William Crowe

Ode to the Lyric Muse

                  STROPHE I.

    Fair sov’reign of the golden lyre,
  Descend, Thalia, from th’ enchanted grove
    Of Mona, where thou lov’st to rove,
  List’ning the echoes of thy Druid quire;
    The ling’ring sounds that yet respire
  Waked by the breezes of the Western main;
    And bring some high and solemn strain,
    Such as was heard that solemn day
    When Rome’s dread Eagle stoop’d to prey
  On Mona’s free-born sons, while Liberty
  Struck on the magic harp her dying song.—
    Dealing vengeance on her foes,
    The mortal Genius of battle rose,
  And call’d Despair and Death to lead her host along.

                  STROPHE II.

    O, Muse divine! whene’er thy strain
    Devotes the tyrant head to shame,
  The Patriot Virtues brighten in thy train;
    And Glory hears the loud appeal;
    And thou, unconquerable flame,
  First-born of ancient Freedom, Public Zeal:
    Thou in the dark and dreary hour
  When Tyranny her dragon-wing outspread,
    And Sloth a sullen influence shed,
  And every coward Vice that loves the night
  Revell’d on Corsica’s ill-fated shore;
    Thou didst one dauntless heart inflame,
  Lo, PAOLI, father of his country, came,
    And with a giant-voice
  Cried, “Liberty!” unto the drowsy race
    That slept in Slav’ry’s dull embrace;
  Roused at the sound, they hail’d thy glorious choice,
    And ev’ry manly breast
    Shook off the unnerving load of rest;
    And Virtue chasing the foul forms of night,
    Rose like a summer sun, and shed a golden light.

                ANTISTROPHE I.

    But, ah! how sunk her veiled head,
  Untimely dimm’d by Gaul’s o’ershadowing pow’r—
    And shalt thou rise, fair isle, no more?
  Thy patriot heroes sleep among the dead:
    Thy gallant virtues all are fled;
  Save Fortitude, sole refuge from despair.
    O Gaul, Oppression’s blood-stain’d heir,
    Let me not tell how, taught by thee,
    England’s rude sons smote Liberty
  On Vincent’s sable rock, her Indian throne:—
  Not unavenged; for in her cause the sky
    Storms and fiery vapours pour’d,
  While Pestilence waved wide his tainted sword
  To smite[1]...

                    EPODE.

  Then, O Thalia! let thy sacred shell
      Wake the lofty sounds that swell
  With rapture unreproved the patriot breast!
      Robed in her many-colour’d vest
      On Isis’ banks shall Science stand,
      Waving in her bounteous hand
      A wond’rous chaplet; high reward
      Of toils, by public virtue dared:
      And while to claim the envied meed
      Fair Fame her vot’ries leads, thy voice,
      O Muse, shall join th’ applauded choice
  That fix’d the glorious wreath on FREDERICK’s honour’d head!