While secret-leaguing nations frown around,
Ready to pour the long-expected storm;
While she, who wont the restless Gaul to bound,
Britannia, drooping, grows an empty form;
While on our vitals selfish parties prey,
And deep corruption eats our soul away;
Yet in the Goddess of the Main appears
A gleam of joy, gay-flushing every grace,
As she the cordial voice of millions hears,
Rejoicing, zealous, o'er thy rising race:
Straight her rekindling eyes resume their fire,
The Virtues smile, the Muses tune the lyre.
But more enchanting than the Muse's song,
United Britons thy dear offspring hail;
The city triumphs through her glowing throng,
The shepherd tells his transport to the dale;
The sons of roughest toil forget their pain,
And the glad sailor cheers the midnight main.
Can aught from fair Augusta's gentle blood,
And thine, thou friend of liberty! be born;
Can aught save what is lovely, generous, good;
What will, at once, defend us, and adorn?
From thence, prophetic joy! new Edwards eyes,
New Henries, Annas, and Elizas rise.
May fate my fond devoted days extend,
To sing the promised glories of thy reign!
What though, by years depressed, my muse might bend,
My heart will teach her still a nobler strain:
How, with recovered Britain, will she soar,
When France insults, and Spain shall rob no more.
James Thomson
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-his-royal-highness-the-prince-of-wales/
