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William Whitehead (Уильям Уайтхед) Verses to the People of England 1758 BRITONS, rouse to deeds of death! Waste not zeal in idle breath, Nor lose the harvest of your swords In a civil-war of words! Wherefore teems the shameless press With labour'd births of emptiness? Reas'nings, which no facts produce, Eloquence, that murders use; Ill-tim'd Humour, that beguiles Weeping idiots of their smiles; Wit, that knows but to defame, And Satire, that profanes the name. Let th' undaunted Grecian teach The use and dignity of speech, At whose thunders nobly thrown Shrunk the MAN of MACEDON. If the storm of words must rise, Let it blast our enemies; Sure and nervous be it hurl'd On the PHILIPS of the world. Learn not vainly to despise (Proud of EDWARD's victories!) Warriors wedg'd in firm array, And navies powerful to display Their woven wings to every wind, And leave the panting foe behind. Give to France the honours due, France has chiefs and statesmen too; Breasts which patriot-passions feel, Lovers of the common-weal. And when such the foes we brave, Whether on the land or wave, Greater is the pride of war, And the conquest nobler far. Agincourt and Cressy long Have flourish'd in immortal song; And lisping babes aspire to praise The wonders of ELIZA's days. And what else of late renown Has added wreaths to Britain's crown; Whether on th' impetuous Rhine She bade her harness'd warriors shine, Or snatch'd the dangerous palm of praise Where the Sambre meets the Maese; Or Danube rolls her watry train; Or the yellow-tressed Mayne Thro' Dettingen's immortal vale - Even Fontenoy could tell a tale, Might modest worth ingenuous speak, To raise a blush on Victory's cheek; And bid the vanquish'd wreaths display Great as on Culloden's day. But glory, which aspires to last, Leans not meanly on the past. 'Tis the present now demands British hearts, and British hands. Curst be he, the willing slave, Who doubts, who lingers to be brave. Curst be the coward tongue that dare Breath one accent of despair, Cold as winter's icy hand To chill the genius of the land. Chiefly you, who ride the deep, And bid our thunders wake or sleep, As pity leads, or glory calls - Monarchs of your wooden walls! Midst our mingling seas and skies Rise ye BLAKES, ye RALEIGHS rise! Let the sordid lust of gain Be banish'd from the liberal main. He who strikes the generous blow Aims it at the public foe. Let glory be the guiding star, Wealth and honours follow her. See! she spreads her lustre wide O'er the vast Atlantic tide! Constant as the solar ray Points the path, and leads the way! Other worlds demand your care, Other worlds to Britain dear; Where the foe insidious roves O'er headlong streams, and pathless groves; And justice simple laws confounds With imaginary bounds. If protected commerce keep Her tenor o'er yon heaving deep, What have we from war to fear? Commerce steels the nerves of war; Heals the havock rapine makes, And new strength from conquest takes. Nor less at home O deign to smile, Goddess of Britannia's isle! Thou, that from her rocks survey'st Her boundless realms the watry waste; Thou, that rov'st the hill and mead Where her flocks and heifers feed; Thou, that cheer'st the industrious swain While he strows the pregnant grain; Thou, that hear'st his caroll'd vows When th' expanded barn o'erflows; Thou, the bulwark of our cause, Thou, the guardian of our laws, Sweet Liberty! в_" O deign to smile, Goddess of Britannia's isle! If to us indulgent heaven Nobler seeds of strength has given, Nobler should the produce be; Brave, yet gen'rous, are the free. Come then, all thy powers diffuse, Goddess of extended views! Ev'ry breast which feels thy flame Shall kindle into martial fame, 'Till shame shall make the coward bold, And Indolence her arms unfold: Ev'n Avarice shall protect his hoard, And the plow-share gleam a sword. Goddess, all thy powers diffuse! And thou, genuine BRITISH MUSE, Nurs'd amid stthe Druids old, Where Deva's wizard waters roll'd, Thou, that bear'st the golden key To unlock eternity, Summon thy poetic guard в_" Britain still has many a bard, Whom, when time and death shall join T' expand the ore, and stamp the coin, Late posterity shall own Lineal to the Muse's throne в_" Bid them leave th' inglorious theme Of fabled shade, or haunted stream. In the daisy-painted mead 'Tis to peace we tune the reed; But when War's tremendous roar Shakes the isle from shore to shore, Every bard of purer fire Tyrtaeus-like should grasp the lyre; Wake with verse the hardy deed, Or in the generous strife like SIDNEY bleed. William Whitehead's other poems:
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