"Lo! Philip comes....lo! Philip's hosts draw near! "To arms Athenians....grasp the faithful spear.... "Who from the field of death would basely fly? "Who would live slaves while they might bravely "die?"
O hear that voice* by thirsty treason fir'd,
By every patriotic thought inspir'd,
Which shook the soul of coward Guilt with dread,
Dispell'd the danger, struck the traitor dead. 60
O hear that voice which for my native shore,
Breath'd its bold accents and was heard no more.t
....Genius is rous'd to labour and excel
By those whom ages say have written well.
She hears the trump from every distant clime
Which sounds its honours till the death of Time,
†The Earl of Chatham last appeared in the House of Lords, the 2d of April, 1778. He was then ill and debilitated. He spoke in favour of a motion of the Duke of Richmond, for an address to his majesty, to dismiss his ministers and make peace with America. At the close of his long speech he was overcome and was seized with a convulsive fit....of the effects of which he died on the 4th of April.
She marks the eagle whose undazzled eye
Drinks the full splendour of the kindled sky.
When emulation calls the soul obeys,
Wakes all her powers and pours her fervent lays,
Shakes from her hold the drowsy sloth of years,
And all her zeal, and all her strength uprears....
Love often wakes the poet's soul of fire,
And bids bold youth to noble deeds aspire:
Others it leads with folded arms to rove,
Where Silence slumbers in the peaceful grove.
It bids the song in smoothest numbers flow
To lull dejection by its voice of woe.
Young Cymon* rous'd by Iphigenia's charm,
Felt the strong thunder nerve his clownish arm;
By daring deeds he won the lovely maid,
And bore her blushing to his native shade.
Where rolls the Forth his wild romantic flood, Amid the moor an humble dwelling stood; There liv'd an honest pair whose only joy, Dwelt in their child, a simple shepherd boy; With Fancy, kindled by the breath of Fame, They gave their son Orlando's sounding name.
* See Dryden's admirable tale of Cymon and Iphigenia.
A modest blush, an honest heart he had,
And every village neighbour bless'd the lad.
Serenely o'er his head had eighteen years
Flown, unembitter'd by remorseful tears.
He lov'd his pipe, and when the vale was still,
His strain came sweeten'd from the shady hill;
Nature he lov'd in all her various forms,
Her sleeping green, her mountain beat by storms,
Her winding stream, her ever rolling waves,
Her cooling shades, her deep and dismal caves.
Thus smil'd his days...." but why the tale prolong?"
He saw fair Anna........Anna 'woke his song; 100
Her lovely limbs a snowy vestment bound,
A silken cincture clasp'd her form around;
Hung careless on her back her dusky hair,
And wav'd in ringlets to the sportive air.
Her smile awaken'd every hope of love,
Her modest mildness would that hope reprove:
A pensive sorrow shaded o'er her face,
Admiring Nature gave her every grace.
Orlando lov'd....but all his vows were vain,
And all the sweetness of his mournful strain. 110
An happier shepherd from the banks of Tay,
Bow'd to her charms and bore the maid away.
Orlando mourns....his sun has set in night,
And fled each hope and every fond delight.
A sullen phrenzy dims his noble soul,
In gloomy silence his dark eye-balls roll;
At dead of night he wanders o'er the vale,
And bares his bosom to the chilling gale;
Among the rocks he leans, to hear the roar
Of billows chafing on the sounding shore.
Each sound which strikes the village boor with fear,
Is all the strain Orlando loves to hear.
One night when howl'd the loud and angry north,
Alone he wander'd on the banks of Forth;
Autumn had robb'd the foliage of the trees,
Their naked branches trembled to the breeze;
The birds no longer rais'd their lulling strains,
But coming winter chill'd and hush'd the plains.
Heedless he rov'd while deeper clouds o'erspread,
And wilder tempests beat upon his head:
His phrenzy grew amid the ruthless storm;
His Fancy saw his long-lost Anna's form:
Onward he rush'd....he held the form in view,
He call'd on Anna....Anna from him flew,
Often he clasp'd in hope the fleeting maid,
But only clasp'd an unsubstantial shade.
Now up the hill, he turns his headlong course,
And laughs convulsive at the tempest's force;
He gains the height and from the giddy brow,
Beholds the wave roll sullenly below;
No Anna there, rewards his eager sight,
But darker terrors fill the starless night;
His dying hopes are follow'd by despair,
He calls on Death and breathes his frantic prayer, He murmurs Anna's name, and from the steep, Leaps in the bosom of the whelming deep!
What vast delights flow on that glowing breast, By Virtue strengthen'd and by Genius blest! Whate'er in Nature beautiful or grand,
In air, or ocean, or the teeming land,
Meets its full view, excites a joy unknown,
To those whom Genius dashes from her throne. Genius finds speech in trees; the running brook, To her speaks language, like a favourite book;
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