O beauteous title to immortal fame! The man devoted to the public, stands In the bright records of superior worth A step below the skies: if he succeed, The first fair lot which earth affords, is his; And if he falls, he falls above a throne. When such their leader, can the brave despair? Freedom the cause, and Paoli the chief! Success to your fair hopes! A British Muse, Will Freedom deign to dwell; she must be seized 'Tis Heaven's best prize, and must be bought with blood. When the storm thickens, when the combat burns, And pain and death in every horrid shape That can appal the feeble, prowl around, Then Virtue triumphs; then her towering form Dilates with kindling majesty; her mien Each spreading feature, with an ampler port Can ever ripen; fair, heroic deeds, And godlike action. "Tis not meats and drinks, To toss his floating mane against the wind, And neigh amidst the thunder of the war, As Virtue to oppose her swelling breast Like a firm shield against the darts of fate. And when her sons in that rough school have learned And placed among the stars: but chiefly thine, More worthy of the theme, shall consecrate To after-ages, and applauding worlds Shall bless the godlike man who saved his country. So vainly wished, so fondly hoped the Muse: Too fondly hoped. The iron fates prevail, And Cyrnus is no more. Her generous sons, Less vanquished than o'erwhelmed, by numbers crushed, Admired, unaided fell. So strives the moon In dubious battle with the gathering clouds, And strikes a splendour through them; till at length Storms rolled on storms involve the face of heaven And quench her struggling fires. Forgive the zeal That, too presumptuous, whispered better things, And read the book of destiny amiss. Not with the purple colouring of success Is virtue best adorned: the attempt is praise. There yet remains a freedom, nobler far Than kings or senates can destroy or give; THE INVITATION. TO MISS B*****. HEALTH to my friend, and long unbroken years, By storms unruffled and unstained by tears: Winged by new joys may each white minute fly; Spring on her cheek, and sunshine in her eye: O'er that dear breast, where love and pity springs, May peace eternal spread her downy wings : Sweet beaming hope her path illumine still, And fair ideas all her fancy fill ! From glittering scenes which strike the dazzled sight With mimic grandeur and illusive light, From idle hurry, and tumultuous noise, From hollow friendships, and from sickly joys, |