Such are the honours grateful Britain pays,
So patriots merit, and so monarchs praise.
O'er distant times such records shall prevail,
When English numbers, antiquated, fail:
A trifling song the muse can only yield,
And sooth her soldiers panting from the field;
To sweet retirements see them safe convey'd,
And raise their battles in the rural shade.
From fields of death to Woodstock's peaceful glooms
(The poet's haunt) Britannia's hero comes —
Begin, my muse, and softly touch the string:
Here Henry lov'd; and Chaucer learn'd to sing.
Hail fabled grotto! hail Elysian soil;
Thou fairest spot of fair Britannia's isle!
Where kings of old conceal'd forgot the throne,
And beauty was content to shine unknown;
Where love and war by turns pavilions rear,
And Henry's bow'rs near Blenheim's dome appear;
The weary'd champion lull in soft alcoves,
The noblest boast of thy romantic groves.
Oft, if the muse presage, shall he be seen
By Rosamonda fleeting o'er the green,
In dreams be hail'd by heroes' mighty shades;
And hear old Chaucer warble through the glades:
O'er the fam'd echoing vaults his name shall bound;
And hill to hill reflect the favourite sound.