Ah! what avails, he cried, the blood
Shed by each patriot hand of yore,
When Freedom's unpaid legions stood
Pros of this fea-girt fhore,

When aut as Wildom deem'd each British fword
From he power could guard its valiant lord.

What tho' the Danish raven spread

Awhile his wings o'er English ground, The bird of prey funereal fled

When Alfred call'd his peers around, Whose fleets triumphant riding on the flood, Deep ftain'd each chalky cliff with Denmark's blood.

Alfred on natives could depend,

And fcorn'd a foreign force t'employ,

He thought, who dar'd not to defend

Were never worthy to enjoy ;

The realm's and monarch's intereft deem'd but one,
And arm'd his fubjects to maintain their own.

What tho' weak John's divided reign

The Gallic legions tempted o'er,

When Henry's barons join'd again,

Those feather'd warriors left the shore;

Learn, Britons, hence, you want no foreign friends,
The Lion's fafety on himself depends.

Reflect on Edward's glorious name;
On my fifth Henry's martial deeds;
Think on those peers of deathless fame,

Who met their king on Thames's meads,
When fovereign might acknowledg'd reafon's plea,
That heaven created man for liberty.

Tho' Rome's fell ftar malignant fhone,
When good Eliza rul'd this ftate,
On English hearts fhe plac'd her throne,
And in their happiness her fate,
While blacker than the tempefts of the North,
The papal tyrant fent his curfes forth.

Lo! where my Thames's waters glide

At great Augufta's regal feet, Bearing on each returning tide

From diftant realms a golden fleet,

Which homeward wafts the fruits of every zone,
And makes the wealth of all the world your own.

Shall on his filver waves be borne

Of armed flaves a venal crew? Lo! the old God denotes his fcorn,

And fhudders at th' unusual view,

Down to his deepest cave retires to mourn,
And tears indignant bathe his crystal urn.

O! how

O! how can vaffals, born to bear
The galling weight of Slavery's chain,
A patriot's noble ardor fhare,

Or Freedom's facred caufe maintain ?
Britons, exert your own unconquer'd might,
A Freeman beft defends a Freeman's right.

Look back on every deathlefs deed
For which your fires recorded stand;
To battle let your nobles lead

The fons of toil, a hardy band;

The fword on each rough peafant's thigh be worn,
And war's green wreaths the fhepherd's front adorn.

But fee! upon his utmoft fhores

America's fad Genius lies,

Each wafted province he deplores,

And cafts on me his languid eyes,

Blefs'd with heav'n's favourite ordinance I fly
To raise the opprefs'd, and humble tyranny.

This faid, the Vifion weftward fled, His wrinkled brow denouncing war; The way fire-mantled Vengeance led, And Justice drove his airy car; Behind firm-footed Peace her olive bore,

And Plenty's horn pour'd bleffings on the shore.

PETRARCH

PETRARCH

AND LAURA.

AN EPIGRAMMATIC

TALE.

DAN

AN Petrarch of old, it has often been faid,
By fome Cardinal urg'd, his fair Laura to wed,
With an offer of fortune (and well-tim'd it was,
For Poets have feldom much rent for Parnass')
Cried, my lord, you'll excufe me, but I have a reason
Why even this offer becomes out of season;

I've a new book of fonnets juft ripe for the prefs,
Upon the fame plan as the laft, you may guess;
I have there, all along, made my Laura a goddess,
And Venus, to please me, has lent her the boddice;
While Hebe, Minerva, and twenty to boot,

With gifts all celestial have trick'd me her out.

Now marriage, my lord, the whole charm would destroy, And hurl her divinity quite from the sky,

Το my coft I fhould find her no more than a woman, And my fonnets, alas! would gain credit with no man.

Το

•*•

WH

HAT! tho' thou com'ft in fable mantle clad, Yet, Winter! art thou welcome to my eye: Thee here I hail, tho' terrors round thee wait, And winds tempestuous howl along the sky.

But fhall I then fo foon forget the days

When Ceres led me thro' her wheaten mines! When autumn pluck'd me, with his tawny hand, Empurpled clufters from ambrofial vines!

So foon forget, when up the yielding pole
I faw afcend the filver-bearded hop!
When Summer, waving high her crown of hay,
Pour'd o'er the mead her odoriferous crop!

I muft forget them-and thee too, O Spring!
Tho' many a chaplet thou haft weav'd for me:
For, now prepar'd to quit th' enchanting scenes,
Cold, weeping Winter! I come all to thee.

Hail