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

And wish th' avenging fight.

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

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

She turns her joyless eyes.

Ne'er shall the 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 facred feet,

Present the sated sword.

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

E 3


To dry thy constant tear :
If yet, in Sorrow's diftant eye,
Expos’d and pale thou seeft him lie,

Wild war insulting near :

Where'er from time thou court'ft relief,
The Mufe shall still, with social grief,

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

And bid her Shepherds weep.

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I aught of oaten kop, or paftoral song,

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

O Nymph referv'd, while now the bright hair'd fun
Sits in yon western tent, whose cloady fkirts,

With brede ethereal wove,
O’erhang his wavy bed :

Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-eyed bat,
With short shrill fhriek flits by on leathern wing

Or where the beetle winds
His small but sullen horn,

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

Now teach me, Maid compos'do
To breathe fome foften'd strain,

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Whose numbers stealing thro' thy darkning vale,
May not unseemly with its stillness suit,

As mufing flow, I hail
Thy genial lov'd return !

For when thy folding-ftar arising shows
His paly circlet, at his warning lamp

The fragrant Hours, and Elves
Who Plept in buds the day,

And many a Nymph who wreathes her brows with

And sheds the freshening dew, and lovelier still,

The pensive Pleasures sweet
Prepare thy shadowy car,

Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene,
Or find some rain 'midst its dreary dells,

Whose walls more awful nod
By thy religious gleams.


Or if chill bluftring winds, or driving rain,
Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut,

That from the mountain's fide,
Views wilds, and swelling floode,

And hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd spires,
And hears their fimple bell, and marks o'er all

Thy dewy fingers draw
The gradual dusky veil.

While Spring fhall pour his showers, as oft he wont,
And bathe thy breathing treffes, meekett Eve!

While Summer loves to sport
Beneath thy lingering light :

While fallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves,
Or Winter, yelling thro' the troublous air,

Affrights thy shrinking train,
And rudely rends thy robes :

So long regardful of thy quiet rule,
Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace,

Thy gentlest influence own,
And love thy favourite name!


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