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Finour's a sacred tie-the law of kings,
The noble mind's distinguishing perfection,
That aids and strengthens virtue where it meets ber,
And imitates her actions where she is not :
It is not to be sported with.


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Swell, swell the shrill trumpet, clear sounding

afar, Our sabres flash splendour around, For freedom has summon'd her sons to the war,

Nor Britain has shrunk from the sound.

Let plunder's vile thirst the invaders inflame,

Let slaves for their wages be bold, Shall valour the harvest of avarice claim ?

Shall Britons be barter'd for gold ?

No! free be our aid, independent our might,

Proud honour our guerdon alone;
Unhired be the hand that we raise in the fight,

The sword that we brandish our own.

Still all that we love to our thoughts shall succeed,

Their image each labour shall cheer, For them we will conquer-for them we will bleed, And our pay be a smile or a tear!

And oh! if returning triumphant we move,

Or sink on the land that we save, Oh! blest by his country, his kindred, his love,

How vast the reward of the brave!



Honour, my lord, is much too proud to catch
At every tender twig of nice distinctions.
These for th’ unfeeling vulgar may do well:
But those, whose souls are by the nicer rule
Of virtuous delicacy nobly sway'd,
Stand at another bar than that of laws.

Honour hurt is wont lo rage
With pain no med'cine can assuage.
Quoth he, that honour's very squeamish
That takes a basting for a blemish;
For what's more honourable than scars,
Or skin to tatters rent in wars?
Some have been beaten till they know
What wood a cudgel's of, by th' blow,
Some kick'd, until they can feel whether
A shoe be Spanish or neat's leather.




I PREFER My honour to a thousand lives, could such Be multiplied in mine, but would not have A single life of others lost for that Which nothing human can impugn--the sense Of virtue, looking not to what is called A good name for reward, but to itself I'o me the scorner's words were as the wind Unto the rock: but as there are-alas ! Spirits more sensitive, on which such things Light as the whirlwind on the waters, souls To whom dishonour's shadow is a substance More terrible than death, here and hereafter; Men whose vice is to start at vice's scoffing, And who, though proof against all blandishments Of pleasure, and all pangs of pain, are feeble When the proud name on which they pinnacled Their hopes is breathed on, jealous as the eagle Of her high aerie ; let what we now Behold, and feel, and suffer, be a lesson To wretches how they tamper in their spleen With beings of a higher order.

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