POETRY.

ODE for the NEW YEAR, 1803.

By HENRY JAMES PYE, Esq. Poet-Laureat.

HOUGH the tempestuous winds no more

THOUS

The main with angry pinion sweep,

Though raging 'gainst the sounding shore,
No longer howl th' impetuous seas;
But sooth'd to rest, the billows sleep,
Save where soft zephyr's tepid breeze
Fans with its silken wing the rippling deep;
Yet still with unremitting eye

The pilot marks th' uncertain sky,
The seaman watches still the gale,

Prompt or to spread or furl the sail,

Mindful of many a danger past,

Tost by the turbid wave, check'd by the adverse blast.

Not keen Suspicion's jealous glance,

Not fierce Contention's feverish rage,

Shall bid Britannia point the lance

New realms to grasp, new wars to wage.

In conscious rectitude elate,

In conscious power securely great,
While she beholds the dangerous tide
Of Battle's crimson wave subside,
Though firm she stands in act to dare
The storms of renovated war,
Her ready sword, her lifted shield,

Provoke not the ensanguin'd field,

More than the wary pilot's cautions urge

The wind's tempestuous strife, or swell the foaming surge,

O from our shores be exil'd far

Ambition's wild and restless crew,

Who through the bleeding paths of war,
False Glory's dæmon form pursue;

Whose burning thirst, still unsubdu'd
By deluges of guiltless blood,

Glares on the regions round with fiend-like eyes,
While scarce a vanquish'd world its wish supplies;
Yet ne'er may Sloth's inglorious charm
Unnerve the manly Briton's arm,

Nor Sophistry's insidious art

E'er lull the manly Briton's heart.
May Reace, with Plenty by her side,
Long, long o'er Albion's fields preside!
Long may her breath, with placid gale,
Of Commerce swell the happy sail;
But, rous'd in Justice' sacred cause,
Insulted rights, or violated laws,
Still may her sons with fierce delight
Flame in the gleamy van of fight,
Spread o'er the tented plain, or brave
With warlike prow the hostile wave;
And on each firm ingenuous breast
Be this eternal truth impress'd,

Peace only sheds perennial joys on those

Who guard with dauntless arm the blessings Peace bestows.

ODE for His Majesty's BIRTH-DAY, 1803. By the Same.

RITAIN, alas! has woo'd in vain,

BR

Reluctant Peace, thy placid charms;

Compell'd, she treads once more th' ensanguin'd plain,
Where Fame, where Freedom call aloud for arms.
Yet be awhile the battle's sound

In notes of festive triumph drown'd:
Whether the fiends of Discord fly
Portentous through the fiery sky,
Or, bound in Fate's coercive chain,
Howl 'mid th' infernal seats in vain ;

On this auspicious day the Muse,

Jocund, with graceful voice, her wonted theme pursues.

Amid the boast of tyrant pride,

The pomp of state, the arm'd array,

Can all the shouts of slav'ry hide

That slaves unwilling homage pay?

No force can shield Ambition's head

From noontide care, from midnight dread,
When the still monitor within

Searches th' abode of blood and sin:

While he who rules with virtuous sway,
Whom freemen glory to obey,

Sees ev'ry breast the bulwark of a throne,

His people's surest guard, its sacred rights their own.
Then let the Muse, with duteous hand,

Strike the bold lyre's responsive strings,
While ev'ry tongue through Albion's land
Joins in the hymn of praise she sings;
And Labour, from the furrow'd plain,
And Commerce, from the billowy main,
With voice symphonious bid arise
That purest incense to the skies,
Above the proudest wreath of fame,
Which ever grac'd the victor's name,

A nation's votive breath by truth consign'd
To bless a patriot King-the friend of human kind.

NATIONAL ADDRESS,

Written by Sir JAMES BLAND BURGESS,

And spoken by Mr. RAYMOND, previous to the Performance of the Tragedy of "Edward, the Black Prince," at Drury Lane Theatre, on Thursday, October 27, 1803.

To charm, instruct, and dignify the age,

Was long th' acknowledg'd province of the stage,

When the free Muse, by fashion undebas'd,
Through Nature's range her great examples trac'd,
Rescu'd Desert from all-subduing Time,

Stamp'd Worth with glory, with dishonour Crime;
And, unseduc'd from Virtue's sacred laws,
Disdain'd by ribaldry to seek applause.

Such were the themes which once true Genius fir'd,
Which Britain's sons with patriot zeal inspir'd;
When, as their fathers' valour was rehears'd,
O'er every soul congenial ardour burst;

And, while they crown'd the band with just applause,
They grew enthusiasts in their country's cause.

Such are the themes which now attention claim,
The field of Poitiers, and young EDWARD'S fame!
When England's harass'd, but determin'd host,
Uncheck'd by toils, unaw'd by Gallia's boast,
The shock of countless multitudes withstood,
When, as each sword was dy'd in host"

Tood,

England's

England's triumphant Genius soar'd on high,
And led her daring bands to victory.

Since, ere the recent wounds of War are heal'd,
Gallia's stern tyrant dares us to the field,
Let this proud record ev'ry feeling nerve,
And teach us new distinctions to deserve,
While Cressy, Poitiers, Agincourt, proclaim
Our ancient prowess, and our Foeman's shame;
Acre, Lincelles, and Egypt's blood-stain'd plain,
Prove, in their sons, their virtues bloom again.
When, fairly pitted in the tented field,
To Gallic force did British valour yield?
When, if your gallant tars they dare to face,
Did Conquest's meed their puny efforts grace?
And shall we now, though on their adverse coast
Drawn out, in arms appears their savage host,
Enflam'd by vengeance, avarice, hate, and lust,
Shall we our own resources dread to trust?
No! while our hands the patriot-sword can rear,
While every Briton is a Volunteer,

We'll circle round our altars and our throne,
And prove our fathers' virtues are our own.
Like them our hearts with honest zeal expand,
We love, and can defend our native land;
Like their's, our MONARCH is his people's friend;
He too has Sons our Island to defend;
And, whether on the coasts of faithless France,
To check a despot's rage, our hosts advance;
Or, our own laws and liberties to save,

On England's shores his mad attack we brave.
Let us our great forefathers' worth recall,

Resolv'd to triumph, or like men to fall.

OCCASIONAL ADDRESS TO THE VOLUNTEERS,

Written by WILLIAM BOSCAWEN, Esq

Spoken by Mr. C. KEMBLE, at the Theatre Royal, Covent Garden, on Friday, 25th November, 1803, after the Performance of the Play of "King Henry the Fifth," for the Benefit of the Patriotic Fund.

IN Spartan bands to wake heroic fire,

Renown'd TYRTEUS strung his martial lyre;
TYRTAUS, lame and weak, unskill'd to wield
The flying spear, or grasp the ponderous shield;
Nor by experience taught in just array

To form the files, and guide the doubtful fray;