By H. J. PYE, Esq. Poet-Laureat.
HERE is immortal Virtue's meed,
Th' unfading wreath of true renown,
Best recompense by Heaven decreed
For all the cares that wait a crown;
If Industry, with anxious zeal,
Still watchful o'er the Public Weal;
If equal Justice' awful arm,
Tempered by Mercy's seraph charm,
Are ineffectual to assuage
Remorseless Faction's harpy rage?
But the fell Dæmons, urg'd by Hell's behest,
Threaten, with frantic arm, the royal Patriot's breast!
She saw, and sick'ning at the sight,
Wish'd the fair prospect of our hopes to blight;
Sought out the object of our dearest care,
Found where we most could feel, and try'd to wound us there.
The broken shaft that coward Malice rear'd
Shall to thy fame eternal lustre give,
Inscribe on Hist'ry's page thy name rever'd,
And bid it there with endless blazon live.
For there our sons' remotest race,
In deathless characters, shall trace
How Britain's baffled foes proclaim'd their hate,
And deem'd her Monarch's life the bulwark of the state.
Now strike a livelier chord-This happy day,
Selected from the circling year
To celebrate a name to Britain dear,
From Britain's sons demands a festive lay.
Mild Sov'reign of our Monarch's soul,
Whose eyes meek radiance can controul
The pow'rs of Care, and grace a throne
With each calm joy to life domestic known,
Propitious Heav'n has o'er thy head
Blossoms of richer fragrance shed
Than all th' assiduous Muse can bring,
Cull'd from the honey'd stores of Spring:
For see, amid wild Winter's hours
A Bud its silken folds display,
Sweeter than all the chalic'd flow'rs
That crown thine own ambrosial May.
O may thy smiles, blest infant, prove
Omens of concord, and of love!
Bid the loud strains of martial triumph cease,
And tune to softer mood the warbling reed of Peace.
ODE on HIS MAJESTY'S Birth-Day, June 4, 1796.
By H. J. PYE, Esq. Poet-Laureat.
WHERE are the vows the Muses breath'd,
That Discord's fatal reign might cease?
Where all the blooming flow'rs they wreath'd,
To bind the placid brow of Peace;
Whose angel-form, with radiant beam,
Pictur'd in Fancy's fairy dream,
Seem'd o'er Europa's ravag'd land,
Prompt to extend her influence bland.
Calm the rude clangors of the martial lay,
And hail with gentler note our Monarch's natal day?
Shrinks Britain at the sound? Though, while her eye
O'er Europe's desolated plains she throws,
Slow to avenge, and mild in victory,
She mourns the dreadful scene of war and woes:
Yet, if the foe, misjudging, read
Dismay in Pity's geatlest deed,
And, construing mercy into fear,
The blood-stain'd arm of battle rear,
By insult rous'd, in just resentment warm,
She frowns defiance on the threat'ning storm;
And, far as Ocean's billows roar,
By every wave-encircled shore,
From where o'er icy seas the gaunt wolf roves,
To coasts perfam'd by aromatic groves;
As proudly to the ambient sky
In silken folds her mingled crosses fly;
The soothing voice of Peace is drown'd
A while in war's tumultuous sound,
And strains, from Glory's awful clarion blown,
Float in triumphant peal around Britannia's throne.
A beautiful SPRING in a VILLAGE.
From POEMS by S. T. COLERIDGE.
NCE more, sweet stream, with slow foot wand'ring near,
I bless the milky waters, cold and clear.
Escap'd the flashing of the noontide hours
With one fresh garland of Pierian flowers
(Ere from thy Zephyr-haunted brink I turn)
My languid hand shall wreath thy mossy urn;
For, not through pathless grove with murmur rude,
Thou soothest the sad wood-nymph SOLITUDE.
Nor thine, unseen in cavern depths to dwell,
The Hermit-fountain of some dripping cell!--
Pride of the vale, thy useful streams supply
The scatter'd cots, and peaceful hamlet nigh.
The Elfin tribe around thy friendly banks,
With infant uproar, and soul-soothing pranks,
Releas'd from school, their little hearts at rest,
Launch paper navies on thy waveless breast.
The rustic here at eve, with pensive look
Whistling lorn ditties, leans upon his crook,
Or, starting, pauses with hope-mingled dread,
To list the much-lov'd maid's accustom'd tread:
She, vainly mindful of her dame's command,
Loiters-the long-fiil'd pitcher in her hand.
Unboastful stream, thy font with pebbled falls
The faded form of PAST delight recalls,
What time the morning sun of Hope arose,
And all was Joy, save when another's woes
A transient gloom upon my soul imprest-
Like passing clouds impictar'd on thy breast?
Life's current then ran sparkling to the noon,
Or, silv'ry stole beneath the pensive moon.
Ah now it works rude brakes and thorns among-
Or o'er the rough rock bursts, and foams along!
To Mr. BISHOP, with a Pocket Looking-Glass. Written by the late Rev.
Mr. BISHOP, Master of Merchant-Tailors' School.
TO you, dear Wife (and all must grant
A wife no common confidante),
I dare my secret soul revcal,
Whate'er I think, whate'er I feel;
This verse, for instance, I design
To mark a female friend of mine,
Whem long with passion's warmest glee,
I've seen, and could for ever see.
But hear me first describe the dame;
If candour then can blame me-blame.
I've seen her charm, at forty, more
Than half her sex at twenty-four;
Seen her, with equal power and ease,
Draw right to rule, from will to please;
Seen her so frankly give, and spare
At once, with so discreet a care,
As if her sense, and her's alone,
Could limit bounty like her own;
Seen her, in Nature's simplest guise,
Above arts, airs, and fashions, rise:
And, when her peers she had surpass'd,
Improve upon herself at last;
Seen her, in short, in ev'ry part,
Discernment, temper, figure, heart,
So perfect, that 'till Heav'n remove her!
I must admire, court her, love her.
Molly, I speak the thing I mean;
So rare a woman I have seen;
And send this honest glass, that you
Whene'er you please, may see her too!
From the Monthly Magazine.
The following translation (made some years since) of a celebrated piece, of which other versions have appeared, possesses so much peculiar and intrinsic merit, that we have given it the preference is this Selection. AT break of day, with frightful dreams
Lenora struggled sore:
My William, art thou slain, say'd she,
Or dost thou love no more?
He went abroade with Richard's host,
The Paynim foes to quell :
But he no word to her had writ,
An he were sick or well.
With sowne of trump, and beat of drum,
His fellow-soldyers come;
Their helmes by deckt with oaken boughs,
They seek their long'd-for home.
And ev'ry roade and ev'ry lane
Was full of old and young,
To gaze at the rejoicing band,
To hail with gladsome toung.
"Thank God!" their wives and children saide,
"Welcome!" the brides did saye :
But greete or kiss Lenora
To none upon that daye.
She askte of all the passing traine,
For him she wisht to see:
But none of all the passing traine
Could tell if lived hee.
And when the soldyers all were bye,
She tore her raven haire,
And cast herself upon the growne
In furious despaire.
|