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POETRY.

ODE for the NEW YEAR. Written by WILLIAM WHITEHEAD, Esq.

A

Poet Laureat.

ND dares infulting France pretend

To grafp the Trident of the Main,

And hope the astonish'd World should bend
To the mock pageantry affum'd in vain ?
What, though her fleets the billows load,
What, though her mimic thunders roar,
She bears the enfigns of the God,

But not his delegated power.

Even from the birth of Time, 'twas Heaven's decree,
The Queen of Ifles fhould reign fole emprefs of the fea.

United Bourbon's giant pride

Strains every nerve, each effort tries,

With all but Juftice on its fide,

That Strength can give, or Perfidy devife.

Dread they not Him who rules the sky,

Whofe nod directs the whirlwind's fpeed,

Who bears his red right arm on high

For vengeance on the perjur'd head?
Th' Almighty Power, by whofe auguft decree
The Queen of Ifles alone is fovereign of the sea?
Vain-glorious France! deluded Spain !
Whom ev'n experience warns in vain,
Is there a fea, that dashing pours

Its big waves round your trembling shores;

Is there a Promontory's brow

That does not Britain's vaft atchievements know?

Afk Bifcay's rolling flood,

Afk the proud Celtic steep,

How oft her navies rode

Triumphant o'er the deep?

Ak Lagos fummits that beheld your fate;

Ak Calpes' jutting front, fair caufe of endless hate. VOL. XXIII.

Yet;

Yet, 'midst the loudest blasts of Fame,

When moft the admiring nations gaze,
What to herself does Britain claim?
--Not to herself the gives the praise,
But low in duft her head the bows,
And proftrate pays her grateful vows

To Him, the Almighty Pow'r, by whofe decree
She reigns, and ftill fhall reign, fole emprefs of the fea.

ODE for his Majefty's Birth-Day. By the fame.
TILL o'er the deep does Britain reign,
Her monarch ftill the trident bears:
Vain-glorious France, deluded Spain,
Have found their boafted efforts vain;

Vain as the fleeting fhades when orient light appears.

As the young eagle to the blaze of day

Undazzled, and undaunted turns his eyes;

So unappall'd, where glory led the way,

'Midit ftorms of war, 'midt mingling feas and skies,

The genuine offspring of the Brunswick name

Prov'd his high birth's hereditary claim,

And the applauding nation hail'd for joy
Their future hero in the intrepid boy.

Prophetic as the flames that spread
Round the young lulus' head,

Be that bleft omen of fuccefs; the Mufe
Catches thence ecftatic views,

Sees new laurels nobly won,
As the circling year rolls on.

Sees that triumphs of its own

Each diftinguish'd month fhall crown;

And ere this fellive day again

Returns to take the grateful strain,
Sees all that holt of foes,

Both to her glory and repofe,

Bend their proud necks beneath Britannia's yoke,

And court that peace which their injustice broke.

Still o'er the deep shall Britain reign,
Her monarch fill the trident bear;
The warring world is leagu'd in vain.
To conquer thofe who know not fear.

Grafp'd be the fpear by ev'ry hand,
Let ev'ry heart united glow;
Collected, like the Theban band,
Can Britain dread a foe?

No,

No, o'er the deep fhe ftill fhall reign,
Her monarch ftill the trident bear;
The warring world is leagu'd in vain

To conquer those who know not fear.

From an Elegy on the Death of Capt. Coox, by Mifs Seward.

YE

E, who ere while for Cook's illuftrious brow
Pluck'd the green laurel, and the oaken bough,
Hung the gay garlands on the trophied oars,
And pour'd his fame along a thousand shores,
Strike the flow death-bell! weave the facred verse,
And ftrew the cyprefs o'er his honour'd hearfe;
In fad proceffion wander round the shrine,
And weep him mortal, whom ye fung divine!
Say firft, what Pow'r infpir'd his dauntless breast
With fcorn of danger, and inglorious reft,
To quit imperial London's gorgeous plains,

Where, rob'd in thousand tints, bright Pleasure reigns;
In cups of fummer-ice her nectar pours,

And twines, 'mid wintry fnows, her roseate bow'rs?
Where Beauty moves with undulating grace,
Calls the fweet blush to wanton o'er her face,
On each fond Youth her soft artillery tries,
Aims her light fmile, and rolls her frolic eyes?
What Pow'r infpir'd his dauntless breast to brave
The fcorch'd Equator, and th' Antarctic wave!
Climes, where fierce funs with cloudlefs ardour fhine,
And pour the dazzling deluge round the Line;
The realms of froft, where icy mountains rise,
'Mid the pale fummer of the polar skies?
IT WAS HUMANITY!-on coafts unknown,
The fhiv'ring natives of the frozen zone,
And the fwart Indian, as he faintly strays
"Where Cancer reddens in the folar blaze,"
She bade him feek;-on each inclement shore
Plant the rich feeds of her exhaustless store,
Unite the favage hearts, and hoftile hands,
In the firm compact of her gentle bands;
Strew her foft comforts o'er the barren plain,
Sing her fweet lays, and confecrate her fane.

IT WAS HUMANITY!-O Nymph divine!
I fee thy light step print the burning Line!
There thy bright eye the dubious pilot guides,
The faint oar ftruggling with the fcalding tides.
On as thou lead'it the bold, the glorious prow,
Mild, and more mild, the floping fun-beams glow;

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Now weak and pale the leffen'd luftres play,
As round th' horizon rolls the timid day;
Barb'd with the fleeted fnow, the driving hail,
Rush the fierce arrows of the polar gale;
And thro' the dim, unvaried, ling'ring hours,
Wide o'er the waves incumbent horror low'rs.

And now antarctic Zealand's drear domain
Frowns, and o'erhangs th' inhofpitable main.
On it's chill beach this dove of human kind
For his long-wandering foot short reft shall find,
Bear to the coast the * olive-branch in vain,
And quit on wearied wing the hoftile plain-
With jealous low'r the frowning natives view
The ftately veffel, and th' advent'rous crew;
Nor fear the brave, nor emulate the good,
But fcowl with favage thirst of human blood!

And yet there were, who in this iron clime
Soar'd o'er the herd on Virtue's wing fublime:
Rever'd the ftranger-gueft, and fmiling ftrove
To foothe his ftay with hofpitable love;
Fann'd in full confidence the friendly flame,
Join'd plighted hands, and † name exchang'd for name.
To there the hero leads this living store,
And pours new wonders on th' uncultur'd fhore;
The filky fleece, fair fruit, and golden grain;
And future herds and harvels bless the plain.
O'er the green foil his Kids exulting play,
And founds his clarion loud the Bird of day;
The downy Goose her ruffled bofom laves,
Trims her white wing, and wantons in the waves;
Stern moves the Bull along th' affrighted shores,
And countlefs nations tremble as he roars.

Now the warm folitice o'er the fhining bay,
Darts from the north its mild meridian ray:
Again the Chief invokes the rifing gale,
And spreads again in defart feas the fail;

* The olive-branch." To carry a green branch in the hand on landing, is a pacific fignal, univerfally understood by all the iflanders in the South Seas,"

↑ And name exchang'd.The exchange of names is a pledge of amity among thefe iflanders, and was frequently propofed by them to Captain Cook and his people; fo alfo is the joining nofes.

His living fore.-Captain Cook left various kinds of animals upon this coaft, together with garden-feeds, &c. The Zealanders had hitherto fubfifted upon fish, and fuch coarfe vegetables as their climate produced; and this want of better provifions, it is fuppofed, induced them to the horrid practice of eating human flesh.

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O'er dangerous fhoals his fteady fteerage keeps,
O'er walls of coral, ambush'd in the deeps;
Strong Labour's hands the crackling cordage twine,
And fleepless Patience heaves the founding line.

Εις οιωνος αριςος αμύνεσθαι περι παίξης.

On the Love of our Country. Spoken in the Theatre as the Prize Poem at Oxford, 1772. By the Rev. Christopher Butfon.

E fouls illuftrious, who in days of yore

YE

With peerlefs might the British target bore,
Who clad in wolf-skin from the fcythed car,
Frown'd on the iron brow of mailed war,
And dar'd your rudely-painted limbs oppofe
To Chalybean fteel and Roman foes!

And ye of later age, tho' not less fame
In Tilt and Tournament, the princely game
Of Arthur's barons, wont by hardieft fport
To claim the fairest guerdon of the court;
Say, holy Shades, did e'er your generous blood
Roll thro' your faithful fons in nobler flood,
Than late, when George bade gird on every thigh
The myrtle-braided sword of liberty?

Say, when the high-born Druids magic ftrain.
Rous'd on old Mona's top a female train
To Madness, and with more than mortal rage
Bade them, like furies, in the fight engage,
Frantic when each unbound her briftling hair,

And fhook a flaming torch, and yell'd in wild despair;
Or when on Crefy's field the fable might
Of Edvard dar'd four monarchs to the fight;

Say, holy Shades, did patriotic heat

In your big hearts with quicker transports beat;

Than in your fons, when forth, like ftorms, they pour'd

In Freedom's caufe the fury of the fword;

Who rul'd the main, or gallant armies led,

With Hawke, who conquer'd, or with Wolfe, who bled?
Poor is his triumph, and difgrac'd his name,

Who draws the fword for empire, wealth, or fame;

Walls of coral.-The coral rocks are defcribed as rifing perpendicularly from the greatest depths of the ocean, infomuch that the founding-line could not reach their bottom; and yet they were but just covered with water.These rocks are now found to be fabricated by fea-infects.

+ And fleepless Patience.-"We had now paffed feveral months with a man constantly in the chains heaving the lead." 0 3

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