Fresh beneath the scythe of Time, Could the Muse's voice avail, And shine upon his cheerful brow. Duty join'd with filial love, Peace should triumph in our gates, And every distant fear remove; Let the nations round in arms Of all that's truly great possess'd, Though comets rise, and wonder mark their way, It is the all-cheering lamp of day, The permanent, the unerring cause, By whom th' enliven'd world its course maintains, By whom all Nature smiles, and beauteous order reigns. ODE XX. FOR HIS MAJESTY'S BIRTH-DAY, JUNE 4, 1770. Lead the insidious train away, Distinguish'd from the vulgar year, And mark'd with Heaven's peculiar white, Discord, lead thy fiends away! Is there, intent on Britain's good, Whose ample view surveys her circling flood, Her forests, waving to the gales, Her streams, that glide through fertile vales, Is there who views them all with joy serene, O, if there is, to him 't is given, He too, when Heaven vouchsafes to smile Blest delegate! if now there lies Sacred to harmony and joy, And from his era let their course begin! ODE XXI. FOR THE NEW-YEAR. 1771. AGAIN returns the circling year, Again the festal day, Which ushers in its bright career, Demands the votive lay: Again the oft-accustom'd Muse Her tributary task pursues, Strikes the preluding lyre again, And calls the harmonious band to animate her strain. Britain is the glowing theme; To Britain sacred be the song: Whate'er the sages lov'd to dream (When raptur'd views their bosoms warm'd And discord seems awhile to reign, Loosening now, and now restraining, As, though the seasons change, the year is still the Of transient feuds that rage at home, Or bid their hostile thunders roar, And 'gainst their wild attempts united see ODE XXII. [same. FOR HIS MAJESTY'S BIRTH-DAY, JUNE 4, 1771. LONG did the churlish East detain In icy bonds th' imprison'd spring: No verdure dropp'd in dewy rain, And not a zephyr wav'd its wing. Even he, th' enlivening source of day, On Earth's wild bosom, cold and bare; To meet the blasting air. Nor less did man confess its force: Lurk'd in the loaded gale. But now th' unfolding year resumes Repays with strength its long delay. 'T is Nature reigns. The grove unbinds Its tresses to the southern winds, The birds with music fill its bowers; The flocks, the herds beneath its shade Repose, or sport along the glade, And crop the rising flowers. Nor less does man rejoice. To him More fresh the fields, the suns more warm; While health, the animating soul And heightens each peculiar charm. Loveliest of months, bright June! again Thy season smiles. With thee return The frolic band of Pleasure's train; With thee Britannia's festal morn, When the glad land her homage pays To George, her monarch, and her friend. "May cheerful health, may length of days, And smiling peace his steps attend! May every good"-Cease, cease the strain; The prayer were impotent and vain: What greater good can man possess Than he, to whom all-bounteous Heaven, The power and will to bless? AT length the fleeting year is o'er, The busy mind of man could raise, The wond'ring crowd has ceas'd to gaze. Who guide the months, the days, the hours May each new spectre of the night As fly the wint'ry damps the soft return of spring! True to herself if Britain prove, What foreign foes has she to dread? Her sacred laws, her sovereign's love, Her virtuous pride by Freedom bred, Secure at once domestic ease, And awe th' aspiring nations into peace. Did Rome e'er court a tyrant's smiles, Till faction wrought the civil frame's decay? Did Greece submit to Philip's wiles, Till her own faithless sons prepar'd the way? True to herself if Britain prove, The warring world will league in vain, Her sacred laws, her sovereign's love, Her empire boundless as the main, Will guard at once domestic ease, And awe th' aspiring nations into peace. ODE XXIV. FOR HIS MAJESTY'S BIRTH-DAY, JUNE 4, 1772. FROM Scenes of death, and deep distress, Yet best to bear the virtuous know, And the gay month which claims her annual fire, To meet the rising day, The day, which gave our monarch birth, Tells us, whate'er we owed to Nassau's worth, The Brunswick race confirm'd, and bade it last: Tells us, with rapturous joy unblam'd, And conscious gratitude, to feel Our laws, our liberties, reclaim'd From tyrant pride, and bigot zeal; While each glad voice, that wakes the echoing air, ODE XXV. FOR THE NEW-YEAR. 1773. WRAPT in the stole of sable grain, Yet shall glooms oppress the mind, So oft by sage experience taught To feel its present views confin'd, And to the future point th' aspiring thought? All that fades again shall live, Nature dies but to revive. Yon Sun, who sails in southern skies, And faintly gilds th' horizon's bound, Shall northward still, and northward rise, With beams of warmth and splendour crown'd; Shall wake the slumbering, buried grain From the cold Earth's relenting breast, Britain, to whom kind Heaven's indulgent care Has fix'd in temperate climes its stated goal, Far from the burning zone's inclement air, Far from th' eternal frosts which bind the pole. Here dewy spring exerts his genial powers; Here summer glows salubrious, not severe; Here copious autumn spreads his golden stores, And winter strengthens the returning year. O with each blessing may it rise, Improve a joy, or ease a care; Till Britain's grateful heart astonish'd bends To that Almighty Power from whom all good descends. ODE XXVI. FOR HIS MAJESTY'S BIRTH-DAY, JUNE 4, 1773. BORN for millions are the kings Who sit on Britain's guarded throne: From delegated power their glory springs, Their birth-day is our own! In impious pomp let tyrants shine, And stretch their unresisted sway Ev'n on the throne restriction knows; By which it rules the crowd. When erst th' imperial pride of Rome Felt, and confess'd they were but men. But ah! how few, let History speak With weeping eye, and blushing cheek, E'er reach'd their mighty mind! Man, selfish man, in most prevail'd, And power roll'd down a curse, entail'd On reason and mankind. "PASS but a few short fleeting years," A glorious living scene, Shall breathe its last; shall fall, shall die, Aud low in Earth yon myriads lie As they had never been!" True, tyrant: wherefore then does pride, And vain ambition, urge thy mind To spread thy needless conquests wide, And desolate mankind? Say, why do millions bleed at thy command? Not so do Britain's kings behold Myriads they see, prepar'd to brave On fated Nature's future bier ; For not the grave can damp Britannia's fires; Though chang'd the men, the worth is still the The sons will emulate their sires, [same; And the sons' sons will catch the glorious flame She cried, "deceiv'd, mistaken men! Nor let your parent, o'er the flood, Alas! no tyrant she, She courts you to be free: Submissive hear her soft command, Nor force unwilling vengeance from a parent's hand.” Hear her, ye wise, to duty true, Distress the public weal! So shall the opening year assume, The white-wing'd hours shall lightly move, ODE XXXI'. FOR HIS MAJESTY'S BIRTH-DAY, JUNE 4, 1776. YE western gales, whose genial breath And dry the morning's tears. To this ode Mr. Mason has prefixed the following advertisement, which, however, has not prevented us, as the reader will perceive, from inserting the regular series of all Mr. Whitehead's new-year and birth-day odes, both previous and subsequent to it. "In the Collection of Poems which Mr. Whitehead printed in 1774, he thought proper to select certain of his new-year and birth-day odes for re-publication. Beginning, therefore, from that date, I have reviewed, with the assistance of some friends, whose taste in lyric composition I could depend on, all that he wrote afterwards, and those which we best approved are here inserted. In this review it is to be noted, to the poet's honour, that we found more variety of sentiment and expression, than could well be expected from such an uniformity of subject. If we lamented the necessity he was under, of so frequently adverting to the war with America, we generally admired his delicate manner of treating it. Should, therefore, the odes here reprinted lead any person to read all that he composed, in compliance with the forms of his This is your season, lovely gales, Why, therefore, in yon dubious sky, Suspend some great event? Can Britain fail?-The thought were vain! While yet, ye winds, your breezy balm Your genuine powers exert; Propitious gales, O wing your way! AGAIN imperial Winter's sway Bids the earth and air obey; Throws o'er yon hostile lakes his icy bar, And, for a while, suspends the rage of war. O may it ne'er revive!-Ye wise, Ye just, ye virtuous, and ye brave, Leave fell contention to the sons of vice, And join your powers to save! Enough of slaughter have ye known, Ye wayward children of a distant clime, For you we heave the kindred groan, We pity your misfortune, and your crime. Stop, parricides, the blow, O find another foe! And hear a parent's dear request, Who longs to clasp you to her yielding breast. What change would ye require? What form Ideal floats in fancy's sky? Ye fond enthusiasts break the charm, And let cool reason clear the mental eye. On Britain's well-mix'd state alone, True Liberty has fix'd her throne, Where law, not man, an equal rule maintains: Can freedom e'er be found where many a tyrant reigns? office, (and all are to be found in the Annual Register printed by Dodsley) I persuade myself he must agree with me in thinking, that no court poet ever had fewer courtly stains, and that his page is, at the least, as white as Addison's." And spreads her baleful influence far: On wretched man her scorpion stings Around th' insidious fury flings, Corroding every bliss, and sharp'ning every care. Hence, demon, hence! in tenfold night Thy Stygian spells employ, Nor with thy presence blast the light Of that auspicious day, which Britain gives to joy. But come, thou softer deity, Not more fair the star that leads Enough of war the pensive Muse has sung, Than hostile fields and scenes of blood; If again our tears must flow, Why forestall the future woe? Bright-ey'd Hope, thy pleasing power Nor lets one transient cloud the bliss destroy |