Yet tho' their taunt be vain,-in all her might, Imperial Britain stands prepár'd for fight;
COME! LET THEM COME !-her proud defiance sounds,
Which Glory echoes to her utmost bounds;
Like fire electric spreads from shore to shore-
COME! LET THEM COME! and waft their navies o'er!
In one vast chorus all her sons combine,
And cry, exulting-BRITAIN, WE ARE THINE!
And oh! should Gallia's tyrant Now advance,
The ruthless scourge of NATURE as of France!
Should he assault with more than dæmon rage,
And Britons on their own proud seas engage;
Or, on their soil,-dear consecrated earth!
How would they prove their valour and their birth!
How would they rally round that kingly breast,
Where Father, King, and Christian beam confest!
How, from the Atheist Warrior's brow would tear
The laurel wreath,—and place the cypress there * !
* The Laureat Warton, in his Ode after the King's recovery from his former alarming illness, inquires:
"Within what fountain's craggy cell
Delights the goddess HEALTH to dwell;
Where from the rigid roof distils
Her richest stream in steely rills?"
After- describing in animated strains various places in the kingdom famous for medicinal waters, the same classical bard gives the following beautiful description of the miraculous springs of Bath:
"Or broods the nymph with watchful wing
O'er antient BADON's mystie spring;
ON RECEIVING SOME HANDLES BEAUTIFULLY TURNED IN SANDAL-WOOD, FOR HAND FIRE-screens.
WHILE the hand that we love with affection we press,
And the heart we have won we with fondness address;
From Fashion's false dazzle, and Faction's fierce heat,
While at home we repose in our tranquil retreat,
Beside our own hearth, where ourselves we enjoy,
How useful, how moral is this little toy!
To point out the pleasures, most felt as less seen,
That glow in the bosom, how apt is the Screen!
And, ah! as we move it, and sit snug behind,
How sweet the Reflections it casts on the mind!
WHAT more can a high-favour'd mortal require,
Life's warmth to receive, yet attemper its fire?
The joys of the world, like our faggot may flare,
But the joys of our home, tho' they glow, should ne'er
The first, like our faggot, may crackle and flout,
Just scorch for a minute, and then quite go out;
And speeds from its sulphureous source,
The steamy torrent's secret course;
And fans th' eternal sparks of hidden fire,
In deep unfathom'd beds below,
By Bladud's magic taught to glow?
Bladud! high theme of Fancy's Gothic lyre."
While true bliss, like the sun, never squanders the light, And, tho' shining for ever, for ever is bright;
And the reason is plain, why like him we thus burn: Tis because we, like him, on our own axis turn*.
WRITTEN UNDER A CHERRY-TREE, AT WRITTLE HALL, ESSEX, WHILE IN THE POSSESSION
OF THE FAMILY OF MR. BIRCH.
ALL hail to thee, blest Cherry-Tree!
For thou shalt match the Mulberry.
Altho' no Shakspeare's hand divine.
With deathless laurels hang thy shrine,
The fair Affections, good and true,
Shall love the spot whereon they grew:
For oft beneath thy verdant bound,
The sport, the lay, the song went round;
And many a time the social board
With all thy ruddy gifts were stored;
Friendship, and Worth, and sprightly Wit,
Under thy boughs would often meet;
And Zephyr, an ambrosial guest,
With airy wings would fan the feast;
And hither too has Flora stray'd,
To breathe her fragrance o'er the shade.
Here Wisdom grave, and Frolic gay,
Has wept or laughed the hours away.
But sweet the smile, and soft the tear,
That Mirth or Wisdom mingled here;
These and the preceding lines have since been printed, and given to different friends for hand-screens.
For real joy bade this to glow,
But fabled grief taught that to flow.
Oh then may those, blest Cherry-Tree!
Whose genial hearts encircle thee,
Such woes as spring from fabled care,
Such real joys, for ever share!!!
For me as firm these woodbines twine
Around this russet coat of thine,
As thy own rosy fruit when twin,
They seem than brothers more akin ;
May I to every friend be join'd
In strictest union of the mind;
And each returning summer see
My fav'rites of the Cherry-Trce:
Where, if the Fates would hear my prayer,
I'd place the self-same party there.
Then flourish long, thou genial shade!
For Pleasure, Love, and Friendship made;
And may thy social foliage grow,
To canopy the feast below!
And if thy friends all happy be,
Sure thou shalt match the Mulberry!
THE COMPLAINT OF THE CHERRY-TREE, OCCASIONED BY THE PARTY'S DESERTION OF
IT IN THE SUCCEEDING SUMMER.
A ROVER Since the world began,
No charms can fix inconstant Man.
Throughout the fond but fickle race,
What proofs on proofs, alas, we trace!
His warmest passion dies away,
Before its object feels decay.
From Youth and Beauty he will start,
No truant like the human heart;
Nay sometimes woman-form'd for love
Will be the first to make a move;
Like vagrant bees, they seldom settle,
But leave a lily for a nettle;
From sweetest flowers to weeds will range,
And think the honey's in the change.
I own this truth's extremely old,
And has ten thousand times been told:
Hear it once more, I beg, from me,
A poor forsaken Cherry-Tree.
Seven silver moons have hardly wan'd
Since fav'rite of your lawn I reign'd;
Around me group'd your happy throng,
And your Bard hail'd me with a song!
The tuneful flatterer swore, my shade
For Friendship and for Love was made:
In perjur'd verse he bade me grow,
A guardian of the feast below.
Ye all united in a prayer,
That Heaven my lightest leaf would spare.
The Zephyr, witness of your vows,
Beheld you deify my boughs.
Your joy was still to live in air,
And treat me with a fav'rite's care;
The while my woodbines gave their flower, And I, a banquet and a bower;
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