FOR HIS MAJESTY's BIRTH-DAY, 1798,
BY H. J. PYE, ESQ POET-LAUREAT.
SET TO MUSIC BY SIR W. PARSONS.
HILE loud and near, round Britain's coafts, The low'ring ftorm of battle roars, In proud array, while numerous hofts Infulting threat her happy fhores, No trains with peaceful defcant blown Now float around Britannia's throneThe fhouts from martial zeal that rise, The fires that beam from glory's eyes, The fword that manly freedom draws, In freedom's patriot monarch's cause, Shall with an angel's voice difplay
How dear to Britain's fons their George's natal day.
Triumphant o'er the blue domain
Of hoary ocean's briny reign,
While Britain's navies boldly fweep,
With victor prow the ftormy deep,
Will Gallia's vanquish'd squadrons dare
Again to try the wat'ry war,
Again her floating caftles brave,
Terrific on the howling wave:
Or on the fragile bark adventure o'er,
Tempt her tempeftuous feas, and scale her rocky shore.
Or fhould the winds uncertain gale
Propitious fwell the hoftile fail;
Should the dim mift, or midnight shade,
Invafion's threatened inroad aid,
Shall Britain, on her native ftrand,
Shrink from a foe's inferior band?
She vows by Gallia, taught to yield
On Creci's and on Poitier's field,
By Agincourt's high trophied plain,
Pil'd with illuftrious nobles flain,
By wondering Danube's diftant flood,
And Blenheim's ramparts red with blood,
By chiefs on Minden's heaths who shone,
By recent fame at Lincelles won,
Her laurel'd brow the ne'er will veil,
Or fhun the fhock of fight, though numerous hofts affail.
The electric flame of glory runs
Impetuous through her hardy fons ;
See, rufhing from the farm and fold;
Her fwains in glory's lifts enroll'd.
Though o'er the nations far and wide
Gallia may pour oppreffion's tide,
And like Rome's tyrant race of yore,
O'er-run each tributary shore;
Yet, like the Julian chief, their hofts shall meet
Untam'd refiance here, and foul defeat;
Shall, like Rome's rav'ning eagle, baffled fly
From Britain's fatal cliffs, the abode of liberty.
Behold on Windfor's oak-fring'd plain,
The pride of Albion's fylvan reign,
Where oft the cheering hound and horn
Have pierc'd the liftening ear of morn,
Rous'd by the clarion's warlike found,
The heroes tread the tented ground.
Where chiefs, as brave as thofe of yore,
Who chivalry's firft honours wore,
What time, fair knighthood's knee around
Th' embroider'd zone victorious Edward bound,
Shall by their monarch's throne a bulwark stand,
And guard in George's crown the welfare of the land.
WRITTEN NEAR THE GRAVE OF MARIA.
OW sweetly o'er yon eastern hill,
The dawn of morning ftreaks the skies,
Wake, fhepherd, from thy flumbers still,
And from thy foft repose arise.
Winter, with all his frozen train,
Hath fled upon the northern blaft;
And genial Spring o'er all the plain,
Her mantle green again hath caft.
And fee, the tender buds appear,
The bloffoms fhed their sweets around,
Their fimple heads the fnow-drops rear,
And the pale primrose decks the ground.
Then fhepherd rife, and come away,
And I will tell thee all my woe,
Why forrow darkens all my day,
And why my tears for ever flow.
On me, bright nature fmiles no more;-
Tho' Spring in all her charms is dreft;
Tho' fhe difplays her gayeft ftore,
Deep melancholy chills my breaft.
Doft thou not fee yon cyprefs glade,
Whofe boughs wave flowly to the gale?
Did'st thou not know the lovely maid,
The pride and wonder of the vale ?
Doft thou not fee yon fimple ftone,
Which refts against an aged tree?
O! thou, whom once I call'd my own,
When fhall I come and rest with thee?-
To thee no more fhall Spring return,
Nor Phoebus dart his cheering ray;
For thee no more the hearth fhall burn,
When Winter chills the face of day.
And fee the fav'rite lamb, to whom
Its daily food fo oft she gave;
Hath wandered to Maria's tomb,
And nips the grafs which decks her grave.
But let us check the bitter tear,
Which falls upon the verdant fod,
For though the afhes moulder here,
The foul repofes with its God.
Thofe early flowers which fweetly spread
Their various beauties o'er the plain,
Were lately wither'd, dry, and dead,
And shortly they must fade again.
But my Maria's lifeless clay,
Which bloom'd fo lovely here before, Shall spring in realms of endless day, And flourish to decay no more.
EE where yon cypress, moift with dew,
Waves flowly o'er its fable bed;
Beneath the turf, obfcur'd from view,
A gentle fhepherd rests his head.
When foftly drinks the ev'ning gale,
The balmy fragrance nature spreads,
And Cynthia filvers o'er the vale,
Where babbling ftreamlets lift their heads ;
Slow winding through the length'ning way,
Where smiles the scene with checquer'd bloom,
Fair Emma loves to watch the ray,
Slow falling o'er his fimple tomb.
Or when from fylvan woods remote,
Soft warblings cheer the dewy sky,
As to her ear the dying note,
Refponfive breathes a ling'ring figh,
Perchance the meet fome penfive fwain,
Whofe flocks have fled their native dale;
To him begun with mournful strain,
She foftly tells her plaintive tale.
No more, she cries, fhall cruel fate,
With golden profpect crown my joys;
Nor flattering hopes each morn await,
In flow'ry garb to feast my eyes:
No more when Summer's ftreaming glow,
Breaks through the morning's gauzy cloud,
Shall Edwin climb the mountain brow,
To watch with me a bleating crowd:
Nor when grown Autumn's blushing grain
Has funk beneath the keen-edg'd blade,
Shall he, retiring from the plain,
Divinely chaunt to Ev'ning's fhade:
Nor when the moon-light's trembling fheen
Invites to dance each fportive fwain,
Shall Edwin hafte towards the green,
Where mirth and joy fucceffive reign.
Yet the wild flowers he us'd to twine
In fimple wreaths around my head,
Shall, fcatter'd o'er his humble fhrine,
Still bend beneath the fongfter's tread.
And oft, when sweeps the fcented gale,
With murmurs o'er the fleeping wave,
Soft mufic echoing through the vale,
Shall fweetly whisper o'er his grave,
And foon his vital spark of fire
Shall glow with tints of spotlefs ray; And, plac'd in heav'n's celeftial choir, Shall foar through realms of endless day, ૨૩
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