Come, ye great spirits, Candish, Raleigh, Blake! And ye of latter name, your country's pride, Oh! come, disperse these lazy fumes of sloth, Teach British hearts with British fires to glow! In wakening whispers rouse our ardent youth, Blazon the triumphs of your better days, Paint all the glorious scenes of rightful war In all its splendours; to their swelling souls Say how ye bow'd th' insulting Spaniards' pride, Say how ye thunder'd o'er their prostrate heads, 120 Say how ye broke their lines and fired their ports, Say how not death, in all its frightful shapes, Could damp your souls, or shake the great resolve For right and Britain: then display the joys The patriot's soul exalting, while he views Transported millions hail with loud acclaim The guardian of their civil, sacred rights. How greatly welcome to the virtuous man Is death for others' good! the radiant thoughts That beam celestial on his passing soul, 130 The unfading crowns awaiting him above, The exalting plaudit of the Great Supreme, Who in his actions with complacence views His own reflected splendour; then descend, Though to a lower, yet a nobler scene; Paint the just honours to his relics paid, Show grateful millions weeping o'er his grave; While his fair fame in each progressive age For ever brightens; and the wise and good Of every land in universal choir 140 With richest incense of undying praise His urn encircle, to the wondering world His numerous triumphs blazon; while with awe, With filial reverence, in his steps they tread, And, copying every virtue, every fame, Transplant his glories into second life, And, with unsparing hand, make nations bless'd By his example. Vast, immense rewards! For all the turmoils which the virtuous mind Encounters here. Yet, Britons, are ye cold? 150 Yet deaf to glory, virtue, and the call Of your poor injured countrymen? Ah! no: I see ye are not; every bosom glows With native greatness, and in all its state The British spirit rises: glorious change! Fame, virtue, freedom, welcome! Oh, forgive The Muse, that, ardent in her sacred cause, Your glory question'd; she beholds with joy, She owns, she triumphs in her wish'd mistake. See! from her sea-beat throne in awful march 160 Britannia towers: upon her laurel crest The plumes majestic nod; behold, she heaves Her guardian shield, and terrible in arms For battle shakes her adamantine spear: Loud at her foot the British lion roars, Frighting the nations; haughty Spain full soon Shall hear and tremble. Go then, Britons, forth, Your country's daring champions: tell your foes Tell them in thunders o'er their prostrate land, You were not born for slaves: let all your deeds 170 Show that the sons of those immortal men, The stars of shining story, are not slow