Teaching each dreer wood's pathless scene
The glories of their virgin queen.
Nor such her later chiefs who try,
Impell'd by soft humanity,
The boistrous wave, the rugged coast,
The burning zone, the polar frost,
That climes remote, and regions yet unknown,
May share a George's sway, and bless his patriot name.
Warm Fancy, kindling with delight,
Anticipates the lapse of age,
And as she throws her eagle's flight
O'er Time's yet undiscovered page,
Vast continents, now dark with shade,
She sees in verdure's robe arrayed,
Sees o'er each island's fertile steep
That frequent studs the southern deep,
His fleecy charge the shepherd lead,
The harvest wave, the vintage bleed :
See Commerce springs of guiltless wealth explore, Where frowns the western world on Asia's neighbouring shore.
But lo! across the black'ning skies,
What swarthy demon wings his flight?
At once the transient landscape flies,
The splendid vision sets in night.
And see Britannia's awful form,
With breast undaunted, brave the storm :
Awful, as when her angry tide
O'erwhelmed the wrecked Armada's pride.
Awful, as when the avenging blow
Suspending o'er a prostrate foe,
She snatched in vic'try's moment, prompt to save,
Iberia's sinking sons from Calpe's glowing wave.
Ere yet the tempest's mingled sound
Burst dreadful o'er the nations round,
What angel shape, in beaming radiance dight, Pours through the severing clouds celestial light! "Tis Peace-before her seraph eye
The fiends of Devastation fly.
Auspicious, round our Monarch's brow
She twines her olive's sacred bough;
This victory, she cries, is mine,
Not torn from war's terrific shrine;
Mine the pure trophies of the wise and good,
Unstained of woe, and undefil'd with blood.
SELECTION FROM THE ODE FOR THE KING'S BIRTHDAY, 1792.
HEARD ye the blast whose sullen roar
Burst dreadful from the angry skies?
Saw ye against the craggy shore
The waves in wild contention rise?
To welcome George's natal hour,
No vain display of empty power,
In flattery steep'd, no soothing lay
Shall strains of adulation pay;
But Commerce rolling deep and wide
To Albion's shores her swelling tide,
But Themis' olive cinctur'd head,
And white rob'd Peace by Victory led,
Shall fill thy breast with virtuous pride,
Shall give him power to truth allied;
Joys which alone a patriot King can prove,
A nation's strength his power, his pride a people's
love.
SELECTION FROM THE ODE FOR THE NEW YEAR, 1797.
Grasp the strong shield, and shake the avenging spear. By wreaths thy hardy sons of yore
From Gallia's crest victorious tore,
By Edward's lily-blazon'd shield;
By Agincourt's high trophy'd field;
By rash Iberia's naval pride,
Whelmed by Eliza's barks beneath the stormy tide;
Call forth the warrior race again,
Breathing to ancient mood the soul-inspiring strain.
To arms! your ensign straight display!
Now set the battle in array,
The oracle for war declares,
Success depends upon our hearts and spears.
Britons, strike home! revenge your country's wrongs; Fight, and record yourselves in Druid songs.
BIRTHDAY ODE FOR THE YEAR 1800.
GOD of our father's rise,
And through the thund'ring skies
Thy vengeance urge;
In awful justice red,
Be thy dread arrows sped,
But guard our Monarch's head,
God save great George.
Still on our Albion smile,
Still, o'er this favoured isle,
O, spread thy wing!
To make each blessing sure,
To make our fame endure,
To make our rights secure,
God save our King!
To the loud trumpet's throat,
To the shrill clarion's note,
Now jocund sing.
From every open foe,
From every traitor's blow,
Virtue defend his brow,
God guard our King.
SELECTION FROM NAUCRATIA, OR NAVAL
ARM'D in the cause on Chalgrove's fatal plain,
Where sorrowing Freedom mourns her Hampden slain,
Say, shall the moralising bard presume,
From his proud hearse to tear one warlike plume,
Because a Cæsar or a Cromwell wore
An impious wreath, wet with their country's gore?
Columbus' eye, in transports of amaze,
The spacious region of delight surveys,
Charming with real scenes the raptur'd view,
Fairer than all his warmest wishes drew;
Isles in fair spring's eternal livery dight,
The fair savannah's space, the mountain's height;
Forests of growth gigantic, that display'd
O'er spacious continents impervious shade;
Fields that, uncultur'd, harvests rich produce,
Spontaneous fruits that yield ambrosial juice;
And rivers that their sea-broad currents rolled
Through groves of perfume, and o'er sands of gold.
WHEN the last sun of August's fiery reign
Now bathes his radiant forehead in the main,
The panoply by sportive heroes worn
Is rang'd in order for the ensuing morn;
Forth from the summer guard of bolt and lock
Comes the thick guetre, and the fustian frock.
With curious skill, the deathful tube is made,
Clean as the firelock of the spruce parade :
Yet let no polish of the sportsman's gun
Flash like the soldier's weapon to the sun,
Or the bright steel's refulgent glare presume,
To penetrate the peaceful forest's gloom;
But let it take the brown's more sober hue,
Or the dark lustre of the enamell'd blue.
Let the close pouch the wadded tow contain,
The leaden pellets, and the nitrous grain;
And wisely cautious, with preventive care,
Be the spare flint and ready turnscrew there;
While the slung net is open to receive
Each prize the labours of the day shall give.
(Book VI. Consequence of the Battle of Eddington.)
SOON as the morn, in rosy mantle dight,
Spread o'er the dewy hills her orient light,
The victor monarch ranged his warrior train
In martial order on the embattled plain;
Ready to front again the storm of fight,
Or urge the advantage and pursue the flight;
But not the horizon's ample range could show
A trace, a vestige, of the vanquished foe.
Now from the exulting host in triumph peal'd
The shouts of conquest shake the echoing field;
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