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OATLANDS; OR THE TRANSFER OF THE LAUREL.
A POEM.
BY JOHN O'KEEFFE.
London: PRINTED FOR J. DEBRETT, OPPOSITE BURLINGTON-HOUSE, PICCADILLY. 1795.
OATLANDS; OR THE TRANSFER OF THE LAUREL.
A POEM.
[]REASON, (a dame not often in the wrong)
Bethought, (for much to think is Reaſon giv'n)
On what is ill, and what is left undone,
And how diſpos'd of all the gifts of Heav'n.
Perceiving Fortune off could fling her hood,
And ſtop to caſt on knaves a partial eye,
And that when come where bluſhing merit ſtood,
Up went her bandage, and ſhe paſs'd him by.
[4]
Within a ſacred grove (to peace conſign'd)
A branch by Fortune from the Laurel torn,
Was ſtraight into a graceful wreath entwin'd—
She ſaid—"by Victory let this be worn!"
To Victory the ſculptur'd arch was rais'd
High o'er the ſmoaking ruins of a town!
And bells rang loud, and every window blaz'd,
And tuneful minſtrels ſang her vaſt renown.
And on her forehead Glory was inſcrib'd
In glittering letters great of beaming gold,
Fair Honor's fount ſhe ſeem'd to have imbib'd,
In ſooth, her form was gracious to behold.
And blaſts were puff'd from trump of vaunting Fame,
That Juſtice to her had the wreath decreed!
Yet Reaſon doubts the gay Virago's claim,
If ſans deſert, why wear the lib'ral meed?
[5]
Let Emulation for that wreath contend!
Let youthful ardour pant to reach the goal!
A gilded prize may be the purpos'd end,
Or fierce Ambition only fire the ſoul.
In proud cathedrals why Te Deum raiſe?
Say, why to Victory the choral joy?
Such ſongs, indeed, were pure immortal praiſe,
Did God create for man but to deſtroy.
"Her conqueſts, rapine are!" ſage Reaſon cry'd—
"Her flaſh of Glory, all illuſive! vain!
"Her fair-fac'd Honor, fallacy and pride,
"And crimſon ſlaughters do her hands diſtain.
"Should light-heel'd Vanity for trinkets pine,
"She makes of Victory a pliant tool,
"To work a ſtar or riband wondrous fine,
"Reward of coward—knave, or valiant fool.
[6]
"Before the ruſtic youth can form a choice,
"Some trick conveys him to a foreign land,
"By cuſtom braz'd, in carnage can rejoice,
"The brutal hero of a cut-throat band!
"The perfect gen'ral ſhews his needled ſtar,
"The mangled private may go hang or beg,
"Diſpute his charter to the trade of war,
"He ſwears, and ſhews it in his wooden leg.
"Fire! peſt! and famine doth ſhe give mankind,
"Is Vict'ry then the Laurel won by thee?
"The ſovereign good, O Wiſdom! let me find,
"I hold this evergreen her honor'd fee.
"'Tis Charity that wipes the briny tear,
"Which Vict'ry bids adown the cheek to flow,
"That lifts with ſmiles the mourner from the bier,
"And puts aſide the bitter cup of woe.
[7]
"Periſh her hopes of Induſtry the bane!
"That turn the ploughſhare to a murd'rous ſword,
"And make the ruffian, once a ſimple ſwain!
"Atchieve exploits by earth and heaven abhorr'd.
"The huſband and the parent ſhe hath ſlain!
"Widows and orphans Victory hath made!
"Untill'd, nor waving ears adorn the plain,
"For Deſolation marks her ruthleſs trade."
Few know where baſhful Charity doth hide,
Full ſeen of Heav'n, ſhe ſhrinks from mortal ken,
And many a devious round, and far and wide
Did Reaſon ſeek her, 'mid the haunts of men.
Quoth Wiſdom, "Reaſon, thou'rt as Fortune blind!
"For juſt deciſion idly thus to roam,
"When Charity, beneficent and kind,
"Dwells near at hand, and OATLANDS is her home.
[8]
"'Tis not alone with paltry gold to part,
"Or chaſe pale ſorrow from the cottage door,
"She there, ſtores treaſur'd moral in the heart,
"God's own appointed agent for the poor."
Blithe on a velvet turf of moſſy green,
Where Naïds from the ſilver Thames reſort,
Surrounded by her playful charge was ſeen,
The lovely miſtreſs * of their harmleſs ſport.
Far Vice and Folly fly at her command!
And ſure ſucceſs attends her ſweet employ,
And as the mental buds to flowers expand,
She views her labours with a mother's joy.
To little acts let great ones lowly bend,
Where rank by pride is only underſtood;
To works angelic her white thoughts aſcend,
Aſpiring to the height of doing good.
[9]
Reaſon convinc'd, that Charity benign,
Of OATLAND's grove had made her lov'd retreat,
Bade Victory her Laurel Crown reſign,
To lie at beauteous FREDERICA's feet!
Nature her nobleſt taſk had well perform'd,
Endow'd the babe with intellectual grace,
The lambent ſpark that all his boſom warm'd,
Shone full confeſs'd in air, ſhape, limb, and face.
In culture, Fortune! take an ample ſhare!
Or elſe the plant may wither in the bloom:
Why genius (that with Phoſper might compare)
Condemn to waſte? a lamp within the tomb!
Not that each ſhrub can hang with golden fruit,
Or roſes iſſue from the humble ſod,
But Reaſon beſt can lift him from the brute,
When man ſhall know that he's the work of God.
[10]
Or ſay, that nature leaves her work moſt crude,
Still more it ſtands in need of poliſh'd aid,
Untaught, we view our kind, a ſavage rude,
And wonder at the monſter we have made.
But wealth can cheriſh! draw the talents forth,
A ſun! which Fortune's cold neglect ſupplies,
Then more than mines the bounteous heart is worth,
That gives what ſordid penury denies.
Hail, heavenly FREDERICA! God of all,
Pour every bleſſing on the gentle fair!
Should ills aſſail, anticipate her call,
Who takes the helpleſs infant to her care.
THE END.
Notes
*
The Dutcheſs of York.
- Citation Suggestion for this Object
- TextGrid Repository (2016). TEI. 4267 Oatlands or the transfer of the laurel A poem By John O Keeffe. University of Oxford Text Archive. University of Oxford, License: Distributed by the University of Oxford under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License [http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/]. https://hdl.handle.net/11378/0000-0005-D59C-B