CHORUS. Wake! O wake the joyful song! O! while consenting Britons praise, Nor thou, illustrious Chief, refuse For ah ! to whom shall Neptune's sons complain Thy favour is imprest : No happy son of wealth or fame, To court a royal patron came! A hapless youth whose vital page Was one sad lengthen'd tale of wo, The tale your sacred pity mov'd; Then touch my strings, ye blest Pierian quire! With daring pencil can display The fight that thunders on the watry way, To him, my Muse, these warlike strains belong! CHORUS. To him, my Muse, these warlike strains belong! Source of thy hope, and patron of thy song. ODE VII. THE ROYAL VOYAGE. BY SIR JAMES MARRIOT. HIGH on the bounding bark the Royal Fair But see the whitening surge, the gathering clouds; And views the blackening storm, and hears th' increasing gale. But not, O Royal Maid, Let Fear thy breast invade : Know, happy Fair! approv'd by heaven, Peace! every roaring child of troubled air: Happy Queen of Albion's isle, On whom the Loves and Graces smile: Haste from Germania's plain, and death-devoted shore, Soon thy weary steps shall try A happier land, a milder sky, Where no din of arms shall roar, Nor winds, nor swelling seas assault thee more. Thus, 'midst the storms which blow O'er Thracian hills of snow, Orpheus tun'd the golden lyre, And saw the beasts of death retire. Thus, fearless of the night and watry grave, Leander's bosom met the wave, While Love before him flew his way to guide, And through the foaming tide Gave to his nervous arm redoubled power, While Hymen shook the torch bright on the distant tower. Hail! happy fires of mutual love, unknown To purchas'd dalliance and tumultuous joy; Mild and unclouded the eternal flame, Reward of virtuous Love, and Heaven's best blessing came. Swift the wing'd hours shall urge their stealing way, Ere a new race shall rise of scepter'd kings. Where'er her glittering standards rise, Shall spread the godlike fame of mildest victories: Arise! O haste! your native soil adorn! Not valarous arms alone Shall guard the regal throne; But shining arts, and holy laws, And ancient Freedom's well-defended cause, Shall lift secure your praise sublime Through all the radiant paths of time, On Dorubernian cliffs the Muse hath told, Whereon she sits, and hears from either pole In every wind victorious thunders roll. |