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 dyed
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 vanquish'd fons of Spain,
Enflave a Briton? Have they then forgot,
So foon forgot, the great, the immortal day,
When refcued 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 fled in vain :
Are these our lords? And can Britannia fee
Hier foes oft vanquish'd, thus defy her power,
Infult her ftandard, 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 degenerate, who with haughty boaft

Call

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 brethren chain'd like beafts of prey:
There mark your numerous glories, there behold
The look that speaks unutterable woe;

your

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 fuperior fcorn,

Looks up
But let me fpare the theme, left future times
Should blush to hear that either conquer'd Spain
Durft offer Britain fuch outrageous wrong,

and dies.-Oh! I am all on fire!

Or Britain tamely bore it

Descend, ye guardian heroes of the land!
Scourges of Spain, defcend! Behold your fons,
See! how they run the fame heroic race,
How prompt, how ardent in their country's caufe,

How

How greatly proud to affert their British blood,
And in their deeds reflect their fathers' fame!
Ah! would to heaven! ye did not rather fee
How dead to virtue in the public caufe!
How cold, how careless, how to glory deaf,
They fhame your laurels, and belye their birth!
Come, ye great fspirits, Ca'ndifh, Raleigh, Blake!
And ye of later name your country's pride,
Oh! come, difperfe these 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 its fplendors; to their swelling 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 its frightful shapes,
Could damp your fouls, or fhake the great refolve
For Right and Britain: Then difplay 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,
The unfading crowns awaiting him above,
The exalting plaudit of the Great Supreme,
Who in his actions with complacence views
His own reflected fplendor; then defcend,

Though to a lower, yet a nobler fcene;
Paint the juft 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 richest incenfe of undying praise
His urn encircle, to the wondering world
His numerous triumphs blazon; while with awe,
With filial reverence, in his steps they tread,
And, copying every virtue, every fame,
Transplant his glories into fecond life,
And, with unfparing hand, make nations blest
By his example. Vaft 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.
1 fee ye are not; every bofom glows
With native greatness, and in all its state
The British spirit rifes: Glorious change!
Fame, Virtue, Freedom, welcome! Oh! forgive
The Mufe, that ardent in her facred caufe
Your glory queftion'd: She beholds with joy;
She owns, fhe triumphs in her wish'd mistake.
See! from her fea-beat throne in awful march
Britannia towers: upon her laurel creft
The plumes majestic nod; behold she heaves
Her guardian shields, and terrible in arms
For battle fhakes her adamantine fpear:

Lond

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 those immortal men,

The stars of fhining story, are not flow
In virtue's path to emulate their fires,
To affert their country's rights, avenge her fons,
And hurl the bolts of juftice on her foes.

HYMN TO SCIENCE.

"O Vitæ Philofophia Dux! O Virtutis indagatrix, "expultrixque Vitiorum. - Tu Urbes peperifti; "tu inventrix Legum, tu magiftra Morum & Difciplinæ fuifti: Ad te confugimus, a te Opem petimus." Cic. Tufc. Quæft.

66

66

S

I.

CIENCE! thou fair effufive ray
From the great fource of mental day,
Free, generous, and refin'd!

Defcend with all thy treasures fraught,
Illumine each bewilder'd thought,
And bless my labouring mind.

II. But