May such adorn each future age, Genius of Freedom, and of Peace! ODE XIV. ON LORD HAY's BIRTH-DAY. (The present Earl of Errol.) BY JAMES BEATTIE, LL. D. A MUSE, unskill'd in venal praise, Who loves simplicity of lays Breath'd ardent from the heart; While gratitude and joy inspire, Resumes the long unpractis'd 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 reclin'd: 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 And from his grasp the dagger wrest, And desolating brand. 'Twas this that rais'd th' illustrious line To match the first in fame. A thousand years have seen it shine Have seen thy mighty sires appear They triumph'd but to save. The Muse with joy attends their The vales of peace along: There to its Lord the village gay way Yon castle's glittering towers contain There, to the sympathetic heart, Ye sons of Luxury, be wise; O yet, ere Pleasure plant her snare Ere Flattery her song prepare To check the voice of Truth; O may his country's guardian power Attend the slumbering infant's bower, And bright Elysian dreams impart To rouse th' hereditary fire; To kindle each sublime desire, Exalt and warm the heart. Swift to reward a parent's fears, When in his finish'd form and face, Yet, though thou draw a nation's eyes, B Let not thy towering mind despise No slanderer there shall wound thy fame; No rival weave the secret snare: When winds the mountain oak assail, Unconscious of the blast. Through scenes of tumult while we roam, The heart, alas! is ne'er at home; It hopes in time to rove no more: Combats the storm, and rides the wave, Ye proud, ye selfish, ye severe, Not less when, in the vale of peace, |