"O Thou, to whom the lions roar,
And, not unheard, Thy boon implore! Thy throne our bursts of cannon loud invoke: Thou canst arrest the flying ball;
Or send it back, and bid it fall
On those from whose proud deck the thunder broke. "Britain in vain extends her care
To climes remote for aids in war;
Still farther must it stretch, to crush the foe:
There's one alliance, one alone,
Can crown her arms, or fix her throne;
And that alliance is not found below.
66 Ally Supreme! we turn to Thee:
We learn obedience from the sea;
With seas and winds, henceforth, Thy laws fulfil;
'Tis thine our blood to freeze or warm,
To rouse or hush the martial storm,
And turn the tide of conquest at Thy will.
"'Tis Thine to beam sublime renown,
Or quench the glories of a crown;
'Tis Thine to doom, 'tis Thine from death to free, To turn aside his levell'd dart,
Or pluck it from the bleeding heart :—
There we cast anchor, we confide in Thee.
"Thou, who hast taught the North to roar,
And streaming lights nocturnal pour,
Of frightful aspect! when proud foes invade,
Their blasted pride with dread to seize,
Bid Britain's flags as meteors blaze;
And George depute to thunder in Thy stead.
"The Right alone is bold and strong;
Black hovering clouds appal the Wrong
With dread of vengeance. Nature's awful Sire!
Less than one moment shouldst thou frown,
Where is puissance and renown?
Thrones tremble, empires sink, or worlds expire.
"Let George the Just chastise the vain.
Thou, who dost curb the rebel Main,
To mount the shore when boiling billows rave!
Bid George repel a bolder tide,
The boundless swell of Gallic pride,
And check Ambition's overwhelming wave.
"And when (all milder means withstood)
Ambition, tamed by loss of blood,
Regains her reason; then, on angels' wings,
Let Peace descend, and, shouting, greet
With peals of joy Britannia's fleet;
How richly freighted! It, triumphant, brings
The poise of kingdoms, and the fate of kings."
THE BEST ARGUMENT FOR PEACE.
OCCASIONED BY THE BRITISH FLEET, AND THE POSTURE OF AFFAIRS,
WHEN THE PARLIAMENT MET, 1734.
Musa dedit FIDIBUS divos, puerosque deorum.
HORATIUS, De Arte Poeticâ, 83.
YE guardian gods, who wait on kings,
And gently touch the secret springs
Of rising thought, solicit, I beseech,
For a poor stranger, come from far;
Procure a suppliant traveller
"Ease of access and the soft hour of speech."
'Tis gained :-Hail, monarchs great and wise!
From distant climes and dusky skies,
O'er seas and lands I flew, your ear to claim:
Yours is the sun and purple vine;
Deep in the frozen north I pine;
Nor vine nor sun could warm me like my theme.
A theme how great! On yonder tide,
A leafless forest spreading wide,
The labour of the deep, my Muse surveys;
A fleet, whose empire o'er the wave,
You grant, Time strengthens, Nature gave;
Now big with death, the terror of the seas!
Ye great by sea! ye shades adored,
Who fired the bomb, and bathed the sword! Arise, arise, arise! 'tis Britain charms:
Arise, ye boast of former wars,
And, pointing to your glorious scars,
Rouse me to verse, your martial sons to arms!
'Tis done and see, sweet Clio brings
From heaven her deep resounding strings.
Clio! the god which gave thy charming shell,
Demands its most exalted strain,
To sing the sovereign of the main :
Of ocean's queen what wonders wilt thou tell?
Such wonders as may pass for sport
Or vision in a southern court:
But, mighty thrones! those truths which make me glow, Your fathers saw, your sons shall see :
Then quit your infidelity;
Some truths 'tis better to believe than know.
Believe me, kings: at Britain's nod,
From each enchanted grove and wood,
Huge oaks stalk down the unshaded mountain's side;
The lofty pines assume new forms,
Fly round the globe, and live in storms, And tread and triumph on the wandering tide.
She nods again: the labouring earth
Discloses a stupendous birth;
In smoking rivers runs her molten ore;
Thence monsters of enormous size
And hideous nature, frowning, rise,
Flame from the deck, from trembling bastions roar.
These ministers of wrath fulfil,
On empires wide, an island's will;
If friends insulted, or sworn treaties broke,
Or sacred Reason's injured cause,
Or nation's violated laws,
Britannia's vengeance and the gods' provoke.
As yet, Peace sheathes her courage keen,
And spares her nitrous magazine;
Her cannon slumber, at the world's desire:
But, give just cause, at once they blaze,
At once they thunder from the seas,
Touched by their injured master's soul of fire.
Then Furies rise; the battle raves,
And rends the skies, and warms the waves,
And calls a tempest from the peaceful deep,
In spite of Nature, spite of Jove;
While, all serene and hushed, above,
The boisterous winds in azure chambers sleep.
This, this, my monarchs, is the scene
For hearts of proof, for gods of men ;
Here War's whole sting is shot, whole heart is spent.
You sport in arms: how pale, how tame,
How lambent is Bellona's flame,
How her storms languish, on the continent !
A swarm of deaths the mighty bomb
Now scatters from her glowing womb;
Now the chained bolts, in dread alliance joined,
Red-winged with an expanding blast,
Sweep, in black whirlwinds, man and mast,
And leave a singed and naked hull behind.
Now-but I'm struck with pale despair:
My patrons! what a burst was there!
The strong-ribb'd barks at once disploding fly.
Insatiate Death! compendious Fate!
Deep wound to some brave bleeding state!
One moment's guilt, a thousand heroes die.
The great, gay, graceful, young, and brave,
(Short obsequies !) the sable wave
Involves in endless night. Ye graveless dead,
Where are your conquests? Now you rove,
Pale, pensive, through the coral grove,
Or shrink from Britain in your oozy bed.
While virgins fair, with tender toil,
Of fragrant blooms their gardens spoil,
Low lie the brows for which the wreath's designed,
In sea-weed wrapp'd. Alas! how vain
The hope, the joy, the care, the pain,
The love, and godlike valour of mankind!
Of brass his heart who durst explore,-
Locked up in triple brass, and more,
Who, when explored, the secret durst explain,—
How, in one instant, at one blow,
The maiden's sigh, the mother's throe,
Of half a widowed land, to render vain.
See yon cowl'd friar in his cell,
With sulphur, flame, and crucible;
And can the charms of gold that saint inspire?
O cursed cause! O cursed event!
O wondrous power of accident!
He rivals gods, and sets the globe on fire.
But the rank growth of modern ill
Too well deserved that fatal skill,
The skill by which Destruction swiftly runs,
And seas and lands and worlds lays waste,
With far more terror, far more haste,
Than ancient Nimrod and his haughty sons.
In frown and force old War must yield:
The chariot scythed, which mowed the field,
The ram, the castled elephant, were tame;
Tame to ranged ordnance, which denies
Superior terror to the skies,
And claims the cloud, the thunder, and the flame.
The flame, the thunder, and the cloud,
The night by day, the sea of blood,
Hosts whirled in air, the yell, the sinking throng,
The graveless dead, an ocean warmed,
A firmament by mortals stormed,
To wronged Britannia's angry brow belong.
Or do I dream, or do I rave?
O do I see the gloomy cave,
Where Jove's red bolts the giant brothers frame? The swarthy gods of toil and heat
Loud peals on mountain-anvils beat,
While panting tempests rouse the roaring flame.
Ye sons of Ætna, hear my call!
Let your unfinished labours fall,
That shield of Mars, Minerva's helmet blue.
Suspend your toils, ye brawny throng!
Charmed by the magic of my song,
Drop the feigned thunder, and attempt the true.
Begin, and, first, take wingèd flight,
Fierce flames, and clouds of thickest night,
And trembling terror, paler than the dead;
Then borrow from the North his roar ;
Mix groans and death; one vial pour
Of dread Britannia's wrath, and it is made.
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