Epistle to Admiral Keppel

Table of contents

- [halftitle]

- [titlepage]

- ERRATA.

EPISTLE, &c.

SWIFTLY ye Spirits of the sea and air!

Who viewless make this generous Isle your care,

Guardians of honour, and of injur'd worth!

Spread the glad tidings round the list'ning Earth!

Truth shines triumphant o'er insidious Craft;

Defeated Slander drops her feeble shaft:

While Justice, gazing on the sphere of Fame,

Points with fond pride to KEPPEL'S cloudless name;

Emerging like the Sun, with double light,

From the dark transit of the orb of night.

What shouts, re-echoed from our naval host,

Fill the wide air, and shake the crouded coast!

The spreading transport circles round our shore,

As if the foes of Britain were no more.

Wak'd by these shouts from scenes of hallow'd rest,

And to the Muse's eye alone confest,

Departed Naval Chiefs, an airy band,

To share this triumph hover o'er the strand.—

Forth from that oozy bed, and coral cave,

Where the great Seaman found his watery grave,

Comes Drake [*],—whose flag, by Glory's hand unfurl'd,

Trac'd the first circle round th' astonish'd world—

With Hawkins; names, by Charity confest

The generous founders of her naval chest!

The great chastisers of invading Spain:

Howard, the leader of that patriot train:

Monson, whose pen his own bright labours crown'd:

And Blake, for Roman discipline renown'd:

Monk, at whose tomb both Earth and Ocean weep,

Great in the field, and greater on the deep:

Then the first S ****, who, self-doom'd to die,

Fix'd to his burning ship, disdain'd to fly;

Frowning just wrath he comes, and scorns to own

An heir, succeeding to his name alone:

Undaunted Ayscue: Sprag, by Dryden sung:

Russel, whose arm the bolts of Freedom flung

On that proud Gallic fleet, which dar'd to bring

A tyrant's aid to an apostate king:

Herbert, to whom the worn-out seaman owes

A public refuge, and well-earn'd repose:

Benbo, whom wounds but animate to fame,

Whose great soul triumph'd o'er his shatter'd frame:

Cloudesly ill-starr'd! with him [*], whose deeds remain

'Grav'd on the conquer'd rock of humbled Spain:

And the great Seaman of our later days,

Anson, who born a sunk marine to raise,

Reform'd our fleets, and sent them to proclaim

Around the globe, familiar with his name,

His guiding genius, and his country's fame:

These Chiefs—and with them an extended line

Of names, that bright in naval annals shine—

These to thy triumph with delight repair,

And thus salute thee as they float in air:

"Hail! gallant Seaman, on whose solid fame

"Envy's wild rage, reduc'd to silent shame,

"Falls like the threat'ning wave, whose furious shock

"Ends but in foam against th' unshaken rock!

"Hail to thee, KEPPEL! Hail, from perils sav'd,

"Worse than thy courage on the deep has brav'd!

"Trying the hour, when by the whirlwind's breath

"The billow teems with darkest forms of death;

"Trying, when England's dauntless sons oppose

"The shatter'd ship against her trebled foes;

"But far more trying is Detraction's dart,

"And the dark stab of ministerial art:

"By these our glory, and Iberia's dread,

"Brave injur'd name! th' accomplish'd Raleigh bled:

"A still superior name, and Ocean's pride,

"By these oppress'd, the great Columbus died.

"But in thy cause, solicitous to heal

"The wounds of honour with parental zeal,

"Justice and Freedom glory to defend,

"From these detested foes, their injur'd friend;

"Our souls responsive join their joyous cry;

"Give thy untarnish'd flag again to fly!

"Confest the Guardian of a grateful land,

"Late be Thou number'd with our sainted band,

"Rich in thy gather'd fame, and grac'd with long command."

To thee, O KEPPEL! while the Muse conveys

These hallow'd accents of no mortal praise,

May she with glory all thy wrongs repay!

May her bright subject consecrate her lay!

'Tis hers, all furious party rage above,

The faithful herald of a nation's love,

With naval oak to twine her laurel leaf,

And crown the temples of her fav'rite Chief:

'Tis hers, while warm her indignation glows,

Hurling contempt on thy defeated foes,

With an impartial and avenging hand,

The blushing front of Calumny to brand.—

Worst of all evils, of all pests the chief,

Diffusing general, or domestic grief;

Pernicious child of a corrupted state,

With private horror mark'd, and public hate,

False Accusation stands: whose serpent tooth

Delights to fasten on distinguish'd Truth.

In Greece, in Rome, when guardian freedom fled,

On noblest blood this fatten'd monster fed:

There every bribe, that could allure the slave,

All that distinction once to virtue gave,

Debas'd by tyrants to the villain's pay,

Tempted this lurking fiend to brave the open day,

O! P******* the Muse disdains to think

A naval son of England e'er could sink

To sell his fame, and as an hireling rend

The unsuspecting bosom of a friend:

No! 'twas wild passion; pride and spleen combin'd

To rob of reason thy disorder'd mind;

Which, while delirious dreams its powers enthrall,

Mistook a statesman's smile for honour's call:

At length awaking, Freedom, like the Sun,

Shews thee the fatal course thy frenzy run;

And that of all by public hatred curst,

The baffled False Accuser ranks the first.

In [*] Stuckley's end their dreadful fate we view,

Whose plots the ruin of the brave pursue:

Stuckley! that knight of perfidy! who sold

The blood of Raleigh for a tyrant's gold:

Full on himself his own dire arts recoil'd;

First of the wages of his sin despoil'd,

Then justly doom'd his head abhorr'd to hide,

In frantic penury the traitor died;

Worst of bad men!—Yet see a name appear,

Which deeper brands of detestation sear;

Whose soul would rob, by basest passion led,

The brave of honour, and the poor of bread:

Who, plac'd the stream of Charity to guide,

And o'er her hallow'd temple to preside,

In darkness entering at a private door,

Profanes, with vile abuse, her sacred store:

O! if our Isle, who boasts a generous race,

Could rear a being of a soul so base,

May public vengeance all his guilt proclaim,

And injur'd honour execrate his name!

While in full day his deepest crimes are seen,

Give him to feel, how wide the space between

Th eself-perplexing wiles of courtly art,

And the clear conduct of a KEPPEL'S heart:

That generous heart, with public virtue fraught,

Of private vengeance will despise the thought:

For thy Accuser, KEPPEL! still retain

Silent abhorrence, and a brave disdain!

Whate'er his motives, if of envy born,

(Disease of little minds!) they merit scorn:

If sprung from public zeal, with passion blind,

They claim the pity of thy nobler mind;

Thy mind! which scorn'd to play the accuser's part,

Or doubt the courage of an English heart,

E'en in those galling hours, when rear'd in vain

Thy warlike signal call'd a tardy train;

And disobedience join'd with envious night

To rob thy valour of the promis'd fight.—

Full oft have Chiefs, disgusted with command,

Abjur'd the service of a thankless land;

Untaught "to bear the wrongs of base mankind,

The last, and hardest conquest of the mind!"

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 course of thought, and course 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, or 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,

Desies 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."

FINIS.

Notes

*
Sir Francis Drake and Sir John Hawkins, were institutors of that noble fund the Chest at Chatham.—For the personal history of these great men, and most of those mentioned with them, see Campbell's Lives of the Admirals.
↵

*
Sir George Rooke.
↵

*

Sir Lewis Stuckley, Vice Admiral of Devonshire, and the kinsman of Raleigh, whose design of escaping he perfidiously betrayed, was surprized in Whitehall, clipping the gold bestowed on him as a reward of his treachery; and being condemned for that crime, and reduced to the necessity of stripping himself to his shirt, to raise money to purchase a pardon, withdrew himself from the odium of mankind to the island of Lundy, in the Severn Sea, where he died mad, 1620, in less than two years after Raleigh.

Birch's Life of Sir W. Raleigh.

↵

EPISTLE TO ADMIRAL KEPPEL.

[Price One Shilling.]

EPISTLE TO ADMIRAL KEPPEL.

INFAMIA INTACTUM, INVIDIA QUA POSSUNT URGENT.
LIVY.

LONDON: PRINTED FOR FIELDING AND WALKER, PATER NOSTER ROW.

M. DCC. LXXIX.

ERRATA.

Page 16. Line 10. read Who coarse of thought, and coarse of language cry.

Page 18. Line 3. read and instead of or.

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Title statement

Epistle to Admiral Keppel

Hayley, William, 1745-1820.

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http://ota.ox.ac.uk/id/5175

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1106021746

ID [isbn13]

9781106021748

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K105759.000

ID [BIBNO]

CW3313905020

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0562202000

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— Epistle to Admiral Keppel, Hayley, William, 1745-1820.. 20p. ; 4⁰. London :: printed for Fielding and Walker,. 1779.. [Anonymous. By William Hayley.] [With a half-title.] [Verse.] [On his acquittal.] [Reproduction of original from the British Library.] [English Short Title Catalog, ESTCT133426.] [Electronic data. Farmington Hills, Mich. : Thomson Gale, 2003. Page image (PNG). Digitized image of the microfilm version produced in Woodbridge, CT by Research Publications, 1982-2002 (later known as Primary Source Microfilm, an imprint of the Gale Group).]

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