The Poetical Works of Beattie, Blair, and Falconer by Rev. George Gilfillan [Ed.]

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[Footnote 1: This poem was intended by the author to be a political
satire on Lord Chatham, Wilkes, and Churchill, and to refute the
opinions expressed in the poems of Churchill.]

[Footnote 2: 'Chaplains,' 'Privileges,' 'Scourges:' certain poems
intended to be very satirical.]

A POEM,

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS
FREDERIC PRINCE OF WALES.

From the big horror of War's hoarse alarms,
And the tremendous clang of clashing arms,
Descend, my Muse! a deeper scene to draw
(A scene will hold the listening world in awe)
Is my intent: Melpomene inspire,
While, with sad notes, I strike the trembling lyre!
And may my lines with easy motion flow,
Melt as they move, and fill each heart with woe:
Big with the sorrow it describes, my song,
In solemn pomp, majestic, move along. 10
O bear me to some awful silent glade,
Where cedars form an unremitting shade;
Where never track of human feet was known;
Where never cheerful light of Phoebus shone;
Where chirping linnets warble tales of love,
And hoarser winds howl murmuring through the grove;
Where some unhappy wretch aye mourns his doom,
Deep melancholy wandering through the gloom;
Where solitude and meditation roam,
And where no dawning glimpse of hope can come! 20
Place me in such an unfrequented shade,
To speak to none but with the mighty dead;
To assist the pouring rains with brimful eyes,
And aid hoarse howling Boreas with my sighs.
When Winter's horrors left Britannia's isle,
And Spring in blooming vendure 'gan to smile;
When rills, unbound, began to purl along,
And warbling larks renew'd the vernal song;
When sprouting roses, deck'd in crimson dye,
Began to bloom, ... 30
Hard fate! then, noble Frederic, didst thou die:
Doom'd by inexorable fate's decree,
The approaching summer ne'er on earth to see:
In thy parch'd vitals burning fevers rage,
Whose flame the virtue of no herbs assuage;
No cooling medicine can its heat allay,
Relentless destiny cries, "No delay!"
Ye powers! and must a prince so noble die?
(Whose equal breathes not under the ambient sky:)
Ah! must he die, then, in youth's full-blown prime, 40
Cut by the scythe of all-devouring Time?
Yes, fate has doom'd! his soul now leaves its weight,
And all are under the decree of fate;
The irrevocable doom of destiny
Pronounced, "All mortals must submissive die."
The princes wait around with weeping eyes,
And the dome echoes all with piercing cries:
With doleful noise the matrons scream around,
With female shrieks the vaulted roofs rebound:
A dismal noise! Now one promiscuous roar 50
Cries, "Ah! the noble Frederic is no more!"
The chief reluctant yields his latest breath;
His eye-lids settle in the shades of death;
Dark sable shades present before each eye,
And the deep vast abyss, Eternity!
Through perpetuity's expanse he springs;
And o'er the vast profound he shoots on wings;
The soul to distant regions steers her flight,
And sails incumbent on inferior night:
With vast celerity she shoots away, 60
And meets the regions of eternal day,
To shine for ever in the heavenly birth,
And leave the body here to rot on earth.
The melancholy patriots round it wait,
And mourn the royal hero's timeless fate.
Disconsolate they move, a mournful band!
In solemn pomp they march along the strand:
The noble chief, interr'd in youthful bloom,
Lies in the dreary regions of the tomb.
Adown Augusta's pallid visage flow 70
The living pearls with unaffected woe:
Disconsolate, hapless, see pale Britain mourn,
Abandon'd isle! forsaken and forlorn
With desperate hands her bleeding breast she beats;
While o'er her, frowning, grim destruction threats.
She mourns with heart-felt grief, she rends her hair,
And fills with piercing cries the echoing air.
Well mayst thou mourn thy patriot's timeless end,
Thy Muse's patron, and thy merchant's friend!
What heart shall pity thy full-flowing grief? 80
What hand now deign to give thy poor relief?
To encourage arts, whose bounty now shall flow,
And learned science to promote, bestow?
Who now protect thee from the hostile frown,
And to the injured just return his own?
From usury and oppression who shall guard
The helpless, and the threatening ruin ward?
Alas! the truly noble Briton's gone,
And left us here in ceaseless woe to moan!
Impending desolation hangs around, 90
And ruin hovers o'er the trembling ground:
The blooming spring droops her enamell'd head,
Her glories wither, and her flowers all fade:
The sprouting leaves already drop away;
Languish the living herbs with pale decay:
The bowing trees, see! o'er the blasted heath,
Depending, bend beneath the weight of death:
Wrapp'd in the expansive gloom, the lightnings play,
Hoarse thunder mutters through the aerial way:
All Nature feels the pangs, the storms renew, 100
And sprouts, with fatal haste, the baleful yew.
Some power avert the threatening horrid weight,
And, godlike, prop Britannia's sinking state!
Minerva, hover o'er young George's soul;
May sacred wisdom all his deeds control!
Exalted grandeur in each action shine,
His conduct all declare the youth divine!
Methinks I see him shine a glorious star,
Gentle in peace, but terrible in war!
Methinks each region does his praise resound, 110
And nations tremble at his name around!
His fame, through every distant kingdom rung,
Proclaims him of the race from whence he sprung:
So sable smoke in volumes curls on high;
Heaps roll on heaps, and blacken all the sky:
Already so, his fame, methinks, is hurl'd
Around the admiring, venerating world.
So the benighted wanderer, on his way,
Laments the absence of all-cheering day;
Far distant from his friends and native home, 120
And not one glimpse does glimmer through the gloom:
In thought he breathes, each sigh his latest breath,
Present, each meditation, pits of death:
Irregular, wild chimeras fill his soul,
And death, and dying, every step control.
Till from the east there breaks a purple gleam,
His fears then vanish as a fleeting dream:
Hid in a cloud the sun first shoots his ray,
Then breaks effulgent on the illumined day;
We see no spot then in the flaming rays, 130
Confused and lost within the excessive blaze.

ODE ON THE DUKE OF YORK'S SECOND DEPARTURE
FROM ENGLAND AS REAR-ADMIRAL.

WRITTEN ABOARD THE ROYAL GEORGE.

[Note: line-numbering counts lines of poetry only, blank lines are not
counted. text Ed.]

Again the royal streamers play,
To glory Edward hastes away;
Adieu, ye happy silvan bowers,
Where pleasure's sprightly throng await!
Ye domes, where regal grandeur towers
In purple ornaments of state!
Ye scenes where virtue's sacred strain
Bids the tragic Muse complain!
Where satire treads the comic stage,
To scourge and mend a venal age; 10
Where music pours the soft, melodious lay,
And melting symphonies congenial play:
Ye silken sons of ease, who dwell
In flowery vales of peace, farewell!
In vain the goddess of the myrtle grove
Her charms ineffable displays;
In vain she calls to happier realms of love,
Which Spring's unfading bloom arrays;
In vain her living roses blow,
And ever-vernal pleasures grow; 20
The gentle sports of youth no more
Allure him to the peaceful shore;
Arcadian ease no longer charms,
For war and fame alone can please:
His throbbing bosom beats to arms,
To war the hero moves, through storms and wintry seas.

CHORUS. The gentle sports of youth no more
Allure him to the peaceful shore,
For war and fame alone can please:
To war the hero moves, through storms and wintry seas. 30

Though danger's hostile train appears
To thwart the course that honour steers;
Unmoved he leads the rugged way,
Despising peril and dismay.
His country calls; to guard her laws,
Lo! every joy the gallant youth resigns;
The avenging naval sword he draws,
And o'er the waves conducts her martial lines:
Hark! his sprightly clarions play;
Follow where he leads the way! 40
The piercing fife, the sounding drum,
Tell the deeps their master's come.

CHORUS. Hark! his sprightly clarions play,
Follow where he leads the way!
The piercing fife, the sounding drum,
Tell the deeps their master's come.

Thus Alcmena's warlike son
The thorny course of virtue run,
When, taught by her unerring voice,
He made the glorious choice: 50
Severe, indeed, the attempt he knew,
Youth's genial ardours to subdue:
For pleasure, Venus' lovely form assumed;
Her glowing charms, divinely bright,
In all the pride of beauty bloom'd,
And struck his ravish'd sight.
Transfix'd, amazed,
Alcides gazed:
Enchanting grace
Adorn'd her face, 60
And all his changing looks confess'd
The alternate passions in his breast:
Her swelling bosom half reveal'd,
Her eyes that kindling raptures fired,
A thousand tender pains instill'd,
A thousand flattering thoughts inspired:
Persuasion's sweetest language hung
In melting accent on her tongue:
Deep in his heart the winning tale
Infused a magic power; 70
She press'd him to the rosy vale,
And show'd the Elysian bower:
Her hand that trembling ardours move,
Conducts him blushing to the blest alcove:
Ah! see, o'erpower'd by beauty's charms,
And won by love's resistless arms,
The captive yields to nature's soft alarms!

CHORUS. Ah! see, o'erpower'd by beauty's charms,
And won by love's resistless arms,
The captive yields to nature's soft alarms! 80

Assist, ye guardian powers above!
From ruin save the son of Jove!
By heavenly mandate virtue came,
And check'd the fatal flame:
Swift as the quivering needle wheels,
Whose point the magnet's influence feels,
Inspired with awe,
He, turning, saw
The nymph divine
Transcendent shine; 90
And, while he view'd the godlike maid,
His heart a sacred impulse sway'd:
His eyes with ardent motion roll,
And love, regret, and hope, divide his soul.
But soon her words his pain destroy,
And all the numbers of his heart,
Return'd by her celestial art,
Now swell'd to strains of nobler joy.
Instructed thus by virtue's lore,
His happy steps the realms explore, 100
Where guilt and error are no more:
The clouds that veil'd his intellectual ray,
Before his breath dispelling, melt away:
Broke loose from pleasure's glittering chain,
He scorn'd her soft inglorious reign:
Convinced, resolved, to virtue then he turn'd,
And in his breast paternal glory burn'd.

CHORUS. Broke loose from pleasure's glittering chain,
He scorn'd her soft inglorious reign:
Convinced, resolved, to virtue then he turn'd, 110
And in his breast paternal glory burn'd.

So when on Britain's other hope she shone,
Like him the royal youth she won:
Thus taught, he bids his fleet advance
To curb the power of Spain and France:
Aloft his martial ensigns flow,
And hark! his brazen trumpets blow!
The watery profound,
Awaked by the sound,
All trembles around: 120
While Edward o'er the azure fields
Fraternal wonder wields:
High on the deck behold he stands,
And views around his floating bands
In awful order join:
They, while the warlike trumpet's strain,
Deep sounding, swells along the main,
Extend the embattled line.
Then Britain triumphantly saw
His armament ride 130
Supreme on the tide,
And o'er the vast ocean give law.

CHORUS. Then Britain triumphantly saw
His armament ride,
Supreme on the tide,
And o'er the vast ocean give law.

Now with shouting peals of joy,
The ships their horrid tubes display,
Tier over tier in terrible array,
And wait the signal to destroy. 140
The sailors all burn to engage:
Hark! hark! their shouts arise,
And shake the vaulted skies!
Exulting with bacchanal rage.
Then, Neptune, the hero revere,
Whose power is superior to thine!
And, when his proud squadrons appear,
The trident and chariot resign!

CHORUS. Then, Neptune, the hero revere,
Whose power is superior to thine! 150
And, when his proud squadrons appear,
The trident and chariot resign!

Albion, wake thy grateful voice!
Let thy hills and vales rejoice!
O'er remotest hostile regions
Thy victorious flags are known;
Thy resistless martial legions
Dreadful move from zone to zone.
Thy flaming bolts unerring roll,
And all the trembling globe control: 160
Thy seamen, invincibly true,
No menace, no fraud, can subdue:
To thy great trust
Severely just,
All dissonant strife they disclaim:
To meet the foe,
Their bosoms glow;
Who only are rivals in fame.

CHORUS. Thy seamen, invincibly true,
No menace, no fraud, can subdue: 170
All dissonant strife they disclaim,
And only are rivals in fame.

For Edward tune your harps, ye Nine!
Triumphant strike each living string;
For him, in ecstasy divine,
Your choral Io Paeans sing!
For him your festive concerts breathe!
For him your flowery garlands wreath!
Wake! O wake the joyful song!
Ye Fauns of the woods, 180
Ye Nymphs of the floods,
The musical current prolong!
Ye Silvans, that dance on the plain,
To swell the grand chorus accord!
Ye Tritons, that sport on the main,
Exulting, acknowledge your lord!
Till all the wild numbers combined,
That floating proclaim
Our Admiral's name,
In symphony roll on the wind! 190

CHORUS. Wake! O wake the joyful song!
Ye Silvans, that dance on the plain,
Ye Tritons, that sport on the main,
The musical current prolong!

Oh, while consenting Britons praise,
These votive measures deign to hear!
For thee my Muse awakes her lays,
For thee the unequal viol plays,
The tribute of a soul sincere.
Nor thou, illustrious chief, refuse 200
The incense of a nautic Muse!
For ah! to whom shall Neptune's sons complain,
But him whose arms unrivall'd rule the main?
Deep on my grateful breast
Thy favour is imprest:
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, 210
Bade wave on wave in dire succession flow;
To glittering stars and titled names unknown,
Preferr'd his suit to thee alone.
The tale your sacred pity moved;
You felt, consented, and approved.
Then touch my strings, ye blest Pierian choir!
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 220
Let the vocal numbers flow!
Perhaps the chief to whom I sing
May yet ordain auspicious days,
To wake the lyre with nobler lays,
And tune to war the nervous string.
For who, untaught in Neptune's school,
Though all the powers of genius he possess,
Though disciplined by classic rule,
With daring pencil can display
The fight that thunders on the watery way; 230
And all its horrid incidents express?
To him, my Muse, these warlike strains belong;
Source of thy hope, and patron of thy song!

CHORUS. To him, my Muse, these warlike strains belong;
Source of thy hope, and patron of thy song!

THE FOND LOVER.

A BALLAD.

1

A nymph of every charm possess'd,
That native virtue gives,
Within my bosom all confess'd,
In bright idea lives.
For her my trembling numbers play
Along the pathless deep,
While, sadly social with my lay,
The winds in concert weep.

2

If beauty's sacred influence charms
The rage of adverse fate;
Say why the pleasing soft alarms
Such cruel pangs create?
Since all her thoughts by sense refined,
Unartful truth express;
Say wherefore sense and truth are join'd
To give my soul distress?

3

If when her blooming lips I press,
Which vernal fragrance fills,
Through all my veins the sweet excess
In trembling motion thrills;
Say whence this secret anguish grows,
Congenial with my joy?
And why the touch, where pleasure glows,
Should vital peace destroy?

4

If, when my fair, in melting song,
Awakes the vocal lay,
Not all your notes, ye Phocian throng,
Such pleasing sounds convey;
Thus wrapt all o'er with fondest love,
Why heaves this broken sigh?
For then my blood forgets to move,
I gaze, adore, and die.

5

Accept, my charming maid, the strain
Which you alone inspire;
To thee the dying strings complain
That quiver on my lyre.
O give this bleeding bosom ease,
That knows no joy but thee;
Teach me thy happy art to please,
Or deign to love like me.

ON THE UNCOMMON SCARCITY OF POETRY.

IN THE GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE FOE DECEMBER LAST, 1755, BY I.W., A SAILOR.

The springs of Helicon can winter bind,
And chill the fervour of a poet's mind?
What though the lowering skies and driving storm
The scenes of nature wide around deform,
The birds no longer sing, nor roses blow,
And all the landscape lies conceal'd in snow;
Yet rigid Winter still is known to spare
The brighter beauties of the lovely fair:
Ye lovely fair, your sacred influence bring,
And with your smiles anticipate the Spring! 10
Yet what avail the smiles of lovely maids,
Or vernal suns that glad the flowery glades?
The wood's green foliage, or the varying scene
Of fields and lawns, and gliding streams between?
What, to the wretch whom harder fates ordain
Through the long year to plough the stormy main?
No murmuring streams, no sound of distant sheep,
Or song of birds invite his eyes to sleep.
By toil exhausted, when he sinks to rest,
Beneath his sun-burnt head no flowers are prest: 20
Down on the deck his fainting limbs are laid,
No spreading trees dispense their cooling shade,
No zephyrs round his aching temples play,
No fragrant breezes noxious heats allay.
The rude, rough wind which stern AEolus sends,
Drives on in blasts, and while it cools, offends.
He wakes, but hears no music from the grove;
No varied landscape courts his eye to rove.
O'er the wide main he looks to distant skies,
Where nought but waves on rolling waves arise; 30
The boundless view fatigues his aching sight,
Nor yields his eye one object of delight.
No "female face divine," with cheering smiles,
The lingering hours of dangerous toil beguiles.
Yet distant beauty oft his genius fires,
And oft with love of sacred song inspires.
Even I, the least of all the tuneful train,
On the rough ocean try this artless strain:
Rouse then, ye bards, who happier fortunes prove,
And tune the lyre to Nature or to Love! 40

DESCRIPTION OF A NINETY-GUN SHIP.

FROM THE GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE, MAY 1759.

Amidst a wood of oaks with canvas leaves,
Which form'd a floating forest on the waves,
There stood a tower, whose vast stupendous size
Rear'd its huge mast, and seem'd to gore the skies,
From which a bloody pendant stretch'd afar
Its comet-tail, denouncing ample war:
Two younger giants, [1] of inferior height,
Display'd their sporting streamers to the sight:
The base below, another island rose,
To pour Britannia's thunder on her foes: 10
With bulk immense, like AEtna, she surveys
Above the rest, the lesser Cyclades:
Profuse of gold, in lustre like the sun,
Splendid with regal luxury she shone,
Lavish in wealth, luxuriant in her pride,
Behold the gilded mass exulting ride!
Her curious prow divides the silver waves,
In the salt ooze her radiant sides she laves;
From stem to stern, her wondrous length survey,
Rising a beauteous Venus from the sea: 20
Her stem, with naval drapery engraved,
Show'd mimic warriors, who the tempest braved;
Whose visage fierce defied the lashing surge,
Of Gallic pride the emblematic scourge.
Tremendous figures, lo! her stern displays,
And holds a Pharos [2] of distinguish'd blaze:
By night it shines a star of brightest form,
To point her way, and light her through the storm:
See dread engagements pictured to the life,
See admirals maintain the glorious strife: 30
Here breathing images in painted ire,
Seem for their country's freedom to expire:
Victorious fleets the flying fleets pursue--
Here strikes a ship, and there exults a crew:
A frigate here blows up with hideous glare,
And adds fresh terrors to the bleeding war.
But leaving feigned ornaments, behold!
Eight hundred youths, of heart and sinew bold,
Mount up her shrouds, or to her tops ascend,
Some haul her braces, some her foresail bend; 40
Full ninety brazen guns her port-holes fill,
Ready with nitrous magazines to kill;
From dread embrazures formidably peep,
And seem to threaten ruin to the deep:
On pivots fix'd, the well-ranged swivels lie,
Or to point downward, or to brave the sky;
While peteraroes swell with infant rage,
Prepared, though small, with fury to engage.
Thus arm'd, may Britain long her state maintain,
And with triumphant navies rule the main! 50

[Footnote 1: 'Younger giants:' fore and mizen masts.]

[Footnote 2: 'Pharos:' her poop lanthorn.]

THE END.

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