Melody V. on the Military Preparations MDCCLXXIX

The kingly oaks whose lofty crest The wrath of every storm defies, Of genial Spring the glad supplies To guard their lustre crave: So they whom Honour's crown hath blest Require the Muse's sacred rain, From Time, from Envy's hateful train Their ancient state to save.

When first the chiefs Of Albion led Their legions to the Gallic shore, The patriot flame Informed each breast: That flame, alas, appears no more. Such is the baleful power Corruption, idol vile! of thy destroying shower.

O lasting shame To every son Of whom the gallant Edward led, When Cressy's field Saw Conquest crown With chaplet bright his helmed head! When wounded by Despair The Gallic Genius fled and sought his native air.

A breast of diamond serene and strong Was thine, of mighty sire thou mightier son; All regal merits did to thee belong, Chief of the sable mail! that grace a throne. As from a storm the golden sun displays His awful pomp in his meridian tower; O greater than thy fame! such seemed thy power, When o'er the vales of Poitiers at thy blaze The lilied legions fled with wild amaze.

Ye fays that rove The moon loved mead Where Seine extends his flowery stream, What wonder thrilled Your little breasts To see the British symbols beam Along your haunted shore; Where seldom hostile foot had dared to pace before.

For vain was art, For numbers vain To stay heroic Henry's course. Witness ye plains Of Azincour Yet red with signals of his force! Nor force his sole renown, For gems of every virtue decked his warlike crown.

And thou, perfidious Spain, yet darest engage The sons of them who laid thy glory low What time Eliza swayed her happier age; An age when valour still was vice's foe! With adverse sails tho' dark was all the main, Yet did the chiefs their steady honour hold: But Liberty, to guard her favoured reign, With power invisible her foes controlled, And bad her own dread storms their pomp enfold.

When Cromwell steered The golden helm Of empire he unjustly won, Before his name The Gallic king Sat trembling on his painted throne: Nor less when from afar The lord of Blenheim rolled the purple tide of war.

Still, still the fires Of British fame Beneath their silent embers live. They but demand Some happy gale Their ancient fervors to revive: Else whence of Wolfe the fate, That wild Canada's lakes and Albion's hills repeat?

O then ye line of warlike sires awake! Ye British youth awake to ancient praise. Your souls let generous emulation take, To hide your fathers light with brighter rays. The wretched path of luxury forego, The wretched path that ever leads to shame. With patriot heat bid ever bosom glow: From Hazard's hand the wreath of Glory claim, True to your birth and to your country's fame.

Thus hath the Muse with feeble skill Her temple to Renown prepared; And many a solemn statue reared, The radiant space to crown. Blest did her power attend her will: Did Britons as they gaze aspire To imitate the godlike choir, And make their praise their own.