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I sigh, fair injur'd stranger! for thy fate;

But what shall sighs avail thee? thy poor heart, 'Mid all the “ pomp and circumstance” of state,

Shivers in nakedness. Unbidden, start

Sad recollections of Hope's garish dream,

That shap'd a seraph form, and nam'd it Love, Its hues gay-varying, as the orient beam

Varies the neck of Cytherea's dove. To one soft accent of domestic joy,

Poor are the shouts that shake the high-arch'd dome; Those plaudits, that thy public path annoy,

Alas! they tell thee-Thou’rt a wretch at home!

O then retire, and weep! Their very woes

Solace the guiltless. Drop the pearly flood On thy sweet infant, as the FULL-BLOWN rose,

Surcharg'd with dew, bends o'er its neighb'ring BUD. And ah! that Truth some holy spell might lend

To lure thy wanderer from the syren's power ; Then bid your souls inseparably blend,

Like two bright dew-drops meeting in a flower.






Roll, roll thy white waves, and envelop'd in foam

Pour thy tides round the echoing shore, Thou guard of Old England, my country; nay home, And my

soul shall rejoice in the roar. Though high-fronted valour may scowl at the foe,

And with eyes of defiance advance; "Tis thou hast repellid desolation and woe,

And the conquering legions of France.
'Tis good to exult in the strength of the land,

That the flow'r of her youth are in arms,
That her lightning is pointed, her jav'lin in hand,

And arous’d the rough spirit that warms;
But never may that day of horror be known,

When these bills and these vallies shall feel The rush of the phalanx by phalanx o'erthrown,

And the bound of the thundering wheel.
The dread chance of battle, its blood, and its roar,

Who can wish in his senses to prove?
To plant the foul fiend on Britannia's own shore,

All sacred to peace; and to love?
Hail ! glory of Albion ! ye fleets, and ye hosts,

I breathe not the tones of dismay;
In valour unquestion'd still cover your coasts,

But may Heav'n keep the slaughter away!


Thou gem of the ocean, that smilst in thy powesi

May thy sons prove too strong to be slaves; Yet, let them not scorn in the dark-fated hour,

But exult in their rampart of waves. The nations have trembled, have cowr'd in the dust,

E'en the Alps heard the conqueror's song, When the genius of Gaul with unqueuchable thirst

Push'd her eagles resistless along.
And still they advance; and the nations must bleed;

Then sing, O my country, for joy;
Thy girdle of ocean by Heav'n was decreed

To protect what the sword would destroy.
Roll, roll thy white waves, and envelop'd in foam

Pour thy tides round the echoing shore;
Thou guard of Old England, my country, my home,

And my soul shall rejoice in the roar.

PAMSGATE, NOV. 2, 1806.


COMPERE'D by death his millions to disgorge,
Sir Thomas hardly left a mite to George:
And hence the astonishing report was spread,
That George half-wish'd his father was not dead.




Her track, where'er the Goddess roves,

Glory pursue, and generous Shame,
Th’ unconquerable Mind, and Freedom's holy iame.


Ir, blazon'd by the Muse, Calypso's smile,
The Sirens' melody, Acrasia's isle
Peopled with Graces ever blith and young,
Nymphs such as Titian drew, or Ovid sung;
In earlier days my fancy could engage
Ere Time display'd Reflexion's sober page:
At length the gay delusion charms no more :
Haste we those distant ages to explore,
When Poesy, to real merit just,
Around the Patriot's tomb, or Sage's bust,
Twin'd amaranthine chaplets, and withstood
The thunderbolts of fell Oppression's brood.

As once, in Egypt's miserable realm,
Some proud unfeeling Statesman seiz'd the helm,
With specious words assailing Pharaoh's throne,
Deaf to a trampled nation's loudest groan,
Their bricks exacting when depriv'd of straw,
His nod like Jove's, his wild caprice was law,
Till, to perdition doom'd, beneath the tide,
With all his host o'erwhelm'd, the Monarch died:
When under Tyranny the World lay mute,
'The Form Divine degraded to the Brute;
A new device the Bards of Phrygia found,
They, c'en to things inanimate, gave sound:

Æsop, a slave, drew from the knotted oak
Harmonious accents, solid marble spoke ;
To plead for Man, beneath the vocal grove,
With mingled birds were dragons seen to rove;
The beasts found language to express their wrongs,
And utter'd truths too bold for human tongues.

Here the vile Churl, turn'd Financier, we're told,
Ripp'd up his Goose to snatch her eggs of gold.
The patient Ass, galld by a ponderous load,
There slowly jogg'd along the miry road,
Blows mov'd him not: ar length, " The Foe draws

near,” His master cried; “() quicken your career!" The half-starv'd Beast replied: “Why speed my flight? “ Come when they will, I shrink not with affright. “ Can any Foreign Lord, betide what may, “ With greater cruelty my toils repay?"

Through Greece, where Liberty's auspicious shrine Long blaz’d unsullied with a light divine, Heights more sublime behold the Muse ascend, Fair Virtue's harbinger, her Country's friend; The wreaths from Persia's vanquish'd despots torn She bore, Minerva’s altars to adorn; Her choral pomp then swelld the tragic stage, Where Pella's Bard *, t instruct the rising age, Sings his own Theseus, eloquent, and brave, Who to th’ Athenian state its pandects gave, The Sovereign People's Majesty maintain'd, Nor less by words than arms the victory gain'd: Or how the Chiefs, sprung from that dauntless Sire, Repuls'd the Herald of Eurystheus' ire, To great Alcides’ banish'd children just, And laid Mycené's Tyrant low in dust.

* Euripides. His Tragedies here alluded to are “ The Supo pliants” and “ The Children of Hercules.”



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