Odes, Ode IX

O, thou, my lov'd, my latest Choice! To whom my riper Vows are paid! Though thoughtless of thy heav'nly Voice, I first the plaintive Strain essay'd; Be thou, O, Fame! my sweetest, best Reward, And crown with deathless Bays thy raptur'd Bard.

Awhile, by Sappho's Numbers fir'd, I touch'd the languid, Lesbian String; But now by thee arrous'd, inspir'd, Of nobler Themes I burn to sing; Of godlike Britain's Liberty and Laws, And Heroes bleeding in her beauteous Cause.

So wanders wild the gen'rous Steed, In wanton Youth, of Ease possest; Serene he crops the flow'ry Mead, No thought of Glory fires his Breast: But when he hears the Trumpet's Sound from far, His Soul dilates, and swelling, pants for War.

O, beauteous Liberty! for thee The Rhine's unhappy Exiles roam, Forc'd by a Tyrant's hard Decree, To quit their dear paternal Home: By thee Helvetia's barren Mountains smile, Nor envy fair Campania's fruitful Soil.

Nor be my weaker Sex deny'd To breathe the glorious Patriot Strain; Since we can boast, with pleasing Pride, The Virgin Queen's triumphant Reign: When Tyranny forsook th'enfranchis'd Land, And Freedom rose beneath a female Hand.

With Freedom rose her genuine Train, The Statesman wise, the letter'd Sage, The laurel'd Bard, the Chieftain plain, And own'd a new Augustan Age: Around the great Eliza's dreaded Throne, Victorious Essex, Drake, and Raleigh, shone.

Then blameless Walsingham arose, At once his Queen's and Country's Friend, Skill'd to discern their lurking Foes, And from the secret Dart defend: And deathless Bacon's comprehensive Soul, Of boundless Science grasp'd th'amazing whole.

But see, to guide the golden Reins Of Empire, mighty Burghley rise! He pours forth Plenty o'er the Plains; Calm, steady, uncorrupted, wise: O, sacred Shade! accept the grateful Lay, Each British Voice must to thy Virtues pay.

Then too, the favor'd Muses smil'd; And sporting on the Banks of Thame, Strong-fancy'd Spencer, Shakespear wild, And Sydney, hail'd Eliza's Name: Then manly Johnson's justly pictur'd Page, And humorous Fletcher's shook the laughing Stage.

O, might those glorious Days return! Wou'd Statesmen, fir'd by Burghley's Name, With ancient British Ardor burn, Scorn selfish Views, and pant for Fame! Again our conquering Arms shou'd Gallia weep, And Albion reign triumphant o'er the Deep.

Prophetic, Lo! my raptur'd Mind Beholds as rolling Minutes move, A Patriot-Monarch, who shall find His Safety in his People's Love: Unbrib'd, around, his grateful Subjects stand, While base Corruption blushing leaves the Land.

Then o'er Britannia's beauteous Isle Shall Peace and Arts together rise; Encourag'd by the royal Smile, Shall future Homers reach the Skies: Each modest Muse shall raise her drooping Head, Nor pine, neglected, in the barren Shade.

But, whither, fir'd, wou'd Fancy rove, And soaring, dare the lofty Theme? Me best beseems, amid the Grove, To paint the Mead, or murmuring Stream: There let me warble still my artless Lays, Too blest in beauteous Cecil's gen'rous Praise.