A NEW SONG.

Sung at Vauxhall, by Mrs. WRIGHTEN.

T

O near the jar of noify war To me is pleasing matter; Give re, ye Powis, in dangerous hours,

A tprar an fhied to clatter: If this fupply ve thal deny,

Yet grans me hit and feather,
Aimar co kide and polish'd ntarle➡
But keep them from the weather.

I'll then rockel, for fure there's need,
To get my corps 'ogether;
Who feel no dread but for their bead,
Their har, cockade, and feather.
Let now each m-id, in talte array'd,

Advance in faireft weather-
But halt! I fear the French are near---
Alas! my hat and feather.

If * these I lofe, I'll not refuse

To leave the ftrife to others;

To those who dread no lofs of head,
Britannia's fons and brothes:
For they'll advance 'gainst Spain and
France,

Ant knock hem down together;
Then where they lie-the e let them die
Defpoil'd of hat and flather.

Now flaming o'er the Nubian fands,
Now laving Egypt's cultur'd lands ;

To mark where first thou court'ft the gale,
The Loet's stretch of thought might fail :
Might heroes fhudder to behold

The wonders which hy depths unfold.
O! place me on thy gen'le tide,
When fift it leaves i's fountain wide;"
Tili, threat'n ng on the Catra's brow,
It rufes to the world below.

Here, as the joyless wild we trace,
Where Nature throuds her beauteous face,
The Oftach-child of want and gloom!
Dips in thy wave his filver plume.

Now, lurking on thy fedgy shores,

The Crocodile bis prey explores.

Hark! 'tis a virgin's fhriek -thy flood
She fought-to colour with her blood!
No arms the monster can appall
Bounds from his fcales th' unerring ball.
The Hippopotamus appears!
Lo! to avenge a mother's tears,

Now Death affumes his grimmeft form,
Thy troubled furface owns the ftorm;
Like waring veffels, on they move
Their mortal rage and force to prove!
Ol halte we from this confi & dire,
And to thy fa rer scenes retire;
Where, fwelling o'er thy native strand,
Thy waters fatten all the land;
Where on the wide expanse are seen
The tufted grove and island green :
The minaret, that tow'rs above,
The haram-p ifon gay of love;
As Pleasure, Commerce, fpread the fail,
A thoufand gallies catch the gale:
Ther oars a thousand gallies ply,
Whofe pomp refulgent strikes the eye.

Now bear me down thy western arm,
Where Delta looks one cul:ur'd farm,
By ruin'd cities, nodding towers,
And hide me in Rofetto's bowers.
Hail fhades! who give fuch charms to
view, i

As ne'er Alcinous gardens knew;
While bloffoms here their fweers unfold,
Bow'd is the tree with fruit of gold.

And thou fam`du stream! what tho ne more

The world's emporium as of yore;
Tho' grac'd not with the Roman name,
Thy realm contending factions claim :

A Pharaoh's daughter erft was thine,
Whom pity touch'd with cares divine,
As the the Prophet chanc'd to note
While in his ozier-bark afloat.
Thou knew`ft a Cleopatra's reign,
Who number'd victors in her train;
A Julius, led by glory's ray i
An Antony-to love a prey!

A Prolemy of learn'd renown,

And great Sefoftris wore thy crown; Thine, Memphis! cruth'd by adverfe fates, And Thehes-that op'd an hundred gates!

And