Still through the realms of Europe far around

Still through the realms of Europe far around Echoes the martial trump, the Battle’s sound: There many a nation, now subdued and broke, In sullen silence wears the Tyrant’s yoke: There the fierce Victor waves his sword, and there Stalks amid ruin, and the waste of war: And, where he bids the din of arms to cease, He calls the silent desolation—peace.

Yet what his prize of glory? What the gain Of his wide conquest, of his thousands slain?— His guilty seat on thrones subverted stands; His trophies are the spoil of injured lands: For his dark brow no comely wreath is twined, But iron crowns and blood-stain’d laurels bind.

Far other objects here around us rise, The monuments of nobler victories. This splendid dome, yon goodly piles behold, This favour’d ground adorning, which of old Our first great Chief, a patriot Hero, chose “For Learning’s triumph o’er her barbarous foes:” These are her honourable trophies; here No spoils of plunder’d provinces appear. Our hallow’d fanes, our lofty spires, were built By pure and bounteous hands unsoil’d with guilt. Pure also was the source: the bounty springs From holy Prelates, from religious Kings; Who in the peaceful walks of life pursued Their godlike occupation, doing good; And taught us, careless of a transient fame, Like them to seek a worthier meed, and claim Th’ immortal recompense that Heaven decrees For charitable toils, and generous works of peace.

Is there, who nurtured in this happy seat, Still loves the Mansion, Learning’s choice retreat?— Who yet these groves will honour, where his youth Was early train’d to Virtue and to Truth;— Who liberal arts and useful Science wooes, And by the Muse beloved, protects the Muse; Whose patient labour and unabated zeal Pursues that nobles tend, his Country’s Weal;— Watchful, and resolute in her defence With counsel sage, and manly eloquence?— For Him fair Fame her clearest voice shall raise Till her high trumpet labours in his praise. He ’bove the Conqueror’s name shall be renown’d, Him Glory still shall follow, and around Laurels unstain’d, unfading palms, shall spread, Such as are now prepared for GRENVILLE’S honour’d head.

The iron crown of Italy.

Johnson’s Prologue, spoken at the opening of Drury-Lane, 1747.