Where the foe infidious roves
O'er headlong streams, and pathless groves;
And justice simple laws confounds
With imaginary bounds.
If protected Commerce keep
Her tenor o'er yon heaving deep,
What have we from war to fear?
Commerce steels the nerves of war;
Heals the havock rapine makes,
And new strength from conquest takes.
Nor less at home, O deign to smile,
Goddess of Britannia's ifle!
Thou, that from her rocks survey'st
Her boundless realms the watry waste;
Thou, that rov'st the hill and mead
Where her flocks and heifers feed;
Thou, that cheer'st the industrious swain
While he strows the pregnant grain;
Thou, that hear'st his caroll'd vows
When th' expanded barn o'erflows;
Thou, the bulwark of our caufe,
Thou, the guardian of our laws,
Goddess of Britannia's isle!
If to us indulgent heaven
Nobler feeds of strength has given,
Nobler should the produce be;
Brave, yet gen'rous, are the free.
Come then, all thy powers diffuse,
Goddess of extended views!
Ev'ry breast which feels thy flame
Shall kindle into martial fame,
'Till shame shall make the coward bold,
And Indolence her arms unfold:
Ev'n Avarice shall protect his hoard,
And the plow-share gleam a sword.
Goddess, all thy powers diffuse!
And thou, genuine BRITISH MUSE,
Nurs'd amidst the Druids old,
Where Deva's wizard waters roll'd,
Thou, that bear'st the golden key
To unlock eternity,
Summon thy poetic guard
Britain still has many a bard,
Whom, when time and death shall join
T' expand the ore, and stamp the coin,
Late pofterity shall own
Lineal to the Mufe's throne
Bid them leave th' inglorious theme
Of fabled shade, or haunted stream,
In the daisy-painted mead
'Tis to peace we tune the reed;
But when War's tremendous roar
Shakes the ifle from shore to shore,
Every bard of purer fire,
Tyrtæus-like, should grasp the lyre;
Wake with verse the hardy deed,
Or in the generous strife like * SIDNEY bleed.
* Sir Philip Sidney, mortally wounded in an action near
Fair Sylvia stood foremost in right of her claim,
When to crown the high transports dear conquest excites, At court she was envy'd and toasted at White's.
But how shall I whisper this fair one's fad case ?
A cruel disease has spoil'd her sweet face;
Her vermillion is chang'd to a dull fettled red,
And all the gay graces of beauty are fled.
Yet take heed, all ye fair, how you triumph in vain,
For Sylvia, tho' alter'd from pretty to plain,
Is now more engaging fince reason took place,
Than when she possess'd the perfections of face.
Convinc'd she no more can coquet it and teaze,
Instead of tormenting she studies to please :
Makes truth and difcretion the guide of her life,
And tho' spoil'd for a toast, she's well form'd for a wife.
BY THE LATE INGENIOUS MR. TICKEL, NOT PUBLISHED IN HIS WORKS,
H! form'd by nature, and refin'd by art,
With charms to win, and fenfe to fix the heart!
By thousands fought, Clotilda, can'st thou free
Thy crowd of captives, and defcend to me?
Content in shades obfcure to waste thy life,
A hidden beauty, and a country-wife.
O! liften while thy summers are my theme,
Ah! footh thy partner in his waking dream!
In fome small hamlet on the lonely plain,
Where Thames, thro' meadows, rolls his mazy train;
Or where high Windsor, thick with greens array'd,
Waves his old oaks, and spreads his ample shade,
Fancy has figur'd out our calm retreat;
Already round the vifionary feat
Our limes begin to shoot, our flow'rs to spring,
The brooks to murmur, and the birds to fing.
Where doft thou lie, thou thinly-peopled green ?
Thou nameless lawn, and village yet unseen ?
Where fons, contented with their native ground,
Ne'er travel further than ten furlongs round;
And the tann'd peasant, and his ruddy bride,
Were born together, and together died.
Where early larks best tell the morning-light,
And only Philomel disturbs the night,
'Midst gardens here my humble pile shall rife,
With sweets furrounded of ten thousand dies;
All savage where th' embroider'd gardens end,
The haunt of echoes shall my woods afcend;
And O! if heav'n th' ambitious thought approve,
A rill shall warble cross the gloomy grove,
A little rill, o'er pebbly beds convey'd,
Gush down the steep, and glitter thro' the glade.
What cheering scents those bord'ring banks exhale!
How loud that heifer lows from yonder vale!
That thrush, how shrill! his note so clear, so high,
He drowns each feather'd minstrel of the sky.
Here let me trace, beneath the purpled morn,
The deep-mouth'd beagle, and the sprightly horn;
Or lure the trout with well-dissembled flies,
Or fetch the flutt'ring partridge from the skies,
Nor shall thy hand disdain to crop the vine,
The downy peach, or flavour'd nectarine;
Or rob the bee-hive of its golden hoard,
And bear th' unbought luxuriance to thy board.
Sometimes my books by day shall kill the hours,
While from thy needle rife the silken flow'rs,
And thou by turns, to ease my feeble fight,
Refume the volume, and deceive the night.
O! when I mark thy twinkling eyes oppreft,
Soft whisp'ring, let me warn my love to rest;
Then watch thee, charm'd, while fleep locks every sense,
And to sweet heav'n commend thy innocence.
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