And what the death with fuch applause,
As in our own and country's caufe?
DEFENSIVE WAR, ev'n heaven will blefs,
And crown each effort with fuccefs.
Hark! hark, the brazen trumpets found.
Arife! ye patriot warriors round;
Arite! Arife! Arife!
The thrilling, thrilling clangor,
In founds of kindling anger,
Rends and tears,
Tears and rends,
Rends and tears the skies.
The deeply thund'ring drum,
And thrilly-founding fife,
Bid ev'ry warrior come,
To join the mortal strife.
While hearts and tongues their notes prolong,
In fwelling chorus loud and ftrong-
"BRITONS UNITED, LONG SHALL RULE THE WAVES! BRITONS UNITED, NEVER SHALL BE SLAVES!"
TO S. W. AT HERTFORD.
DELIEVE me, S. tho' far-off I roam
Thro' woods, or pace the flow'ry banks along,
The while attentive to the milk-maid's fong,
Yet I do think of thy moft friendly home,
Where we were happy all the live-long day,
And gaily wander'd, or at eve or morn
Thro' vale fequefter'd, or o'er verdant lawn,
And mark'd the abbey haft'ning to decay:
Or when appear'd the ebon fhades of night,
We fat, and hearken'd to the howling blast,
Or rain-drops beating 'gainst the cafement faft,
And blefs'd our hapy lot.-Then calm delight
Fill'd my young bofom:-all was peace and reft!
Sweet scenes of innocence, fupremely bleft!
Lynn, 16th March, 1798.
TO A FRIEND IN AFFLICTION.
AIN would 1 check thy frequent fighs;
With foothing arts thofe woes beguile-
That cloud the luftre of thine eyes,
And drive away each sportive smile;
With kindred pangs I view thee faint
Beneath the iron rod of Fate,
And hear each unavailing plaint,
Extorted by thy hapless state.
As youthful hope, with raptur'd eye,
Explor'd the hidden tracks of Time,
Thou thought'ft thy future years would fly,
And fraught with happiness fublime.
Then Love too beckon'd thee away
And promis'd more exalted joy,
To brighten each aufpicious day,
With pure delights that never cloy :
Oft didft thou on those moments think,
When Care no more with rude alarms
Should haunt thy breaft, but thou shouldst sink
To peace within a fair one's arms;
And haply know what pow'r refides
In chaite Affection's melting glance;
(As to the heart it gently glides,
It can the raptur'd foul entrance.-
Yes! modeft beauty's potent fpell,
Can grief's corroding pangs affuage,
Her voice with magic notes can quell
The fury of refiftless rage.)
But now is fled each paft delight,
Once felt, when mimic Fancy drew
"vfian scenes, that rofe to fight
lovely forms, and vivid hug.
Chill Penury, with icy hands,
Has damp'd the glow of youthful fire.
Enchain'd in its detefted bands,
Canft thou to wealth, to fame aspire?
Yet tho' no roses round thee bloom,
To cheer life's thorny devious road;
If VIRTUE mingle with the gloom,
And light thee to her bleft abode;
Misfortune's ftorms in vain draw near,-
Tho' frequent blafts affail thy foul,
By HER fupported, thou shalt hear,
Unmov'd, the tempeft o'er thee roll.
ODE TO ANTIQUATED VIRGINITY.
AIL! fpotlefs Virgin! free from fin!
Sweet, modeft maiden, hail!
To gain whofe perfon, tall and thin,
None e'er could yet prevail.
Your mopstick arms, from flesh quite free,
We view with sweet delight;
Your waift, as thin as thin can be,
Enchants our wondering fight!
(In flowing numbers, fain would I
Your wond'rous praises fing,
And let Imagination fly
On Fancy's foaring wing.)
With crabbed looks, and four grimace,
You mope like owl or bat,
And, with a most enchanting grace,
Purr like your tabby cat.
Your meagre face, drawn up fo prim,
Holds every heart secure;
And fhould you chance but once to grin-
'Tis death beyond a cure!
But here I ftop-for my poor brain
Allows the task too hard: To celebrate your vestal train, Requires an abler bard,
10th April, 1798.
ON THE DEATH OF A SCHOOL-FELLOW,
UNERAL cyprefs, O ye mufes bring
To fhade your votary's untimely bier,
In fond remembrance of his virtues fing
Elegiac notes, and fing the heartfelt tear.
Scarce fifteen funs their annual course had ran,
Scarce had thy vigour e'er begun to bloom,
Ere thou, my friend, partook the fate of man,
And death confign'd thee to the dreary tomb,
No more fhalt thou the narrow path pursue
Where Wisdom's temple crowns the steep afcent,
No more thy claffic toils fhalt thou renew,
(Joy in thine eye, and in thine heart content.)
No more fhalt thou relate a merry tale,
Nor brace thy limbs with falutary play;
Mute is thy tongue;- thy body once so hale
Now lies inhum'd amid its kindred clay.
As the poor lamb, who crops the flow'ry mead,
Contented fpends his inoffenfive life,
Unconscious death his joys will foon impede,
And he a victim fall beneath the knife.
So young, fo blithe, fo guilelefs was thy heart,
When Summer last approach'd with rofy brow,
Youth is no fafeguard 'gainst the tyrant's dart,
It trikes, it wounds, it levels all below.
The time will be, when the fame youthful hands,
That now indite thefe melancholy trains,
Will be enchain'd like thine in icy bands,
And fome kind friend will figh o'er my remains.
When the last trump shall bid the dead arise,
Triumphant from beneath the graffy fod,
Then shall we meet again amid the skies,
And hallelujahs fing before th' Almighty God.
London, May 7th, 1798.
OW fair is the morning! the foft gales are blowing, And Spring with fresh verdure enamels the ground, The itreams thro' the vale in ftill murmurs are flowing, And the bloffoms of May scatter fragrance around. Return, O Matilda! I languifh in forrow;
How long fhall I feek thee, and feek thee in vain ? Still pining in fadness, from morrow to morrow,
Till you hafte to thefe fcenes of past pleasure again.
See thofe hills crown'd with verdure, thofe fweet-fmiling vallies,
The hut peeping forth from yon thick-woven trees ;—
Can the splendour of courts, or the glare of a palace,
Afford my Matilda fuch pleasure as these?
The streams which along the rich meadow meander,
The flowers, whofe gay beauties embellifh the plain ;-
Ah! do they not tell thee no farther to wander,
But to turn to these scenes of thy childhood again?
How oft have we ftray'd o'er the heights of yon mountain,
Or wandered, at eve, thro' the fhade of the grove:
Our minds were as pure as the waves of the fountain,
Our fouls were fincere, and our language was love.
How oft have we rofe, e'er the dawn of the morning
Had broke from the eaft, and illumin'd the skies→→→
To watch her first beams, yon tall fummit adorning,
And the bright orb of day in full fplendor arife.
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