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