To the King.—1728.
Old ocean's praise
Demands my lays;
A truly British theme I sing;
A theme so great,
I dare complete,
And join with ocean, ocean's king.
The Roman ode
Majestic flow'd:
Its stream divinely clear, and strong;
In sense, and sound,
Thebes roll'd profound;
The torrent roar'd and foam'd along.
Let Thebes, nor Rome,
So fam'd, presume
To triumph o'er a northern isle;
Late time shall know
The north can glow,
If dread Augustus deign to smile.
The naval crown
Is all his own!
Our fleet, if war, or commerce, call,
His will performs
Through waves and storms,
And rides in triumph round the ball.
No former race,
With strong embrace,
This theme to ravish durst aspire;
With virgin charms
My soul it warms,
And melts melodious on my lyre.
My lays I file
With cautious toil;
Ye graces! turn the glowing lines;
On anvils neat
Your strokes repeat;
At every stroke the work refines!
How music charms!
How metre warms!
Parent of actions, good and brave!
How vice it tames!
And worth inflames!
And holds proud empire o'er the grave!
Jove mark'd for man
A scanty span,
But lent him wings to fly his doom;
Wit scorns the grave;
To wit he gave
The life of gods! immortal bloom!
Since years will fly,
And pleasures die,
Day after day, as years advance;
Since, while life lasts,
Joy suffers blasts
From frowning fate, and fickle chance;
Nor life is long;
But soon we throng,
Like autumn leaves, death's pallid shore;
We make, at least,
Of bad the best,
If in life's phantom, fame, we soar.
Our strains divide
The laurel's pride;
With those we lift to life, to live;
By fame enroll'd
With heroes bold,
And share the blessings which we give.
What hero's praise
Can fire my lays,
Like his, with whom my lay begun?
"Justice sincere,
And courage clear,
Rise the two columns of his throne.
"How form'd for sway!
Who look, obey;
They read the monarch in his port:
Their love and awe
Supply the law;
And his own lustre makes the court:"
On yonder height,
What golden light
Triumphant shines? and shines alone?
Unrivall'd blaze!
The nations gaze!
'Tis not the sun; 'tis Britain's throne.
Our monarch, there,
Rear'd high in air,
Should tempests rise, disdains to bend;
Like British oak,
Derides the stroke;
His blooming honours far extend!
Beneath them lies,
With lifted eyes,
Fair Albion, like an amorous maid;
While interest wings
Bold foreign kings
To fly, like eagles, to his shade.
At his proud foot
The sea, pour'd out,
Immortal nourishment supplies;
Thence wealth and state,
And power and fate,
Which Europe reads in George's eyes.
From what we view,
We take the clue,
Which leads from great to greater thing
Men doubt no more,
But gods adore,
When such resemblance shines in kings.