Classic Poem

Blest son of fame, illustrious shade, farewel!
Our grief sincere the plaintive muse shall tell.
While Britons weep o'er thy funereal bier
(to thee what Briton may refuse a tear?)
In solemn strain, my weeping numbers, flow,
And blend my sorrow with a nation's woe.
If care paternal might incline the scale,
Or patriot love o'er fate could once prevail,
If sweet perswasion could prolong thy breath,
And draw attention from the ear of death,
Thou still might'st hope, O Chatham, to preside,
Persuade our senates and our councils guide,
Still bid the heat of furious party fall,
And check the taunts of proud persidious Gaul,
Once more might'st bid the vengeful thunders roar,
Once more expand the brazen throat of war.
But oh, no longer shall thy voice preside,
Persuade our senates and our councils guide,
Nor bid the heat of furious party fall,
Nor check the taunts of proud, perfidious Gaul,
No more shall bid the vengeful thunders roar,
No more expand the brazen throat of war.
To thee Britannia owes her martial fame,
To thee her mighty, formidable name,
To thee the deeds by gallant Granby done,
To thee the spoils at rich Havanna won,
All wide-extended Canada to thee,
And many an isle that crowns the Indian sea.
So deep a wound did Britain once sustain
When Wolfe expir'd victorious on the plain:
Then every weeping muse conspir'd to tell
How soon the chief, and how lamented, fell:
But Chatham falls with years and honours crown'd,
Alike in warfare and in peace renown'd.
Such were the themes my pensive hours essay'd
In great Eliza's muse-devoted shade,
When, lo! of stately mien and radiant hue
A queen-like form was present to my view:
'Twas she!—bright heiress of distinguish'd praise,
The virgin pride of Albion's elder days;
And such she seem'd, in princely robes array'd,
As when, in genuine pride of fame display'd,
To fields of fight she led her warlike train,
And trod, with lion port, Tilburia's plain.
Are these, mistaken youth, the chosen strains
(Her awful accent still my soul retains)
Are such the thoughts that patriot love inspires,
And this the voice that Britain's ear desires?
While dire Sedition waves her flaming brand,
And fierce Rebellion lifts her impious hand,
While perjur'd Gallia threats her rival state,
And wakes from long repose her ancient hate,
While the stern sons of haughty-crested Spain
With new Armadas crowd th' indignant main;
To the sad mourners of the gloomy day
Shall sorrow pour her elegiac lay;
Shall grief incessant charge the troubled air,
And load the gales with sighs of deep despair?
Vain is our fame, in vain is Britain brave,
If one death ruins, or one life can save.
Let laurel'd bards bestow the votive verse,
And high-born chiefs surround the scutcheon'd herse:
But let no mournful strain be hear'd to rise,
No tear of anguish stain the warrior's eyes.
Oh rather let the master's skilful hand
Strike the great triumphs of his bold command,
The standards that his trophied tombs adorn,
Mid storm and death from Gallic ramparts torn.
And O ye chiefs, of whom the sacred trust
To lay in earth his consecrated dust,
O chiefs, if e'er his eloquence divine
Inspir'd your souls with glory's firm design,
Ye great, with awe attend, O hear, ye brave,
The hero's voice invokes you from the grave:
O save my country! rouse your ancient flames!
That voice now still more eloquent proclaims.
May Heaven our Albion's fav'rite planet bear
Far from the path of Bourbon's blazing star!
That fatal comet, lights of Europe, shun,
By mad ambition whirl'd too near the sun;
Portending plagues, and wing'd with fate, it flies,
And sweeps to swift destruction o'er the skies.