The birth-day Ode

WHEN Othbert left th' Italian plain, And soft Ateste's green domain Attendant on Imperial sway Where Fame and Otho led the way, The Genius of the Julian hills (Whose piny summits nod with snow, Whose Naiads pour their thousands rills To swell th' exulting Po) An eager look prophetic call. And hail'd the Hero as he pass'd. Hail, all hail, the woods reply'd. And Echo on her airy tide Roll'd the long murmurs down the mountain's side.

II.

The voice resum'd again. Proceed, Nor cast one ling'ring look behind; By those who toil for virtue's meed Be every softer thought resign'd; Nor social home, nor genial air. Nor glowing suns are worth thy care; New realms await thee in a harsher sky. Thee, and thy chosen race from Azo's nuptial tie.

III.

'Tis Glory wakes; her active flame Nor time shall quench, nor danger tame. Nor Boia's amplest range confine. Tho' Guelpho reigns, the Guelphic line. Yon Northern Star, which dimly gleams Athwart the twilight veil of eve, Must point their path to distant streams. And many a wreath shall Vict'ry weave. And many a palm shall Fame display To grace the warriors on their way. Till regions bow to their commands Where Albis widens thro' the lands. And vast Visurgis spreads his golden sands.

IV.

Nor rest they there. Yon guiding fire Still shines aloft, and gilds the main! Not Lion Henry's soft desire To grasp th' Italian realms again, Nor warring winds, nor wintry Teas Shall stop the progress Fate decrees: For lo! Britannia calls, to happier coasts. And vales more verdant far than soft Ateste boasts!

V.

Behold, with euphrasy I clear, Thy visual nerve, and fix it there. Where, crown'd with rocks grotesque and steep, The White Isle rises o'er the deep! There Glory rests. For there arrive Thy chosen sons; and there attain To the first title Fate can give. The father Kings of free-born men! Proceed. Rejoice. Descend the vale. And bid the future monarchs hail ! Hail, all hail, the Hero cry'd. And Echo on her airy tide Pursu'd him murmuring down the mountain's side.

VI.

'Twas thus, O King, to Heroes old The mountains breath'd the strain divine, 'Ere yet her volumes Fame unroll'd To trace the wonders of thy line; 'Ere Freedom yet on Ocean's breast Had northward fix'd the halcyon nest; Or Albion's oaks descending to the main. Had roll'd her thunders wide, and claim'd the watry reign.

VII.

But now each Briton's glowing tongue. Proclaims the truths the Genius sung; On Brunswick's name with rapture dwells. And hark, the gen'rous Chorus swells! "May years and happy years roll o'er, 'Till glory close the shining page. And our ill-fated sons deplore The shortness of a Nestor's age! Hail, all hail, on Albion's plains The friend of man and freedom reigns! Echo waft the triumph round, 'Till Gallia's utmost shores rebound, And all her bulwarks tremble at the sound."