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| STILL as emerges from the womb of time, | |
| Each circling year, you claim our humble rhyme; | |
| But where ’s the muse, whose fiery numbers best | |
| Shall rouse heroic ardor in each breast? | |
| To wing the flight where conquest leads the way, | 5 |
| Transcends our song, and mocks the feeble lay. | |
| Such themes sublime best suit a rapturous lyre, | |
| And bards transported with poetic fire— | |
| Yet when inspired with Britain’s glorious fame, | |
| What bosom glows not with the hallow’d flame? | 10 |
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| When angry Gallia pour’d her hostile train, | |
| Intent on plunder, o’er th’ Atlantic main; | |
| Strangers to arms, we knew no murderous art, | |
| Nor crimson falchion, nor the poisonous dart, | |
| From earliest youth, instructed to abhor | 15 |
| The deadly engines of destructive war; | |
| The cannon’s sound, as dire assail’d our ears, | |
| As Jove’s red thunder, when he shakes the spheres. | |
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| Yet to our aid when mighty Brunswick came, | |
| It kindled in each breast the martial flame; | 20 |
| Undaunted as our warlike troops advance, | |
| To walls, inglorious, shrink the sons of France; | |
| Their cities storm’d, their chiefs in fetters bound, | |
| And their proud ramparts levell’d with the ground. | |
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| O’er this new world, thus have Britannia’s arms | 25 |
| Restored lost peace, and exiled war’s alarms; | |
| Again rich commerce crowns the merchant’s toil, | |
| And smiling Ceres paints the pregnant soil. | |
| Thus the good shepherd, when he views from far | |
| The deadly wolves beset his fleecy care, | 30 |
| Quick to their help his guardian crook he wields, | |
| And soon the prowling throng is scatter’d o’er the fields. | |
| Yet not to us is Britain’s care confined, | |
| Her fame is wafted to remotest Ind; | |
| By justice call’d, her chiefs, with matchless swords, | 35 |
| Have humbled mighty Asia’s proudest lords; | |
| Far distant scenes her martial deeds of proclaim, | |
| And Pondicherry bows to Britain’s name. | |
| |
| See the sad chance of all destructive war— | |
| See Lally captived at the victor’s car; | 40 |
| Lally, whose soul the maddening furies claim, | |
| And cursed with longings for the voice of fame. | |
| So when a tyger, flush’d with reeking blood, | |
| Ramps o’er the plains, and tears the leafy wood, | |
| A lion spies him from his secret cave, | 45 |
| Bursts from his stand, to seize the insulting slave; | |
| Then hunts him, generous, from the neighboring fields, | |
| And peace and safety to the forest yields. | |
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| O’er Europe too, great George’s arms prevail, | |
| And on its seas his fleets triumphant sail; | 50 |
| Witness Belleisle, around whose wave-worn shore | |
| His navies ride, and his loud cannons roar. | |
| Oh! could we boast the seeds of epic song, | |
| Immortal Frederick should the verse prolong; | |
| The chief should shine, inclosed with fields of dead, | 55 |
| And guardian angels hovering round his head. | |
| There, in dread chains the barbarous Russ should bow, | |
| And here, submissive, kneel the Hungarian foe; | |
| There should be seen to bend, the sons of Gaul, | |
| Here lesser troops, his enemies, should fall. | 60 |
| Thus firm a rock, begirt with raging waves, | |
| Stands the fierce charge, though all the tempest raves; | |
| Now round his summit dash the broken tides, | |
| And vainly beat his adamantine sides! | |
| But these we leave to deck the historic page, | 65 |
| And wake the wonder of a future age. | |
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| Now let our muse the Paphian trumpet blow, | |
| Beauty ’s the theme, and melting strains shall flow. | |
| See Neptune, mounting with his nereid train, | |
| To smooth the surface of the azure main; | 70 |
| As conscious of his charge, he joys to please | |
| The beauteous Charlotte, mistress of the seas! | |
| The jovial sailors ply their shining oars, | |
| And now they reach fair Albion’s white-cliff shores; | |
| With warbling flutes, and hautboy’s pleasing sound, | 75 |
| They spread sweet music’s silver notes around. | |
| On Cydnus’ stream, so once array’d was seen | |
| Fair Cleopatra, Egypt’s beauteous queen. | |
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| But here we fix, rejoiced to see you bless’d, | |
| And Britain’s glory in each clime confess’d! | 80 |
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