foul.

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

Our ardent youth! no more fhould 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; thofe 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 refcu'd Sicily with joy beheld
The swift-wing'd thunder of the British arm
Disperse their navies? When their coward bands
Fled, like the raven from the bird of Jove,
From fwift impending vengeance fled in vain :-
Are these our lords! And can Britannia fee
Her foes oft vanquish'd, thus defy her pow'r,
Infult her standard, and inflave 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,

A

Harfh

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-bursting 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 priest triumphant in their woes,
And thundering worse damnation on their fouls;
While that pale form, in all the pangs of death,
Too faint to speak, yet eloquent of all,
His native British spirit yet untam'd,
Raises his head, and with indignant frowns
Of great defiance, and superior 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 cause!
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! difperfe thefe lazy fumes of floth,

Teach British hearts with British fires to glow!
In wakening whispers rouze our ardent youth,.
Blazon the triumphs of your better days,
Paint all the glorious fcenes of rightful war,
In all it's fplendours; to their fwelling fouls
Say how ye bow'd the infulting Spaniards pride!
Say how ye thunder'd o'er their proftrate heads!
Say how ye broke their lines, and fir'd their ports!
Say how not death, in all it's frightful fhapes,
Could damp your fouls, or shake the great refolve
For Right and Britain! Then display the joys
The patriot's foul exalting, while he views
Tranfported millions hail with loud acclaim
The guardian of their civil, facred rights;
How greatly welcome to the virtuous man
Is death for others good; the radiant thoughts
That beam celeftial on his paffing foul,
'Th' unfading crowns awaiting him above,
Th' exalting plaudit of the Great Supreme,
Who in his actions with complacence views
His own reflected fplendour! then defcend,
Tho' to a lower, yet a nobler fcene;
Paint the just honours to his reliques paid,
Shew grateful millions weeping o'er his grave;
While his fair fame in each progreffive age
For ever brightens; and the wife and good
Of every land, in univerfal choir,
With richeft incenfe of undying praise,
His urn encircle; to the wondering world

His num'rous triumphs blazon; while with awe,
With filial rev'rence in his steps they tread,
And copying every virtue, every fame,
Tranfplant his glories into fecond life,
And, with unfparing hand, make nations blefs'd
By his example! Vaft, immenfe rewards,
For all the turmoils which the virtuous mind

Encounters.

Encounters here!-Yet, Britons, are ye cold?
Yet deaf to glory, virtue, and the call
Of your poor injur'd countrymen? Ah, no!
I fee ye are not; every bofom glows
With native greatness, and in all it's ftate
The British spirit rifes, Glorious change!
Fame, Virtue, Freedom, welcome! Oh, forgive
The Muse, that ardent in her facred cause,"
Your glory question'd! She beholds with joy,
She owns, the triumphs in her wish'd mistake!

See! from her fea-beat throne, in awful march
Britannia tow'rs: upon her laurel creft,

The plumes majestick nod; behold the heaves
Her guardian fhields, and terrible in arms,
For battle shakes her adamantine fpear:
Loud at her foot the British lion roars,

Frighting the nations; haughty Spain full foon
Shall hear and tremble! Go then, Britons, forth,
Your country's daring champions! tell your foes,
Tell them in thunders o'er their proftrate land,
You were not born for flaves! Let all your deeds
Shew that the fons of thofe immortal men,
The ftars of fhining ftory, are not flow
In Virtue's path to emulate their fires,
T'affert their country's rights, avengé her fons,
And hurl the bolts of justice on her foes!

B

EHOLD the magick of Therefa's hand!

A new creation blooms at her command,

Touch'd into life the vivid colours glow,
Catch the warm stream, and quicken as they flow.

The

The ravish'd fight the pleasing landscape fills,
Here fink the vallies, and there rise the hills.
Not with more horror nods bleak Calpé's height,
Than here the pictur'd rock astounds the fight.
Not Thames more devious-winding leaves his fource,
Than here the wand'ring rivers fhape their course.
Obliquely lab'ring runs the gurgling rill;
Still murm'ring runs, or seems to murmur ftill.
An aged oak, with hoary mofs o'erspread,
Here lifts aloft it's venerable head;

There overshadowing hangs a facred wood,
And nods inverted in the neighb'ring flood.:
Each tree as in it's native forest shoots,

And blushing bends with Autumn's golden fruits.
Thy pencil lends the rose a lovelier hue,

And gives the lily fairer to our view.

Here fruits and flow'rs adorn the varied year,
And paradife with all it's fweets is here.
There stooping to it's fall a tow'r appears,
With tempefts fhaken, and a weight of years:
The daified meadow, and the woodland green,
In order rife, and fill the various scene.

Some parts, in light magnificently drefs'd,
Obtrufive enter, and ftand all confefs'd;
Whilft others decently in fhades are thrown,
And by concealing, make their beauties known.
Alternate thus, and mutual is their aid,

Their lights owe half their luftre to the shade.
So the bright fires that light the milky way,
Loft and extinguish'd in the folar ray;
In the fun's abfence pour a flood of light,
And borrow all their brightness from the night.
To cheat our eyes, how well doft thou contrive!
Each object here feems real and alive.

Not more resembling life the figures ftand,
Form'd by Lyfippus, or by Phidias' hand,

Unnumber'd