From golden sands I love to view
The cold moon of the northern pole,
When round her throne of cloudless blue
The circling waves of ether roll.
She wanders thro' the lengthening night,
And glitters on my crystal dome,
Whose pearly towers in fluid light
Emerge from Zembla's broken foam.
They shiver as the tempests rave
Round shuddering Nature's gelid form,
While riding on the mountain wave
I combat Heaven's unyielding storm.
Ah, when the frozen canvas gleams
Mid icy mountains far away,
The sickening sun's unwarming beams
Waste on the surge their languid day.
When the rocking keels the waters brave,
And the snow clouds changing meteors burn,
I weep to think that from the wave
The fated barks shall ne'er return.
When the cry of death is on the deep,
And struggling valour toils in vain,
I hush, in everlasting sleep,
The luckless wanderers of the main.
When their life-blood o'er the ocean swims,
And curdles round my central cave,
I hide the victim's stiffened limbs
In the darkness of the oozy wave.
I bear to my unfathomed cell
The waving sea-flowers deathless bloom,
To embalm the billows fitful swell
That surges o'er the sailor's tomb.
Round many a proud unshaken height,
That props the blue vault of the sky,
I revel in the beamy light
That sports in boundless liberty.
While from my streaming locks I fling
The fragrance of the ocean breeze,
I hear the lunar spirits sing
In the summer of Atlantic seas.
They spread their robes of silvery hue
O'er the pale moon of the placid Even,
When wrapp'd in clouds of softest blue
She slumbers at the gates of Heaven.
EDINBURGH, NOV. 19, 1804.
ADDRESSED TO A LADY,
WITH A BEAUTIFUL HAND AND ARM.
WHEN at the Bar of Love you stand,
For pilf'ring hearts in idle sport,
The moment you hold up that hand,
"Twill prove your guilt to all the Court!
BY THE REV. J. WHITEHOUSE.
Written soon after the Definitive Treaty of Peace, signed at Amiens, March 25, 1802.
CHILD of the forest! lordly Oak,
Oft, as with musing eye, I mark
Thy giant arm, and foliage dark
Stretching, in solemn grandeur, o'er the plain;
And view thy proud head towering high,
Scathed by the lightning's stroke!
My busy thoughts incessant fly
Where Britain's Navy, proud and gay,
With gallant trim and silken streamers flying,
Her ancient foe-man's rage defying,
Rides on the billowy main!
My bosom then with transport swelling,
On themes of lofty prowess dwelling,
Recalls each memorable day,
When 'midst glory soaring high,
And led from victory to victory,
Neptune to her his trident gave,
And named Britannia Empress of the Wave.
Monarch of the forest, hail!
Ne'er shall foreign force prevail,
Ne'er shall Gallia's numerous hosts
Invade thy ALBION's sea-girt coasts;
Bulwarked by thee, her power shall stand,
Dread guardian of her honoured cause,
Her equal liberty and laws;
And long transmit from hand to hand,
Her independent spirit free,
Her unstained honour pure, and patriot loyalty:
Ye, who were once the Druid's care,
When 'midst the dim grove's solitude,
His impious hand with blood imbrued,
The heaven-offending Priest preferred his prayer,
And bad, in clouds of incense, rise
The abhorred human sacrifice;
Sons of the desert! now rejoice,
Ye Oaks of Albion lift your voice,
For now beneath your hallowed shade,
No rites to Superstition paid,
Profane your deep recesses wild
By murder's foulest stain defiled,
But with myrtle crown advancing,
To music's tones and tempered cadence dancing, Their choral hymns, youths and soft virgins pay, Thy mystic boughs engarlanding
With many a trophy; emblem, sacred tree!
Of Peace, and blest Content, and holiest Liberty.
BRITAIN! thy oaken wreath
GLORY delights to bind around her brow;
And with immortal hands,
She knits those mystic bands
With nectared roses that eternal glow,
And Heaven's pure odours breathe,
More graceful far than, famed of yore,
The cestus Beauty's Queen, celestial Venus, wore.
Still, GUARDIAN OAK, thy station keep
On yon misty mountain's height;
There drink the morn's refulgent light;
While to some Seraph's strings
PEACE her soft hymn enraptured sings:
But should dire War with voice profane
Interrupt this hallowed strain,
DESCEND INTO THE DEEP!
Give to the winds thy every sail,
Bid all thy streamers catch the gale,
The furious battle storm awake,
Remotest shores thy thunders shake;
While o'er the bosom of the main,
The strain so long to Albion dear,
Shall thrill each hostile breast with fear,
While Tyrants tremble on their thrones,
And hear, appalled, those magic tones,
"BRITONS NEVER WILL BE SLAVES!"
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