Classic Poem

— Utcunque ferant ea facta minores
Vincat amor patriae, laudumque immensa cupido . V IRG .
Noble in Nature, great in arms,
The Muses patron and thyself a bard,
Who sternly rushing from domestic charms
And for thy country tow'ring upon guard,
As born against the foes of human kind,
Preced'st the march alone, and leav'st all rank behind.
A little leisure for a thankful heart,
It's own peculiar workings to attend,
A little leisure to survey the Chart,
Of all thy labours bearing to their end;
To hail Thee, at the head of all renown,
To plan thy private peace, and weave thy laurel crown.

The Fame of Draper is a pile
Of God's erecting in th' embattled field;
An English fabrick in the Roman stile,
To which all meaner elevations yield;
What ho! ye brave lieutenants of the van,
Within a thousand furlongs not a single man.
My Muse is somewhat stronger than she was,
In spite of long calamity and time,
Arouse, Arouse ye! is there not a cause?
Arouse ye lively spirits of my prime!
Breathe, breathe upon the lyre thy parting breath,
There is no thought of him but triumphs over death.

Ye boys of Eton take your theme,
That heroes from heroic fathers come;
Ye sons of learned Granta draw the scheme
Of Archimedes, on the warriour's drum:
No more let champions scorn the man of parts,
For Draper comes like M ARLBRO ' from the school of arts.
O early train'd and practis'd in desert,
The son of emulation from the womb,
In antient arms and eloquence expert;
And student of the themes of Greece and Rome,
Thou chose A CHILLES from th' Homeric throng,
Who sinks beneath thy deeds, tho' rais'd upon thy song.

A C HRISTIAN H ERO is a name
To bards of Classic eminence unknown,
A heroe, that prefers a higher claim
To God's applause, his country's and his own;
Than those, who, tho' the mirrour of their days,
Nor knew the Prince of Worth, nor principle of praise.
Advance, advance a little higher still —
Th' Ideas of an Englishman advance!
Advance above his meaner strength or skill;
Who solely grasps his pen or shakes his lance.
Thy talent ever flows to learning's hoard,
And bore to leisure fruit 'midst peril and the sword.

O E NGLISH aspect name and soul,
All E NGLISH to our joyful ears and eyes!
Thy chariot cleanly risk'd upon the goal
Has brought Thee winner for the Martial Prize;
And interval on interval succeeds,
Before thy second comes to signify his deeds.
A note above the Epic trumpet's reach
Beyond the compass of the various lyre,
The song of all thy deeds, which sires shall teach
Their children active prowess to inspire. —
Thou art a Master — whose exploits shall warm,
The valiant yet to come, and future heroes form.

It is an honest book, that writes
Thy name as worthy honourable lot,
For fair and faithful thy detail recites,
The merits of thy brethren on the spot;
From gallant M ONSON foremost of th' array,
To him that came the last, yet help'd to win the day.
What tho' no sense of gratitude be shown
As heretofore, to chiefs of meaner rank;
No mason hew thy figure from a stone,
Or painter daub thee staring on a plank;
No groupe of Aldermen proclaim thee free,
And in the Tayler's College give thee thy degree?

What tho' no bonfires be display'd,
Nor windows light up the nocturnal scene;
What tho' the merry ringer is not paid,
Nor rockets shoot upon the STILL S ERENE ;
Tho' no matross upon the rampart runs,
To send out thy report from loud redoubling guns?
What tho' thy precious health does not go round,
Where'er the gormandizing sinner dines;
Thy name be kept in secrecy profound,
O'er female converse and loquacious wines;
What tho' th' astonish'd rustic does not fawn,
On Draper made of wax, or on the bellows drawn?

No coin the medalists devise,
With thankful captives crowding the Reverse ;
Or Plutus leading Merit to the prize,
Or A LBION wailing M ORE 's untimely hearse;
What tho' no bawling ballad singers rend
The skies with joy for thee, or dirges for thy friend?
Not monumental marble or the life
Upon the rival canvass aptly feign'd,
Nor City-Speaker, licensed by his wife,
To skrew up panygyric, bridg'd and strain'd;
Not glass adorn'd with mottos and with boughs,
Nor fires that light the mob to roar and to carouse.

Not the round peal or guns' salute,
Pronouncing still that Draper is the toast;
Not youth and blooming beauty, bearing fruit
To Justice, as they make A M AN their boast;
Not Salmon's wax-work or the hackney muse,
Not all the prose and verse of all the Grub-street news.
Not anything they have denied to Thee,
Is half so great as that which your possess;
The patriot's hand, the honest parson's knee,
And the G REAT B RITISH M ONARCH 's love express;
And if I may presume upon my mite,
This rough unbidden verse, that aims to do thee right.

Stupendous, surely, is thy chance,
If such a man as thou shou'd be despis'd;
Advance — thy fav'rite word — advance, advance
To take thy rank with worthies in the skies;
The Captain of ten thousand in the sphere,
Where Michael draws the sword or throws the glitt'ring spear.
Thyself and seed for which there is no doom,
Race rising upon race in goodly pride,
Shall ever flourish root, and branch, and bloom,
Shall flourish tow'ring high and spreading wide;
To carry God's applauses in their heart,
To shew an E NGLISH face, and act an E NGLISH part.