Poem by William Crowe

Verses Intended to Have Been Spoken in the Theatre to the Duke of Portland, at His Installation as Chancellor of the University of Oxford, in the Year 1793

  In evil hour, and with unhallow’d voice,
  Profaning the pure gift of Poesy,
  Did he begin to sing, He, first who sung
  Of arms and combats, and the proud array
  Of warriors on th’ embattled plain, and raised
  Th’ aspiring spirit to hopes of fair renown
  By deeds of violence!—For since that time
  Th’ imperious victor oft, unsatisfied
  With bloody spoil and tyrannous conquest, dares
  To challenge fame and honour; and too oft
  The poet, bending low, to lawless pow’r
  Hath paid unseemly reverence, yea, and brought
  Streams clearest of th’ Aonian fount to wash
  Blood-stain’d Ambition. If the stroke of war
  Fell certain on the guilty head, none else,
  If they that make the cause might taste th’ effect,
  And drink, themselves, the bitter cup they mix,
  Then might the bard (tho’ child of peace) delight
  To twine fresh wreaths around the Conqueror’s brow;
  Or haply strike his high-toned harp, to swell
  The trumpet’s martial sound, and bid them on
  Whom Justice arms for vengeance: but, alas!
  That undistinguishing and deathful storm
  Beats heaviest on th’ exposed innocent,
  And they that stir its fury, while it raves,
  Stand at safe distance, send their mandate forth
  Unto the mortal ministers that wait
  To do their bidding.—Ah! who then regards
  The widow’s tears, the friendless orphan’s cry,
  And Famine, and the ghastly train of woes
  That follow at the dogged heels of War?
  They, in the pomp and pride of victory
  Rejoicing, o’er the desolated earth,
  As at an altar wet with human blood,
  And flaming with the fire of cities burnt,
  Sing their mad hymns of triumph; hymns to God,
  O’er the destruction of his gracious works!
  Hymns to the Father, o’er his slaughter’d sons!

    Detested be their sword! abhorr’d their name,
  And scorn’d the tongues that praise them!—Happier Thou,
  Of peace and science friend, hast held thy course
  Blameless and pure; and such is thy renown.
  And let that secret voice within thy breast
  Approve thee, then shall these high sounds of praise
  Which thou hast heard be as sweet harmony,
  Beyond this Concave to the starry sphere
  Ascending, where the spirits of the blest
  Hear it well pleased:—For Fame can enter Heaven,
  If Truth and Virtue lead her; else, forbid,
  She rises not above this earthy spot;
  And then her voice, transient and valueless,
  Speaks only to the herd.—With other praise
  And worthier duty may She tend on Thee,
  Follow thee still with honour, such as time
  Shall never violate, and with just applause,
  Such as the wise and good might love to share.

1. Lewesdon Hill
2. Inscribed beneath the Picture of an Ass
3. Ode to the Lyric Muse
4. Merlin's Glass
5. On the Death of Captain Cook

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