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Hile; loft to all his former mirth,

Britannia's genius bends to earth,
And mourns the fatal day :
While ftain'd with blood he strives to tear
Unseemly from his sea-green hair

The wreaths of cheerful May:

The thoughts which mufing pity pays,
And fond remembrance loves to raise,

Your faithful hours attend :
Still Fancy, to herself ankind,
Awakes to grief the foften'd mind,

And points the bleeding friend.

By rapid Scheld's descending wave
His country's vows shall bless the grave,

E 2


Where'er the youth is laid :
That sacred spot the village hind
With every sweetest turf shall bind,

And Peace protect the shade.

O'er him, whose doom thy virtues grieve,
Aerial forms shall fit at eve,

And bend the penfive head !
And, fallen to save his injur'd land,
Imperial Honour's awful hand

Shall point his lonely bed!

The warlike dead of every age,
Who fill the fair recording page,

Shall leave their fainted reft :
And, half-reclining on his spear,
Each wondering chief by turns appear,

To hail the blooming guest.

Old Edward's fons, unknown to yield,
Shall croud from Creffy's laurell'd field,


And gaze with fix'd delight:
Again for Britain's wrongs they feel,
Again they snatch the gleamy steel,

And with th' avenging fight.

But lo where, funk in deep despair,
Her garments torn, her bosom bare,

Impatient Freedom lies !
Her matted tresses madly spread,
To every sod, which wraps the dead,

She turns her joyless eyes.

Ne'er shall fhe leave that lowly ground,
Till notes of triumph bursting round

Proclaim her reign restor'd :
Till William seek the sad retreat,
And, bleeding at her sacred feet,

Present the fated sword.

If, weak to soothe so soft an heart,
These pictur'd glories nought impart,

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To dry thy constant tear :
If yet, in Sorrow's distant eye,
Expos'd and pale thou feeft him lieg

Wild war insulting near :

Where'er from time thou court'st relief,
The Mase shall still, with social grief,

Her gentlest promise keep :
Even humble Harting's cottag'd vale
Shall learn the sad repeated tale,

And bid her shepherds weep.

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I aught of oaten stop

, or pastoral song,

May hope, chafte Eve, to soothe thy modeft ear,
Like thy own solemn springs,
Thy springs, and dying gales,

O Nymph resery'd, while now the bright haird fun
Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts,

With brede ethereal wove,
O'erhang his wavy bed;

Now air is hath'd, fave where the weak-eyed bat,
With short shrill shriek fits by on leathern wing,

Or where the beetle winds
His small but fullen horn,

As oft he rises 'midft the twilight path,
Against the pilgrim born in heedless hum:

Now teach me, Maid composid,
To breathe fome foften'd Arain,

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