Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, FOR THE NEW YEAR 1761, by WILLIAM WHITEHEAD


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

FOR THE NEW YEAR 1761, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Still must the muse, indignant, hear
Last Line: And albion's dreaded strength secure the world's repose.
Subject(s): Blood; George Iii, King Of England (1738-1820); Great Britain - Commonwealth & Colonies; Great Britain - Wars With France; Mourning; Navy - Great Britain; Ruins; British Empire; England - Empire; Bereavement; English Navy


Still must the Muse, indignant, hear
The clanging trump, the rattling car,
And usher in each opening year
With groans of death, and sounds of war?
O'er bleeding millions, realms opprest,
The tuneful mourner sinks distrest,
Or breathes but notes of woe:
And cannot Gallia learn to melt,
Nor feel what Britain long has felt
For her insulting foe?
Amidst her native rocks secure,
Her floating bulwarks hovering round,
What can the sea-girt realm endure,
What dread, through all her wat'ry bound?
Great queen of Ocean, she defies
All but the Power who rules the skies,
And bids the storms engage;
Inferior foes are dash'd and lost,
As breaks the white wave on her coast
Consum'd in idle rage.
For alien sorrows heaves her generous breast,
She proffers peace to ease a rival's pain:
Her crowded ports, her fields in plenty drest,
Bless the glad merchant, and th' industrious swain.
Do blooming youths in battle fall?
True to their fame the funeral urn we raise;
And thousands, at the glorious call,
Aspire to equal praise.

Thee, Glory, thee through climes unknown
Th' adventurous chief with zeal pursues;
And fame brings back from every zone
Fresh subjects for the British Muse.
Tremendous as th' ill-omen'd bird
To frighted France thy voice was heard
From Minden's echoing towers;
O'er Biscay's roar thy voice prevail'd;
And at thy word the rocks we scal'd,
And Canada is ours.
O potent queen of every breast
Which aims at praise by virtuous deeds,
Where'er thy influence shines confest
The hero acts, th'event succeeds.
But ah! must Glory only bear,
Bellona-like, the vengeful spear?
To fill her mighty mind
Must bulwarks fall, and cities flame,
And is her amplest field of fame
The miseries of mankind?
On ruins pil'd, on ruins must she rise,
And lend her rays to gild her fatal throne?
Must the mild Power who melts in vernal skies,
By thunders only make his godhead known?
No, be the omen far away;
From yonder pregnant cloud a kinder gleam,
Though faintly struggling into day,
Portends a happier theme!—

—And who is he, of regal mien,
Reclin'd on Albion's golden fleece,
Whose polish'd brow and eye serene
Proclaim him elder-born of peace?
Another George!—Ye winds convey
Th' auspicious name from pole to pole!
Thames, catch the sound, and tell the subject sea
Beneath whose sway its waters roll,
The hoary monarch of the deep,
Who sooth'd its murmurs with a father's care,
Doth now eternal sabbath keep,
And leaves his trident to his blooming heir.
O, if the Muse aright divine,
Fair Peace shall bless his opening reign,
And through its splendid progress shine,
With every art to grace her train.
The wreaths, so late by glory won,
Shall weave their foliage round his throne,
Till kings, abash'd, shall tremble to be foes,
And Albion's dreaded strength secure the world's repose.





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