'T WAS on Time's birth-day, when the voice divine
Wak'd sleeping Nature, while her infant eye,
Yet trembling, struggled with created light;
The heaven-born Muse, sprung from the source sublime
Of Harmony immortal, first receiv'd
Her sacred mandate: — " Go, seraphic maid,
Companion still to Nature! from lier works
Derive thy lay melodious; great, like those,
And elegantly simple. In thy train,
Glory, and deathless fame, and fair renown,
Attendant ever, each immortal name,
By thee deem'd sacred, to yon starry vault
Shall bear, and stamp in characters of gold.
Be thine the care, alone where truth directs
The firm heart, where the love of human kind
Inflames the patriot spirit, there to sooth
The toils of virtue with melodious praise:
For those, that smiling seraph bids thee wake
His golden lyre; for those, the young-ey'd sun
Gilds this fair-formed world; and genial spring
Throws many a green wreath, liberal, from his bosom.
So spake the voice divine: the raptur'd Muse
In strains like these, but nobler, fram'd her lay.
Spirits of ancient time, to high renown
By martial glory rais'd, and deeds august,
Achiev'd for Britain's freedom! Patriot hearts,
That, fearless of a tyrant's threatening arm,
Embrac'd your bleeding country! o'er the page,
Where history triumphs in your holy names,
O'er the dim monuments that mark your graves,
Why streams my eye with pleasure? 'Tis the joy,
The soft delight that through the full breast flows,
From sweet remembrance of departed virtue!
O Britain, parent of illustrious names,
While o'er thy annals Memory shoots her eye,
How the heart glows, rapt with high-wondering love,
And emulous esteem! Hail, Sidney, hail!
Whether Arcadian blithe, by fountain clear,
Piping thy love-lays wild, or Spartan bold,
In freedom's van distinguish'd, Sidney, hail!
Oft o'er thy laurell'd tomb from hands unseen
Fall flowers; oft in thy vale of Penshurst fair
The shepherd, wandering from his nightly fold,
Listeneth strange music, by the tiny breath
Of fairy minstrels warbled.
On Raleigh's grave, O strew the fairest flowers,
That on the bosom of the green vale blow!
There hang your vernal wreaths, ye village-maids!
Ye mountain nymphs, your crowns of wild thyme bring
To Raleigh's honour'd grave! There bloom the bay,
The virgin rose, that, blushing to be seen,
Folds its fair leaves; for modest worth was his.
A mind where truth, philosophy's first born,
Held her harmonious reign: a Briton's breast,
That, careful still of freedom's holy pledge,
Disdain'd the mean arts of a tyrant's court;
Disdain'd and died! Where was thy spirit then,
Queen of sea-crowning isles, when Raleigh bled?
How well he serv'd thee, let Iberia tell!
Ask prostrate Cales, yet trembling at his name,
How well he serv'd thee; when her vanquish'd hand
Held forth the base bribe, how he spurn'd it from him,
And cried, " I fight for Britain!" History, rise,
And blast the reigns that redden with the blood
Of those that gave them glory!
Wak'd sleeping Nature, while her infant eye,
Yet trembling, struggled with created light;
The heaven-born Muse, sprung from the source sublime
Of Harmony immortal, first receiv'd
Her sacred mandate: — " Go, seraphic maid,
Companion still to Nature! from lier works
Derive thy lay melodious; great, like those,
And elegantly simple. In thy train,
Glory, and deathless fame, and fair renown,
Attendant ever, each immortal name,
By thee deem'd sacred, to yon starry vault
Shall bear, and stamp in characters of gold.
Be thine the care, alone where truth directs
The firm heart, where the love of human kind
Inflames the patriot spirit, there to sooth
The toils of virtue with melodious praise:
For those, that smiling seraph bids thee wake
His golden lyre; for those, the young-ey'd sun
Gilds this fair-formed world; and genial spring
Throws many a green wreath, liberal, from his bosom.
So spake the voice divine: the raptur'd Muse
In strains like these, but nobler, fram'd her lay.
Spirits of ancient time, to high renown
By martial glory rais'd, and deeds august,
Achiev'd for Britain's freedom! Patriot hearts,
That, fearless of a tyrant's threatening arm,
Embrac'd your bleeding country! o'er the page,
Where history triumphs in your holy names,
O'er the dim monuments that mark your graves,
Why streams my eye with pleasure? 'Tis the joy,
The soft delight that through the full breast flows,
From sweet remembrance of departed virtue!
O Britain, parent of illustrious names,
While o'er thy annals Memory shoots her eye,
How the heart glows, rapt with high-wondering love,
And emulous esteem! Hail, Sidney, hail!
Whether Arcadian blithe, by fountain clear,
Piping thy love-lays wild, or Spartan bold,
In freedom's van distinguish'd, Sidney, hail!
Oft o'er thy laurell'd tomb from hands unseen
Fall flowers; oft in thy vale of Penshurst fair
The shepherd, wandering from his nightly fold,
Listeneth strange music, by the tiny breath
Of fairy minstrels warbled.
On Raleigh's grave, O strew the fairest flowers,
That on the bosom of the green vale blow!
There hang your vernal wreaths, ye village-maids!
Ye mountain nymphs, your crowns of wild thyme bring
To Raleigh's honour'd grave! There bloom the bay,
The virgin rose, that, blushing to be seen,
Folds its fair leaves; for modest worth was his.
A mind where truth, philosophy's first born,
Held her harmonious reign: a Briton's breast,
That, careful still of freedom's holy pledge,
Disdain'd the mean arts of a tyrant's court;
Disdain'd and died! Where was thy spirit then,
Queen of sea-crowning isles, when Raleigh bled?
How well he serv'd thee, let Iberia tell!
Ask prostrate Cales, yet trembling at his name,
How well he serv'd thee; when her vanquish'd hand
Held forth the base bribe, how he spurn'd it from him,
And cried, " I fight for Britain!" History, rise,
And blast the reigns that redden with the blood
Of those that gave them glory!