On Raleigh's Grave, O strew the sweetest Flowers, That on the Bosom of the green Vale blow! There hang your vernal Wreaths, ye Village Maids; Ye Mountain Nymphs, your Crowns of wild Thyme bring To Raleigh's honour'd Grave! There bloom the Bay, The Virgin Rose that, blushing to be seen, Folds its fair Leaves; for modest Worth was his: A Mind where Truth, Philosophy's First-born, Held her harmonious Reign: A Briton's Breast, That, careful still of Freedom's holy Pledge, Disdain'd the mean Arts of a Tyrant's Court, Disdain'd and died! Where was thy Spirit then, Queen of sea-crowning Isles, when Raleigh bled? How well he serv'd thee, let Iberia tell! Ask prostrate Cales, yet trembling at his Name, How well he serv'd thee; when her vanquish'd Hand Held forth the base Bribe, how he spurn'd it from him, And cried, I FIGHT FOR BRITAIN! History rise! And blast the Reigns that redden with the Blood Of those that gave them Glory!
