Be these thy triumphs. But no more prefume
That my rebellious heart will yield thee room,
I know thy puny force, thy fimple wiles;
I break triumphant through thy flimfy toils.
I fee thy dying lamp's laft languid glow,
Thy arrows blunted. and unbrac'd thy bow.
I feel diviner fires my breaft inflame,
To active fcience, and ingenuous fame :
Refume the paths my earliest choice began,
And lofe, with pride, the lover in the man,

A BRITISH PHILIPPIC: OCCASIONED BY THE INSULTS OF THE SPANIARDS,

AND OUR PREPARATIONS FOR WAR.

Expreffive of the thoughts that flame within, No more fhould lazy luxury detain

THENCE this unwonted tranfport in my breaft?

WHEN

Why glow my thoughts, and whither would the
Mufe

Afpire with rapid wing? Her country's cause
Demands her efforts; at that facred call
She fummons all her ardour, throws afide
The trembling lyre, and with the warrior's trump
She means to thunder in each British ear;
And if one fpark of honour or of fame,
Difdain of infult, dread of infamy,
One thought of public virtue yet furvive,
She means to wake it, roufe the generous
With patriot zeal infpirit every breaft,
And fire each British heart with British wrongs.
Alas, the vain attempt! What influence now
Can the Mufe boaft? or what attention now
Is paid to fame or virtue? Where is now
The British fpirit, generous, warm, and brave,
So frequent wont from tyranny and woe
To free the fuppliant nations? Where, indeed!
If that protection, once to strangers given,
Be now with-held from fons? Each nobler
thought,

That warm'd our fires, is loft and buried now
In luxury and avarice. Baneful vice!
How it unmans a nation! Yet I'll try,
I'll aim to shake this vile degenerate floth:
I'll dare to rouze Britannia's dreaming fons
To fame, to virtue, and impart around
A generous feeling of compatriot woes.
Come then the various powers of forceful
fpeech,

All that can move, awaken, fire, transport;
Come the bold ardour of the Theban bard!
The arouzing thunder of the patriot Greek!
The foft perfuafion of the Roman fage!
Come all! and raise me to an equal height,
A rapture worthy of my glorious caufe!
Left my best efforts failing thould debafe
The facred theme; for with no common wing
The Mufe attempts to foar. Yet what need

eyes,

Turn ye degenerate, who with haughty boast
Call yourfelves Britons, to that dismal gloom,
That dungeon dark and deep, where never
thought

Of joy or peace can enter; fee the gates
Harth-creaking open; what an hideous void,
Dark as the yawning grave! while still as death
A frightful filence reigns: There on the ground
Behold your brethren chain'd like beafts of prey:
There mark your numerous glories, there behold
The look that fpeaks unutterable woe;

The mangled limb, the faint, the deathful eye
With famine funk, the deep heart-bursting groan
Supprefs'd in filence; view the loathfome food,
Refus'd by dogs, and oh! the stinging thought!
View the dark Spaniard glorying in their wrongs,
The deadly priest triumphant in their woes,
And thundering worfe damnation on their fouls:
While that pale form, in all the pangs of death,
Too faint to fpeak, yet eloquent of all
His native British fpirit yet untam'd,
Raifes his head, and with indignant frowns
Of great defiance, and fuperior fcorn,
Looks up and dies-Oh! I am all on fire!
But let me fpare the theme, left future times
Should b'uth to hear that cither conquer'd Spain.
Durft offer Britain fuch of trageous wrong,
Or Britain tamely bear it-

Defcend, ye guardian heroes of the land!
Scourges of Spain, descend! Bei old your fons,
See! how they run the fame heroic race,

How prompt, how ardent in their country's caufe, How greatly proud to affert heir British blood, And in their deeds reflect their father's fame!

Ah! would to heaven! ye did not rather fee
How dead to virtue in the public caufe! -
How cold, how careless, how to glory deaf,
They fhame your laurels, and belye their birth!
Come, ye great fpirits, Ca'ndifh, Raleigh,
Blake!

And ye of later name your country's pride,
Oh! come, difperse these lazy fumes of floth,
Teach British hearts with British fires to glow!
In wakening whispers rouze our ardent youth,
Blazon the triumphs of your better days,
Paint all the glorious fcenes of rightful war,
In all its fplendors; to their fwelling fouls
Say how ye bow'd the infulting Spaniards pride,
Say how ye thunder'd o'er their proftrate heads,
Say how ye broke their lines and fir'd their ports,
Say how not death, in all its frightful hapes,
Could damp your fouls, or shake the great refolve
For Right and Britain: Then display the joys
The patriot's foul exalting, while he views
Tranfported millions hail with loud acclaim
The guardian of their civil, facred rights.
How greatly welcome to the virtuous man
Is death for others good! the radiant thoughts
That beam celestial on his paffing foul,
The unfading crowns awaiting him above,
The exalting plaudit of the Great Supreme,
Who in his actions with complacence views
His own reflected fplendor; then descend,
Though to a lower, yet a nobler scene;
Paint the juft honours to his reliques paid,
Shew grateful millions weeping or his grave;
While his fair fame in each progreffive age,
For ever brightens; and the wife and good
Of every land in univerfal choir

With richest incenfe of undying praise
His urn encircle, to the wondering world

Shew that the fons of those immortal men,
The stars of fhining story, are not flow
In virtue's path to emulate their fires,
To affert their country's rights, avenge her fous,
And hurl the bolts of juftice on her foes.

HYMN TO SCIENCE.

"O Vite Philofophia Dux! O Virtutis indagatrix, "expultrixque Vitiorum.-Tu Urbes peperisti; "tu inventrix Legum, tu magistra Morum & "Difciplinæ fuifti: Ad te confugimus, a te "Opem petimus." Cic. Tufc. Quæft.

His numerous triumphs blazon; while with awe, With filial reverence, in his steps they tread, And, copying every virtue, every fame, Tranfplant his glories into fecond life, And, with unfparing hand, make nations bleft, By his example. Va inmenfe rewards! For all the turmoils which the virtuous mind Encounters here. Yet, Britons, are ye cold? Yet deaf to glory, virtue, and the call Of your poor injur'd countrymen? Ah! no. I fee ye are not; every bofom glows With native greatness, and in all its ftate The British (pirit rifes: Glorious change! Fame, Virtue, Freedom, welcome! Oh! forgive The mufe, that ardent in her facred caufe Your glory question'd; She beholds with joy; She owns, the triumphs, in her wish'd mistake. See! from her fea-beat throne in awful march Britannia towers: upon her laurel creft The plumes majestic nod; behold the heaves Her guardian fhield, and terrible in arms For battle fhakes her adamantine spear: Loud at her foot the British lion roars, Frighting the nations; haughty Spain full foon Shall hear and tremble. Go then, Britons, forth, Your country's daring champions: tell your foes, Tell them in thunders o'er their proftrate land You were not born for flaves: Let all your deeds

Of Windfor's heights th' expanfe below

Of grove, of lawn, of mead furvey,

Whofe turf, whofe fhade, whofe flowers among
Wanders the hoary Thames along
His filver-winding way.

Ah, happy hills, ah, pleafing fhade,

Ah, fields belov'd in vain,

Where once my careless childhood stray'd,
A ftranger yet to pain?

I feel the gales, that from ye blow,

A momentary bliss bestow,

As waving fresh their gladsome wing,
My weary foul they feem to footh,
And, † redolent of joy and youth,
To breathe a fecond fpring.

King Henry the Sixth, Founder of the College.
"And bees their boney redolent of Spring."
Dryden's Fable on the Pythag. Syften.
VOL. VIL

Say, Father Thames, for thou haft feen
Full many a fprightly race
Difporting on thy margent green
The paths of pleasure trace,
Who foremost now delight to cleave
With pliant arm thy glassy wave ?
The captive linnet which enthrall?
What idle progeny fucceed
To chace the rolling circle's speed,
Or urge the flying ball?

While fone on earnest business bent
Their murmuring labours ply

'Gainft graver hours, that bring constraint To fweeten liberty;

Some bold adventurers difdain

The limits of their little reign,
And unknown regions dare defcry:
Still as they run they look behind,
They hear a voice in every wind,
And fnatch a fearful joy.

Gay Hope is theirs, by Fancy fed,
Lefs pleafing, when poffeft;
The tear forgot as foon as fhed,
The funine of the breath:
Theirs buxom health, of rofy hue;
Wild wit, invention ever new,
And lively chear, of vigour born;
The thoughtlefs day, the eafy night,
The fpirits pure, the flumbers light,
That fly th' approach of morn.

Alas, regardless of their doom,
The little victims play!

No fenfe have they of ills to come,
Nor care beyond to-day.

Yet fee how all around them wait

The minifters of human fate,

And black Misfortune's baleful train,
Ah, fhew them where in ambush stand
To feize their prey, the murtherous band!
Ah, tell them, they are men!

Thefe shall the fury paflions tear,
The vultures of the mind,
Difdainful Anger, pallid Fear,
And Shame that fkulks behind;
Or pining Love fhall waste their youth,
Or Jealoufy, with rankling tooth,
That inly gnaws the secret heart,
And Envy wan, and faded Care,
Grim-vifag'd comfortless Despair,
And Sorrow's piercing dart.

Ambition this fhall tempt to rife,
Then whirl the wretch from high,
To bitter Scorn a facrifice,

And grinning Infamy,

The ftings of Falihood thofe fhall try,
And hard Unkindness' alter'd eve,
That mocks the tear it forc'd to flow;
And keen Remorse, with blood dril'd,
And moody Madness *laughing wild
Amid feverett woe.

Sa

Madness laughing in bis ireful moed." Dryden's Faple of Palamon and Arcite.