O Goddess from the uncultur'd wild,
Where thron'd in savage state, thou smil'st to see
The untutor'd Indian hurl his flint arm'd spear,
And mock at tortures, with a soul more firm
Than all the boasted heroes, which adorn
The annals of antiquity, what time
The Roman greatness aw'd the cow'ring world,
Haste thou, and dreadful cast thy vengeful bolt;
Dash Gallia's treach'rous spoilers from their pride;
Give independance to her conquer'd states.
On the firm base of justice, truth, and virtue,
Re-mould her present abject government.
Grant her a less tyrannick monarchy,
A sovereign, mild, fix'd, hereditary,
One too selected from the Bourbon race,
Grant this, if not for their superior merit,
In pity to good Louis' unjust suff'rings,
Then re-instate thy long expected sway,
To rule mankind, and bid the world adore.
Addressed to a Young Lady, by the same, 1775.
INNOCENT and mildly gay,
As flow'rs that deck the brow of May,
Cheeks that shame the op'ning rose,
And bosom where the lilly blows,
Ev'ry love and ev'ry grace,
Are seen in Hannah's form and face;
But ah! what words can paint her mind,
By ev'ry gentle art refin'd?
Dignity with female ease,
The will with all the pow'rs to please!
Syren sounds that charm the ear,
Wisdom that the sage might hear!
Sounds where Venus did impart
All her own resistless art,
And tempt the good, the wise, the brave,
To wear her chains, and be a slave.
Pity that misfortune nigh,
Melts with tears the glist'ning eye,
And matchless faith untaught to range,
And constancy that knows no change!
O what happy youth shall be,
Destin'd lovely maid for thee?
For him the rosy pinion'd hours
Shall strew life's thorny path with flow'rs;
Ev'ry smiling morn shall bring
Matchless blessings on its wing!
And each returning ev'ning shed
Content and peace, to smooth his bed!
But I, alas! must see those charms
Consign'd to bless another's arms!
Perhaps some more accomplish'd youth,
That wants my tenderness and truth!
Whose breast ne'er knew the secret pain,
To love like me, and love in vain,
IN PRAISE OF
HORATIUS COCLES.
A celebrated Roman, the prototype, I trust, of almost every armed Citizen of the British Empire, as almost every armed British Citizen would, I have no doubt, on a similar occasion, an event scarce possible to happen, prove himself an Horatius Cocles, or an Horatio Nelson.
YET a short space, and o'er the fatal ground
Destructive Mars hall deal his shafts around;
While Death, exulting o'er the streaming plain,
Grows rich in blood, and riots in the slain.
In close wedg'd ranks advance the hostile Powers,
And pale Rome trembles from her loftiest tow'rs.
What then, shall fell ambition swallow all,
Shall haughty Tarquin reign, and Freedom fall?
Shall Rome now feel a tyrant's vengeful blow,
And plunge still deeper in the gulph of woe?
Forbid it, Heav'n! thou too Porsenna spare,
If suff'ring Virtue can deserve thy care!
Yet, yet be firm and dare the storm! thy fate
Shall rise superior to the tyrant's hate,
Shall meet the rapid whirlwind in its course,
Nor fear unequal arms, or mightier force.
Thus 'midst the wintry storms, while Boreas flies
O'er groaning earth, and shoots athwart the skies;
While the pale garden withers, by its side
Blooms the green fir-tree in perennial pride.
Fair Virtue interpos'd, her succour gave,
And snatch'd her fav'rite from oblivion's wave.
Enthron'd in Heaven, with a prophetic mind,
She saw proud banners waving in the wind;
Saw nodding helmets, close compacted shields,
And Tarquin's legions scou'ring o'er the fields.
Swift as the lightning, flew the heav'nly guest,
And fix'd her dwelling in Cocles's breast.
Here while her potent force the soul inspires,
Horatius burns with more than mortal fires.
Thus thro' the mantling gloom, and shades of night,
Shines pallid Cynthia, with reflected light,
And cheers the dusky orb; with gentle beam
Gilds the dark trees, and dances on the stream.
But panick struck, behold the Romans fly,
The battle rages, and the foe draws nigh,
|