'd,
And faction clos'd her blood-requesting eye.
The gathering tumult roars, and faction opes
Her blood-requesting eye. The frighted swain
Mourns o'er his wasted labours, and implores
His country's guardian. Previous to his wish
That guardian's care he found. The tumult ceas'd,
And faction clos'd her blood-requesting eye.
Be these thy honours, Halifax! and these
The liberal muse, that never stain'd her page
With flattery, shall record: from each low view,
Each mean connection free, her praise is fame.
O, could her hand in future times obtain
One humble garland from th'Aonian tree,
With joy she'd bind it on thy favour'd head,
And greet thy judging ear with sweeter strains!
The liberal muse, that never stain'd her page
With flattery, shall record: from each low view,
Each mean connection free, her praise is fame.
O, could her hand in future times obtain
One humble garland from th'Aonian tree,
With joy she'd bind it on thy favour'd head,
And greet thy judging ear with sweeter strains!
11
Mean while pursue, in public virtue's path,
The palm of glory: only there will bloom
Pierian laurels. Should'st thou deviate thence,
Perish the blossoms of fair-folding fame!
Even this poor wreath, that now affects thy brow,
Would lose its little bloom, the muse repine,
And blush that Halifax had stole her praise.
The palm of glory: only there will bloom
Pierian laurels. Should'st thou deviate thence,
Perish the blossoms of fair-folding fame!
Even this poor wreath, that now affects thy brow,
Would lose its little bloom, the muse repine,
And blush that Halifax had stole her praise.
The END.
| The Viceroy | |