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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,
Disdain of insult, dread of infamy,
One thought of publičk virtue yet survive,
She means to wake it, rouže the gen'rojis flame,
With patriot zeal inspirit ev'ry breaft,
And fire each British heart with British wrongs !
Alas, the vain attempt! what influence now
Can the Mųse boast or what attention now
is paid to fame or virtue? Where is now
The British spirit, generous, warm and brave s
So frequent wont from tyranny and woe
To free the suppliant nations ? Where, indeed!
If that protection, once to strangers giv'n,
Be now witheld from sons ! Each nobler thought
That warm'd our fires, is lost 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 degen'rate floth;
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 speech i ias
All that can move, awaken, fire, transport;
Come, the bold ardour of the Theban bard!
Th'arouzing thunder of the patriot Greek !
The soft persuasion of the Roman sage!
Come, all! and raise me to an equal height,
А rapture worthy of my glorious cause !..
Left my best efforts failing, hould debase
The facred theme; for with no common wing
The Muse attempts to soar. Yet, what need these?
My country's fame, my free-born British heart,
Shall be my best inspirers, raise my flight
High as the Theban's pinion, and with more
Than Greek or Roman flame, exalt
Oh! could I give the vaft ideas birth,
Expressive of the thoughts that Aame within,
No more should lazy Luxury detain
Our ardent youth! no more should Britain's sons
Sit tamely paffive by, and careless hear
The prayers, fighs, groans, (immortal infamy!)
Of fellow Britons, with oppression funk,
In bitterness of foal demanding aid,
Calling on Britain, their dear native land,
The land of liberty; so greatly fam’d
For juft redress; the land so often dy'd
With her best blood, for that arouzing cause,
The freedom of her fons; those fons that now,
Far from the manly blessings of her sway,
Drag the vile fetters of a Spanish lord!
And dare they, dare the vanquish'd cons of Spain
Enflave 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 swift impending vengeance fled in vain :
Are these our lords! And can Britannia see
Her foes oft vanquifh'd, thus defy her pow'r,
Insult her standard, and inslave her fons,
And not arise to justice ? Did our fires,
Unaw'd by chains, by exilé, or by death,
Preserve inviolate her guardian rights,
To Britons ever sacred! 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 ; see the gates
Harsh-creaking open! what an hideous void,
Dark as the yawning grave ! while still as death
A frightful silence reigns: there on the ground
Behold your brethren chain'd like beasts of prey;
There mark your num'rous glories, there behold
The look that speaks unutterable woe;
The mangled limb, the faint, the dea thful eye,
With famine funk; the deep heart-bursting groan
Suppress’d in filence ; view the loathsome food,
Refus'd by dogs! and oh, the stinging thought!
View the dark Spaniard glorying in their wrongs;
The deadly priest triumphant in their woes,
And thundering worse damnation on their souls;
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 fuperior scorn,
and dies !Oh, I am all on fire !
But let me spare the theme, left future times
Should bluth to hear, that either conquer'd Spain
Durft offer Britain such outrageous wrong,
Or Britain tamely bore it!
Descend, ye guardian heroes of the land !
Scourges of Spain, descend ! Behold your sons!
See how they run the fame heroick race,
How prompt, how ardent in their country's cause!
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 see,
How dead to virtue in the publick cause!
How cold, how careless, how to glory deaf,
They shame your laurels, and belye their birth!
Come, ye great spirits, Cavendish, Rawleigh, Blake!.
And ye of later name, your country's pride,
Oh, come ! disperse these fazy fumes of Noth,
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 scenes of rightful war,
In all it's splendours; to their swelling souls
Say how ye bow'd th' insulting 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 shapes,
Could damp your souls, or shake the great resalve
For Right and Britain ! Then display the joys
The patriot's foul exalting, while he views
Transported 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 celestial on his passing soul,
Th' unfading crowns awaiting him above,
Th'exalting plaudit of the Great Supreme,
Who in his actions with complacence views
His own reflected splendour! then descend,
Tho' to a lower, yet a nobler scene;
Paint the just honours to his reliques paid,
Shew grateful millions weeping o'er his grave;
While his fair fame in each progressive age
For ever brightens; and the wise and good
Of every land, in universal choir,
With richeft incense 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,
Transplant his glories into second life,
And, with unsparing hand, make nations. bless'd
By his example! Vast, immense rewards,
For all the turmoils which the virtuous mind
Encounters here ! Yet, Britons, are ye cold?
Yet deaf to glory, virtue, and the call
of your poor injur'd countrymen? Ah, no!
I see ye are not; every bosom glows
With native greatness, and in all it's state
The British spirit rises. Glorious change!
Fame, Virtue, Freedom, welcome! Oh, forgive
The Muse, that ardent in her sacred cause,
Your glory question’d! She beholds with joy,
She owns, the triumphs in her with'd mistake!
See! from her sea-beat throne, in awful march
Britannia tow'rs: upon her laurel crest,
The plumes majestick nod; behold she heaves
Her guardian fhields, and terrible in arms,
For battle shakes her adamantine spear;
Loud at her foot the British lion roars,
Frighting the nations ; haughty Spain full soon
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 llaves ! Let all your deeds
Shew that the fons of those immortal men,
The stars of mining story, are not Now
In Virtue's path to emulate their fires,
T'assert their country's rights, avenge her sousia
And hur) the bolts of justice on her foes !
EHOLD the magick of Theresa'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.