IV.
Anewgh! anewgh! noo haud your haund!
And stint your spowrts awce:
Ken ye, whare clad in eastlan spoils sa brave,
O’ersheenan aw the lave;
He comes, he comes!
Aw hail! thoo Laird of pagodas and lacks!
Weel could I tell of aw thy mighty awks;
Fain wad my peipe, its loudest note,
My tongue, its wunsome poo’rs, devote,
To gratitude and thee;
To thee, the sweetest o’ thy ain parfooms,
Orixa’s preide sud blaze
On thee, thy gems of purest rays;
Back fra’ this saund, their genuine feires sud shed,
And Rumbold’s Crawdle vie wuth Hasting’s Bed.
But heev’n betook us weil! and keep us weise!
Leike thunder, burstan at thy dreed command!
“Keep, keep thy tongue,” a warlock cries,
And waves his gowden wand.
V.
Noo, laddies! gi’ your baugpipes breeth again;
Blaw the loo’d, but solemn, strain:
Thus wheil I hail with heart-felt pleasure,
In mejesty sedate,
In pride elate,
The smuith cheeks Laird of aw the treasure;
Onward he stalks in froonan state;
Na fuilish smiles his broos unbend,
Na wull he bleithsome luik on aw the lasses lend.
Hail to ye, lesser Lairds! of mickle wit;
Hail to ye aw, wha in weise council sit,
Fra’ Tommy Toonsend up to Wully Pitt!
Weel faur your heeds! but noo na mair
To ye maun I the sang confeine:
To nobler fleights the muse expands her wing.
’Tis he, whose eyne and wit sa breightly sheine,
’Tis GEOURGE demands her care;
Breetons! boo down your heed, and hail your King!
See! where with Atlantean shoulder,
Amazing each beholder,
Beneath a tott’ring empire’s weight.
Full six feet high he stands, and therefore—great!
VI.
Come then, aw ye POO’rs of vairse!
Gi’ me great GEOURGE’s glories to rehearse;
And as I chaunt his kingly awks,
The list’nan warld fra me sall lairn
Hoo swuft he rides, hoo slow he walks,
And weel he gets his Queen wi’ bairn.
Give me, with all a Laureat’s art to jumble,
Thoughts that soothe, and words that rumble!
Wisdom and Empire, Brunswick’s Royal line;
Fame, Honour, Glory, Majesty divine!
Thus, crooned by his lib’ral hand.
Give me to lead the choral band;
Then, in high-sounding words, and grand,
Aft sail peipe swell with his princely name,
And this eternal truth proclaim:
’Tis GEOURGE, Imperial GEOURGE, who rules BRITANNIA’s land!
NUMBER XIV.
ODE,
By DR. JOSEPH WARTON, In humble Imitation of BROTHER THOMAS.
O! For the breathings of the Doric ote!
O! for the warblings of the Lesbian lyre!
O! for the Alcean trump’s terrific note!
O! for the Theban eagle’s wing of fire!
O! for each stop and string that swells th’ Aonian quire!
Then should this hallow’d day in worthy strains be sung,
And with due laurel wreaths thy cradle, Brunswick, hung!
But tho’ uncouth my numbers flow
—From a rude reed,—
That drank the dew of Isis’ lowly mead,
And wild pipe, fashion’d from the embatted sedge
Which on the twilight edge
Of my own Cherwell loves to grow:
The god-like theme alone
Should bear me on its tow’ring wing;
Bear me undaunted to the throne,
To view with fix’d and stedfast eye
—The delegated majesty
Of heav’ns dread lord, and what I see to sing.
Like heaven’s dread lord, great George his voice can raise,
From babes and suckling’s mouths to hymn his perfect praise,
In poesy’s trim rhymes and high resounding phrase.
Hence, avaunt! ye savage train,
That drench the earth and dye the main
With the tides of hostle gore:
Who joy in war’s terrific charms,
To see the steely gleam of arms,
And hear the cannon’s roar;
Unknown the god-like virtue how to yield,
To Cressy’s or to Blenheim’s deathful field;
Begone, and sate your Pagan thirst of blood;
Edward, fell homicide, awaits you there,
And Anna’s hero, both unskill’d to spare
Whene’er the foe their slaught’ring sword withstood.
The pious George to white-staled peace alone
His olive sceptre yields, and palm-encircled throne.
Or if his high degree
On the perturbed sea
The bloody flag unfurls;
Or o’er the embattl’d plain
Ranges the martial train;
On other heads his bolts he hurls.
Haughty subjects, wail and weep,
Your angry master ploughs the deep.
Haughty subjects, swol’n with pride,
Tremble at his vengeful stride.
While the regal command
Desp’rate ye withstand,
He bares his red right hand.
As when Eloim’s pow’r,
In Judah’s rebel hour,
Let fall the fiery show’r
That o’er her parch’d hills desolation spread,
And heap’d her vales with mountains of the dead.
O’er Schuylkill’s cliffs the tempest roars;
O’er Rappahanock’s recreant shores;
Up the rough rocks of Kipps’s-bay;
The huge Anspachar wins his way;
Or scares the falcon from the fir-cap’d side
Of each high hill that hangs o’er Hudson’s haughty tide.
Matchless victor, mighty lord!
Sheath the devouring sword!
Strong to punish, mild to save,
Close the portals of the grave,
Exert thy first prerogative,
Ah! spare thy subject’s blood, and let them live;
Our tributary breath,
Hangs on thine for life or death.
Sweet is the balmy breath of orient morn,
Sweet are the horned treasures of the bee;
Sweet is the fragrance of the scented thorn,
But sweeter yet the voice of royal clemency.
He hears, and from his wisdom’s perfect day
He sends a bright effulgent ray,
The nations to illumine far and wide,
And feud and discord, war and strife, subside.
His moral sages, all unknown t’untie
The wily rage of human policy,
Their equal compasses expand,
And mete the globe with philosophic hand.
No partial love of country binds
In selfish chains the lib’ral minds,
O gentle Lansdown! ting’d with thy philanthropy,
Let other monarchs vainly boast
A lengthen’d line of conquer’d coast,
Or boundless sea of tributary flood,
Bought by as wide a sea of blood——
Brunswick, in more saint-like guise
Claims for his spoils a purer prize,
Content at every price to buy
A conquest o’er himself, and o’er his progeny.
His be domestic glory’s radient calm——
His be the sceptre wreath’d with many a palm——
His be the throne with peaceful emblems hung,
And mine die laurel’d lyre, to those mild conquests strung!
NUMBER XV.
PINDARIC,
By the RIGHT HON. HERVEY REDMOND, LORD VISCOUNT MOUNTMORRES, Of Castle Morres, of the Kingdom of Ireland, &c. &c.