OATLANDS; OR THE TRANSFER OF THE LAUREL. A POEM. John O'Keeffe Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
Broad Street Oxford OX1 3BG UK
Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
Taylor Institution Library St Giles' Oxford OX1 3NA UK info@eighteenthcenturypoetry.org https://www.eighteenthcenturypoetry.org/
Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. T53652 K048218.000 O'Keeffe, John, 1747-1833. Oatlands; or the transfer of the laurel. A poem. By John O'Keeffe. London printed for J. Debrett 1795 pp. []-10. 10p.; 4⁰.

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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 . 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 ? 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 . " 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 . " 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 . " '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 The Dutchess of York . 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 . 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 . 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 .