COWPER
When the British warrior queen,Bleeding from the Roman rods,Sought with an indignant mienCounsel of her country’s gods,Sage beneath the spreading oakSat the Druid, hoary chief,Every burning word he spokeFull of rage, and full of grief:‘Princess! if our aged eyesWeep upon thy matchless wrongs,’Tis because resentment tiesAll the terrors of our tongues.‘Rome shall perish,—write that wordIn the blood that she has spilt;Perish hopeless and abhorred,Deep in ruin as in guilt.‘Rome, for empire far renowned,Tramples on a thousand states;Soon her pride shall kiss the ground,—Hark! the Gaul is at her gates!‘Other Romans shall ariseHeedless of a soldier’s name;Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize,Harmony the path to fame.‘Then the progeny that springsFrom the forests of our land,Armed with thunder, clad with wings,Shall a wider world command.‘Regions Cæsar never knewThy posterity shall sway;Where his eagles never flew,None invincible as they.’Such the bard’s prophetic words,Pregnant with celestial fire,Bending as he swept the chordsOf his sweet but awful lyre.She with all a monarch’s prideFelt them in her bosom glow,Rushed to battle, fought, and died,Dying, hurled them at the foe:‘Ruffians, pitiless as proud,Heaven awards the vengeance due;Empire is on us bestowed,Shame and ruin wait for you!’William Cowper.
When the British warrior queen,Bleeding from the Roman rods,Sought with an indignant mienCounsel of her country’s gods,Sage beneath the spreading oakSat the Druid, hoary chief,Every burning word he spokeFull of rage, and full of grief:‘Princess! if our aged eyesWeep upon thy matchless wrongs,’Tis because resentment tiesAll the terrors of our tongues.‘Rome shall perish,—write that wordIn the blood that she has spilt;Perish hopeless and abhorred,Deep in ruin as in guilt.‘Rome, for empire far renowned,Tramples on a thousand states;Soon her pride shall kiss the ground,—Hark! the Gaul is at her gates!‘Other Romans shall ariseHeedless of a soldier’s name;Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize,Harmony the path to fame.‘Then the progeny that springsFrom the forests of our land,Armed with thunder, clad with wings,Shall a wider world command.‘Regions Cæsar never knewThy posterity shall sway;Where his eagles never flew,None invincible as they.’Such the bard’s prophetic words,Pregnant with celestial fire,Bending as he swept the chordsOf his sweet but awful lyre.She with all a monarch’s prideFelt them in her bosom glow,Rushed to battle, fought, and died,Dying, hurled them at the foe:‘Ruffians, pitiless as proud,Heaven awards the vengeance due;Empire is on us bestowed,Shame and ruin wait for you!’William Cowper.
When the British warrior queen,Bleeding from the Roman rods,Sought with an indignant mienCounsel of her country’s gods,
Sage beneath the spreading oakSat the Druid, hoary chief,Every burning word he spokeFull of rage, and full of grief:
‘Princess! if our aged eyesWeep upon thy matchless wrongs,’Tis because resentment tiesAll the terrors of our tongues.
‘Rome shall perish,—write that wordIn the blood that she has spilt;Perish hopeless and abhorred,Deep in ruin as in guilt.
‘Rome, for empire far renowned,Tramples on a thousand states;Soon her pride shall kiss the ground,—Hark! the Gaul is at her gates!
‘Other Romans shall ariseHeedless of a soldier’s name;Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize,Harmony the path to fame.
‘Then the progeny that springsFrom the forests of our land,Armed with thunder, clad with wings,Shall a wider world command.
‘Regions Cæsar never knewThy posterity shall sway;Where his eagles never flew,None invincible as they.’
Such the bard’s prophetic words,Pregnant with celestial fire,Bending as he swept the chordsOf his sweet but awful lyre.
She with all a monarch’s prideFelt them in her bosom glow,Rushed to battle, fought, and died,Dying, hurled them at the foe:
‘Ruffians, pitiless as proud,Heaven awards the vengeance due;Empire is on us bestowed,Shame and ruin wait for you!’
William Cowper.
Toll for the Brave!The brave that are no more!All sunk beneath the waveFast by their native shore!Eight hundred of the brave,Whose courage well was tried,Had made the vessel heelAnd laid her on her side.A land-breeze shook the shroudsAnd she was overset;Down went theRoyal GeorgeWith all her crew complete.Toll for the brave!Brave Kempenfelt is gone;His last sea-fight is fought,His work of glory done.It was not in the battle;No tempest gave the shock,She sprang no fatal leak,She ran upon no rock.His sword was in its sheath,His fingers held the pen,When Kempenfelt went downWith twice four hundred men.Weigh the vessel up,Once dreaded by our foes!And mingle with our cupThe tear that England owes.Her timbers yet are sound,And she may float againFull charged with England’s thunder,And plough the distant main:But Kempenfelt is gone,His victories are o’er;And he and his eight hundredShall plough the wave no more.William Cowper.
Toll for the Brave!The brave that are no more!All sunk beneath the waveFast by their native shore!Eight hundred of the brave,Whose courage well was tried,Had made the vessel heelAnd laid her on her side.A land-breeze shook the shroudsAnd she was overset;Down went theRoyal GeorgeWith all her crew complete.Toll for the brave!Brave Kempenfelt is gone;His last sea-fight is fought,His work of glory done.It was not in the battle;No tempest gave the shock,She sprang no fatal leak,She ran upon no rock.His sword was in its sheath,His fingers held the pen,When Kempenfelt went downWith twice four hundred men.Weigh the vessel up,Once dreaded by our foes!And mingle with our cupThe tear that England owes.Her timbers yet are sound,And she may float againFull charged with England’s thunder,And plough the distant main:But Kempenfelt is gone,His victories are o’er;And he and his eight hundredShall plough the wave no more.William Cowper.
Toll for the Brave!The brave that are no more!All sunk beneath the waveFast by their native shore!
Eight hundred of the brave,Whose courage well was tried,Had made the vessel heelAnd laid her on her side.
A land-breeze shook the shroudsAnd she was overset;Down went theRoyal GeorgeWith all her crew complete.
Toll for the brave!Brave Kempenfelt is gone;His last sea-fight is fought,His work of glory done.
It was not in the battle;No tempest gave the shock,She sprang no fatal leak,She ran upon no rock.
His sword was in its sheath,His fingers held the pen,When Kempenfelt went downWith twice four hundred men.
Weigh the vessel up,Once dreaded by our foes!And mingle with our cupThe tear that England owes.
Her timbers yet are sound,And she may float againFull charged with England’s thunder,And plough the distant main:
But Kempenfelt is gone,His victories are o’er;And he and his eight hundredShall plough the wave no more.
William Cowper.