Return from Gibraltar, in 1787

With grateful welcome, with triumphant praise, Thy honour’d Chief, O rescued Britain, meet! Whose dauntless prowess, in resplendent rays, Shone on the darkness of thy long defeat; Gave thee, on thy silvery shores, While Peace the civic crown restores, Beneath her train of joys again to shine, As loss had ne’er chastis’d, oppression ne’er been thine.

Think, Britannia, think how late, Around thy pale unshelter’d head, To blast thy gloomy pride, avenging fate Unequal war’s disastrous terrors spread; While thy torn trophies, drench’d in blood, She scatter’d o’er the western flood, That the provincial standard high she rais’d, By Gallia’s lilies deck’d, by Spain’s proud crest emblaz’d.

That thy vain foes, elated to behold The long INVINCIBLE at last subdued Their tide of conquest to that fortress roll’d, By sullen Spain with dread and envy view’d. See! in united strength and pride, At Calpe’s base their navies ride, Hurl up its steeps the thunders of their power, That burst the social roof, and rend the warrior tower!

Crest-fall’n Britain, where were then The rumours of thy matchless might? And where had been the empress of the main, Had skill and valour risen a common height? No common height those bulwarks rose, When ELIOTT lighten’d on thy foes, Wing’d his red bolts, that wrapp’d their fleets in flame, Resistless as his sword, and glowing as his fame!

Mark the invading host, elate no more! Recoiling pause between a choice so dire! Alike they hear the British lion roar In the o’erwhelming flood, and raging fire! Groaning they plunge!—in wild despair, With raiment scorch’d, and blazing hair! The billows, closing o’er their struggling frames, Are purpled by the gore, illumin’d by the flames!

Warm in virtue’s native glow, Heroic ELIOTT’S great ally, His valiant CURTIS, bending o’er the prow, With all the twice-bless’d angel in his eye, Commands to push his conquering oars, Where most the fiery torrent pours; The victims from their instant fate to save, And snatch them back to life, from the devouring wave.

O Britain!—O my country! then ‘twas thine T’ emerge from ev’ry cloud that veil’d thy light! In all the splendour of that worth to shine, Which erst, with ray peculiar, deck’d thy might; What time, amidst thy vanquish’d foes, Thy name with added lustre rose, For that thy precepts to thy sons impart, With the undaunted soul, the generous melting heart.

High thy martial influence soar’d, On Belgian plains when Gallic gore, In Freedom’s cause, intrepid Marlborough pour’d; And white for England, the eventful hour, Beneath the royal William’s sword, When gaunt rebellion grimly cower’d, When, of her scorpion stings disarm’d, she fled, In Scotia’s desert caves to hide her recreant head.

Nor sacred less the youthful warrior’s fame, Dear-bought Quebec! upon thy plains beheld, Who fall’n and bleeding—at the loud acclaim That hail’d Britannia mistress of the field; That bade her crimson standard rise Victorious in the echoing skies, Lifts the pale eye, a gleam of transport fires, And, smiling on his wounds, triumphantly expires!

Palms unfading round their urn Let their favour’d country strew! Since to the lavish wreaths she long had worn, They brought new laurels of enduring glow; To ELIOTT, more indebted, raise In higher tone, the notes of praise, Who hid, in glory’s blaze, her livid stain, Impress’d by rash attempts, irresolute and vain.

So when the wintry tempest’s baleful powers Have risen a vernal day-spring to deform, If the all-cheering sun, at evening hours, Throws back the sable curtains of the storm, Green hills, and gilded mountains gay, In dewy brightness meet his ray; Creation kindles, as its lustre flows, Till, in a soften’d night, he leaves her to repose.

Fruitful as the ensuing morn, When smiling May with zephyr sports, The graceful arts Britannia’s dome adorn, And floats her Commerce to the distant ports. To thee, brave ELIOTT! well she knows Their mild prosperity she owes; Since awful honour must his beams unveil, Ere full the arts can bloom, or Commerce widely sail.

A meaner mind, such signal conquest gain’d, Had rush’d to meet its country’s pæans warm; But ELIOTT, calm, through circling years, remain’d Beneath the Rock, defended by his arm; Her shatter’d ramparts to restore, And firm through ages bid them tower; That from her brow the British flag may stream, To proud Iberia’s gales in majesty supreme.

Not the trophies, not the strains Of transport, on his Albion’s shore, When ELIOTT’S deeds rung thro’ her vaulted fanes, The acknowledg’d bulwarks of her falling power, Could lure, with all that joy prepares, The hero from his guardian cares; No praise, no meed, no trophy he desir’d, Save that which conscious worth, in all its glow, inspired.

His toils accomplish’d, to his native clime, In unassuming greatness, lo! he comes!— And can it be, that the elapse of time The sacred sense of gratitude consumes? No, Britain, no!—thy raptur’d gaze, Thy fairest meed, thy warmest lays, Shall chase the doubt, and shame the injurious fear, In thy resounding ports when ELIOTT’S sails appear

May the blessings that await Honour on the lap of Peace, Illustrious soldier! mark thy future fate, Bloom like thy virtues, with thy years increase! Long may’st thou, benignly, see Britannia, generous, brave, and free, Wide o’er the world, as in her laurel’d prime, Dart the commanding glance, and lift the brow sublime!