Classic Poem

XXXVI.

Ne Wailing in our Streets nor Fields be heard,
Ne Voice of Misery assault the Heart;
Ne Fatherless from Table be debar'd;
Ne piteous Tear from Eye of Sorrow start;
But Plenty, pour thy self into the Bowl
Of Bounty-head; may never Want controul
That Good, Good-Honest Man, who feeds the famish'd Soul.

XXXVIII.

Now let the Trumpet's martial Thunders sleep;
The Viol wake alone, and tender Flute:
The Phrygian Lyre with sprightly Fingers sweep,
And, Erato , dissolve the Lydian -lute.
Yet Clio frets, and burns, with honest Pain,
To rouze and animate the martial Strain,
While British Banners flame o'er many a purpled Plain.

XXXVIII.

The Trumpet sleeps, but soon for Thee shall wake,
Illustrious Chief ! to sound thy mighty Name,
(Snatch'd from the Malice of Lethean-lake)
Triumphant-swelling from the Mouth of Fame.
Mean while, disdain not (so the Virgins pray)
This Rosy-Crown, with Myrtle wove and Bay;
(Too humble Crown I ween:) the Offering of May .

XXXIX.

And while the Virgins hail Thee with their Voice,
Heaping thy crowded Way with Greens and Flow'rs,
And in the Fondness of their Heart rejoice
To sooth, with Dance and Song, thy gentler Hours;
Indulge the Season, and with sweet Repair
Embay thy Limbs, the vernal Beauties share:
Then blaze in Arms again, renew'd for future War.

XL.

Britannia 's happy Isle derives from May
The choicest Blessings Liberty bestows:
When Royal Charles (for ever hail the Day!)
In Mercy triumph'd o'er ignoble Foes.
Restor'd with him, the Arts the drooping Head
Gayly again uprear'd; the Muses Shade
With fresher Honours bloom'd, in greener Trim array'd.