ODE ON LORD HAY'S BIRTH DAY, A 13TH MAY 1767. MUSE, unskilled in venal praise, Unstained with flattery's art; Who loves simplicity of lays Breathed ardent from the heart; While gratitude and joy inspire, Resumes the long-unpractised lyre, To hail, O HAY, thy Natal Morn ; No gaudy wreath of flowers she weaves, But twines with oak the laurel leaves, Thy cradle to adorn. For, not on beds of gaudy flowers Thine ancestors reclined, Where sloth dissolves, and spleen devours, All energy of mind; To hurl the dart, to ride the car, To stem the deluges of war, And snatch from Fate a sinking land; Trample the Invader's lofty crest, And from his grasp the dagger wrest, "Twas this that raised the illustrious line To match the first in fame; A thousand years have seen it shine With unabated flame: Have seen thy mighty sires appear They triumphed but to save. The Muse with joy attends their way There, to its Lord the village gay Yon castle's glittering towers contain There, to the sympathetic heart, To mitigate the mourner's smart, O yet, ere Pleasure plant her snare Ere Flattery her song prepare O may his country's guardian power Swift to reward a parent's fears, Roll on in peace, ye blooming years, That rear him to renown; When, in his finished form and face, Each patrimonial charm combined; Yet, though thou draw a nation's eyes, Let not thy towering mind despise No slander there shall wound thy fame, No ruffian take his deadly aim, No rival weave the secret snare : For Innocence with angel smile, Simplicity that knows not guile, When winds the mountain oak assail, And lay its glories waste, Content may slumber in the vale, Unconscious of the blast. Through scenes of tumult while we roam, The heart, alas! is ne'er at home; It hopes in time to roam no more: Combats the storm, and rides the wave, |