The Poems of J. J. Callanan A New Edition, with Biographical Introduction and Notes |
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ACCESSION
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GEORGE THE FOURTH. |
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 | The Poems of J. J. Callanan |  |
25
ACCESSION OF GEORGE THE FOURTH.
On Albion's cliffs the sun is bright,
And still Saint George's sea:
O'er her blue hills emerging height
Hover soft clouds of silvery light,
As in expectancy;
The barks that seek the sister shore
Fly gallantly the breeze before,
Like messengers of joy,
And light is every bosom's bound,
And the bright eyes that glance around,
Sparkle with transport high,
Hark! the cannon's thundering voice
Bids every British heart rejoice,
Upon this glorious day.
Slowly the lengthened files advance
Mid trumpet swell and war-horse prance,
While sabre's sheen and glittering lance
Blaze in the noontide ray,
Streamer and flag from each mast-head
On the glad breeze their foldings fling,
The bells their merry peals ring out,
And kerchiefs wave and banners flout
And joyous thousands loudly shout,
Huzza for George our King!
And still Saint George's sea:
O'er her blue hills emerging height
Hover soft clouds of silvery light,
As in expectancy;
The barks that seek the sister shore
Fly gallantly the breeze before,
Like messengers of joy,
And light is every bosom's bound,
And the bright eyes that glance around,
Sparkle with transport high,
Hark! the cannon's thundering voice
Bids every British heart rejoice,
Upon this glorious day.
Slowly the lengthened files advance
Mid trumpet swell and war-horse prance,
While sabre's sheen and glittering lance
Blaze in the noontide ray,
26
On the glad breeze their foldings fling,
The bells their merry peals ring out,
And kerchiefs wave and banners flout
And joyous thousands loudly shout,
Huzza for George our King!
'Tis night—calm night, and all around
The listening ear can catch no sound,
The shouts that with departing day
Less frequent burst—have died away,
The moon slow mounts the cloudless sky
With modest brow and pensive eye,
Thames owns her presence with delight
And trembles to her kiss of night,
Far down along his course serene,
The liquid flash of oars is seen
Advancing on with measured sweep,
Lovely to view is the time they keep,
And hark! the voice of melody
Comes o'er the waters joyously,
It is from that returning boat
Those sweet sounds of triumph float,
And nearer as she glides along
Mingling with music swells the song.
The listening ear can catch no sound,
The shouts that with departing day
Less frequent burst—have died away,
The moon slow mounts the cloudless sky
With modest brow and pensive eye,
Thames owns her presence with delight
And trembles to her kiss of night,
Far down along his course serene,
The liquid flash of oars is seen
Advancing on with measured sweep,
Lovely to view is the time they keep,
And hark! the voice of melody
Comes o'er the waters joyously,
It is from that returning boat
Those sweet sounds of triumph float,
And nearer as she glides along
Mingling with music swells the song.
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SONG.
Britannia exult on thy throne of blue waters,
In the midst of thine Islands thou queen of the sea,
And loud be the hymn of thy fair bosom'd daughters
To hail the high chief of the brave and the free.
While o'er the subject deep
Proudly your navies sweep,
Tars of old England still shout o'er the main,
'Till the green depths of ocean ring,
God save great George our King,
Honor and glory and length to his reign.
In the midst of thine Islands thou queen of the sea,
And loud be the hymn of thy fair bosom'd daughters
To hail the high chief of the brave and the free.
While o'er the subject deep
Proudly your navies sweep,
Tars of old England still shout o'er the main,
'Till the green depths of ocean ring,
God save great George our King,
Honor and glory and length to his reign.
Hush'd be your war song ye sons of the mountain,
Pibroch of Donald Dhu mute be thy voice,
Wizard that slept by Saint Fillan's grey fountain,
With loyalty's rapture bid Scotia rejoice,
Then to your stayless spear
Albyn's brave mountaineer,
Should foemen awake your wild slogan again,
And loud o'er the battle sing
God save great George our king,
Honor and glory and length to his reign.
Pibroch of Donald Dhu mute be thy voice,
Wizard that slept by Saint Fillan's grey fountain,
With loyalty's rapture bid Scotia rejoice,
Then to your stayless spear
Albyn's brave mountaineer,
Should foemen awake your wild slogan again,
And loud o'er the battle sing
God save great George our king,
Honor and glory and length to his reign.
Strike thy wild harp yon green Isle of the ocean,
And light as thy mirth be the sound of its strain,
And welcome with Erin's own burst of emotion,
The Prince that shall loose the last links of thy chain,
And like the joyous cry
Hellas' sons raised on high,
When they stood like their fathers all free on the plain,
Up the glad chorus fling
God save great George our King,
Honor and glory and length to his reign.
And light as thy mirth be the sound of its strain,
And welcome with Erin's own burst of emotion,
The Prince that shall loose the last links of thy chain,
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Hellas' sons raised on high,
When they stood like their fathers all free on the plain,
Up the glad chorus fling
God save great George our King,
Honor and glory and length to his reign.
Chief of the mighty and the free
Thy joyous Britain welcomes thee,
Her longing eyes have watch'd afar
The mounting of thy promised star,
Beneath its influence benign
Long may she kneel at Freedom's shrine.
Its rising o'er St. George's main
Ierne hails with glad acclaim,
Dear as to Hellas' weary few
Their own blue wave roll'd full in view,
Such Erin's song of Jubilee
And such her hopes, O Prince, from thee;—
Thy joyous Britain welcomes thee,
Her longing eyes have watch'd afar
The mounting of thy promised star,
Beneath its influence benign
Long may she kneel at Freedom's shrine.
Its rising o'er St. George's main
Ierne hails with glad acclaim,
Dear as to Hellas' weary few
Their own blue wave roll'd full in view,
Such Erin's song of Jubilee
And such her hopes, O Prince, from thee;—
From thee, for thy young steps have stray'd
In converse with the Athenian maid,
Listen'd to Virtue's high reward
As taught by sage or sung by bard,
Smil'd at Anacreon's sportive lyre
Or glow'd at Pindar's strain of fire,
Or heard the flood of Freedom roll'd
From lips that now alas! are cold,
For ever cold in that dark tomb
Where Britain mourns her Fox's doom;—
Nurtur'd with these, by these refin'd,
She watch'd with joy thy opening mind,
Young as thou wert she then could see
That Erin's wail was dear to thee,
And look'd with transport to the day
Would yield the sceptre to thy sway.
In converse with the Athenian maid,
Listen'd to Virtue's high reward
As taught by sage or sung by bard,
Smil'd at Anacreon's sportive lyre
Or glow'd at Pindar's strain of fire,
Or heard the flood of Freedom roll'd
From lips that now alas! are cold,
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Where Britain mourns her Fox's doom;—
Nurtur'd with these, by these refin'd,
She watch'd with joy thy opening mind,
Young as thou wert she then could see
That Erin's wail was dear to thee,
And look'd with transport to the day
Would yield the sceptre to thy sway.
'Tis done—on yonder deathless field
Ambition closed her bloody game,
Bent darkly o'er her shatter'd shield
And dropp'd her tear of flame,
Europe beheld with glistening eye
Her wrongs aveng'd—her fetters riven,
And peace and mercy from on high,
Diffus'd once more the gifts of Heaven,
With Britain's genius hand in hand,
Long may they wait on thy command,
Long to our vows may they remain
To bless, O Prince, thy prosperous reign,
And waft Britannia's halcyon day
To every land that owns thy sway.
Ambition closed her bloody game,
Bent darkly o'er her shatter'd shield
And dropp'd her tear of flame,
Europe beheld with glistening eye
Her wrongs aveng'd—her fetters riven,
And peace and mercy from on high,
Diffus'd once more the gifts of Heaven,
With Britain's genius hand in hand,
Long may they wait on thy command,
Long to our vows may they remain
To bless, O Prince, thy prosperous reign,
And waft Britannia's halcyon day
To every land that owns thy sway.
Yes, even to those stranger-lands
Where Niger rolls thro' burning sands;
Where fragrant spirits ever sigh
On the fresh breeze of Yemen's sky,
Or where indulgent nature smiles
On her Pelew or Friendly Isles,
Commerce and Peace shall waft thy fame
And teach the world their George's name.
Where Niger rolls thro' burning sands;
Where fragrant spirits ever sigh
On the fresh breeze of Yemen's sky,
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On her Pelew or Friendly Isles,
Commerce and Peace shall waft thy fame
And teach the world their George's name.
In yon fair land of sunny skies
Where Brahma hears her children's sighs,
And Avarice with her demon crew
Drains to the life the meek Gentoo,
Justice no more shall plead in vain
But point to thine avenging reign.
Where Brahma hears her children's sighs,
And Avarice with her demon crew
Drains to the life the meek Gentoo,
Justice no more shall plead in vain
But point to thine avenging reign.
Ganges now no more shall hear,
As on he rolls his sacred water,
The clash of arms—the shout of fear
Redden no more with kindred slaughter;
The Hindoo maid shall fearless stray
At eve his peaceful banks along,
And dance to Scotia's sprightly lay
Or weep at Erin's plaintive song,
Or sit amid Acacia bowers
That hang their cooly shade above her,
And as she twines the fairest flowers
To deck the brows of her young lover,
She'll think from whence these pleasures came,
Look to the west and bless thy name.
As on he rolls his sacred water,
The clash of arms—the shout of fear
Redden no more with kindred slaughter;
The Hindoo maid shall fearless stray
At eve his peaceful banks along,
And dance to Scotia's sprightly lay
Or weep at Erin's plaintive song,
Or sit amid Acacia bowers
That hang their cooly shade above her,
And as she twines the fairest flowers
To deck the brows of her young lover,
She'll think from whence these pleasures came,
Look to the west and bless thy name.
Far o'er the wave where Erin draws
The sword in Heaven's best, holiest cause,
And sees her green flag proudly sail
Aloft on Chili's mountain gale,
When swells her harp with freedom's sound
And freedom's bowl goes circling round,
Then shall the cup be crown'd to thee
Sparkling with smiles of liberty.
The sword in Heaven's best, holiest cause,
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Aloft on Chili's mountain gale,
When swells her harp with freedom's sound
And freedom's bowl goes circling round,
Then shall the cup be crown'd to thee
Sparkling with smiles of liberty.
The glorious task, O Prince, be thine
To guard thy Britain's sacred shrine,
To watch o'er Freedom's vestal fire,
Call forth the spirit of the lyre,
Bid worth and genius honor'd be,
Unbind the slave—defend the free,
And bring again o'er ocean's foam
The wandering Pargiot to his home.
Children of Parga are ye gone—
Children of Freedom shall her song
Echo no more your cliffs among?
Shall barbarous Moslem rites profane
The shrines that bow'd to Issa's name,
To guard your shores from despot's tread
Was it in vain your fathers bled,
'Till every rock and every wave
Around them, was a Pargiot's grave?
Oh! that their sons should ever roam
O'er ocean's waste to seek a home,
Oh! that the dwelling of the free—
Parga! that thou should'st sullied be,
By tread of Moslem tyranny
Oh Greece, thou ever honor'd name,
Even in thy bondage and thy shame
Fondly around each youthful mind,
By all thy classic ties entwined,
How shall this lay address the free
Nor turn aside sweet land to thee,
Mother of arts and Liberty.
From thy bright pages first I drew
That soul that makes me part of you,
There caught that spark of heavenly fire,
If such e'er warms the minstrel's lyre,
If e'er it breathes one waking tone
O'er freedom's slumbers—'tis thine own.
To guard thy Britain's sacred shrine,
To watch o'er Freedom's vestal fire,
Call forth the spirit of the lyre,
Bid worth and genius honor'd be,
Unbind the slave—defend the free,
And bring again o'er ocean's foam
The wandering Pargiot to his home.
Children of Parga are ye gone—
Children of Freedom shall her song
Echo no more your cliffs among?
Shall barbarous Moslem rites profane
The shrines that bow'd to Issa's name,
To guard your shores from despot's tread
Was it in vain your fathers bled,
'Till every rock and every wave
Around them, was a Pargiot's grave?
Oh! that their sons should ever roam
O'er ocean's waste to seek a home,
Oh! that the dwelling of the free—
Parga! that thou should'st sullied be,
By tread of Moslem tyranny
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Even in thy bondage and thy shame
Fondly around each youthful mind,
By all thy classic ties entwined,
How shall this lay address the free
Nor turn aside sweet land to thee,
Mother of arts and Liberty.
From thy bright pages first I drew
That soul that makes me part of you,
There caught that spark of heavenly fire,
If such e'er warms the minstrel's lyre,
If e'er it breathes one waking tone
O'er freedom's slumbers—'tis thine own.
Oh! after bondage dark and long
Could I but hear young freedom's song,
And scatter'd see the Moslem's pride
Before thy battle's whelming tide,
On that red field I'd gladly lie,
My requiem—thy conquering cry.
Heavens! mid the sons of godlike sires,
Is there no soul whom freedom fires,
And is the lyre of Lesbos hung
In slavery's hall, unswept, unstrung,
Is every glorious relic lost
Of that immortal patriot's ashes,
That on the winds of freedom tost,
Where Salamis' blue billow dashes,
Floated all burning from their pile,
And slept on continent and isle,
As if to fire with that embrace
His native land and all her race?
It cannot be—there yet remain
Some sparks of that high spirit's flame;
Oh wake them with thy kindling breath
Oh call a nation back from death.
Yes captives! yes, at his command
Methinks I see Britannia stand,
Where stood and died the Spartan band,
Where rising o'er Thermopylæ
Thessalia's mountains view the sea,
Sparkling with all its sunny isles—
Oh how can slavery wear such smiles?—
And Marathon's, Platæa's plain,
And Thebes whose heroes died in vain,
To each immortal scene about
The Queen of ocean sends her shout,
While hill and plain and isle around
Answer to freedom's long lost sound.
Could I but hear young freedom's song,
And scatter'd see the Moslem's pride
Before thy battle's whelming tide,
On that red field I'd gladly lie,
My requiem—thy conquering cry.
Heavens! mid the sons of godlike sires,
Is there no soul whom freedom fires,
And is the lyre of Lesbos hung
In slavery's hall, unswept, unstrung,
Is every glorious relic lost
Of that immortal patriot's ashes,
That on the winds of freedom tost,
Where Salamis' blue billow dashes,
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And slept on continent and isle,
As if to fire with that embrace
His native land and all her race?
It cannot be—there yet remain
Some sparks of that high spirit's flame;
Oh wake them with thy kindling breath
Oh call a nation back from death.
Yes captives! yes, at his command
Methinks I see Britannia stand,
Where stood and died the Spartan band,
Where rising o'er Thermopylæ
Thessalia's mountains view the sea,
Sparkling with all its sunny isles—
Oh how can slavery wear such smiles?—
And Marathon's, Platæa's plain,
And Thebes whose heroes died in vain,
To each immortal scene about
The Queen of ocean sends her shout,
While hill and plain and isle around
Answer to freedom's long lost sound.
Sons of the mighty and the wise,
Sons of the Greeks, awake!—arise!
By all your wrongs—by all your shame,
By freedom's self, that blessed name,
Think of the fields your fathers fought,
Think of the rights they dying bought—
Hark! hark! they call you from their skies
Sons of the mighty, wake—arise!
And oh, my country, shall there be
From these wild chords no prayer for thee?
Land of the minstrel's holiest dream,
Land of young beauty's brightest beam,
The fearless heart—the open hand—
My own—my dear—my native land!
Sons of the Greeks, awake!—arise!
By all your wrongs—by all your shame,
By freedom's self, that blessed name,
Think of the fields your fathers fought,
Think of the rights they dying bought—
Hark! hark! they call you from their skies
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And oh, my country, shall there be
From these wild chords no prayer for thee?
Land of the minstrel's holiest dream,
Land of young beauty's brightest beam,
The fearless heart—the open hand—
My own—my dear—my native land!
And can the noble and the wise,
A nation's rightful prayer despise,
Can they who boast of being free,
Refuse that blessed boast to thee?
See yonder aged warrior brave,
Whose blood has been on sward and wave,
Is he refused his valour's meed
Because he loves his father's creed?
Or is there in that creed alone,
What Valour, Genius, should disown;
To its fond votary is there given
Less of the mounting flame of Heaven?
When his young hand essays the lyre,
Oh! can he wake no tone of fire?
Does war's stern aspect blanch his cheek
Does foeman find his arm more weak,
His eye less bright? Oh let them say
Who saw the sabre's fearful sway,
Cleave its red path thro' many a fray,
Who saw his minstrel banner waving
Where war's wild din was wildest raving,
And heard afar the onset cry
Of hearts that know to win, or die.
A nation's rightful prayer despise,
Can they who boast of being free,
Refuse that blessed boast to thee?
See yonder aged warrior brave,
Whose blood has been on sward and wave,
Is he refused his valour's meed
Because he loves his father's creed?
Or is there in that creed alone,
What Valour, Genius, should disown;
To its fond votary is there given
Less of the mounting flame of Heaven?
When his young hand essays the lyre,
Oh! can he wake no tone of fire?
Does war's stern aspect blanch his cheek
Does foeman find his arm more weak,
His eye less bright? Oh let them say
Who saw the sabre's fearful sway,
Cleave its red path thro' many a fray,
Who saw his minstrel banner waving
Where war's wild din was wildest raving,
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Of hearts that know to win, or die.
Oh, Britain, had we never known
The kindling breath of Freedom zone,
Or vanquished, had we still remained
In slavery's deepest dungeon chained,
Without one ray of freedom's sun
To wake our sighs for glories gone,
Such cheerless thraldom we might bear
With the dark meekness of despair;
But the chained Eagle when he sees
His mates upon the mountain breeze,
And marks their free wing upward soar
To heights his own oft reach'd before,
Again that kindred clime he seeks,
Bold bird 'tis vain—thy wild heart breaks!
The kindling breath of Freedom zone,
Or vanquished, had we still remained
In slavery's deepest dungeon chained,
Without one ray of freedom's sun
To wake our sighs for glories gone,
Such cheerless thraldom we might bear
With the dark meekness of despair;
But the chained Eagle when he sees
His mates upon the mountain breeze,
And marks their free wing upward soar
To heights his own oft reach'd before,
Again that kindred clime he seeks,
Bold bird 'tis vain—thy wild heart breaks!
Oh, monarch! by a monarch's name,
By the high line from which you came,
By that, to each proud spirit dear,
The lofty name that dies not here,
With life's short day—but round the tomb
Breathes Immortality's perfume,
By Royalty's protecting hand,
Look on my dear—my native land
By the high line from which you came,
By that, to each proud spirit dear,
The lofty name that dies not here,
With life's short day—but round the tomb
Breathes Immortality's perfume,
By Royalty's protecting hand,
Look on my dear—my native land
| The Poems of J. J. Callanan | |