Ode for the New Year, 1759.
Written by WILLIAM WHITEHEAD, Esq. Poet-Laureat, and set by Dr. Boyce, Master of His Majesty's band of music.
The vocal parts by Mess. Beard, Savage, Baildon, Wass, Barrow, Ladd, Denham, Cowper, and the other gentlemen and children of the chapelroyal. The instrumental by Dr. Nares, the King's band, &c.
E guardian powers, to whose command
At nature's birth th' Almighty mind
The delegated task assign'd
To watch o'er Albion's favour'd land,
What time your hosts with choral lay,
Emerging from its kindred deep,
Applausive hail'd each verdant steep,
And white rock, glitt'ring to the new-born day!
Angelic bands, where'er ye rove,
Whilst lock'd in sleep creation lies,
Whether to genial dews above
You melt the congregated skies,
Or teach the torrent streams below
To wake the verdure of the vale,
Or guide the varying winds that blow
To speed the coming or the parting sail,
Where'er ye bend your roving flight,
Whilst now the radiant lord of light
Winds to the north his sliding sphere,
Avert each ill, each bliss improve,
And teach the minutes as they move
To bless the opening year,
Already Albion's lifted spear
And rolling thunders of the main,
Which justice' sacred laws maintain,
Have taught the haughty Gaul to fear.
On other earths, in other skies,
Beyond old Ocean's western bound,
Tho' bleeds afresh th' eternal wound,
Again Britannia's cross triumphant flies.
To British George, the King of Isles,
The tribes that rove th' Acadian snows,
Redeem'd from Gallia's polish'd wiles,
Shall breathe their voluntary vows:
Where nature guards her last retreat,
And pleas'd Astraæa lingers still,
While faith yet triumphs o'er deceit,
And virtue reigns, from ignorance of ill.
Yet angel-pow'rs, though Gallia bend,
Tho' fame, with all her wreaths, attend
On bleeding war's tremendous sway,
The sons of leisure still complain,
And musing science sighs in vain,
For peace is still away.
Epode.
Go, then, ye faithful guides
Of her returning steps, angelic band,
Explore the sacred seats where peace resides,
And waves her olive wand,
Bid her the wastes of war repair.
O southward seek the flying fair,
For not on poor Germania's harrass'd plain,
Nor where the Vistula's proud current swells,
Nor on the borders of the frighted Seine,
Nor in the depths of Russia's snows she dwells
Yet O, where'er, deserting freedom's isle,
She gilds the slave's delusive toil,
Whether on Ebro's bank she strays,
Or sighing traces Taio's winding ways,
Or soft Ausonia's shores her feet detain,
O bring the wand'rer back, with glory in her train.
Verses to the People of England, 1758. By WM. WHITEHEAD, Esq. Part
Mures animos in martia bella
RITONS, rouse to deeds of death!
Waste not zeal in idle breath,
Nor lose the harvest of your swords
In a civil-war of words!
Wherefore teems the shameless press
With labour'd births of emptiness?
Reas'nings, which no facts produce,
Eloquence, that murders use;
Ill tim'd humour, that beguiles
Weeping ideots of their smiles;
Wit, that knows but to defame,
And Satire, that profanes the name.
Let th' undaunted Grecian teach
The use and dignity of speech,
At whose thunders nobly thrown
Shrunk the MAN of MACEDON.
If the storm of words must rise,
Let it blast our enemies.
Sure and nervous be it hurl'd
On the PHILIPS of the world.
Learn not vainly to despise
(Proud of EDWARD's victories!}
Warriors wedg'd in firm array,
And navies powerful to display
Their woven wings to every wind,
And leave the panting foe behind.
Give to France the honours due,
France has chiefs and statesmen too :
Breasts which patriot-passions feel,
Lovers of the common-weal.
And when such the foes we brave,
Whether on the land or wave,
Greater is the pride of war,
And the conquest nobler far.
Agincourt and Cressy long
Have flourish'd in immortal song;
And lisping babes aspire to praise
The wonders of ELIZA's days.
And what else of late renown
Has added wreaths to Britain's crown;
Whether on th' impetuous Rhine
She bade her harness'd warriors shine,
Or snatch'd the dangerous palm of praise
Where the Sambre meets the Maese;
Or Danube rolls his watry train;
Or the yellow-tressed Mayne
Thro' Dettingen's immortal vale.-
Even Fontenoy could tell a tale,
Might modest Worth ingenuous speak,
To raise a blush on Victory's cheek;
And bid the vanquish'd wreaths display,
Great as on Culloden's day.
But glory, which aspires to last,
Leans not meanly on the past.
'Tis the present now demands
British hearts, and British hands.
Curst be he, the willing slave,
Who doubts, who lingers to be brave.
Curst be the coward tongue that dare
Breathe one accent of despair,
Cold as Winter's icy hand,
To chill the Genius of the land.
Chiefly you, who ride the deep,
And bid your thunders wake or sleep,
As pity pleads, or glory calls-
Monarchs of our wooden walls!
'Midst your mingling seas and skies
Rise ye BLAKES, ye RALEIGHS rise!
Let the sordid lust of gain
Be banish'd from the liberal main.
He who strikes the generous blow
Aims it at the public foe.
Let glory be the guiding star,
Wealth and honours follow her.
See! she spreads her lustre wide
O'er the vast Atlantic tide!
Constant as the solar ray
Points the path, and leads the
Other worlds demand your care,
Other worlds to Britain dear;
Where the foe insidious roves
O'er headlong streams, and pathless groves;
And justice simple laws confounds
With imaginary bounds.
If protected commerce keep
Her tenor o'er yon heaving deep,
What have we from war to fear?
Commerce steels the nerves of war;
Heals the havoc rapine makes,
And new strength from conquest takes.
Nor less at home O deign to smile,
Goddess of Britannia's isle !
Thou, that from her rocks survey'st
Her boundless realms, the watʼry waste;
Thou, that rov'st the hill and mead
Where her flocks and heifers feed;
Thou, that chear'st the industrious swain
While he strows the pregnant grain;
Thou, that hear'st his caroll'd vows
When th' expanded barn o'erflows ;
Thou, the bulwark of our cause,
Thou, the guardian of our laws,
Sweet liberty!O deign to smile,
Goddess of Britannia's isle!
If to us indulgent Heav'n
Nobler seeds of strength has given,
Nobler should the produce be;
Brave, yet gen'rous, are the free.
Come then, all thy powers diffuse,
Goddess of extended views!
Sir Philip Sidney, mortally wounded in an action near Zutphen, in Gelderlang.
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