En.Citatepedia^®.ro

A poem, Sacred to the Glorious memory of King George

Let gaudy Mirth, to the blithe Carrol-song,
In loose light-measur'd Numbers dance along;
Thou, Muse no flow'ry Fancies here display,
Nor warble with the chearful Lark thy Lay.
In the dark Cypress Grove, or moss-grown Cell,
Where dreary Ravens haunt, would Sorrow dwell!
Where Ghosts, that shun the Day, come sweeping by,
Or fix in melancholy Frenzy's Eye;
Yet now she turns her Flight to Scenes of State,
Where Wealth and Grandeur weep the Frowns of Fate!
Wealth, Want, Rank, Power, here each alike partakes,
As the Shrub bends, the lofty Cedar shakes;
To her wide View is no Contraction known,
Tis Youth, 'tis Age, the Cottage and the Throne.

O Exclamation! lend thy sad Relief!
O Dodington! indulge the righteous Grief!
Distant, I've long beheld, in Thee, transcend
The Poet, Patron, Patriot, and the Friend.
Thou, who must live in Truth's remotest Page,
Form'd to delight, and dignify an Age;
Whose Words, whose Manners, and whose Mind declare,
Each Grace, each Moral, and each Muse are there;
Accept this Po'esy, void of venal Aim,
Made sacred by thy Royal Master's Name.

But why, O Muse! are songful Hours thy Choice?
Lost is the Life, whose Glory lifts thy Voice!
George is no more! As at the doomful sound
Of the last Trump, all Nature feels the Wound!
Each private, each distinguish'd Virtue bleeds!
And what but Lamentation long succeeds?
Where wilt thou then for apt Allusions fly?
What Eloquence can throbbing Grief supply?

Late, golden Pleasures urg'd their shining Way,
With George they flourish'd, and with George decay!
Now dusky Woes, o'er varied Scenes extend,
Groans rise! Rocks echo! and chill Damps descend!
Grief strikes my View with ever-weeping Eyes,
At her wan Look, each lively Fancy dies.
In fear, in hope, dull rest, or rufling Storms,
Thus Woe besets us, tho in various Forms!
That dire Event of Youth's ungovern'd Rage!
That dear-bought Knowledge to declining Age!
In Want, in Scorn, it haunts an humble State,
Tis Care, 'tis Envy, to perplex the Great!
A Kingdom's Curse, it in Dissention brings;
Or heavier falls, when falls the best of Kings!
Worth it exalts, when aiming to debase;
Tis Virtue's Triumph, or 'tis Guilt's Disgrace!
It humbles Life, yet dignifies our End;
Reflection's Torment, yet Reflection's Friend!
Then let the Muse her meaning Notes resume,
And pay due Sorrows to the hallow'd Tomb.

Was there a Glory, yet to Greatness known,
That not in Brunswick's Soul superiour shone?
Ill fare the Man, who, rob'd in purple Pride,
To wounded Worth has no Relief apply'd!
Benevolence makes Pow'r to Prudence dear,
When Pity weeps, what Pearl excells the Tear?
When not one Virtue glows to bless Mankind,
When Pride's cold Influence petrifies the Mind;
Let the Prince blaze with Jems!-in Wisdom's View,
An Emblem of the Rock, where once they grew!
Yet Springs gush out, to prove ev'n Rocks can flow
In Rills refreshful to the Vales below.
Why has he pow'r, and why no heart to chear,
Unseeing Eyes, and Ears that will not hear?
Swift, as his Bliss, shall his light Name decay,
Who, self-indulgent, sports his Hours away!
But, Oh!-what Love, what Honour shall he claim,
Whose Joy is Bounty, and whose Gift is Fame?
He (truly Great!) his useful Pow'r refines,
By him discover'd Worth exalted shines;
Exalted Worth, th'enlivening Act, repeats,
And draws new Virtues from obscure Retreats;
He, as the first, creative Influence, prais'd,
Smiles o'er the Beings, which his Bounty rais'd.
Such Dodington, thy Royal Master shin'd,
Such Thou, the Image of thy Monarch's Mind.

Nations were ballanc'd by his guardian Skill,
Like the pois'd Planets by the all-powerful Will.
Mark the Swede succour'd! mark th'aspiring CZAR!
Check'd are his Hopes, and shun'd the naval War.
By George the Austrian Eagle learns to tower,
While the proud Turk shakes conscious of her Power;
But when her Menace braves our envied Shore,
She trembles at the British Lyon's Roar;
Trembles, tho' aided by the Force of Spain,
And India's Wealth!-'gainst Brunswick, All how vain?
He bad thy Honour, Albion, foremost shine!
His was the Care, unmeasur'd Bliss was Thine!
Yet oft against his Virtue Faction rose!
An Angel, if thy Monarch, would have Foes.

Come Charity, First-born of Virtue's Line!
Come meek-ey'd Mercy from the Seat divine!
Pure Temp'rance, Mistriss of a tranquil Mind,
By whom each sensual Passion stands confin'd!
Fix'd Fortitude, from whom fierce Peril flies!
By whom (O Soul of Action!) Empires rise!
Fair Justice, Author of a Godlike Reign!
Peace, Plenty, Liberty adorn thy Train!
Lov'd Prudence! Queen of Virtues! blissful Dame!
Parent, and Guide of each illustrious Aim!
From whose firm Step Confusion turns in Flight,
That shapeless Spawn of Anarchy and Night!
From whom kind Harmony deduc'd her Race,
Then Order, all in one united Grace!
And thou Religion! truest, heav'nly Friend!
Whom these alone establish, These defend!
Assemble to the wailing Muse's call!
Weep o'er the clay-cold Breast, that held you All!

O Death, rouze all those Terrors to thy Aid,
Weak Fear, or wisest Valour wou'd evade!
Whether foul Pestilence in dire Array,
Red War, or pale-ey'd Famine point your Way,
What can you more than Kingdoms overthrow?
What aim'd you less, when Brunswick felt the Blow?
But mark!-Augustus, still above thy Rage,
Steps forth to give a second Golden Age.

Ye great Plantagenets! distinguish'd Race!
One greater meets you on celestial Space.
And thou, Nassau the fairest noblest Name!
Ev'n mid the Blest, superior still thy Flame!
Behold an Equal now!-How dear th'Embrace!
Oh, fly!-present him at the Throne of Grace!
'Tis done!-He's crown'd with a resplendent Joy,
Which Care shall never dim, nor Time destroy.

See!-from yon golden Cloud, amidst a Band
Of Angel-Pow'rs, once Patriots of the Land,
Soft-leaning o'er Britania's weeping Isle,
And shedding sweet, a fond, paternal Smile;
Pointing, the visionary Seraph cries,
Suspend thy Tears!-Behold a Sov'reign rise,
Thy Second George! whose Reign shall soon disclose
All that mine gave, and Heav'n, in Grace bestows.

He said.-Again, with Majesty refin'd,
Up-wing'd to Realms of Bliss, th'Ætherial Mind.

Finis

poem by Richard Savage
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To A Clergyman On The Death Of His Lady

WHERE contemplation finds her sacred spring,
Where heav'nly music makes the arches ring,
Where virtue reigns unsully'd and divine,
Where wisdom thron'd, and all the graces shine,
There sits thy spouse amidst the radiant throng,
While praise eternal warbles from her tongue;
There choirs angelic shout her welcome round,
With perfect bliss, and peerless glory crown'd.
While thy dear mate, to flesh no more confin'd,
Exults a blest, an heav n-ascended mind,
Say in thy breast shall floods of sorrow rise?
Say shall its torrents overwhelm thine eyes?
Amid the seats of heav'n a place is free,
And angels open their bright ranks for thee;
For thee they wait, and with expectant eye
Thy spouse leans downward from th' empyreal sky:
"O come away," her longing spirit cries,
"And share with me the raptures of the skies.
"Our bliss divine to mortals is unknown;
"Immortal life and glory are our own.
"There too may the dear pledges of our love
"Arrive, and taste with us the joys above;
"Attune the harp to more than mortal lays,
"And join with us the tribute of their praise
"To him, who dy'd stern justice to stone,
"And make eternal glory all our own.
"He in his death slew ours, and, as he rose,
"He crush'd the dire dominion of our foes;
"Vain were their hopes to put the God to flight,
"Chain us to hell, and bar the gates of light."
She spoke, and turn'd from mortal scenes her eyes,
Which beam'd celestial radiance o'er the skies.
Then thou dear man, no more with grief retire,
Let grief no longer damp devotion's fire,
But rise sublime, to equal bliss aspire,
Thy sighs no more be wafted by the wind,
No more complain, but be to heav'n resign'd
'Twas thine t' unfold the oracles divine,
To sooth our woes the task was also thine;
Now sorrow is incumbent on thy heart,
Permit the muse a cordial to impart;
Who can to thee their tend'rest aid refuse?
To dry thy tears how longs the heav'nly muse!

poem by Phillis Wheatley
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Threnodia Augustalis: Overture - A Solemn Dirge

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF HER LATE ROYAL HIGHNESS
THE PRINCESS DOWAGER OF WALES.

AIR -- TRIO.

ARISE, ye sons of worth, arise,
And waken every note of woe;
When truth and virtue reach the skies,
'Tis ours to weep the want below!

CHORUS.
When truth and virtue, etc.

MAN SPEAKER.
The praise attending pomp and power,
The incense given to kings,
Are but the trappings of an hour --
Mere transitory things!
The base bestow them: but the good agree
To spurn the venal gifts as flattery.
But when to pomp and power are join'd
An equal dignity of mind --
When titles are the smallest claim --
When wealth and rank and noble blood,
But aid the power of doing good --
Then all their trophies last; and flattery turns to fame.

Bless'd spirit thou, whose fame, just born to bloom
Shall spread and flourish from the tomb,
How hast thou left mankind for heaven!
Even now reproach and faction mourn.
And, wondering how their rage was borne,
Request to be forgiven.
Alas! they never had thy hate:
Unmov'd in conscious rectitude,
Thy towering mind self-centred stood,
Nor wanted man's opinion to be great.
In vain, to charm thy ravish'd sight,
A thousand gifts would fortune send;
In vain, to drive thee from the right,
A thousand sorrows urg'd thy end:
Like some well-fashion'd arch thy patience stood,
And purchas'd strength from its increasing load.
Pain met thee like a friend that set thee free;
Affliction still is virtue's opportunity!
Virtue, on herself relying,
Ev'ry passion hush'd to rest,
Loses ev'ry pain of dying
In the hopes of being blest.
Ev'ry added pang she suffers
Some increasing good bestows,
Ev'ry shock that malice offers
Only rocks her to repose.

SONG. BY A MAN -- AFFETTUOSO.
Virtue, on herself relying,
Ev'ry passion hush'd to rest,
Loses ev'ry pain of dying
In the hopes of being blest.

Ev'ry added pang she suffers
Some increasing good bestows,
Ev'ry shock that malice offers,
Only rocks her to repose.

WOMAN SPEAKER.
Yet, ah! what terrors frowned upon her fate --
Death, with its formidable band,
Fever and pain and pale consumptive care,
Determin'd took their stand:
Nor did the cruel ravagers design
To finish all their efforts at a blow;
But, mischievously slow,
They robb'd the relic and defac'd the shrine.
With unavailing grief,
Despairing of relief,
Her weeping children round
Beheld each hour
Death's growing power,
And trembled as he frown'd.

As helpless friends who view from shore
The labouring ship, and hear the tempest roar,
While winds and waves their wishes cross --
They stood, while hope and comfort fail,
Not to assist, but to bewail
The inevitable loss.
Relentless tyrant, at thy call
How do the good, the virtuous fall!
Truth, beauty, worth, and all that most engage,
But wake thy vengeance and provoke thy rage.

SONG. BY A MAN. -- BASSO. -- STACCATO. -- SPIRITOSO.
When vice my dart and scythe supply,
How great a king of terrors I!
If folly, fraud, your hearts engage,
Tremble, ye mortals, at my rage!
Fall, round me fall, ye little things,
Ye statesmen, warriors, poets, kings;
If virtue fail her counsel sage,
Tremble, ye mortals, at my rage!

MAN SPEAKER.
Yet let that wisdom, urged by her example,
Teach us to estimate what all must suffer;
Let us prize death as the best gift of nature --
As a safe inn, where weary travellers,
When they have journeyed through a world of cares,
May put off life and be at rest for ever.
Groans, weeping friends, indeed, and gloomy sables,
May oft distract us with their sad solemnity:
The preparation is the executioner.
Death, when unmasked, shows me a friendly face,
And is a terror only at a distance;
For as the line of life conducts me on
To Death's great court, the prospect seems more fair.
'Tis Nature's kind retreat, that's always open
To take us in when we have drained the cup
Of life, or worn our days to wretchedness.
In that secure, serene retreat,
Where all the humble, all the great,
Promiscuously recline;
Where wildly huddled to the eye,
The beggar's pouch and prince's purple lie,
May every bliss be thine.
And ah! bless'd spirit, wheresoe'er thy flight,
Through rolling worlds, or fields of liquid light,
May cherubs welcome their expected guest;
May saints with songs receive thee to their rest;
May peace that claimed while here thy warmest love,
May blissful endless peace be thine above!

SONG. BY A WOMAN. -- AMOROSO.
Lovely, lasting Peace below,
Comforter of every woe,
Heav'nly born, and bred on high,
To crown the favourites of the sky --
Lovely, lasting Peace, appear;
This world itself, if thou art here,
Is once again with Eden blest,
And man contains it in his breast.

WOMAN SPEAKER.
Our vows are heard! Long, long to mortal eyes,
Her soul was fitting to its kindred skies:
Celestial-like her bounty fell,
Where modest want and patient sorrow dwell;
Want pass'd for merit at her door,
Unseen the modest were supplied,
Her constant pity fed the poor --
Then only poor, indeed, the day she died.
And oh! for this! while sculpture decks thy shrine,
And art exhausts profusion round,
The tribute of a tear be mine,
A simple song, a sigh profound.
There Faith shall come, a pilgrim gray,
To bless the tomb that wraps thy clay;
And calm Religion shall repair
To dwell a weeping hermit there.
Truth, Fortitude, and Friendship shall agree
To blend their virtues while they think of thee.

AIR. CHORUS. -- POMPOSO.
Let us, let all the world agree,
To profit by resembling thee.

poem by Oliver Goldsmith
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The Faithful Few: An Ode

While Pow'r triumphant bears unrival'd Sway,
Propt by the Aid of all-prevailing Gold;
While bold Corruption blasts the Face of Day,
And Men, in Herds, are offer'd to be sold;
Select, Urania, from the venal Throng,
The Faithful Few, to grace the deathless Song!

To thee, chaste Nymph, by Jove and Fate, is giv'n
The sacred Charge of the Celestial Bays;
Thou raisest Heroes to their native Heav'n,
And point'st the Objects of eternal Praise.
And in thy Records, dear to future Fame,
Each Son of Liberty inscribes his Name.

When o'er a Nation Fraud and Guilt prevail,
And, fafe, all Question and Enquiry shun,
Thine is the impartial Sword,-and thine the Scale
To weigh the Crime, and make the Actors known:
From Britain's Eyes the deadly Mist to cast,
And bid her waken, lest she sleep her last!

Begin, bright Goddess, the celestial Strain;
To lofty Notes accord the tuneful Lyre:
Almeria shall lead on the shining Train,
Whose Looks the Love of Liberty inspire.
Let lower Beauties fetter those who fee;
None should behold a Pallas, but the Free.

So when great Juno came near Latium's Land,
Detain'd, by Fate, the Guardian Vessel stood,
No human Force could make it touch the Strand,
Fix'd, it remain'd, in Tyber's rapid Flood,
Till one bright Vestal, (such is Virtue's Pow'r!)
Dissolv'd the Charm, and drew the Gift on Shore.

Nor less the Chief, whom, bless'd in Myra's Charms,
The sacred Love of Liberty inspires;
Whose generous Breast the same great Passion warms,
That brightly glow'd in his Heroic Sires.
How justly are the Patriot-Names ally'd,
How softly pair'd, a Douglas and a Hyde.

See Hamilton, with Lustre, next appear,
A Prince descended from a Royal Race.
Behold his easy Mien, and graceful Air;
What noble Freedom triumphs in his Face?
Bright may his Virtues ever be confest,
As the fair Star that guards his Patriot Breast.

Descended from an ancient faithful Line,
Assume, Montrose, thy undisputed Place.
Who doubts the Virtues of thy Race are thine,
May read a Confutation in thy Face:
Where Grandeur is with Goodness temper'd seen;
Soft Beams of Light, that shew the Day within.

Nor shall the Muse, great Ker, thy Name conceal,
Admir'd in Counsels, as in Arts polite;
Till Knowledge sink, and publick Spirit fail,
Thy Merit shall appear in all its Light.
Still may the Azure Band embrace thy Knee,
Evil to him that Evil thinks of thee.

But who approaches next Urania's View,
Sedate, with calm and philosophick Air?
Soon, Tweeddale, must the Muse acknowledge you,
In Youth a Sage, in Grandeur still sincere;
The Friend of Men. Continue, with Applause,
The firm Assertor of your Country's Cause.

Nor thou, the Pride of thy illustrious Race,
Round whom united Virtues form a Day!
Shall in the fair Procession want thy Place.
The Courts no longer shed their tinsel Ray.
In Britain's Annals shall a Rothes shine
Amongst the foremost Heroes of his Line.

Buchan, to Truth and sacred Honour just!
The Muse with Pride thy Title would repeat
Who rather than betray a Nation's Trust,
Unblemish'd chose with Glory to retreat;
Thine shall the Praise remain-when Life is done,
And all the Sons of Slavery sleep unknown.

Mild Haddington, whose Breast's with Learning fraught,
Receive the Tribute of unpurchas'd Praise;
Thine is the Honour to retire unbought,
And persevere in Virtue's sacred Ways!
Nor less becomes the Man the Muses love,
And all the Friends of Liberty approve.

Great Aberdeen, whose penetrating Sight,
Thro' ministerial Cobwebs well can spy;
Can bring the Depths of State-Deceit to Light,
The Muse unnotic'd must not pass you by:
Tho' Britain's Senate hears your Sense no more,
Your Country still regards you as before.

Marchmont, whose Wisdom different Courts have found,
Whose freeborn Soul has never chang'd its State;
For Knowledge fam'd, and Eloquence renown'd,
In whom the honest Statesman shines compleat!
Accept this Homage which the Muses pay,
And still deserve Applause the Patriot-Way!

But oh! if Worth exalts the Pride of Blood,
If Virtue can the Blaze of Courts outshine!
The Muse beholds a Man both great and good;
The blended Wreaths, immortal Stair, are thine!
And like the Spartan Chief's Retreat of old,
With equal Glory shall thine own be told!

Nor thou, unblemish'd Peer! whose steady Soul
Corruption's bold Assaults, unmov'd, defy'd;
Sustain'd the Shock, collected firm and whole,
And kept inflexible the juster Side.
Still, Elphinstone, preserve the spotless Name,
And leave the fair Example dear to Fame!

These are the Chiefs our hardy Climate breeds,
That, deaf to Interest's or Ambition's Charms,
Can shew, by greatly meritorious Deeds,
How much the sacred Love of Freedom warms:
Souls made like these deserve a Pindar's Strain,
Whom Crowns would tempt to Ill, but tempt in vain!

To These, nor want we Patriot Names to join
Souls uncorrupt, tho' in a lower Sphere;
Who slight the Charms of either India's Mine,
And make a Nation's Happiness their Care!
While firm, oppos'd, the powerful Flood they stand,
And risque themselves to save a sinking Land.

Such the Dalrymples, Father and the Son,
Whose virtuous Minds no servile Chains can wear;
Such Erskine is, who laid the Purple down,
Whom Britain's Senate shall with Pleasure hear:
And He, who now retires, with Honour crown'd,
To the soft Cares of his Paternal Ground.

Nor shall the Muse, Dundas, omit thy Name,
Who, fearless, in the Face of Pow'r and Pride,
Has dar'd the Rights of Britain to sustain,
And joyn the Juster, but unequal Side.
In thee the Roman Orator appears,
And all his Virtues shine, without his Fears.

Such are the Spirits firm to LIBERTY,
That with their Influence bless our Northern Coast.
So the bright Planets gild a wint'ry Sky,
And shine serenest in the chilling Frost!
Unnumber'd Stars around their Passage glow,
And serve to chear the darken'd World below.

When Britain's present Ague-Fit is past,
When safe she sits amidst her subject Seas,
These Names shall dear to future Ages last,
And Time shall gild them with his latest Rays.
Virtue shall triumph, over Envy's Spite.
Clouds are but Foils, to make us love the Light.

FINIS

poem by William Hamilton
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A Desire To Praise

Propitious Son of God to thee
With all my soul I bend my knee,
My wish I send my want impart,
And dedicate my mind and heart,
For as an absent parent's son
Whose second year is only run,
When no protecting friend is near,
Void of wit and void of fear,
With things that hurt him fondly plays,
Or here he falls, or there he strays;
So shou'd my soul's eternal guide
The sacred spirit be deny'd,
Thy servant soon the loss wou'd know,
And sink in sin, or run to woe.

O spirit bountifully kind,
Warm, possess, and fill my mind,
Disperse my sins with light divine
And raise the flames of love with thine,
Before thy pleasures rightly priz'd
Let wealth and honour be despis'd,
And let the Father's glory be
More dear itself than life to me.

Sing of Jesus! virgins sing
Him your everlasting King;
Sing of Jesus! chearful youth,
Him the God of love and truth:
Write and raise a song divine
Or come and hear, and borrow mine.
Son Eternal, word supreme,
Who made the universal frame,
Heav'n and all its shining show,
Earth and all it holds below;
Bow with mercy bow thine ear
While we sing thy praises here;
Son Eternal ever bless'd,
Resting on the Father's breast,
Whose tender love for all provides,
Whose power over all presides;
Bow with pity, bow thine ear
While we sing thy praises, hear.

Thou, by pity's soft extream,
Mov'd, and won, and set on flame,
Assum'd the form of man, and fell
In pains, to rescue man from hell;
How bright thine humble glories rise
And match the lustre of the skies,
From death and hell's dejected state
Arising, thou resum'd thy seat,
And golden thrones of bliss prepar'd
Above, to be thy saints reward.

How bright thy glorious honours rise,
And with new lustre grace the skies.
For thee, the sweet seraphick Choir
Raise the voice and tune the Lyre,
And praises with harmonious sounds
Through all the highest heav'n rebounds.

O make our notes with theirs agree
And bless the souls that sing of thee:
To thee, the churches here rejoice,
The solemn organs aid the voice:
To sacred roofs the sound we raise,
The sacred roofs resound thy praise:
And while our notes in one agree,
O! bless the church that sings to thee.

poem by Thomas Parnell
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An Ode - Presented To The King, On His Majesty's Arrival In Holland, After The Queen's Death

At Mary's tomb (sad sacred place!)
The Virtues shall their vigils keep,
And every Muse and every Grace
In solemn state shall ever weep.

The future pious mournful fair,
Oft as the rolling years return,
With fragrant wreaths and flowering hair
Shall visit her distinguish'd urn.

For her the wise and great shall mourn,
When late records her deeds repeat;
Ages to come and men unborn
Shall bless her name and sigh her fate.

Fair Albion shall, with faithful trust,
Her holy Queen's sad relics guard,
Till Heaven awakes the precious dust,
And gives the saint her full reward.

But let the King dismiss his woes,
Reflecting on his fair renown,
And take the cypress from his brows,
To put his wonted laurels on.

If press'd by grief our monarch stoops,
In vain the British lions roar:
If he whose hand sustain'd them droops,
The Belgic darts will wound no more.

Embattled princes wait the chief
Whose voice should rule, whose arm should lead,
And in kind murmurs chide that grief
Which hinders Europe being freed.

The great example they demand
Who still to conquest led the way,
Wishing him present to command,
As they stand ready to obey.

They seek that joy which used to glow
Expanded on the hero's face,
When the thick squadrons press'd the foe,
And William led the glorious chase.

To give the mournful nations joy
Restore them thy auspicious light,
Great Sun! with radiant beams destroy
Those clouds which keep thee from our sight.

Let thy sublime meridian course
For Mary's setting rays atone;
Our lustre, with redoubled force,
Must now proceed from thee alone.

See, pious King! with different strife
Thy struggling Albion's bosom torn:
So much she fears for William's life
That Mary's fate she dare not mourn.

Her beauty, in thy softer half
Buried and lost, she ought to grieve,
But let her strength in thee be safe;
And let her weep, but let her live.

Thou, guardian angel! save the land
From thy own grief, her fiercest foe,
Lest Britain, rescued by thy hand,
Should bend, and sink beneath thy wo.

Her former triumphs all are vain
Unless new trophies still be sought,
And hoary Majesty sustain
The battles which thy youth has fought.

Where now is all that fearful love
Which made her hate the war's alarms?
That soft excess with which she strove
To keep her hero in her arms?

While still she chid the coming spring,
Which call'd him o'er his subject seas,
While for the safety of the king,
She wish'd the victor's glory less.

'Tis changed; 'tis gone: sad Britain now
Hastens her lord to foreign wars:
Happy if toils may break his wo,
Or danger may divert his cares.

In martial din she drowns her sighs,
Lest he the rising grief should hear;
She pulls her helmet o'er his eyes,
Lest she should see the falling tear.

Go, mighty prince! let France be taught
How constant minds by grief are tried,
How great the land that wept and fought,
When William led and Mary died!

Fierce in the battle make it known,
Where Death with all his darts is seen,
That he can touch thy heart with none
But that which struck the beauteous Queen.

Belgia indulged her open grief,
While yet her master was not near,
With sullen pride refused relief,
And sate obdurate in despair.

As waters from her sluices flow'd
Unbounded sorrow from her eyes;
To earth her bended front she bow'd,
And sent her wailings to the skies.

But when her anxious lord return'd,
Raised is her head, her eyes are dried;
She smiles as William ne'er had mourn'd:
She looks as Mary ne'er had died.

That freedom which all sorrows claim
She does for thy content resign;
Her piety itself would blame
If her regrets should weaken thine.

To cure thy wo she shows thy fame,
Lest the great mourner should forget
That all the race whence Orange came
Made Virtue triumph over Fate.

William his country's cause could fight,
And with his blood her freedom seal;
Maurice and Henry guard that right
For which their pious parents fell.

How heroes rise, how patriots set,
Thy father's bloom and death may tell;
Excelling others these were great;
Thou, greater still, must these excel.

The last fair instance thou must give
Whence Nassaus's virtue can be tried,
And show the world that thou canst live
Intrepid as thy consort died.

Thy virtue, whose resistless force
No dire event could ever stay,
Must carry on its destined course
Though Death and Envy stop the way.

For Britain's sake, for Belgia's, live;
Pierced by their grief, forget thy own;
New toils endure, new conquest give,
And bring them ease, though thou hast none.

Vanquish again, though she be gone
Whose garland crown'd the victor's hair;
And reign, though she has left the throne
Who made thy glory worth thy care.

Fair Britain never yet before
Breathed to her king a useless prayer;
Fond Belgia never did implore
While William turn'd averse his ear.

But should the weeping hero now
Relentless to their wishes prove,
Should he recal, with pleasing wo,
The object of his grief and love;

Her face with thousand beauties bless'd,
Her mind with thousand virtues stored,
Her power with boundless joy confess'd,
Her person only not adored.

Yet ought his sorrow to be check'd;
Yet ought his passions to abate;
If the great mourner would reflect,
Her glory in her death complete.

She was instructed to command,
Great king, by long obeying there;
Her sceptre, guided by thy hand,
Preserved the isles, and ruled the sea.

But oh! 'twas little, that her life
O'er earth and water bears thy fame:
In death, 'twas worthy William's wife,
Amidst the stars to fix his name.

Beyond where matter moves, or place
Receives its forms, thy virtues roll;
From Mary's glory, angels trace
The beauty of her partner's soul.

Wise fate, which does its heaven decree
To heroes, when they yield their breath,
Hastens thy triumph. Half of thee
Is deified before thy death.

Alone to thy renown 'tis given,
Unbounded through all worlds to go:
While she, great saint, rejoices heaven;
And thou sustain'st the orb below.

poem by Matthew Prior
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Prologue To Mallet's Mustapha

Since Athens first began to draw mankind,
To picture life, and show the impassion'd mind;
The truly wise have ever deem'd the stage
The moral school of each enlighten'd age.
There, in full pomp, the tragic Muse appears,
Queen of soft sorrows, and of useful fears.
Faint is the lesson reason's rules impart:
She pours it strong, and instant through the heart.
If virtue is her theme, we sudden glow
With generous flame; and what we feel, we grow.
If vice she paints, indignant passions rise;
The villain sees himself with loathing eyes.
His soul starts, conscious, at another's groan,
And the pale tyrant trembles on his throne.
To-night, our meaning scene attempts to show
What fell events from dark suspicion flow;
Chief when it taints a lawless monarch's mind,
To the false herd of flattering slaves confined.
The soul sinks gradual to so dire a state;
E'en excellence but serves to feed its hate:
To hate remorseless cruelty succeeds,
And every worth, and every virtue bleeds.
Behold, our author at your bar appears,
His modest hopes depress'd by conscious fears.
Faults he has many—but to balance those,
His verse with heart-felt love of virtue glows:
All slighter errors let indulgence spare,
And be his equal trial full and fair.
For this best British privilege we call,
Then—as he merits, let him stand or fall.

poem by James Thomson
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To Mrs. Ward. By The Same.

O thou, my beauteous, ever tender Friend,
Thou, on whom all my worldly Joys depend,
Accept these Numbers; and with Pleasure hear
Unstudy'd Truth, which few, alas! can bear;
While conscious Virtue takes the Muse's Part,
Glows on thy Cheek, and warms thy gen'rous Heart.

Let Birth--day Suits be thoughtless Celias Cire;
And Rows of Di'monds recommend the Fair;
While gazing Crouds around the Pageant press,
Charm'd with her Pride, and Luxury of Dress:
Far other Joys thy just Ambition move,
To cherish and reward a Husband's Love;
To slight vain Titles, in Retreat to shine,
Shun public Praise, and call a Poet thine.
And know, ye Fair, a Poet can supply,
What Wealth, and Pow'r, and Equipage deny.
When the vain Bus'ness of your Lives is o'er,
And the Glass frightens, whom it charm'd before;
When not a Trace remains of what you were,
And not a Compliment salutes your Ear;
Without one Virtue, to redeem Respect,
Without one Beauty, to sorbid Neglect;
With Tears unpity'd, you may then lament
The gloomy Setting of a Life mis--spent;
Nor Delia's Choice with witty Malice blame,
Who gave up Show for Happiness and Fame.

O! If the Muse, not uninspir'd, divine,
Thy bright Example shall for ever shine;
Teach the wise Virgin, where to fix her Choice,
And weigh no Marriage by the common Voice;
To yield with Dignity, reject with Grace;
Nor tire the Lover with a tedious Chace:
With Ease to conquer, and with Ease retain,
Brighten Prosperity, or soften Pain:
Know Woman's Glory, and her proper End;
Live to her Husband, Family, and Friend:
Thro' varying Life her various Virtues prove,
Honour her Portion here, and Bliss above.

Say, What Persuasion, or what Arts of mine,
Could gain a Passage to a Soul like thine?
Where Female Softness, Strength of Reason meet,
A piercing Judgment, and a Wit discrect;
Where ev'ry Passion, ev'ry Duty, knows
Its proper Bounds, and not unlicens'd flows.
Say, for thou know'st, my ever ablest Guide,
(One doubtful Act remains unjustify'd)
On Me, on Me, thy choicest Favours fell;
Could You so err, or I deserve so well?
Instruct me thou the happy Art to steer,
And still with Modesty thy Conduct clear;
So in thy Praises may the World agree;
Nor load with Vanity the Muse and Me.

With Song still usher'd shall the Morn arise,
That shew'd thee first, all--charming, to my Eyes:
I gaz'd with Rapture, yet chastiz'd with Awe:
So the First Man descending Angels saw.
Speaking, or silent, O! secure to charm,
To win with Wisdom, or with Beauty warm:
The Graces unobserv'd, with easy Care,
Form thy soft Accents, and compose thy Air.
I saw, and heard; nor heard, nor saw, unmov'd,
Unknowing, or I durst not know, I lov'd.
What thence I suffer'd, let high Heav'n declare,
Pitying my Grief, propitious to my Pray'r.
Heav'n try'd my Passion, and pronounc'd it true:
Hence I embolden'd, and hence softer You.
Yet oft with--held, and falt'ring oft with Pain,
My Tongue half utters, what my Eyes explain,
Nor prone to flatter, nor to Virtue blind;
Not void of Knowledge, and to learn inclin'd;
Nor sprung from noble, nor ungen'rous Blood;
Boasting a Father honest, wise, and good;
Such long observ'd, and by long Converse shown,
My Temper, Manners, and my Failings known:
You trust my Vows, and pity Love sincere;
Haste to relieve, and smile away my Fear;
Give all you can, and all the rest forsake,
The noblest Sacrifice, that Love could make!
Of what Avail the Use of Wealth to Thee?
Or what the Blessing, if unshar'd with Me?
O doubly honour'd by the grateful Mind,
For what you bring, and what you leave behind!

Is there a Man in Science not unread,
In simple Neatness elegantly bred,
Of what or Health or Nature asks, possess'd,
Receiv'd by all, and by his Friends caress'd,
False and insidious can the Fair pursue,
And look on Beauty with a Miser's View?
Taught by the Muse such abject Souls to hate,
And hope sweet Converse from the Marriage--State,
I place my Triumphs in a matchless Wife,
Nor seek superfluous Vanities of Life:
Thus, unobnoxious to Detraction's Aim,
Nor base Suspicion can attaint my Fame.

Degen'rate Thought! Let sland'rous Tongues assail;
Spread all their Poison, all their Rage prevail;
So gracious Heav'n restore thee, to enjoy
What Love could leave, but Wisdom could employ.

Mean--while my Delia manifests her Worth;
The Loss of Riches calls her Prudence forth:
Behold her now with Dignity descend;
And low, but necessary, Cares attend;
Chearful, what Fortune not allows, resign;
And, harder still, her Charities confine:
But Heav'n in secret sees the kind Intent,
Each Act of Pity, or of Bounty, meant;
Heav'n sees in secret; but in open Day
Will crown thy Merit, and thy Praise display.
Tho' small thy Store, not Millions could suffice,
To furnish all thy lib'ral Thought supplies.
How oft thy lov'd Sapphira melts thy Breast,
Obscur'd her Worth, her Genius half depress'd!
How oft thy Fancy helps Old--Age along!
Or hears the Widow's, and the Orphau's Song!
Now visionary Temples rise around;
And half thy Empire, GEORGE, is sacred Ground.

From Thee, my Delia, from thy watchful Care,
My Little lasts; my Little, Friends can share:
Nor Debts distract, nor Usuries devour;
Poor if I am, within my Fortune poor.
Smile on, my Fair, tho' cautious, void of Fear,
Wise to shun Sorrows, or prepar'd to bear.
Who copies Thee, shall never fail to find,
'Midst Clouds and Storms, the Sun--shine of the Mind:
For Piety (whatever Ill impends)
Omniscience guides, Omnipotence defends.

Bless'd in Retirement, Competence, and Love,
Below all Envy, and all Vice above,
Crown'd with Content, I only burn to show,
(Hopeless to recompense) how much I owe.
O born with Genius, and with Learning fill'd,
In ev'ry Rule of happy Writings skill'd;
Whom Beauties strike, false Ornaments offend;
Who weigh with Care each Author's Scope and End;
Know why Pope slackens, or augments his Fire;
And oft, where others damn, the most admire;
(So shallow Wits, with bolder Folly, blame,
From Parts, the faultless Universal Frame:
But Newton's Genius could the Whole explore,
See All was good, and Wisdom's Hand adore.)
This Verse (you know me free from faulty Pride)
Or kindly authorize, or kindly hide:
Approve; and Fame shall sanctify my Lays:
Suppress; yet Love my grateful Labour pays.

poem by Mary Barber
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Epitaph on Sir Thomas Hanmer, Bart.

Thou who survey'st these walls with curious eye,
Pause at this tomb where Hanmer's ashes lie;
His various worth through varied life attend,
And learn his virtues while thou mourn'st his end.
His force of genius burn'd in early youth,
With thirst of knowledge, and with love of truth;
His learning, joined with each endearing art,
Charm'd every ear, and gain'd every heart.
Thus early wise, the endanger'd real to aid,
His country call'd him from the studious shade;
In life's first bloom his public toils began,
At once commenced the senator and man.
In business dexterous, weighty in debate,
Thrice ten long years he labour'd for the state;
In every speech persuasive wisdom flow'd,
In every act refulgent virtue glow'd;
Suspended faction ceased from rage and strife,
To hear his eloquence, and praise his life.
Resistless merit fix'd the senate's choice,
Who hail'd him Speaker with united voice.
Illustrious age! how bright thy glories shone,
When Hanmer fill'd the chair - and Anne the throne.
Then when dark art obscured each fierce debate,
When mutual frauds perplex'd the maze of state,
The Moderator firmly mild appear'd -
Beheld with love - with veneration heard.
This task perform'd - he sought no gainful post
Nor wish'd to glitter at his country's cost;
Strict on the right he fix'd his stedfast eye,
With temperate zeal, and wise anxiety;
Nor e'er from Virtue's paths was lured aside,
To pluck the flowers of pleasure or of pride.
Her gifts despis'd, Corruption blush'd and fled,
And Fame pursued him where Conviction led.
Age call'd, at length, his active mind to rest,
With honour sated, and with cares oppress'd;
To letter'd ease retired and honest mirth,
To rural grandeur, and domestic worth:
Delighted still to please mankind, or mend,
The patriot's fire yet sparkled in the friend.
Calm Conscience then, his former life survey'd,
And recollected toils endeared the shade,
Till Nature call'd him to the general doom,
And Virtue's sorrow dignified his tomb.

poem by Samuel Johnson
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To Alexander Pope, Esq.

Shall for the Man of Ross thy Lyre be strung,
And sleeps illustrious Thanet yet unsung?
Since to distinguish Merit is thy Care,
Let Thanet in thy deathless Praises share:
Let me, unequal to the Task, excite
Thy matchless Muse, to do his Merit Right.
Numbers, like thine, should call his Virtues forth;
Poetic Mirrors should be true to Worth;
Disdaining to reflect those glitt'ring Rays,
Which flow from Pomp, or from Ambition's Blaze.

From Scenes of Woe, unmov'd, whilst Others fly,
And turn from Anguish the unmelting Eye;
Thanet pursues the Footsteps of the Poor,
And silent enters thro' the lonely Door;
Fair Plenty in his Train, and Joy, and Health,
Seeking Distress, as Others seek for Wealth;
With God like Pity ev'ry Pray'r receives,
Each Wish fulfils, and ev'ry Want relieves:
Where Sickness reigns, he, to his utmost Pow'r,
Softens the Anguish of each dismal Hour:
He smooths the rugged Brow of anxious Care,
And gilds the gloomy Prospect of Despair:
Whilst Libertines on Vice their Wealth employ,
He makes the Widow's Heart to sing for Joy:
Orphans no more their Parents lost complain;
In Thanet's Bounty they revive again.
Nor for this Life alone would he provide;
To Life eternal Thanet was their Guide:
Nor on Morality alone depends;
But to the noblest Heights of Faith ascends:
Devotion's heav'nly Flame inspir'd his Breast;
Still in the Temple were his Vows address'd:
Tho' he in Virtue's Paths, delighted, trod,
Studious to please, and imitate his God;
The hallow'd Altar, grateful, he survey'd,
And there his lowly Adoration paid.

See the pale, childless Miser hoard up Wealth,
And, trembling, snatch an anxious View by Stealth;
Amass the shining Ore with guilty Care,
To aggrandize some distant, worthless Heir;
Who longs, impatient, for the solemn Toll,
Which, slow, proclaims the sad--departed Soul;
Then eyes with Joy the care--collected Hoard,
And spends, profuse, what Avarice had stor'd;
By Fortune's sudden Smiles to Madness fir'd,
He wastes on ev'ry Vice, what Guilt acquir'd.

So dwells on Mountain--Tops the Northern Snow,
Congeal'd by Frosts, for Years untaught to flow;
Till hotter Suns more vig'rous Beams display;
The Mass relents, the glitt'ring Piles decay;
Sudden, from high, resounding Torrents flow,
Impetuous rushing on the Vales below;
O'erwhelm the Harvest of the pining Swain,
And curse with Floods, which should have bless'd the Plain.

On Thanet Heav'n its happier Influence shed;
A num'rous Off--spring grac'd his nuptial Bed:
And yet those Motives to paternal Care
Steel'd not his Breast against the Suppliant's Pray'r.
Studious to draw down Blessings on his Race,
His Bountics with his Progeny increase.
Like Egypt's Flood, beneficent he rose;
Silent, tho' vast, his well--judg'd Bounty flows;
O'er the parch'd Earth it spreads its ample Course,
Profuse of Good, but, modest, hides its Source.
Ask not, to what his Charities amount;
So many Myriads swell the vast Account.

Ye vain Pretenders to superior Sense,
Ye empty Boasters of Beneficence,
Who in the Scorners Seat, exulting, sit,
And vaunt your impious Raillery for Wit,
The Gospel--Rule defective you pretend,
When you the social Duties recommend;
In Thanet see them heighten'd and refin'd;
In Thanet see the Friend of human Kind;
Heighten'd by Faith, see ev'ry Virtue's Force;
By Faith, their surest Sanction, noblest Source.
Loudly ye boast a more than Christian Zeal,
For Virtue's Int'rest, and the public Weal;
Best by Effects are Boastings understood;
Come, prove your Ardor for the public Good!
The mighty Heroes of your Tribe survey,
Their ev'ry hidden Excellence display;
Or dead, or living, set their Virtues forth;
Let all, united, vie with Thanet's Worth;
Free--thinkers, Moralists, on you I call,
Can Thanet's Worth be equall'd by you all?

Accept, illustrious Shade! these artless Lays;
My Soul this Homage, to thy Virtue pays:
Led by that sacred Light, a Stranger--Muse
Attempts those Paths, which abler Feet refuse;
In distant Climes thy Virtue she admires,
In distant Climes thy Worth her Strain inspires.

Long to thy Tomb the Wretched shall repair,
And to thy Ashes pay a silent Tear;
Shall to the Traveller thy Worth relate,
And Emulation thro' the World create:
Ages to come shall celebrate thy Fame,
And Orphans, yet unborn, shall bless thy Name.

When the firm Basis of the Earth gives Way,
And Nature's Self shall feel her last Decay;
When those, who from the Wretched turn'd their Eye.
Too late relenting, shall for Mercy cry;
The Thousands thou hast fed, shall, in thy Praise,
Their loud Hosanna's to JEHOVAH raise;
Thy modest Worth shall veil itself no more;
Angels shall tell what Thanet hid before.

poem by Mary Barber
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His Excellency General Washington

Celestial choir! enthron'd in realms of light,
Columbia's scenes of glorious toils I write.
While freedom's cause her anxious breast alarms,
She flashes dreadful in refulgent arms.
See mother earth her offspring's fate bemoan,
And nations gaze at scenes before unknown!
See the bright beams of heaven's revolving light
Involved in sorrows and the veil of night!

The Goddess comes, she moves divinely fair,
Olive and laurel binds Her golden hair:
Wherever shines this native of the skies,
Unnumber'd charms and recent graces rise.

Muse! Bow propitious while my pen relates
How pour her armies through a thousand gates,
As when Eolus heaven's fair face deforms,
Enwrapp'd in tempest and a night of storms;
Astonish'd ocean feels the wild uproar,
The refluent surges beat the sounding shore;
Or think as leaves in Autumn's golden reign,
Such, and so many, moves the warrior's train.
In bright array they seek the work of war,
Where high unfurl'd the ensign waves in air.
Shall I to Washington their praise recite?
Enough thou know'st them in the fields of fight.
Thee, first in peace and honors—we demand
The grace and glory of thy martial band.
Fam'd for thy valour, for thy virtues more,
Hear every tongue thy guardian aid implore!

One century scarce perform'd its destined round,
When Gallic powers Columbia's fury found;
And so may you, whoever dares disgrace
The land of freedom's heaven-defended race!
Fix'd are the eyes of nations on the scales,
For in their hopes Columbia's arm prevails.
Anon Britannia droops the pensive head,
While round increase the rising hills of dead.
Ah! Cruel blindness to Columbia's state!
Lament thy thirst of boundless power too late.

Proceed, great chief, with virtue on thy side,
Thy ev'ry action let the Goddess guide.
A crown, a mansion, and a throne that shine,
With gold unfading, WASHINGTON! Be thine.

poem by Phillis Wheatley
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To The Duke Of Dorset

Dorset! whose early steps with mine have stray'd,
Exploring every path of Ida's glade;
Whom still affection taught me to defend
And made me less a tyrant than a friend
Though the harsh custom of our youthful band
Bade thee obey, and gave me to command;
Thee, on whose head a few short years will shower
The gift of riches and the pride of power;
E'en now a name illustrious is thine own,
Renown'd in rank, nor far beneath the throne.
Yet, Dorset, let not this seduce thy soul
To shun fair science, or evade control,
Though passive tutors, fearful to dispraise
The titled child, whose future breath may raise,
View ducal errors with indulgent eyes,
And wink at faults they tremble to chastise
When youthful parasites, who bend the knee
To wealth, their golden idol, not to thee,--
And even in simple boyhood 's opening dawn
Some slaves are found to flatter and to fawn,--
When these declare, ' that pomp alone should wait
On one by birth predestined to be great;
That books were only meant for drudging fools,
That gallant spirits scorn the common rules;'
Believe them not;– they point the path to shame,
And seek to blast the honours of thy name.
Turn to the few in Ida's early throng,
Whose souls disdain not to condemn the wrong;
Or if, amidst the comrades of thy youth,
None dare to raise the sterner voice of truth,
Ask thine own heart; 'twill bid thee, boy, forbear;
For well I know that virtue lingers there.
Yes! I have mark'd thee many a passing day,
But now new scenes invite me far away;
Yes! I have mark'd within that generous mind
A soul, if well matured, to bless mankind.
Ah! though myself by nature haughty, wild,
Whom Indiscretion hail'd her favourite child;
Though every error stamps me for her own,
And dooms my fall, I fain would fall alone;
Though my proud heart no precept now can tame,
I love the virtues which I cannot claim.
'Tis not enough, with other sons of power
To gleam tile lambent meteor of an hour;
To swell some peerage page in feeble pride,
With long-drawn names that grace no page beside;
Then share with titled crowds the common lot–
In life just gazed at, in the grave forgot;
While nought divides thee from the vulgar dead,
Except the dull cold stone that hides thy head,
The mouldering 'scutcheon, or the herald's roll,
That well-emblazon'd but neglected scroll,
Where lords, unhonour'd, in the tomb may find
One spot, to leave a worthless name behind.
There sleep, unnoticed as the gloomy vaults
That veil their dust, their follies, and their faults,
A race, with old armorial lists o'erspread,
In records destined never to be read.
Fain would I view thee, with prophetic eyes,
Exalted more among the good and wise,
A glorious and a long career pursue,
As first in rank, the first in talent too:
Spurn every vice, each little meanness shun;
Not Fortune's minion, but her noblest son.
Turn to the annals of a former day;
Bright are the deeds thine earlier sires play.
One, though a Courtier, lived a man of worth,
And call'd, proud boast! the British drama forth.
Another view, not less renown'd for wit;
Alike for Courts, and camps, or senates fit;
Bold in the field, and favour'd by the Nine;
In every splendid part ordain'd to shine;
Far, far distingish'd ish'd from the glittering throng,
The pride of princes, and the boast of song.
Such were thy fathers; thus preserve their name;
Not heir to titles only, but to fame.
The hour draws nigh, a few brief days will close,
To me, this little scene of joys and woes;
Each knell of Time now warns me to resign
Shades where Hope, Peace, and Friendship all were mine:
Hope, that could vary like the rainbow's hue,
And gild their pinions as the moments flew;
Peace, that reflection never frown'd away,
By dreams of ill to cloud some future day;
Friendship, whose truth let childhood only tell;
Alas! they love not long, who love so well.
To these adieu! nor let me linger o'er
Scenes hail'd, as exiles hall their native shore,
Receding, slowly through the dark-blue deep,
Beheld by eyes that mourn, yet cannot weep.
Dorset, farewell! I will not ask one part
Of sad remembrance in so young a heart;
The coming morrow from thy youthful mind
Will sweep my name, nor leave a trace behind.
And yet, perhaps, in some maturer year,
Since chance has thrown us in the self same sphere,
Since the same senate, nay, the same debate,
May one day claim our suffrage for the state,
We hence may meet, and pass each other by
With faint regard, or cold and distant eye.
For me, in future, neither friend nor foe,
A stranger to thyself thy weal or woe,
With thee non more saain I hope to trace
The recollection of our early race;
No more, as once, in social hours rejoice,
Or hear, unless in crowds, thy well-known voice:
Still, if the wishes of a heart untaught
To veil those feelings which perchance it ought,
If these – but let me cease the lengthen'd strain,--
Oh! if these wishes arc not breathed in vain,
The guardian seraph who directs thy fate
Will leave thee glorious, as he found thee great.

poem by Byron
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The Wrath Of Loyalty

OCTOBER! tho' thy rugged brow,
No vivid wreaths entwine;
Tho' not for thee the zephyr blow,
Tho' not for thee the blossom glow,
Or skies unclouded shine:

Tho' o'er thy dark and russet vest
No rainbow-colors play;
Tho' dim thine eye, tho' cold thy breast,
Yet be thou honor'd, be thou blest,
E'en more than youthful May!

No vernal suns illume thy day,
Fair star of joy! then brighter beam!
No forest-notes attend thy way,
Then strike the lyre, then make the lay,
To one inspiring theme!

Thy steps may blight the roseate plain,
Thy winds may chill the vale;
Yet, blooming 'midst thy shadowy train,
One radiant morn adorns thy reign;
Hail! dark October! hail!

Thine is the day, to Britons dear,
That bids fair Albion dry the tear;
With myrtles wreath her victor-spear,
And ev'ry grief disown.
Oh! let a people's voice prolong,
Proud Loyalty's triumphal song;
And faith, and truth, and valor, throng
Around Britannia's throne!

That still their monarch's heart may feel
How sweet affections grateful zeal
Still kindle with the patriot flame,
And 'glory in a Briton's name!'
O name! by deeds emblazon'd high,
O name! exalted to the sky,
O name! ennobled by the free!
Thou sacred sovereign! worthy thee!

Then wake, fairest Albion! awake to rejoice,
To the Pæan of rapture attuning thy voice,
And suspending thy war-song awhile!
Thou hast mourn'd for the great, thou hast wept o'er the brave,
Thou hast bent in despair o'er the Patriot's grave;
But now from thy bosom repressing the sigh,
Dispelling the tear from thy sun-darting eye,
Let ecstacy dawn in thy smile!

Yet the storm is around thee, the hurricane roars;
But Freedom and Loyalty dwell on thy shores,
Defending a Monarch ador'd!

They are true, they are dauntless, their bosoms are mail;
In vain may Ambition their fortress assail;
And bright is their streamer that plays on the breeze
And crimsons the wave, as it floats o'er the seas,
And keen is their fire-flashing sword!
Thy oak shall be firm till the tempest is past;
Majestic it rises, disdaining the blast,
It is proud, independent, supreme!
The nations around thee are cheerless in night,
And hope has extinguished her quivering light!
But the sun-beam of heaven on thy bosom shall rest,
And the planet of freedom be bright in the west,
Where its ray shall eternally stream!

Thou art like the fair vales, with exuberance crown'd,
Embosom'd in Appenines, cheerless around,
Where dwells Desolation alone!
Thou art like the proud laurel, still blooming and green,
When verdure and life have deserted the scene:

Thou art like a tall column, unmoulder'd by time,
That rises 'midst ruins, imperial, sublime,
So firm is thy rock-pillar'd throne!

Yet the storm is around thee, the hurricane roars;
But valor and loyalty dwell on thy shores,
And long may the guardians remain!
Firm, ardent, intrepid, oh! long may they stand,
The sabre of justice and truth in their hand:
Then the fire-flag of rapine may blaze thro' the air,
The torch of invasion, a comet, may glare,
And the war-tempest threaten—in vain!

O Monarch of Albion! ador'd by the free!
O temple of Liberty! queen of the sea!
What Briton but worships your name?
And where is the spirit that burns not with pride,
For a country to freedom, to glory allied?
And who would not kindle, exulting in death,
And triumph, and glow, in resigning his breath,
For a King, for a land, so exalted in fame?

Yes! ye bands of noble fire,
Dauntless on the plain!
Ye, who firm, in danger try'd,
Thought on England ere ye died,
Mingling blood with Tajo's tide;
Ye, whose memory shall inspire,
Many a bard and many a lyre,
Songs of Spain.

Heroes of Corunna's field!
Ye, who perish'd there,
Be your names for ever dear!
Yes! tho' dew'd with many a tear,
Yet triumphal was your bier!
Who like you the sword could wield?
Deathless trophies grace your shield,
Bright and fair!

Ye, who purchas'd, ere ye fell,
Talavera's crown!

Sainted spirits of the brave,
Lo! immortal o'er your grave,
Glory's amaranth shall wave!
Who your gallant deeds may tell?
Who may ring your thrilling knell?
High renown!

Faithful friends, who mourn sincere,
Where the brave repose;
Cold and low the mighty sleep.
Yes! ye well may sadly weep,
Well desponding vigils keep!
Yet shall kindling pride be near,
Yet shall triumph gild the tear
Love bestows!

By the patriot's holy flame,
Of transcendent rays;
Lyre! by thy sublimest chord,
Freedom! by thy shrine ador'd,
Honor! by thy radiant sword,

O'er the heroes lofty name,
Shall the noon-tide sun of fame
Deathless blaze!

Then let thy tear, O Albion! Shed
Its dew-balm o'er the valiant dead,
(A tear so sad, and yet so proud!)
But let the smile thine eye illume,
But let thy cheek the smile resume,
As the bright rainbow's vivid bloom
Streams o'er the parting cloud!

And form, thy sovereign's brow to shade,
A diadem that shall not fade,
A wreath, of glow eternal!
And there the British oak may shine,
And there let Mercy's palm entwine,
And Science there her bays combine,
That ever shall be vernal!

And come! ye forms of towering mien,
In graceful dignity serene;
Ye fearless guardians of the state,
Superior to the storms of fate!
And round the British throne attending,
Its arms, its fame, its cause defending;
There, firm in faith, united stand,
Invincible, immortal band!
Thou, Freedom! with the lightning-eye,
Be there! unfurl thy flag on high,
And all thy mounting soul impart!
And bid thy living flame expand,
Warm, bright, ethereal, o'er the land.—
Rise, Freedom! rise, with all thy fires,
When Britain's throne thine aid requires
Come! in thy proud, refulgent car,
Whose beam is Albion's guiding star;

And wave that sabre, dazzling bright,
Pure, hallow'd, spotless, as the light;
Whose ray for us a sun-beam glows,
Whose flash is lightning on our foes!
Be near, majestic maid! be near,
Hope in thine eye and justice on thy spear!

And thou, Fidelity! thou angel-form,
True in the combat, stedfast in the storm;
Whose truth shall beam, celestial, constant, pure,
And 'midst the fiery ordeal, smile secure;
Thou! with a cincture of Asbestos wove,
Thou queen of friendship, and thou guide of love!
Seraph, be there! impart thy sacred aid,
Be there! Britannia's glowing soul pervade!
Unite each heart by thy unchanging laws,
Firm, loyal, bold, in one transcendent cause!

Valor! thou, whose burning soul,
Kindles, mounts, beyond control;

Thou! whose ardor death defies;
Rushing to th' immortal prize;
Monarch of the conquering spear,
Dauntless on thy proud career;
Stern defiance on thy crest,
Melting mercy in thy breast;
Thou! with arms emblazon'd fair,
King of Danger!—be thou there!
Bid thy votaries round thee throng,
Wake thy boldest martial song!
Sing in proud, triumphant lay,
Agincourt's victorious day!
Sing the chief of Acre's fame,
Sing of Maida's brilliant name!
Sing Vimeira's high renown,
Talavera's recent crown!
Be thou there! With kindling eye,
Peril, toil, and foes defy;
Raise thy beamy falchion high,
Wave thy banner to the sky!

Sound thy clarion thro' the air,
Bid thy ardent sons be there!
Be their watch-word in the fight,
'Brunswick and Albion! Liberty and Right!!!'

With thee be Fortitude, whose awful mien,
Tow'rs in the blast, collected and serene!
Queen of the cliff! thy look sublimely braves
Fate's wint'ry blast, affliction's mountain-waves;
Thy lofty heart, secure in ten-fold mail,
Misfortune's arrows may in vain assail!
'Tis thine unchang'd, to meet, with proud disdain,
The spectre-forms of danger and of pain!
In glory's track undaunted to proceed,
To smile and suffer—to exult—and bleed!
Derive new spirit from the tempest rude,
And rise august—exalted—unsubdu'd!
And thou, fair Loyalty! be still enshrin'dIn every manly heart, each-patriot-mind:

Lo! in Religion's fane I see thee bend,
I hear thy prayer on fervor's wing ascend!
(While the warm tear-drop glitters on thy cheek,
While faith and hope thy melting eyes bespeak.)
'Sovereign of kings! whose high decree
Controls the storm, subdues the sea!
Who giv'st thy scourge Ambition, pow'r
To spread dismay, his destin'd hour;
To win his blood-stain'd, regal prize,
To reign, to ravage, to chastise;
Look down! on him in mercy smile,
The Monarch of the favor'd Isle!
Undimm'd, unclouded by regret,
May his mild star in glory set!
And peace and joy, with softest ray,
Illume his calm declining day!
Oh! long extend his hallow'd reign,
Oh! long his throne august, maintain!

And when, a mourner o'er his bier,
Sad Albion pours the filial tear;
Around may guardian-seraphs wait,
And waft him to a happier state;
Conduct him to a brighter throne,
A realm of peace, a fairer crown;
Enrich'd with many a spotless gem,
Virtue's illustrious diadem!'

poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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To The Rev. Dr. Thomas Amory, On Reading His Sermons On Daily Devotion, In Which that Duty Is Recommended And Assisted

TO cultivate in ev'ry noble mind
Habitual grace, and sentiments refin'd,
Thus while you strive to mend the human heart,
Thus while the heav'nly precepts you impart,
O may each bosom catch the sacred fire,
And youthful minds to Virtue's throne aspire!
When God's eternal ways you set in sight,
And Virtue shines in all her native light,
In vain would Vice her works in night conceal,
For Wisdom's eye pervades the sable veil.
Artists may paint the sun's effulgent rays,
But Amory's pen the brighter God displays:
While his great works in Amory's pages shine,
And while he proves his essence all divine,
The Atheist sure no more can boast aloud
Of chance, or nature, and exclude the God;
As if the clay without the potter's aid
Should rise in various forms, and shapes self-made,
Or worlds above with orb o'er orb profound
Self-mov'd could run the everlasting round.
It cannot be--unerring Wisdom guides
With eye propitious, and o'er all presides.
Still prosper, Amory! still may'st thou receive
The warmest blessings which a muse can give,
And when this transitory state is o'er,
When kingdoms fall, and fleeting Fame's no more,
May Amory triumph in immortal fame,
A nobler title, and superior name!

poem by Phillis Wheatley
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Ode to Fear

Thou, to whom the world unknown
With all its shadowy shapes, is shown;
Who seest, appalled, the unreal scene,
While fancy lifts the veil between:
Ah fear! ah frantic fear!
I see, I see thee near.
I know thy hurried step, thy haggard eye!
Like thee I start; like thee disordered fly.
For, lo, what monsters in thy train appear!
Danger, whose limbs of giant mould
What mortal eye can fixed behold?
Who stalks his round, an hideous form,
Howling amidst the midnight storm;
Or throws him on the ridgy steep
Of some loose hanging rock to sleep;
And with him thousand phantoms joined,
Who prompt to deeds accursed the mind:
And those, the fiends, who, near allied,
O'er nature's wounds, the wrecks, preside;
Whilst vengeance, in the lurid air,
Lifts her red arm, exposed and bare:
On whom that ravening brood of fate,
Who lap the blood of sorrow, wait:
Who, fear, this ghastly train can see,
And look not madly wild, like thee?

Epode
In earliest Greece, to thee, with partial choice,
The grief-full muse addrest her infant tongue;
The maids and matrons, on her awful voice,
Silent and pale, in wild amazement hung.

Yet he, the bard who first invoked thy name,
Disdained in Marathon its power to feel;
For not alone he nursed the poet's flame,
But reached from virtue's hand the patriot's steel.

But who is he whom later garlands grace,
Who left awhile o'er Hybla's dews to rove,
With trembling eyes thy dreary steps to trace,
Where thou and furies shared the baleful grove?

Wrapt in thy cloudy veil, the incestuous queen
Sighed the sad call her son and husband heard,
When once alone it broke the silent scene,
And he, the wretch of Thebes, no more appeared.

O fear, I know thee by my throbbing heart:
Thy withering power inspired each mournful line:
Though gentle pity claim her mingled part,
Yet all the thunders of the scene are thine!

Anistrophe
Thou who such weary lengths hast past,
Where wilt thou rest, mad nymph, at last?
Say, wilt thou shroud in haunted cell,
Where gloomy rape and murder dwell?
Or, in some hollowed seat,
'Gainst which the big waves beat,
Hear drowning seamen's cries, in tempests brought?
Dark power, with shuddering meek submitted thought,
Be mine to read the visions old
Which thy awakening bards have told:
And, lest thou meet my blasted view,
Hold each strange tale devoutly true;
Ne'er be I found, by thee o'erawed,
In that thrice hallowed eve, abroad,
When ghosts, as cottage maids believe,
Their pebbled beds permitted leave;
And goblins haunt, from fire, or fen,
Or mine, or flood, the walks of men!
O thou, whose spirit most possest
The sacred seat of Shakespeare's breast!
By all that from thy prophet broke,
In thy divine emotions spoke;
Hither again thy fury deal,
Teach me but once more like him to feel:
His cypress wreath my meed decree,
And I, O fear, will dwell with thee!

poem by William Taylor Collins
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An Epistle Of The Right Honourable Sir Robert Walpole

Still let low wits, who sense nor honour prize,
Sneer at all gratitude, all truth disguise;
At living worth, because alive, exclaim,
Insult the exil'd, and the dead defame!
Such paint what pity veils in private woes,
And what we see with grief, with mirth expose;
Studious to urge-(whom will mean authors spare?)
The child's, the parent's, and the consort's tear:
Unconscious of what pangs the heart may rend,
To lose what they have ne'er deserv'd-a friend.
Such, ignorant of facts, invent, relate,
Expos'd persist, and answer'd still debate:
Such, but by foils, the clearest lustre see,
And deem aspersing others praising thee.

Far from these tracks my honest lays aspire,
And greet a gen'rous heart with gen'rous fire.
Truth be my guide! Truth, which thy virtue claims!
This, nor the poet, nor the patron shames!
When party-minds shall lose contracted views,
And hist'ry question the recording Muse;
'Tis this alone to after-times must shine,
And stamp the poet and his theme divine.

Long has my Muse, from many a mournful cause,
Sung with small pow'r, nor sought sublime applause;
From that great point she now shall urge her scope;
On that fair promise rest her future hope;
Where policy, from state-illusion clear,
Can through an open aspect shine sincere;
Where Science, Law, and Liberty depend,
And own the patron, patriot, and the friend;
(That breast to feel, that eye on worth to gaze,
That smile to cherish, and that hand to raise!)
Whose best of hearts her best of thoughts inflame,
Whose joy is bounty, and whose gift is fame.

Where, for relief, flees innocence distress'd?
To you, who chase oppression from th' oppress'd:
Who, when complaint to you alone belongs,
Forgive your own, tho' not a people's wrongs:
Who still make public property your care,
And thence bid private griefs no more despair.

Ask they what state your shelt'ring care shall own?
'Tis youth, 'tis age, the cottage, and the throne:
Nor can the prison 'scape your searching eye,
'You ear still opening to the captive's cry.
Nor less was promis'd from thy early skill,
Ere power enforc'd benevolence of will!
To friends refin'd, thy private life adher'd
By thee improving, ere by thee prefer'd.
Well hadst thou weigh'd what truth such friends afford,
With thee resigning, and with thee restor'd.
Thou taught'st them all extensive love to bear,
And now mankind with thee their friendship share.

As the rich cloud by due degrees expands,
And show'rs down plenty thick on sundry lands,
Thy spreading worth in various bounty fell,
Made genius flourish, and made art excel.

How many, yet deceiv'd, all pow'r oppose?
Their fears increasing, as decrease their woes;
Jealous of bondage, while they freedom gain,
And most oblig'd, most eager to complain.

But well we count our bliss, if well we view,
When pow'r oppression, not protection grew;
View present ills that punish distant climes;
Or bleed in mem'ry here from ancient times.

Mark first the robe abus'd Religion wore,
Story'd with griefs, and stain'd with human gore?
What various tortures, engines, fires, reveal,
Study'd, empower'd, and sanctify'd by zeal?

Stop here, my Muse!-Peculiar woes descry!
Bid 'em in sad succession strike thy eye!
Lo, to her eye the sad succession springs!
She looks, she weeps, and, as she weeps, she sings.

See the doom'd Hebrew of his stores bereft!
See holy murder justify the theft!
His ravag'd gold some useless shrine shall raise,
His gems on superstitious idols blaze
His wife, his babe, deny'd their little home,
Strip'd, starv'd, unfriended, and unpity'd roam.

Lo, the priest's hand the Wafer-God supplies!-
A king by consecrated poison dies!

See learning range yon broad ethereal plain,
From world to world, and god-like Science gain!
Ah! what avails the curious search sustain'd,
The finish'd toil, the god-like Science gain'd?
Sentenc'd to flames th' expensive wisdom fell,
And truth from heav'n was sorcery from hell.

See Reason bid each mystic wile retire,
Strike out new light! and mark!-the wise admire!
Zeal shall such heresy, like Learning, hate;
The same their glory, and the same their fate.

Lo, from sought mercy, one his life receives!
Life, worse than death, that cruel mercy gives:
The man, perchance, who wealth and honours bore,
Slaves in the mine, or ceaseless strains the oar.
So dom'd are these, and such perhaps, our doom,
Own'd we a Prince, avert it heaven! from Rome.

Nor private worth alone false Zeal assails;
Whole nations bleed when bigotry prevails.
What are sworn friendships? What are kindred ties?
What's faith with heresy? (the zealot cries.)
See, when war sinks the thund'ring cannon's roar;
When wounds, and death, and discord are no more;
When music bids undreading joys advance,
Swell the soft hour, and turn the swimming dance:
When to crown these, the social sparkling bowl
Lifts the cheer'd sense, and pours out all the soul;
Sudden he sends red massacre abroad;
Faithless to man, to prove his faith to God.
What pure persuasive eloquence denies,
All-drunk with blood, the arguing sword supplies;
The sword, which to th' assassin's hand is given!
Th' assassin's hand!-pronounc'd the hand of heaven!
Sex bleeds with sex, and infancy with age;
No rank, no place, no virtue stops his rage.
Shall sword, and flame, and devastation cease,
To please with zeal, wild zeal! the God of Peace?

Nor less abuse has scourg'd the civil state,
When a King's will became a nation's fate.
Enormous pow'r! Nor noble, nor serene;
Now fierce and cruel; now but wild and mean.
See titles sold, to raise th' unjust supply!
Compell'd the purchase! or be fin'd, or buy!
No public spirit, guarded well by laws,
Uncensur'd, censures in his country's cause.
See from the merchant forc'd th' unwilling loan!
Who dares deny, or deem his wealth his own?
Denying, see! where dungeon-damps arise,
Diseas'd he pines, and unassisted dies.
Far more than massacre that fate accurst!
As of all deaths the ling'ring is the worst.

New courts of censure griev'd with new offence,
Tax'd without power, and fin'd without pretence,
Explain'd, at will, each statute's wrested aim,
'Till marks of merit were the marks of shame;
So monstrous!-Life was the severest grief,
And the worst death seem'd welcome for relief.

In vain the subject sought redress from law,
No senate liv'd the partial judge to awe:
Senates were void, and senators confin'd,
For the great cause of Nature and Mankind;
Who Kings superior to the people own;
Yet prove the law superior to the throne.

Who can review, without a gen'rous tear,
A Church, a State, so impious, so severe;
A land uncultur'd thro' polemic jars,
Rich!-but with carnage from intestine wars;
The hand of Industry employ'd no more,
And Commerce flying to some safer shore;
All property reduc'd, to Pow'r a prey,
And Sense and Learning chas'd by Zeal away?
Who honours not each dear departed ghost,
That strove for Liberty so won, so lost:
So well regain'd when god-like William rose,
And first entail'd the blessing George bestows?
May Walpole still the growing triumph raise,
And bid these emulate Eliza's days;
Still serve a Prince, who o'er his people great,
As far transcends in virtue, as in state!

The Muse pursues thee to thy rural seat;
Ev'n there shall Liberty inspire retreat.
When solemn cares in flowing wit are drown'd,
And sportive chat and social laughs go round:
Ev'n then, when pausing mirth begins to fail,
The converse varies to the serious tale.
The tale pathetic speaks some wretch that owes
To some deficient law reliefless woes.
What instant pity warms the gen'rous breast?
How all the legislator stands confess'd!
Now springs the hint! 'tis now improv'd to thought!
Now ripe! and now to public welfare brought!
New bills, which regulating means bestow,
Justice preserve, yet soft'ning mercy know:
Justice shall low vexatious wiles decline,
And still thrive most, when lawyers most repine.
Justice from jargon shall refin'd appear,
To knowledge thro' our native language clear.
Hence we may learn, no more deceiv'd by law,
Whence wealth and life their best assurance draw.

The freed Insolvent, with industrious hand,
Strives yet to satisfy the just demand:
Thus ruthless men, who wou'd his pow'rs restrain,
Oft what severity would lose, obtain.

These, and a thousand gifts, thy thought acquires,
Which Liberty benevolent inspires.
From Liberty the fruits of law increase,
Plenty, and joy, and all the arts of peace.
Abroad the merchant, while the tempests rave,
Advent'rous sails, nor fears the wind and wave;
At home untir'd we find th' auspicious hand
With flocks, and herds, and harvests, bless the land:
While there, the peasant glads the grateful soil,
Here mark the shipwright, there the mason toil,
Hew, square, and rear magnificent the stone,
And give our oaks a glory not their own!
What life demands, by this obeys her call,
And added elegance consummates all.
Thus stately cities statelier navies rise,
And spread our grandeur under distant skies,
From Liberty each nobler Science sprung,
A Bacon brighten'd, and a Spenser sung:
A Clarke and Locke new tracts of truth explore,
And Newton reaches heights unreach'd before.

What Trade sees Property that wealth maintain,
Which industry no longer dreads to gain;
What tender conscience kneels with fears resign'd,
Enjoys her worship, and avows her mind;
What genius now from want to fortune climbs,
And to safe Science ev'ry thought sublimes;
What Royal Pow'r, from his superior state,
Sees public happiness his own create;
But kens those patriot-souls, to which he owes
Of old each source, whence now each blessing flows?
And if such spirits from their heav'n descend,
And blended flame, to point one glorious end;
Flame from one breast, and thence on Britain shine,
What love what praise, O Walpole, then is thine?

poem by Richard Savage
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The Angel Of The Sun

WHILE bending o'er my golden lyre,
While waving light my wing of fire ;
Creation's regions to explore,
To gaze, to wonder, to adore:
While faithful to th' eternal will,
My task of glory I fulfil;
To rule the comet's dread career,
To guide the planets on their sphere;
While from this pure, empyreal sky,
I dart my truth-enlighten'd eye;
What mists involve yon changeful scene,
How dark thy views, thou orb terrene!
E'en now compassion clouds awhile
Bright ecstasy's immortal smile!
I see the flames of war consume
Fair scenes that smil'd in glowing bloom;

O'er ev'ry nation, ev'ry land,
I see destruction wave his hand;
How dark thy billows, ocean-flood!
Lo! man has dy'd thy waves in blood!
Nature! how chang'd thy vivid grace!
Vengeance and war thy charms deface.
Oh! scene of doubt, of care, of anguish!
Oh! scene, where virtue's doom'd to languish!
Oh! scene, where death triumphant rides,
The spear, the sword, the javelin guides!
And canst thou be that earth, declare,
That earth so pure, so good, so fair,
O'er which, a new-created globe,
Thy Father spread Perfection's robe?
Oh, Heav'n, how chang'd, how pale, how dim!
Since first arose the choral hymn,
That hail'd, at thy auspicious birth,
A dawning Paradise on earth!
On that sublime, creative morn,
That saw the infant-planet born,

How swell'd the harp, the lyre, the voice,
To bless, to triumph, to rejoice!
How kneeling rapture led the song,
How glow'd th' exulting cherub-throng!
When the fair orb, arising bright,
Sprang into glory, life, and light!
—Oh! Heav'n, how chang'd, a thorny waste,
With shadows dimm'd, with clouds o'ercast!
See passions desolate the ball,
See kingdoms, thrones, and empires fall!
See mad Ambition's whirlwind sweep,
Resistless as the wintry deep!
See, waving thro' the troubled sky,
His crimson banner glare on high!
Blush, Anger! blush, and hide thy sword;
Weep, Conquest! weep, imperious lord!
And mourn, to view thy sullied name
Inscrib'd in blood—emblaz'd in flame!
And are those cries, which rend the air,
Of death, of torture, of despair,

Hymns that should mount on wings above,
To him, the GOD OF PEACE AND LOVE!
And is yon flame of ruthless war,
That spreads destruction's reign afar,
The incense taught by man to blaze,
For him, who dwells in mercy's rays?
Mortals! if angels grief might know,
From angels if a tear might flow,
In yon celestial woes might rise,
And pity dim a seraph's eyes;
Yet, mortals! oft, thro' mists and tears,
Your bright original appears,
Gleams thro' the veil, with radiant smile,
A sun-beam on a ruin'd pile!
Exulting, oft the forms I trace,
Of moral grandeur, beauty, grace;
That speak your pow'rs for glory giv'n,
That still reveal the Heir of Heav'n!
Not yet extinct your heav'nly fire,
For cherubs oft its beams admire!

I see fair virtue nobly rise,
Child, fav'rite, darling, of the skies!
Smile on the pangs that round her wait,
And brave, and bear, the storms of fate!
I see her lift th' adoring eye,
Forbid the tear, suppress the sigh;
Still on her high career proceeding,
Sublime! august!—tho' suff'ring—bleeding!
The thorn, tho' sharp, the blast, tho' rude,
Shake not her lofty fortitude!

Oh! graceful dignity serene,
Faith, glory, triumph on thy mien!
Still, virtue! still the strife maintain,
The smile, the frown of fate, disdain!
Think on that hour, when freed from clay,
Thy soul shall rise to life and day;
Still mount to heav'n—on sorrow's car;
There shine a fix'd unclouded star,

Like me to range, like me to soar,
Suns, planets, worlds of light explore!
Then angel-forms around shall throng,
And greet thee in triumphal song;
'Mount, spirit! mount, thy woes are o'er,
Pain, sickness, trials, now no more!
Hail, sister! hail, thy task is done,
Rise, cherub, rise!—thy crown is won!'

Oh, favor'd mortals! best belov'd,
Ye in stern perils fiercely prov'd;
When faith and truth, with pure control,
Refine, inspire, exalt, your soul;
When firm in brightest, noblest aims,
Your bosoms glow with hallow'd flames;
When still the narrow path you tread,
Nor scorn, nor grief, nor dangers dread;
Tho' fate with ev'ry dart assail,
To pierce your heart's heav'n-temper'd mail;

Nor shrink, tho' death his jav'lin hurl'd,
Scorn'd, yet untainted, by the world!
Then think, ye brave, ye constant few,
To faith, to hope, to virtue, true!
Then think, that seraphs from above,
Behold your deeds, admire, and love!
That those, who heav'n's commands perform,
Who still the wave, who ride the storm;
Who point the lightning's fiery wing,
Or shed the genial dews of spring;
Who fill with balm the zephyr's breath,
Or taint th' avenging winds with death;
That those, who guide the planets' course,
Who bend at light's transcendent source;
Oh! think that those your toil survey,
Your struggling mind, your rugged way!
Oh! think that those, e'en now prepare,
A bow'r of bliss, for you to share!

E'en now, th' immortal wreath entwine,
Around your sainted brows to shine;
E'en now, their golden harps attune,
To greet you in the blaze of noon!
Soon shall your captive souls be free,
To bless, to hymn, to soar, like me!
The fair, the perfect, and the bright,
Shall beam unclouded on your sight;
Soon shall the silver lutes be strung,
Soon shall the Pæan lays be sung;
'Hail, sister, hail! thy task is done;
Rise, cherub, rise! thy palm is won!!'

poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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Ode XVIII: To The Right Honourable Francis Earl Of Huntington

I. 1.
The wise and great of every clime,
Through all the spacious walks of Time,
Where'er the Muse her power display'd,
With joy have listen'd and obey'd.
For taught of heaven, the sacred Nine
Persuasive numbers, forms divine,
To mortal sense impart:
They best the soul with glory fire;
They noblest counsels, boldest deeds inspire;
And high o'er Fortune's rage inthrone the fixed heart.

I. 2.
Nor less prevailing is their charm
The vengeful bosom to disarm;
To melt the proud with human woe,
And prompt unwilling tears to flow.

Can wealth a power like this afford?
Can Cromwell's arts, or Marlborough's sword,
An equal empire claim?
No, Hastings. Thou my words wilt own:
Thy breast the gifts of every Muse hath known;
Nor shall the giver's love disgrace thy noble name.

I. 3.
The Muse's awful art,
And the blest function of the poet's tongue,
Ne'er shalt thou blush to honour; to assert
From all that scorned vice or slavish fear hath sung.
Nor shall the blandishment of Tuscan strings
Warbling at will in pleasure's myrtle bower;
Nor shall the servile notes to Celtic kings
By flattering minstrels paid in evil hour,
Move thee to spurn the heavenly Muse's reign.
A different strain,
And other themes
From her prophetic shades and hallow'd streams
(Thou well can'st witness) meet the purged ear:
Such, as when Greece to her immortal shell
Rejoicing listen'd, godlike sounds to hear;
To hear the sweet instructress tell
(While men and heroes throng'd around)
How life its noblest use may find,
How well for freedom be resign'd;
And how, by glory, virtue shall be crown'd.

II. 1.
Such was the Chian father's strain
To many a kind domestic train,
Whose pious hearth and genial bowl
Had chear'd the reverend pilgrim's soul:
When, every hospitable rite
With equal bounty to requite,
He struck his magic strings;
And pour'd spontaneous numbers forth,
And seiz'd their ears with tales of ancient worth,
And fill'd their musing hearts with vast heroic things.

II. 2.
Now oft, where happy spirits dwell,
Where yet he tunes his charming shell,
Oft near him, with applauding hands,
The genius of his country stands.
To listening gods he makes him known,
That man divine, by whom were sown
The seeds of Grecian fame:
Who first the race with freedom fir'd;
From whom Lycurgus Sparta's sons inspir'd;
From whom Platæan palms and Cyprian trophies came.

II. 3.
O noblest, happiest age!
When Aristides rul'd, and Cimon fought;
When all the generous fruits of Homer's page
Exulting Pindar saw to full perfection bought.
O Pindar, oft shalt thou be hail'd of me:
Not that Apollo fed thee from his shrine;
Not that thy lips drank sweetness from the bee;
Nor yet that, studious of thy notes divine,
Pan danc'd their measure with the sylvan throng:
But that thy song
Was proud to unfold
What thy base rulers trembled to behold;
Amid corrupted Thebes was proud to tell
The deeds of Athens and the Persian shame:
Hence on thy head their impious vengeance fell.
But thou, o faithful to thy fame,
The Muse's law did'st rightly know;
That who would animate his lays,
And other minds to virtue raise,
Must feel his own with all her spirit glow.

III. 1.
Are there, approv'd of later times,
Whose verse adorn'd a tyrant's crimes?
Who saw majestic Rome betray'd,
And lent the imperial ruffian aid?
Alas! not one polluted bard,
No, not the strains that Mincius heard,
Or Tibur's hills reply'd,
Dare to the Muse's ear aspire;
Save that, instructed by the Grecian lyre,
With freedom's ancient notes their shameful task they hide.

III. 2.
Mark, how the dread Pantheon stands,
Amid the domes of modern hands:
Amid the toys of idle state,
How simply, how severely great!
Then turn, and, while each western clime
Presents her tuneful sons to Time,
So mark thou Milton's name;
And add, “Thus differs from the throng
'The spirit which inform'd thy awful song,
Which bade thy potent voice protect thy country's fame.'

III. 3.
Yet hence barbaric zeal
His memory with unholy rage pursues;
While from these arduous cares of public weal
She bids each bard begone, and rest him with his Muse.
O fool! to think the man, whose ample mind
Must grasp at all that yonder stars survey;
Must join the noblest forms of every kind,
The world's most perfect image to display,
Can e'er his country's majesty behold,
Unmov'd or cold!
O fool! to deem
That he, whose thought must visit every theme,
Whose heart must every strong emotion know
Inspir'd by nature, or by fortune taught;
That he, if haply some presumptuous foe,
With false ignoble science fraught,
Shall spurn at freedom's faithful band;
That he their dear defence will shun,
Or hide their glories from the sun,
Or deal their vengeance with a woman's hand!

IV. 1.
I care not that in Arno's plain,
Or on the sportive banks of Seine,
From public themes the Muse's quire
Content with polish'd ease retire.
Where priests the studious head command,
Where tyrants bow the warlike hand
To vile ambition's aim,
Say, what can public themes afford,
Save venal honors to an hateful lord,
Reserv'd for angry heaven and scorn'd of honest fame?

IV. 2.
But here, where freedom's equal throne
To all her valiant sons is known;
Where all are conscious of her cares,
And each the power, that rules him, shares;
Here let the bard, whose dastard tongue
Leaves public arguments unsung,
Bid public praise farewell:
Let him to fitter climes remove,
Far from the hero's and the patriot's love,
And lull mysterious monks to slumber in their cell.

IV. 3.
O Hastings, not to all
Can ruling heaven the same endowments lend:
Yet still doth nature to her offspring call,
That to one general weal their different powers they bend,
Unenvious. Thus alone, though strains divine
Inform the bosom of the Muse's son;
Though with new honors the patrician's line
Advance from age to age; yet thus alone
They win the suffrage of impartial fame.
The poet's name
He best shall prove,
Whose lays the soul with noblest passions move.
But thee, o progeny of heroes old,
Thee to severer toils thy fate requires:
The fate which form'd thee in a chosen mould,
The grateful country of thy sires,
Thee to sublimer paths demand;
Sublimer than thy sires could trace,
Or thy own Edward teach his race,
Though Gaul's proud genius sank beneath his hand.

V. 1.
From rich domains and subject farms,
They led the rustic youth to arms;
And kings their stern atchievements fear'd;
While private strife their banners rear'd.
But loftier scenes to thee are shown,
Where empire's wide-establish'd throne
No private master fills:
Where, long foretold, the People reigns:
Where each a vassal's humble heart disdains;
And judgeth what he sees; and, as he judgeth, wills.

V. 2.
Here be it thine to calm and guide
The swelling democratic tide;
To watch the state's uncertain frame,
And baffle faction's partial aim:
But chiefly, with determin'd zeal,
To quell that servile band, who kneel
To freedom's banish'd foes;
That monster, which is daily found
Expert and bold thy country's peace to wound;
Yet dreads to handle arms, nor manly counsel knows.

V. 3.
'Tis highest heaven's command,
That guilty aims should sordid paths pursue;
That what ensnares the heart should maim the hand,
And virtue's worthless foes be false to glory too.
But look on freedom. see, through every age,
What labours, perils, griefs, hath she disdain'd!
What arms, what regal pride, what priestly rage,
Have her dread offspring conquer'd or sustain'd!
For Albion well have conquer'd. Let the strains
Of happy swains,
Which now resound
Where Scarsdale's cliffs the swelling pastures bound,
Bear witness. there, oft let the farmer hail
The sacred orchard which imbowers his gate,
And shew to strangers passing down the vale,
Where Candish, Booth, and Osborne sate;
When bursting from their country's chain,
Even in the midst of deadly harms,
Of papal snares and lawless arms,
They plann'd for freedom this her noblest reign.

VI. 1.
This reign, these laws, this public care,
Which Nassau gave us all to share,
Had ne'er adorn'd the English name,
Could fear have silenc'd freedom's claim.
But fear in vain attempts to bind
Those lofty efforts of the mind
Which social good inspires;
Where men, for this, assault a throne,
Each adds the common welfare to his own;
And each unconquer'd heart the strength of all acquires.

VI. 2.
Say, was it thus, when late we view'd
Our fields in civil blood imbru'd?
When fortune crown'd the barbarous host,
And half the astonish'd isle was lost?
Did one of all that vaunting train,
Who dare affront a peaceful reign,
Durst one in arms appear?
Durst one in counsels pledge his life?
Stake his luxurious fortunes in the strife?
Or lend his boasted name his vagrant friends to chear?

VI. 3.
Yet, Hastings, these are they
Who challenge to themselves thy country's love;
The true; the constant: who alone can weigh,
What glory should demand, or liberty approve!
But let their works declare them. Thy free powers,
The generous powers of thy prevailing mind,
Not for the tasks of their confederate hours,
Lewd brawls and lurking slander, were design'd.
Be thou thy own approver. Honest praise
Oft nobly sways
Ingenuous youth:
But, sought from cowards and the lying mouth,
Praise is reproach. Eternal God alone
For mortals fixeth that sublime award.
He, from the faithful records of his throne,
Bids the historian and the bard
Dispose of honor and of scorn;
Discern the patriot from the slave;
And write the good, the wise, the brave,
For lessons to the multitude unborn.

poem by Mark Akenside
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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To the King

[Upon His Majesty's Happy Return.]

The rising sun complies with our weak sight,
First gilds the clouds, then shows his globe of light
At such a distance from our eyes, as though
He knew what harm his hasty beams would do.

But your full majesty at once breaks forth
In the meridian of your reign. Your worth,
Your youth, and all the splendour of your state,
(Wrapped up, till now, in clouds of adverse fate!)
With such a flood of light invade our eyes,
And our spread hearts with so great joy surprise,
That if your grace incline that we should live,
You must not, sir! too hastily forgive.
Our guilt preserves us from the excess of joy,
Which scatters spirits, and would life destroy.
All are obnoxious! and this faulty land,
Like fainting Esther, does before you stand,
Watching your sceptre. The revolted sea
Trembles to think she did your foes obey.

Great Britain, like blind Polypheme, of late,
In a wild rage, became the scorn and hate
Of her proud neighbours, who began to think
She, with the weight of her own force, would sink.
But you are come, and all their hopes are vain;
This giant isle has got her eye again.
Now she might spare the ocean, and oppose
Your conduct to the fiercest of her foes.
Naked, the Graces guarded you from all
Dangers abroad; and now your thunder shall.
Princes that saw you, different passions prove,
For now they dread the object of their love;
Nor without envy can behold his height,
Whose conversation was their late delight.
So Semele, contented with the rape
Of Jove disguised in a mortal shape,
When she beheld his hands with lightning filled,
And his bright rays, was with amazement killed.

And though it be our sorrow, and our crime,
To have accepted life so long a time
Without you here, yet does this absence gain
No small advantage to your present reign;
For, having viewed the persons and the things,
The councils, state, and strength of Europe's kings,
You know your work; ambition to restrain,
And set them bounds, as Heaven does to the main.
We have you now with ruling wisdom fraught,
Not such as books, but such as practice, taught.
So the lost sun, while least by us enjoyed,
Is the whole night for our concern employed;
He ripens spices, fruits, and precious gums,
Which from remotest regions hither comes.

This seat of yours (from the other world removed)
Had Archimedes known, he might have proved
His engine's force fixed here. Your power and skill
Make the world's motion wait upon your will.

Much suffering monarch! the first English born
That has the crown of these three nations worn!
How has your patience, with the barbarous rage
Of your own soil, contended half an age?
Till (your tried virtue, and your sacred word,
At last preventing your unwilling sword)
Armies and fleets which kept you out so long,
Owned their great sovereign, and redressed his wrong.
When straight the people, by no force compelled,
Nor longer from their inclination held,
Break forth at once, like powder set on fire,
And, with a noble rage, their King required;
So the injured sea, which from her wonted course,
To gain some acres, avarice did force,
If the new banks, neglected once, decay,
No longer will from her old channel stay;
Raging, the late got land she overflows,
And all that's built upon't, to ruin goes.

Offenders now, the chiefest, do begin
To strive for grace, and expiate their sin.
All winds blow fair, that did the world embroil;
Your vipers treacle yield, and scorpions oil.

If then such praise the Macedonian got,
For having rudely cut the Gordian knot,
What glory's due to him that could divide
Such ravelled interests; has the knot untied,
And without stroke so smooth a passage made,
Where craft and malice such impeachments laid?

But while we praise you, you ascribe it all
To His high hand, which threw the untouched wall
Of self-demolished Jericho so low;
His angel 'twas that did before you go,
Tamed savage hearts, and made affections yield,
Like ears of corn when wind salutes the field.

Thus patience crowned, like Jobs's, your trouble ends,
Having your foes to pardon, and your friends;
For, though your courage were so firm a rock,
What private virtue could endure the shock?
Like your Great Master, you the storm withstood,
And pitied those who love with frailty showed.

Rude Indians, torturing all the royal race,
Him with the throne and dear-bought sceptre grace
That suffers best. What region could be found,
Where your herioc head had not been crowned?

The next experience of your mighty mind
Is how you combat fortune, now she's kind.
And this way, too, you are victorious found;
She flatters with the same success she frowned.
While to yourself severe, to others kind,
With power unbounded, and a will confined,
Of this vast empire you possess the care,
The softer part falls to the people's share.
Safety, and equal government, are things
Which subjects make as happy as their kings.

Faith, law, and piety, (that banished train!)
Justice and truth, with you return again.
The city's trade, and country's easy life,
Once more shall flourish without fraud or strife.
Your reign no less assures the ploughman's peace,
Than the warm sun advances his increase;
And does the shepherds as securely keep
From all their fears, as they preserve their sheep.

But, above all, the Muse-inspired train
Triumph, and raise their drooping heads again!
Kind Heaven at once has, in your person, sent
Their sacred judge, their guard, and argument.

poem by Edmund Waller
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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To the Memory of Mrs. Lefroy who died Dec:r 16 -- my Birthday.

The day returns again, my natal day;
What mix'd emotions with the Thought arise!
Beloved friend, four years have pass'd away
Since thou wert snatch'd forever from our eyes.--
The day, commemorative of my birth
Bestowing Life and Light and Hope on me,
Brings back the hour which was thy last on Earth.
Oh! bitter pang of torturing Memory!--

Angelic Woman! past my power to praise
In Language meet, thy Talents, Temper, mind.
Thy solid Worth, they captivating Grace!--
Thou friend and ornament of Humankind!--

At Johnson's death by Hamilton t'was said,
'Seek we a substitute--Ah! vain the plan,
No second best remains to Johnson dead--
None can remind us even of the Man.'

So we of thee--unequall'd in thy race
Unequall'd thou, as he the first of Men.
Vainly we wearch around the vacant place,
We ne'er may look upon thy like again.

Come then fond Fancy, thou indulgant Power,--
--Hope is desponding, chill, severe to thee!--
Bless thou, this little portion of an hour,
Let me behold her as she used to be.

I see her here, with all her smiles benign,
Her looks of eager Love, her accents sweet.
That voice and Countenance almost divine!--
Expression, Harmony, alike complete.--

I listen--'tis not sound alone--'tis sense,
'Tis Genius, Taste and Tenderness of Soul.
'Tis genuine warmth of heart without pretence
And purity of Mind that crowns the whole.

She speaks; 'tis Eloquence--that grace of Tongue
So rare, so lovely!--Never misapplied
By her to palliate Vice, or deck a Wrong,
She speaks and reasons but on Virtue's side.

Her's is the Engergy of Soul sincere.
Her Christian Spirit ignorant to feign,
Seeks but to comfort, heal, enlighten, chear,
Confer a pleasure, or prevent a pain.--

Can ought enhance such Goodness?--Yes, to me,
Her partial favour from my earliest years
Consummates all.--Ah! Give me yet to see
Her smile of Love.--the Vision diappears.

'Tis past and gone--We meet no more below.
Short is the Cheat of Fancy o'er the Tomb.
Oh! might I hope to equal Bliss to go!
To meet thee Angel! in thy future home!--

Fain would I feel an union in thy fate,
Fain would I seek to draw an Omen fair
From this connection in our Earthly date.
Indulge the harmless weakness--Reason, spare.--

poem by Jane Austen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Upon His Majesty's Happy Return

The rising sun complies with our weak sight,
First gilds the clouds, then shows his globe of light
At such a distance from our eyes, as though
He knew what harm his hasty beams would do.

But your full majesty at once breaks forth
In the meridian of your reign. Your worth,
Your youth, and all the splendour of your state,
(Wrapped up, till now, in clouds of adverse fate!)
With such a flood of light invade our eyes,
And our spread hearts with so great joy surprise,
That if your grace incline that we should live,
You must not, sir! too hastily forgive.
Our guilt preserves us from the excess of joy,
Which scatters spirits, and would life destroy.
All are obnoxious! and this faulty land,
Like fainting Esther, does before you stand,
Watching your sceptre. The revolted sea
Trembles to think she did your foes obey.

Great Britain, like blind Polypheme, of late,
In a wild rage, became the scorn and hate
Of her proud neighbours, who began to think
She, with the weight of her own force, would sink.
But you are come, and all their hopes are vain;
This giant isle has got her eye again.
Now she might spare the ocean, and oppose
Your conduct to the fiercest of her foes.
Naked, the Graces guarded you from all
Dangers abroad; and now your thunder shall.
Princes that saw you, different passions prove,
For now they dread the object of their love;
Nor without envy can behold his height,
Whose conversation was their late delight.
So Semele, contented with the rape
Of Jove disguised in a mortal shape,
When she beheld his hands with lightning filled,
And his bright rays, was with amazement killed.

And though it be our sorrow, and our crime,
To have accepted life so long a time
Without you here, yet does this absence gain
No small advantage to your present reign;
For, having viewed the persons and the things,
The councils, state, and strength of Europe's kings,
You know your work; ambition to restrain,
And set them bounds, as Heaven does to the main.
We have you now with ruling wisdom fraught,
Not such as books, but such as practice, taught.
So the lost sun, while least by us enjoyed,
Is the whole night for our concern employed;
He ripens spices, fruits, and precious gums,
Which from remotest regions hither comes.

This seat of yours (from the other world removed)
Had Archimedes known, he might have proved
His engine's force fixed here. Your power and skill
Make the world's motion wait upon your will.

Much suffering monarch! the first English born
That has the crown of these three nations worn!
How has your patience, with the barbarous rage
Of your own soil, contended half an age?
Till (your tried virtue, and your sacred word,
At last preventing your unwilling sword)
Armies and fleets which kept you out so long,
Owned their great sovereign, and redressed his wrong.
When straight the people, by no force compelled,
Nor longer from their inclination held,
Break forth at once, like powder set on fire,
And, with a noble rage, their King required;
So the injured sea, which from her wonted course,
To gain some acres, avarice did force,
If the new banks, neglected once, decay,
No longer will from her old channel stay;
Raging, the late got land she overflows,
And all that's built upon't, to ruin goes.

Offenders now, the chiefest, do begin
To strive for grace, and expiate their sin.
All winds blow fair, that did the world embroil;
Your vipers treacle yield, and scorpions oil.

If then such praise the Macedonian got,
For having rudely cut the Gordian knot,
What glory's due to him that could divide
Such ravelled interests; has the knot untied,
And without stroke so smooth a passage made,
Where craft and malice such impeachments laid?

But while we praise you, you ascribe it all
To His high hand, which threw the untouched wall
Of self-demolished Jericho so low;
His angel 'twas that did before you go,
Tamed savage hearts, and made affections yield,
Like ears of corn when wind salutes the field.

Thus patience crowned, like Jobs's, your trouble ends,
Having your foes to pardon, and your friends;
For, though your courage were so firm a rock,
What private virtue could endure the shock?
Like your Great Master, you the storm withstood,
And pitied those who love with frailty showed.

Rude Indians, torturing all the royal race,
Him with the throne and dear-bought sceptre grace
That suffers best. What region could be found,
Where your heroic head had not been crowned?

The next experience of your mighty mind
Is how you combat fortune, now she's kind.
And this way, too, you are victorious found;
She flatters with the same success she frowned.
While to yourself severe, to others kind,
With power unbounded, and a will confined,
Of this vast empire you possess the care,
The softer part falls to the people's share.
Safety, and equal government, are things
Which subjects make as happy as their kings.

Faith, law, and piety, (that banished train!)
Justice and truth, with you return again.
The city's trade, and country's easy life,
Once more shall flourish without fraud or strife.
Your reign no less assures the ploughman's peace,
Than the warm sun advances his increase;
And does the shepherds as securely keep
From all their fears, as they preserve their sheep.

But, above all, the Muse-inspired train
Triumph, and raise their drooping heads again!
Kind Heaven at once has, in your person, sent
Their sacred judge, their guard, and argument.

poem by Edmund Waller
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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