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Fresh beneath the scythe of Time,

Could the Muse's voice avail,
Joys should spring and reach their prime,
Blooming ere the former fail,
And every joy its tribute bring
To Britain, and to Britain's king.
Suns should warm the pregnant soil,
Health in every breeze should blow;
Plenty crown the peasant's toil,

And shine upon his cheerful brow.
Round the throne whilst duty waits,

Duty join'd with filial love, Peace should triumph in our gates,

And every distant fear remove;
Till gratitude to Heav'n should raise
The speaking eye, the song of praise.

Let the nations round in arms
Stun the world with war's alarms,
But let Britain still be found
Safe within her wat❜ry bound.
Tyrant chiefs may realms destroy;
Nobler is our monarch's joy,

Of all that's truly great possess'd,
And, by blessing, truly blest.

Though comets rise, and wonder mark their way,
Above the bounds of Nature's sober laws,

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.
DISCORD hence! the torch resign-
Harmony shall rule to day.
Whate'er thy busy fiends design
Of future ills, in cruel play,
To torture or alarm mankind,

Lead the insidious train away,
Some blacker hours for mischief find;
Harmony shall rule to day.

Distinguish'd from the vulgar year,

And mark'd with Heaven's peculiar white,
This day shall grace the rolling sphere,
And ling'ring end its bright career,
Unwilling to be lost in night.

Discord, lead thy fiends away!
Harmony shall rule to day.

Is there, intent on Britain's good,
Some angel hovering in the sky,

Whose ample view surveys her circling flood,
Her guardian rocks, that shine on high,

Her forests, waving to the gales,

Her streams, that glide through fertile vales,
Her lowing pastures, fleecy downs,
Towering cities, busy towns,

Is there who views them all with joy serene,
And breathes a blessing on the various scene?

O, if there is, to him 't is given,
(When daring crimes almost demand
The vengeance of the Thunderer's hand)
To soften, or avert, the wrath of Heaven.
O'er ocean's face do tempests sweep?
Do civil storms blow loud?
He stills the raging of the deep,
And madness of the crowd.

He too, when Heaven vouchsafes to smile
Propitious on his favourite isle,
With zeal performs the task he loves,
And every gracious boon improves.

Blest delegate! if now there lies
Ripening in yonder pregnant skies
Some great event of more than common good,
Though Envy howl with all her brood,
Thy wonted power employ;
Usher the mighty moments in

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
Lycéan shades among,

(When raptur'd views their bosoms warm'd
Of perfect states by fancy form'd)
United here and realiz'd we see,
Thrones, independence, laws, and liberty!
The triple cord, which binds them fast,
Like the golden chain of Jove
Combining all below with all above,
Shall bid the sacred union last.
What though jars intestiné rise,

And discord seems awhile to reign,
Britain's sons are brave, are wise,
The storm subsides, and they embrace again.
The master-springs which rule the land,
Guided by a skilful hand,

Loosening now, and now restraining,
Yielding something, something gaining,
Preserve inviolate the public frame,

As, though the seasons change, the year is still the
O, should Britain's foes presume,
Trusting some delusive scene

Of transient feuds that rage at home,
And seem to shake the nice machine,
Should they dare to lift the sword,

Or bid their hostile thunders roar,
Soon their pride would mirth afford,
And break like billows on a shore;
Soon would find her vengeance wake,
Weep in blood the dire mistake,

And 'gainst their wild attempts united see
Thrones, independence, laws, and liberty!

ODE XXII.

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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,
But pour'd an ineffectual ray

On Earth's wild bosom, cold and bare;
Where not a plant uprear'd its head,
Or dar'd its infant foliage spread

To meet the blasting air.

Nor less did man confess its force:
Whate'er could damp its genial course,
Or o'er the seats of life prevail,
Each pale disease that pants for breath,
Each painful harbinger of death,

Lurk'd in the loaded gale.

But now th' unfolding year resumes
Its various hues, its rich array;
And, bursting into bolder blooms,

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 mildly sweet the breezes seem,

More fresh the fields, the suns more warm;

While health, the animating soul
Of every bliss, inspires the whole,

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,
With unremitting hand, has given

The power and will to bless?

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AT length the fleeting year is o'er,
And we no longer are deceiv'd;
The wars, the tumults are no more
Which fancy form'd, and fear believ❜d.
Each distant object of distress,
Each phantom of uncertain guess,

The busy mind of man could raise,
Has taught ev'n folly to beware;
And fleets and armies in the air

The wond'ring crowd has ceas'd to gaze.
And shall the same dull cheats again
Revive, in stale succession roll'd?
Shall sage experience warn in vain,
Nor the new year be wiser than the old ?
Forbid it, ye protecting powers,

Who guide the months, the days, the hours
Which now advance on rapid wing!

May each new spectre of the night
Dissolve at their approaching light,

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,
(Where Britain shar'd her monarch's woe)
Which most the feeling mind oppress,

Yet best to bear the virtuous know,
Turn we our eyes-The cypress wreath
No more the plaintive Muse shall wear;
The blooming flowers which round her breathe,
Shall form the chaplet for her hair;

And the gay month which claims her annual fire,
Shall raise to sprightlier notes the animated lyre.
The lark that mounts on morning wings

To meet the rising day,
Amidst the clouds exulting sings,
The dewy clouds, whence Zephyr flings
The fragrance of the May.

The day, which gave our monarch birth,
Recalls each noblest theme of ages past;

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,
In one united wish thus joins the general prayer:
"Till Ocean quits his fav'rite isle,
Till, Thames, thy wat'ry train
No more shall bless its pregnant soil,
May order, peace, and freedom smile
Beneath a Brunswick's reign!"

ODE XXV.

FOR THE NEW-YEAR. 1773.

WRAPT in the stole of sable grain,
With storms and tempests in his train,
Which howl the naked woods among,
Winter claims the solemn song.
Hark, 't is Nature's last farewell;
Every blast is Nature's kuell !

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,
And Britain's isle shall bloom agaiu
In all its wonted verdure drest.

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,
Which Heaven can give, or mortals bear!
May each wing'd moment, as it flies,

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,
Assuming attributes divine,

And stretch their unresisted sway
O'er slaves, who tremble, and obey.
On lawless pinions let them soar:
Far happier he, whose temperate power,
Acknowledg'd, and avow'd,

Ev'n on the throne restriction knows;
And to those laws implicit bows

By which it rules the crowd.

When erst th' imperial pride of Rome
Exulting saw a world o'ercome,
And rais'd a mortal to the skies,
There were, 't is true, with eagle eyes
Who view'd the dazzling scene.
Though incense blaz'd on flattery's shrine,
Great Titus and the greater Antonine

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.

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"PASS but a few short fleeting years,"
Imperial Xerxes sigh'd and said,
Whilst his fond eye, suffus'd with tears,
His numerous hosts survey'd;
"Pass but a few short fleeting years,
And all that pomp, which now appears

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?
If life, alas! is short, why shake the hasty sand?

Not so do Britain's kings behold
Their floating bulwarks of the main
Their undulating sails unfold,
And gather all the winds aerial reign.

Myriads they see, prepar'd to brave
The loudest storm, the wildest wave,
To hurl just thunders on insulting foes,
To guard, and not invade, the world's repose.
Myriads they see, their country's dear delight,
Their country's dear defence, and glory in the sight!
Nor do they idly drop a tear

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,

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And the sons' sons will catch the glorious flame

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She cried, "deceiv'd, mistaken men!

Nor let your parent, o'er the flood,
Send forth her voice in vain!

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,
And teach the rest to feel,
Nor let the madness of a few

Distress the public weal!

So shall the opening year assume,
Time's fairest child, a happier bloom;

The white-wing'd hours shall lightly move,
The Sun with added lustre shine!
"To err is human."-Let us prove
"Forgiveness is divine!"

ODE XXXI'.

FOR HIS MAJESTY'S BIRTH-DAY, JUNE 4, 1776.

YE western gales, whose genial breath
Unbinds the glebe, till all beneath
One verdant livery wears:
You soothe the sultry heats of noon,
Add softness to the setting Sun,

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,
Through ether now your power prevails;
And our dilated breasts shall own
The joys which flow from you alone.

Why, therefore, in yon dubious sky,
With outspread wing, and eager eye
On distant scenes intent,
"Sits Expectation in the air"-
Why do alternate hope and fear

Suspend some great event?

Can Britain fail?-The thought were vain!
The powerful empress of the main
But strives to smooth th' unruly flood,
And dreads a conquest stain'd with blood.

While yet, ye winds, your breezy balm
Through Nature spreads a general calm,
While yet a pause fell Discord knows;
Catch the soft moment of repose,

Your genuine powers exert;
To pity melt th' obdurate mind,
Teach every bosom to be kind,
And humanize the heart.

Propitious gales, O wing your way!
And whilst we hail that rightful sway
Whence temper'd freedom springs,
The bliss we feel, to future times
Extend, and from your native climes
Bring peace upon your wings!

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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."

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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,
Fairest Unanimity!

Not more fair the star that leads
Bright Aurora's glowing steeds,
Or on Hesper's front that shines,
When the garish day declines;
Bring thy usual train along,
Festive Dance, and choral Song,
Loose-rob'd Sport, from folly free,
And Mirth, chastis'd by decency.

Enough of war the pensive Muse has sung,
Enough of slaughter trembled on her tongue;
Fairer prospects let her bring

Than hostile fields and scenes of blood;
If happier hours are on the wing,
Wherefore damp the coming good?

If again our tears must flow,

Why forestall the future woe?

Bright-ey'd Hope, thy pleasing power
Gilds at least the present hour,
Every anxious thought beguiles,
Dresses every face in smiles,

Nor lets one transient cloud the bliss destroy
Of that auspicious day, which Britain gives to joy.

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