Henry James Pye
Ode On The Birth Of The Prince Of Wales - Poem by Henry James Pye
The fading beam of parting day
Forsakes the western sky,
Now shines Diana's gentler ray
With virgin majesty;
Her face with milder glory bright
Illumes the dusky shades of night,
And brings the varied scene to view.
The glassy lake, and bubbling stream,
Again reflect the borrow'd beam,
And take a silver hue.
From the deep shade of yonder trees
The screaming night-birds call,
While floats on Zephyr's balmy breeze
The distant waterfall:
Sad Philomela's warbling throat
Pours to the moon her plaintive note
And charms the lay-resounding grove,
Where, trembling at the gentle gale,
The verdant beech, and poplar pale,
With rustling murmurs move.
What dreadful sounds arise?—
These notes of rural music sink
And shrill-ton'd clarions rend the skies;
The air a voice of triumph chears,
And lo! a form divine appears
On Cherwell's sedgy brink.
His azure length of robe behind
Loosely wantons in the wind;
Glowing like the vernal morning
Beams benign his eye-balls shed;
Ceres' wealth his brows adorning
Shades his venerable head.
Say heavenly vision what these notes portend?
Sits white-wing'd Victory on Britannia's arms?
Does proud Iberia to her legions bend,
Or flies the Gaul at Granby's dread alarms,
Or stalks on India's sun-burn'd coasts afar
The force of conflict keen, and giant rage of war?
‘Far hence,’ he cried, ‘the tumult's roar
‘To distant realms shall fly:
‘Mirth revels now on Albion's shore
‘With blythe festivity.
‘Ye Muses twine each fragant flower
‘To crown the day, to crown the hour,
‘Which gave to George a blooming heir;
‘Ye Guardians of this favor'd isle
‘On this your future monarch smile,
‘Ye Nymphs your wreaths prepare.
‘Come happy child! delight the land
‘Where time shall fix thy throne:
‘O come, and take from Freedom's hand
‘A sceptre all her own:
‘And when the sacred lore of truth
‘Display'd, shall form thy ripening youth,
‘May every joyful Briton find
‘The soul of George's godlike race,
‘With lovely Charlotte's softer grace,
‘Attemper'd, in thy mind.
‘For thee on Afric's sultry coast
‘The British ensign proudly waves;
‘For thee by distant tempests tost
‘Our navies awe the Gallic pride
‘On every shore, whose hostile side
‘The boundless Ocean laves.—
‘With nobler skill, and fiercer fire,
‘Strike the rapture-breathing lyre.—
‘Hark!—from Cambria's cloud-top'd mountains
‘Music winds her stream along,
‘As they flow the crystal fountains
‘Listen to the jocund song,
‘Lo radiant forms and glorious shades appear,
‘Fair as the morn in saffron mantle dight;
‘But strains divine ill suit the human ear,
‘And fleeting visions mock the mortal sight.’—
He said, and rushing from my wondering eyes,
On volley'd lightening borne, he sought his native skies.
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