Or in what heav'n-left age it fell,
"Twere hard for modern song to tell.
Yet still, if Truth those beams infuse,
Which guide at once, and charm the Muse,
Beyond yon braided clouds that lie,
Paving the light-embroider'd sky,
Amidst the bright pavilion'd plains,
The beauteous model still remains.
There, happier than in islands blest,
Or bow'rs by spring or Hebe drest,
The chiefs who fill our Albion's story,
In warlike weeds, retir'd in glory,
Hear their consorted Druids sing
Their triumphs to th' immortal string.
How may the Poet now unfold
What never tongue or numbers told?
How learn delighted, and amaz'd,
What hands unknown that fabric rais'd?
E'en now before his favour'd eyes,
In gothic pride, it seems to rise!
Yet Græcia's graceful orders join,
Majestic through the mix'd design;
The secret builder knew to choose
Each sphere-found gem of richest hues:
Whate'er heav'n's purer mould contains,
When nearer suns emblaze its veins;
There on the walls the patriot's sight
May ever hang with fresh delight,
And, grav'd with some prophetic rage,
Read Albion's fame thro' ev'ry age.
Ye forms divine, ye laureat band,
That near her inmost altar stand!
Now sooth her, to her blissful train
Blithe Concord's social form to gain:
Concord, whose myrtle wand can steep
E'en Anger's blood-shot eyes in sleep:
Before whose breathing bosom's balm
Rage drops his steel, and storms grow calm;
Her let our sires and matrons hoar
Welcome to Britain's ravag'd shore;
Our youths, enamour'd of the fair,
Play with the tangles of her hair,
Till, in one loud applauding sound,
The nations shout to her around,
O how supremely art thou blest,
Thou, lady-thou shalt rule the west!
TO A LADY ON THE DEATH OF COLONEL ROSS,
IN THE ACTION OF FONTENOY.
WHILE, lost to all his former mirth,
Britannia's genius bends to earth,
And mourns the fatal day:
While stain'd with blood he strives to tear
Unseemly from his sea-green hair
The wreaths of cheerful May:
The thoughts which musing Pity pays,
And fond Remembrance loves to raise,
Your faithful hours attend:
Still Fancy to herself unkind,
Awakes to grief the soften'd mind,
And points the bleeding friend.
By rapid Scheld's descending wave
His country's vows shall bless the
Where'er the youth is laid :
That sacred spot the village hind
With ev'ry sweetest turf shall bind,
And Peace protect the shade.
Blest youth, regardful of thy doom,
Aërial hands shall build thy tomb,
With shadowy trophies crown'd:
Whilst Honour bath'd in tears shall rove To sigh thy name through ev'ry grove, And call his heroes round.
The warlike dead of ev'ry age,
Who fill the fair recording page,
Shall leave their sainted rest;
And, half-reclining on his spear,
Each wond'ring chief by turns appear,
To hail the blooming guest.
Old Edward's sons, unknown to yield, Shall crowd from Cressy's laurel'd field,
And gaze with fix'd delight; Again for Britain's wrongs they feel, Again they snatch the gleamy steel, And wish th' avenging fight.
But lo, where, sunk in deep despair,
Her garments torn, her bosom bare,
Impatient Freedom lies!
Her matted tresses madly spread,
To ev'ry sod, which wraps the dead,
She turns her joyless eyes.
Ne'er shall she leave that lowly ground
Till notes of triumph bursting round
Proclaim her reign restor❜d:
Till William seek the sad retreat,
And bleeding at her sacred feet,
Present the sated sword.
If, weak to sooth so soft an heart,
These pictur'd glories nought impart,
To dry thy constant tear:
If yet, in Sorrow's distant eye,
Expos'd and pale thou see'st him lie,
Wild War insulting near:
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