Classic Poem

'Twas finely tim'd! third Edward 's brightest days
Had, from such captains, claim'd increase of praise:
But, now, 'tis tenfold greatness, thus, to rise,
Where sense of vict'ry , lost in purse-craft , lies!
Where war but pilfers, and but bags contest;
And public honour is the public jest .
At such a time, to dare the sneerer's joke;
To rush on danger, when but foes provoke;
Un-brib'd, by profit's impulse, fight for bays,
And court no praemium , but his country's praise.
'Tis prodigy ! 'tis out of nature's road;
'Tis scorn of prudence , and offence to mode .

S HAKE , Dunkirk ! and retract thy hold extent,
Doom'd to due dust, stands each proud battlement.
Swell high, propitious surge, hide Tournay 's stains,
And wash off insult , from our cow'd campaigns .
Look up, ye sea-driv'n ghosts ! whom pleas'd Toulon
Saw sink, in fruitless fight, forgot too soon!
O'er the salt wave, triumphant thunders hear,
Hail the wish'd vengeance , that, at last, draws near!
While France starts wide, and wonders, whence it came,
Pale, to her trembling genius, point a Grahme !
Tell her, 'tis his, to feel his country's fire,
Hold her past fame in view, to urge it higher:
Tell her, re-waking glory waits his call,
To pour atonement , o'er the pride of Gaul .
Reclaim asserted ocean's question'd sway,
And teach the doubtful nations to obey.

S AY , pitying heav'n ! that sav'st a blund'ring state ,
Whom hast thou late inspir'd, to lend us weight?
Blow, ye broad winds, expand his op'ning light,
Tell us, whence rose he? Do his country right;
Born, on thy bleaks, Albania ! nurse of kings!
From gen'rous stock, this gen'rous Scyon springs.
Son of thy soul, M ONTROSE ! There , known, too well!
Prop of a crown , when three lost kingdoms fell!
Far be the omen from thy filial fire,
In every wreathe, but death's , transcend thy sire;
Far, from thy great forefather's suff rings, rais'd,
For more than all his virtues , lov'd, and prais'd:
Down, thro' time's tide, transmit his length'ning fame;
O, born, above his fate, to lift his name.

O H , Mallet ! this was he — sweet heav'n-fac'd boy!
Thy friend congratulates thy conscious joy:
Pride of thy care, thou led'st his earliest youth,
To court plain glory, white as robeless truth;
To scorn dark lifts, which men distinction call,
And climb, self-sinew'd — or, not rise at all,
Courage , by nature, his — thou taught'st him taste,
And innate warmth, with polish'd brightness, grac'd.
Breath'd o'er his list'ning heart reflection's breeze,
Gave him desire to know , with pow'r to please:
Thine, half the triumphs of his rising fame!
And Britain 's future F LAG shall bless thy name.