HARMODIUS.

Her roving thought no trace of reafon bears:

To her rack'd mind, O Heav'n! thy peace impart !

A loving parent bathes thy cheek with tears;

• Harmodius holds thee to his breaking heart!'

AMABELLA.

To thee, I grateful kneel, O generous feer!
Who doft, to one unknown, thy care extend!
Along thy path may Peace her olives rear,

And Heaven, in battle, fhield thy dearest friend!

For me, who droop beneath Misfortune's fhower,
• I had a father-now, alas! a foe-
Thoul't blufh to hear-in forrow's darkest hour,
He leaves his child abandon'd to her woe!

But to thy heart, that's fram'd of fofter mould, • What can to thee a wretch like me endear!

The spring, the motive of thy love unfold;

Say, fay, for me why flows that friendly tear!

Yet foft awhile-methinks that hoary brow,

That plaintive voice-Ah, bear with my diftrefs! Or much remembrance is effac'd, or now,

• A tender father's tear-dew'd cheek I prefs!'

HARMODIUS.

On knees of gratitude I bless the skies,

That Amabella to herself restore !

AMABELLA.'

• Ah, wherefore doft thou joy! thy daughter diés :

Support me to yon couch-I can no more

I feel, I feel the pulfe of life retire!

Ah, deign to hear thy dying child reveal,

What, in rebellion to thy juft defire,

• Lock'd in her breast, fhe dar'd fo long conceal!

By thee unfanction'd, did I plight my love,

And, all to thee unknown, a bride became.'

HARMODIUS.

• Harmodius will to both a father prove.'

AMABELLA.

To him thy pardon thou canst ne'er proclaim!

Three fleeting hours had fcarcely call'd me bride,
When he was fummon'd to the martial plain;
And there-forgive thefe tears-in beauty's pride,
• The much-lamented valiant youth was flain.

What tho' unworthy of thy care I prove,

To thy remembrance let thy child be dear; Thy kind compallion let the daughter move,

When this weak frame shall prefs th' untimely bier.'

More would fhe fay-her voice began to fail,

From her faint eye life's lingering spark retir'd; The ripening cherry on her lip grew pale,

She heav'd a figh-and in that figh expir'd.

A BRITISH PHILIPPICK:

OCCASIONED BY THE INSULTS OF THE SPANIARDS, AND THE PRESENT PREPARATIONS FOR WAR.

WRITTEN IN THE YEAR M DCC XXXVIII.

W

BY DR. AKENSIDE.

HENCE this unwonted tranfport in my breaft?

Why glow my thoughts, and whither would the Mufe

Afpire with rapid wing? Her country's caufe

Demands her efforts; at that facred call
She fummons all her ardour, throws afide

The

The trembling lyre, and with the warrior's trump
She means to thunder in each British ear;
And if one spark of honour or of fame,
Difdain of infult, dread of infamy,

One thought of publick virtue yet survive,
She means to wake it, rouze the gen❜rous flame,
With patriot zeal infpirit ev'ry breast,

And fire each British heart with British wrongs
Alas, the vain attempt! what influence now
Can the Mufe boaft? or what attention now
Is paid to fame or virtue? Where is now
The British spirit, generous, warm and brave;
So frequent wont from tyranny and woe
To free the fuppliant nations? Where, indeed!
If that protection, once to ftrangers giv'n,
Be now witheld from fons! Each nobler thought
That warm'd our fires, is loft and buried now
In luxury and av'rice. Baneful vice!
How it unmans a nation! Yet I'll try,
I'll aim to shake this vile degenʼrate sloth;
I'll dare to rouze Britannia's dreaming fons
To fame, to virtue, and impart around
A generous feeling of compatriot woes."

Come, then, the various powers of forceful fpeech!
All that can move, awaken, fire, transport;
Come, the bold ardour of the Theban bard!
Th' arouzing thunder of the patriot Greek!
The soft perfuafion of the Roman sage!
Come, all! and raife me to an equal height,
A rapture worthy of my glorious caufe!
Left my best efforts failing, fhould debafe
The facred theme; for with no common wing
The Mufe attempts to foar. Yet, what need these
My country's fame, my free-born British heart,
Shall be my best infpirers, raise my flight
High as the Theban's pinion, and with more

Than Greek or Roman flame, exalt my foul.
Oh! could I give the vast ideas birth,
Expreffive of the thoughts that flame within,
No more fhould lazy Luxury detain

Our ardent youth! no more should Britain's fons
Sit tamely paffive by, and careless hear
The prayers, fighs, groans, (immortal infamy!)
Of fellow Britons, with oppreffion funk,
In bitterness of foul demanding aid,
Calling on Britain, their dear native land,
The land of liberty; fo greatly fam'd
For juft redrefs; the land fo often dy'd
With her beft blood, for that arouzing caufe,.
The freedom of her fons; those fons that now,
Far from the manly bleffings of her sway,
Drag the vile fetters of a Spanish lord!

And dare they, dare the vanquifh'd fons of Spain.
Enslave a Briton? Have they then forgot,
So foon forgot, the great, th' immortal day,
When rescu'd Sicily with joy beheld
The fwift-wing'd thunder of the British arm
Difperfe their navies? When their coward bands
Fled, like the raven from the bird of Jove,
From fwift impending vengeance filed in vain :
Are thefe our lords! And can Britannia see
Her foes oft vanquish'd, thus defy her pow'r,
İnfult her standard, and inslave her fons,
And not arife to juftice? Did our fires,
Unaw'd by chains, by exile, or by death,
Preferve inviolate her guardian rights,
To Britons ever facred! that their fons

Might give them up to Spaniards! Turn your eyes,
Turn ye degen'rate, who with haughty boast
Call yourselves Britons, to that dismal gloom,
That dungeon dark and deep, where never thought
Of joy or peace can enter; fee the gates,

Harfh-creaking open! what an hideous void,
Dark as the yawning grave! while still as death
A frightful filence reigns: there on the ground
Behold your brethren chain'd like beafts of prey;
There mark your num❜rous glories, there behold
The look that speaks unutterable woe;

The mangled limb, the faint, the deathful eye
With famine funk; the deep heart-burfting groan
Supprefs'd in filence; view the loathfome food,
Refus'd by dogs! and oh, the ftinging thought!
View the dark Spaniard glorying in their wrongs;
The deadly prieft triumphant in their woes,
And thundering worse damnation on their fouls;
While that pale form, in all the pangs of death,
Too faint to fpeak, yet eloquent of all,
His native British spirit yet untam'd,
Raifes his head, and with indignant frowns
Of great defiance, and fuperior scorn,
Looks up, and dies!-Oh, I am all on fire!
But let me spare the theme, left future times
Should blush to hear, that either conquer'd Spain
Durft offer Britain fuch outrageous wrong,
Or Britain tamely bore it!

Defcend, ye guardian heroes of the land!
Scourges of Spain, defcend! Behold your fons!
See how they run the fame heroick race,
How prompt, how ardent in their country's caufe!
How greatly proud t' affert their British blood,
And in their deeds reflect their father's fame!
Ah, would to Heaven! ye did not rather fee,
How dead to virtue in the publick caufe!
How cold, how careless, how to glory deaf,
They fhame your laurels, and belye their birth!
Come, ye great fpirits, Cavendish, Rawleigh, Blake!
And ye of later name, your country's pride,

Oh, come! disperse these lazy fumes of floth,