Annapolis - Royal

The King of Rivers, solemn, calm and slow,

Flows tow’rd the Sea, yet scarce is seen to flow,

On each fair Bank, the verdant Lands are seen,

In gayest Cloathing of perpetual Green:

On ev’ry Side, the Prospect brings to Sight

The Fields, the Flow’rs, and ev’ry fresh Delight:

His lovely Banks, most beauteously are grac’d

With Nature’s sweet Variety of Taste.

Herbs, Fruits and Grass, with intermingled Trees

The Prospect lengthens, and the Joys increase:

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The lofty Mountains rise in ev’ry View,

Creation’s Glory, and it’s Beauty too.

To higher Grounds, the raptur’d View extends,

Whilst in the Cloud-top’d Cliffs the Landscape ends.

Fair Scenes! to which, should Angels turn their Sight;

Angels might stand astonish’d with Delight.

Majestic Groves in ev’ry View arise,

And greet with Wonder the Beholder’s Eyes.

In gentle Windings, where this River glides,

And Herbage thick it’s Current almost hides;

Where sweet Meanders lead his pleasant Course,

Where Trees and Plants and Fruits themselves disclose;

Where never-fading Groves of fragrant Fir,

And beauteous Pine perfume the ambient Air;

The Air, at once, both Health and Fragrance yields,

Like sweet Arabian or Elysian Fields.

As this delightful Stream glides tow’rd the Sea,

Thou Royal Settlement! he washes Thee;

Thou village, blest of Heav’n, and dear to me.

Nam’d from a pious Sov’reign, now at Rest,

The last of STUART’S Line, of QUEENS the best.

Amidst the rural Joys, the Town is seen,

Enclos’d with Woods and Hills, forever green:

The Streets, the Buildings, Gardens, all concert

To please the Eye, to gratify the Heart.

But none of these so pleasing, or so fair,

As those bright Maidens, who inhabit there.

Your potent Charms, fair Nymphs, my Verse inspire,

Your Charms supply the chaste, poetic Fire.

Could these my Strains, but live, when I’m no more,

On future Fame’s bright Wings, your Names should soar.

Where this romantic Village lifts her Head,

Betwixt the Royal Port and humble Mead;

The decent Mansions, deck’d with mod’rate Cost,

Of honest Thrift, and gen’rous Owners boast;

There Skill and Industry their Sons employ,

In Works of Peace, Integrity and Joy;

Their Lives in social, harmless Bliss, they spend,

Then to the Grave, in honor’d Age descend:

The hoary Sire and aged Matron see

Their prosp’rous Offspring, to the fourth Degree:

With Grief sincere, the blooming Offspring close

Their Parent’s Eyes, and pay their Debt of Woes;

Then haste to honest, joyous Marriage Bands,

A newborn Race is rear’d by careful Hands:

Thro’ num’rous Ages thus they’ll happy move

In active Bus’ness, and in chastest Love.

The Nymphs and Swains appear in Streets and Bowers,

As Morning fresh, as lovely as the Flowers,

As bright as Phoebus, Ruler of the Day,

Prudent as Pallas, and as Flora gay.

A Spire majestic rears it’s solemn Vane,

Where Praises, Pray’r and true Devotion reign;

Where Truth and Peace and Charity abound,

Where God is sought, and heav’nly Blessings found.

The gen’rous Flock reward their Pastor’s Care,

His Pray’rs, his Wants, his Happiness they share.

Retir’d from worldly Care, from Noise and Strife,

In sacred Thoughts and Deeds, he spends his Life;

To mod’rate Bounds, his Wishes he confines,

All Views of Grandeur, Pow’r and Wealth resigns;

With Pomp and Pride can cheerfully dispense,

Dead to the World, and empty Joys of Sense.

The Symphony of heav’nly Song he hears,

Celestial Concord vibrates on his Ears,

Which emulates the Music of the Spheres.

The Band of active Youths and Virgins fair,

Rank’d in due Order, by their Teacher’s Care,

The Sight of all Beholders gratify,

Sweet to the Soul, and pleasing to the Eye.

But when their Voices sound, in Songs of Praise,

When they to God’s high Throne their Anthems raise,

By those harmonious Sounds such Rapture’s giv’n,

Their loud Hosannas waft the Soul to Heav’n:

The fourfold Parts, in one bright Center meet,

To form the blessed Harmony complete.

Lov’d by the Good, esteemed by the Wife,

To gracious Heav’n, a pleasing Sacrifice.

Each Note, each Part, each Voice, each Word conspire

T’inflame all pious Hearts with holy Fire;

Each one, in Fancy seems among the Throng

Of Angels, chanting Heav’n’s eternal Song.

Hail Music, Foretaste of celestial Joy!

That always satiat’st, yet canst never cloy:

Each pure, refin’d, extatic Pleasure’s thine,

Thou rapt’rous Science! Harmony divine!

May each kind Wish of ev’ry virtuous Heart

Be giv’n to all, who teach, or learn thine Art:

May all the Wise, and all the Good unite,

With all the Habitants of Life and Light,

To treat the Sons of Music with Respect,

Their Progress to encourage and protect.

May each Musician, and Musician’s Friend

Attain to Hymns divine, which never end.