O! while consenting Britons praise,
These votive measures deign to hear;
For thee, the Muse awakes her artless lays,
For thee her harp spontaneous plays
The tribute of a soul sincere.
Nor thou, illustrious chief refuse
The incense of a naval Muse!
No happy son of wealth or fame,
To court a royal patron came:
A hapless youth, whose vital page
Was one sad lengthen'd tale of woe,
Where ruthless fate, impelling tides of rage,
Bade wave on wave in dire succession flow,
To glittering stars and titled names unknown,
Prefer'd his suit to thee alone.
The tragic tale your pity mov'd;
You felt, consented, and approv'd.
Then touch my strings, ye blest Pierian quire!
Exalt to rapture every happy line!
My bosom kindle with Promethean fire,
And swell each note with energy divine!
No more to plaintive sounds of woe
Let the vocal numbers flow!
But tune to war the nervous strain,
Where Horror strides triumphant o'er the main;
Where the fell lightning of the battle pours
Along the blasted wave in flaming showers.
Perhaps some future patriot-lay
With this important theme may glow,
Where Albion's squadrons crowd in black array,
To roll her thunders on th' insulting foe.
My bosom feels the strong alarms,
My swelling pulses beat to arms;
While warm'd to life by Fancy's genial ray,
Some great event seems kindling into day;
But Time the veil of silence draws between,
While Thought behind portrays th' ideal scene.