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"Whate'er this voice by sceptics may be found, / Faction's false cry, or Truth's prophetic sound, / Let ev'ry Briton, with bold Blake, proclaim, / His ruling passion is his Country's fame!."

— Hayley, William (1745-1820)

Author

Epistle to Admiral Keppel

Place of Publication

London

Publisher

Printed for Fielding and Walker

Date

1779

Metaphor

"Whate'er this voice by sceptics may be found, / Faction's false cry, or Truth's prophetic sound, / Let ev'ry Briton, with bold Blake, proclaim, / His ruling passion is his Country's fame!."

Metaphor in Context

May'st thou, O Keppel! every wrong forget!
And pay thy Country still a Briton's debt!
Clear as thy own may England's honour grow,
Prov'd by the voice of each applauding foe!
Tho' speculation, in dark visions tost,
Has long pronounc'd her mighty Empire lost.
There are, who o'er the fancied ruin sigh,
Who coarse of thought, and coarse of language cry,
"That England fell, in that disastrous hour,
When the Scotch serpent climb'd the tree of power;"
Who, hid in government's perplex'd machine,
Yet lives malignant, and corrodes unseen:--
Thus, while th'imperial ship sublimely rides
In awful splendor on the subject tides;
Beneath her keel a foe insidious lurks;
Thro' the strong oak the mining mischief works:
The lofty fabric, tho' in semblance firm,
Sinks the proud victim of a foreign worm.
Whate'er this voice by sceptics may be found,
Faction's false cry, or Truth's prophetic sound,
Let ev'ry Briton, with bold Blake, proclaim,
His ruling passion is his Country's fame!
What men so'er her seats of counsel fill,
The brave must feel, she is their country still:
Let them for her the worst of perils dare,
And never, never of the state despair!
Not e'en, when doom'd with darkness to o'erspread
The sacred glory round Britannia's head,
The evil genius of the pale ****
Prompts the weak pause, or plans the dire campaign,
The curse of Minden's field, and Saratoga's plain!
Yet dare to hope, that built by Freedom's hand,
The splendid pile of Britain's fame shall stand;
Tho' her weak statesmen ill sustain its weight,
Mere mould'ring vain pilasters of the state!
Yet British Virtue, theme of noblest song!
Strong in her fleets, and in her armies strong,
Like the firm cement of an ancient tower,
Defies the rage of time, and ev'ry hostile pow'r.
This Virtue still, the Bard's peculiar care!
Shall prompt the patriot song, and martial pray'r:
"Thou! God of hosts! whose sacred breath imparts
Valour's unclouded flame to British hearts;
Whose hand has spread our triumphs round the globe,
And drest the Queen of Isles in glory's gorgeous robe:
May thy protecting spirit, still the same,
Sustain her tott'ring on the throne of Fame!--
But if prepar'd th'avenging Angel stand
To pour thy wrath on this devoted land;
If her brave sons their forfeit lives must pay,
Grant them to perish in the face of day!
For Britain perish 'mid the combat's clang,
Where Honour's smile endears the dying pang!
Let Courage, when ensnar'd by Falshood's breath,
Still burst the toils of ignominious death!
And Justice prove, that Truth will ne'er depart
From her firm seat, the genuine Sailor's heart.
O ye! our Island's Pride! and Nature's boast!
Whose peerless valour guards and gilds our coast,
Ye gallant Seamen! in this trying hour,
Remember union is the soul of power!
Nor let dissention, with infectious hand,
Shake the firm strength of your fraternal band!
Your injur'd country bids you join to throw
Avenging thunders on your common foe:
Let anger scorn the rancorous debate,
The low and little jars of private hate,
And nobly sacrifice each selfish aim,
On the bright Altar of Britannia's Fame."