Изображения страниц
PDF
EPUB

Auspicious, round our Monarch's brow
She twines her olive's sacred bough;
This victory, she cries, is mine,

Not torn from war's terrific shrine;

Mine the pure trophies of the wise and good,
Unstained of woe, and undefil'd with blood.

SELECTION FROM THE ODE FOR THE KING'S BIRTHDAY, 1792.

HEARD ye the blast whose sullen roar
Burst dreadful from the angry skies?
Saw ye against the craggy shore

The waves in wild contention rise?

To welcome George's natal hour,
No vain display of empty power,
In flattery steep'd, no soothing lay
Shall strains of adulation pay;
But Commerce rolling deep and wide
To Albion's shores her swelling tide,
But Themis' olive cinctur'd head,
And white rob'd Peace by Victory led,
Shall fill thy breast with virtuous pride,
Shall give him power to truth allied;
Joys which alone a patriot King can prove,
A nation's strength his power, his pride a people's
love.

SELECTION FROM THE ODE FOR THE NEW YEAR, 1797.

GENIUS of Albion, hear,

Grasp the strong shield, and shake the avenging spear.
By wreaths thy hardy sons of yore
From Gallia's crest victorious tore,
By Edward's lily-blazon'd shield;
By Agincourt's high trophy'd field;

By rash Iberia's naval pride,

Whelmed by Eliza's barks beneath the stormy tide;
Call forth the warrior race again,

Breathing to ancient mood the soul-inspiring strain.
To arms! your ensign straight display!
Now set the battle in array,

The oracle for war declares,

Success depends upon our hearts and spears.

Britons, strike home! revenge your country's wrongs; Fight, and record yourselves in Druid songs.

BIRTHDAY ODE FOR THE YEAR 1800.

GOD of our father's rise,
And through the thund'ring skies

Thy vengeance urge;

In awful justice red,

Be thy dread arrows sped,

But guard our Monarch's head,
God save great George.

Still on our Albion smile,
Still, o'er this favoured isle,
O, spread thy wing!
To make each blessing sure,
To make our fame endure,
To make our rights secure,
God save our King!

To the loud trumpet's throat,
To the shrill clarion's note,
Now jocund sing.

From every open foe,
From every traitor's blow,
Virtue defend his brow,
God guard our King.

SELECTION FROM NAUCRATIA, OR NAVAL

DOMINION.

ARM'D in the cause on Chalgrove's fatal plain,
Where sorrowing Freedom mourns her Hampden slain,
Say, shall the moralising bard presume,

From his proud hearse to tear one warlike plume,
Because a Cæsar or a Cromwell wore

An impious wreath, wet with their country's gore?

Columbus' eye, in transports of amaze,
The spacious region of delight surveys,
Charming with real scenes the raptur'd view,
Fairer than all his warmest wishes drew;

Isles in fair spring's eternal livery dight,
The fair savannah's space, the mountain's height;
Forests of growth gigantic, that display'd
O'er spacious continents impervious shade;
Fields that, uncultur'd, harvests rich produce,
Spontaneous fruits that yield ambrosial juice;
And rivers that their sea-broad currents rolled
Through groves of perfume, and o'er sands of gold.

SHOOTING.

WHEN the last sun of August's fiery reign
Now bathes his radiant forehead in the main,
The panoply by sportive heroes worn
Is rang'd in order for the ensuing morn;
Forth from the summer guard of bolt and lock
Comes the thick guetre, and the fustian frock.
With curious skill, the deathful tube is made,
Clean as the firelock of the spruce parade:
Yet let no polish of the sportsman's gun
Flash like the soldier's weapon to the sun,
Or the bright steel's refulgent glare presume,
To penetrate the peaceful forest's gloom;
But let it take the brown's more sober hue,
Or the dark lustre of the enamell'd blue.
Let the close pouch the wadded tow contain,
The leaden pellets, and the nitrous grain;
And wisely cautious, with preventive care,
Be the spare flint and ready turnscrew there;
While the slung net is open to receive
Each prize the labours of the day shall give.

FROM ALFRED.

(Book VI. Consequence of the Battle of Eddington.)

SOON as the morn, in rosy mantle dight,
Spread o'er the dewy hills her orient light,
The victor monarch ranged his warrior train
In martial order on the embattled plain;
Ready to front again the storm of fight,
Or urge the advantage and pursue the flight;
But not the horizon's ample range could show
A trace, a vestige, of the vanquished foe.
Now from the exulting host in triumph peal'd
The shouts of conquest shake the echoing field;

[graphic]

"HER HEART A WARMER SENSE OF PITY FEELS."

-Page 149.

« ПредыдущаяПродолжить »