Oh! Lyre divine, what daring fpirit
Wakes thee now? tho' he inherit

"Hark! heard you not yon footstep dread, That shook the earth with thund'ring tread? 'Twas Death---In hafte

The warrior paft;
High tower'd his helmed head :

I mark'd his mail, I mark'd his fhield,
I fpy'd the fparkling of his fpear,

I faw his giant arm the faulcheon wield; Wide wav'd the bickering blade, and fir'd the air.

I. 2.

I come.

"On me (he cried) my Britons! wait.
To lead you to the fields of fate
Yon'car,
That cleaves the air,
Defcends to throne my
ftate:
I mount your champion and your God.
My proud fteed neighs beneath the thong;
Hark! to my wheels of brafs, that rattle

loud!

Hark! to my clarion fhrill, that brays the woods among

I. 3.
Fear not now the fever's fire,
Fear not now the death-bed groan,
Pangs that torture, pains that tire,
Bed-rid age with feeble moan;

Nor the pride, nor ample pinion,
That the Theban eagle bear+,

Thefe domeftic terrors wait
Hourly at my palace gate;
And when o'er flothful realms my rod I

wave,

Thefe on the tyrant king and coward slave Rush with vindictive rage, and drag them to their grave.

II. I.

But you, my fons! at this high hour
Shall fhare the fulness of my power :
From all your bows,
In levell'd rows,

My own dread shafts shall show'r.
Go then to conqueft, gladly go,
Deal forth my dole of destiny;
With all my fury dash the trembling foe
Down to thofe darkfome dens, where Rome's
pale spectres ly.

+ Pindar compares himself to that bird, and his enemies to ravens that croak and clamour in vain below, while it pursues its flight, regard lefs of their noife.

would run

Sailing with fupreme dominion
Thro' the azure deep of air;
Yet oft before his infant eyes
Such forms, as glitter in the Mufe's ray
With orient hues, unborrowed of the fun :
Yet fhall he mount, and keep his distant way
Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate.

Beneath the Good how far---but far above

the Great.

II.

2.

Where creeps the Ninefold ftream profound
Her black inexorable round;

And on the bank

To willows dank

The fhiv'ring ghous are bound.
Twelve thoufand crefcents all fhall fwell
To full-orb'd pride, and all decline,
Ere they again in life's gay manfions dwell.
Not fuch the meed that crowns the fons of
Freedom's line.

II. 30

II. 3. No, my Britons! battle-slain, Rapture gilds your parting hour! I, that all-defpotic reign, Claim but there a moment's power! Swiftly the foul of British flame Animates fome kindred frame; Swiftly to life and light triumphant flies, Exults again in martial ecftacies, Again for Freedom fights, again for Freedom dies.