To the same notes, of love, and soft desire :
Fair Geraldine, bright object of his vow,
Then filled the groves, as heavenly Mira now.1
Oh wouldst thou sing what heroes Windsor bore,
What kings first breathed upon her winding shore, 300
Or raise old warriors, whose adored remains
In weeping vaults her hallowed earth contains!
With Edward's acts 2 adorn the shining page,
Stretch his long triumphs down through every age,
Draw monarchs chained, and Cressi's glorious field,
The lilies blazing on the regal shield:
Then, from her roofs when Verrio's colours fall,
And leave inanimate the naked wall;
Still in thy song should vanquished France appear,
And bleed for ever under Britain's spear.
Let softer strains ill-fated Henry mourn,3
And palms eternal flourish round his urn.
Here o'er the martyr-king the marble weeps,
And, fast beside him, once-feared Edward sleeps: 4
Whom not the extended Albion could contain,
From old Belerium 5 to the northern main,
The grave unites; where e'en the great find rest,
And blended lie the oppressor and the opprest!
Make sacred Charles's tomb for ever known (Obscure the place, and uninscribed the stone), Oh fact accursed! what tears has Albion shed, Heavens, what new wounds! and how her old have bled!
She saw her sons with purple deaths expire,
Her sacred domes involved in rolling fire,
1 The Mira of Granville was the Countess of Newburgh.
A dreadful series of intestine wars,
Inglorious triumphs and dishonest scars.
At length great Anna said, "Let discord cease!"
She said the world obeyed, and all was peace!
In that blest moment from his oozy bed
Old Father Thames advanced his reverend head.
His tresses dropped with dews, and o'er the stream
His shining horns diffused a golden gleam :
Graved on his urn appeared the moon, that guides
His swelling waters and alternate tides;
The figured streams in waves of silver rolled,
And on their banks Augusta rose in gold.
Around his throne the sea-born brothers stood,
Who swell with tributary urns his flood;
First the famed authors of his ancient name,
The winding Isis, and the fruitful Thame :
The Kennet swift, for silver eels renowned;
The Loddon slow, with verdant alders crowned;
Cole, whose dark streams his flowery islands lave;
And chalky Wey, that rolls a milky wave:
The blue, transparent Vandalis appears;
The gulfy Lee his sedgy tresses rears;
And sullen Mole, that hides his diving flood;
And silent Darent, stained with Danish blood.
High in the midst, upon his urn reclined
(His sea-green mantle waving with the wind),
The god appeared: he turned his azure eyes
Where Windsor domes and pompous turrets rise;
Then bowed and spoke; the winds forget to roar,
And the hushed waves glide softly to the shore.
Hail, sacred peace! hail, long-expected days,
That Thames's glory to the stars shall raise!
Though Tiber's streams immortal Rome behold,
Though foaming Hermus swells with tides of gold,
From heaven itself though sevenfold Nilus flows,
And harvests on a hundred realms bestows;
These now no more shall be the muse's themes,
Lost in my fame, as in the sea their streams.
Let Volga's banks with iron squadrons shine,
And groves of lances glitter on the Rhine,
Let barbarous Ganges arm a servile train;
Be mine the blessings of a peaceful reign.
No more my sons shall dye with British blood
Red Iber's sands, or Ister's foaming flood:
Safe on my shore each unmolested swain
Shall tend the flocks, or reap the bearded grain;
The shady empire shall retain no trace
Of war or blood, but in the sylvan chase;
The trumpet sleep, while cheerful horns are blown,
And arms employed on birds and beasts alone.
Behold! the ascending villas on my side
Project long shadows o'er the crystal tide.
Behold! Augusta's glittering spires increase,
And temples rise,1 the beauteous works of peace.
see, I see, where two fair cities bend
Their ample bow, a new Whitehall ascend!
There mighty nations shall inquire their doom,
The world's great oracle in times to come;
There kings shall sue, and suppliant states be seen
Once more to bend before a British queen.
Thy trees, fair Windsor! now shall leave their woods, And half thy forests rush into thy floods,
Bear Britain's thunder, and her cross display,
To the bright regions of the rising day;
1 The fifty new churches.
Tempt icy seas, where scarce the waters roll,
Where clearer flames glow round the frozen pole: 390
Or under southern skies exalt their sails,
Led by new stars, and borne by spicy gales!
For me the balm shall bleed, and amber flow,
The coral redden, and the ruby glow,
The pearly shell its lucid globe infold,
And Phoebus warm the ripening ore to gold.
The time shall come, when, free as seas or wind,
Unbounded Thames1 shall flow for all mankind,
Whole nations enter with each swelling tide,
And seas but join the regions they divide;
Earth's distant ends our glory shall behold,
And the new world launch forth to seek the old.
Then ships of uncouth form shall stem the tide,
And feathered people crowd my wealthy side,
And naked youths and painted chiefs admire
Our speech, our colour, and our strange attire!
O stretch thy reign, fair peace! from shore to shore,
Till conquest cease, and slavery be no more;
Till the freed Indians in their native groves
Reap their own fruits, and woo their sable loves,
Peru once more a race of kings behold,
And other Mexicos be roofed with gold.
Exiled by thee from earth to deepest hell,
In brazen bonds shall barbarous discord dwell;
Gigantic pride, pale terror, gloomy care,
And mad ambition, shall attend her there :
There purple vengeance bathed in gore retires,
Her weapons blunted, and extinct her fires:
There hateful envy her own snakes shall feel,
1 A wish that London may be made a free port.
And persecution mourn her broken wheel:
There faction roar, rebellion bite her chain,
And gasping furies thirst for blood in vain.
Here cease thy flight, nor with unhallowed lays
Touch the fair fame of Albion's golden days:
The thoughts of gods let Granville's verse recite,
And bring the scenes of opening fate to light.
My humble muse, in unambitious strains,
Paints the green forests and the flowery plains,
Where peace descending bids her olives spring,
And scatters blessings from her dove-like wing.
Even I more sweetly pass my careless days,
Pleased in the silent shade with empty praise;
Enough for me, that to the listening swains
First in these fields I sung the sylvan strains.
ODE ON ST. CECILIA'S DAY,
AND OTHER PIECES FOR MUSIC.
ODE FOR MUSIC ON ST. CECILIA'S DAY
DESCEND, ye Nine! descend and sing;
The breathing instruments inspire,
Wake into voice each silent string,
And sweep the sounding lyre!
In a sadly-pleasing strain
Let the warbling lute complain:
Let the loud trumpet sound,
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