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Oh! Lyre divine, what daring fpirit
"Hark! heard you not yon footstep dread, That shook the earth with thund'ring tread? 'Twas Death---In hafte
The warrior paft;
I mark'd his mail, I mark'd his fhield,
I faw his giant arm the faulcheon wield; Wide wav'd the bickering blade, and fir'd the air.
"On me (he cried) my Britons! wait.
Hark! to my clarion fhrill, that brays the woods among
Nor the pride, nor ample pinion,
Thefe domeftic terrors wait
Thefe on the tyrant king and coward slave Rush with vindictive rage, and drag them to their grave.
But you, my fons! at this high hour
My own dread shafts shall show'r.
+ 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.
Sailing with fupreme dominion
Beneath the Good how far---but far above
Where creeps the Ninefold ftream profound
And on the bank
To willows dank
The fhiv'ring ghous are bound.
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.