By William Whitehead, Esq; Poet - Laureat.

     STROPHE.
STill must the Muse, indignant, hear
     The clanging trump, the rattling car,
And usher in each opening year
     With groans of death, and sounds of war?
O’er bleeding millions, realms oppress’d,
The tuneful mourner sinks distress’d,
     Or breathes but notes of wo:
And cannot Gallia learn to melt,
Not feel, whạt Britain long has felt
     For her insulting foe?
Amidst her native rocks secure,
     Her foating bulwarks hovering round,
What can the sea-girt realm endure,
     What dread through all her watry bound?
Great Queen of Ocean she defies
All but the power who rules the skies,
     And bids the storms engage:
Inferior foes are dash’d and lost,
As breaks the white wave on her coast,
     Consum’d in idle rage.
For alien sorrows heaves her gen’rous breast,
     She proffers peace to ease a rival’s pain,
Her crouded ports, her fields in plenty drest,
     Bless the glad merchant, and th’ industrious swain.
          Do blooming youths in battle fall?
True to their fame the funeral urn we raise:
          And thousands at the glorious call,
               Aspire to equal praise.

     ANTISTROPHE.
Thee, Glory, thee through climes unknown
     Th’ adventrous chief with zeal pursues,
And fame brings back from every zone
     Fresh subjects for the British muse.
Tremendous as th’ ill-omen’d bird
To frighted France, thy voice was heard,
     From Minden’s echoing tow’rs;
O’er Biscay’s roar thy voice prevail’d;
And at thy word the rocks we scal’d,
     And Canada is ours.
O potent Queen of every breast
     Which aims at praise by virtuous deeds,
Where-e’er thy influence shines, confest
     The hero acts, th’ event succeeds.
But ah! must Glory only bear,
Bellona-like, the vengeful spear?
     To fill her mighty mind
Must bulwarks fall, and cities flame,
And is her amplest field of fame
     The mis’ries of mankind?
On ruins pil’d on ruins must the rise,
     And lend her rays to gild her fatal throne?
Must the mild power who melts in vernal skies,
     By thunders only make his godhead known?
          No, be the omen far away,
From yonder pregnant cloud a kinder gleam,
          Tho’ faintly struggling into day,
               Portends a happier theme.

     EPODE.
And who is he, of regal mien,
     Reclin’d on Albion’s golden fleece,
Whose polish’d brow, and eye serene,
     Proclaim him elder-born of Peace!
Another GEORGE! — ye winds, convey
     Th’ auspicious name from pole to pole:
Thames, catch the sound, and tell the subject??,
     Beneath whose sway its waters roll.
The hoary monarch of the deep,
Who sooth’d its murmurs with a father’s care,
     Doth now eternal sabbath keep,
And leaves his trident to his blooming heir.
     O, if the Muse aright divine,
          Fair Peace shall bless his op’ning reign,
     And through its splendid progress shine
          With ev’ry art to grace her train.
     The wreaths, so late by Glory won,
     Shall weave their foliage round his throne,
’Till kings abash’d shall tremble to be foes,
And Albion’s dreaded strength secure the world’s repose.