Struck with the thought, I feel unusual fire,
When MARTINICO is the glorious theme-
Heroic deeds heroic fongs infpire,
And fill the bard with all the warrior's flame.
See the brave youths, as breathes the trump
Tremendous, rushing on the armed foe;
With mingled shouts they wield the deadly spear,
And o'er the field the crimson torrents flow.
Th' intrepid chiefs their fiery steeds impel,
Where glows the fury of the battle dire,
Where shrill-voic'd clamour lifts her stunning yell,
And ghaftly terror rolls his eyes of fire.
Th' astonish'd foes, as MONCKTON's bands advance,
Fly to the hills, or fhrink to dreary caves;
O'er them black horror fhakes his iron lance,
And defolation her dread banner waves.
So when the princely eagles fail the sky,
If aught of meaner fowl oppose their flight,
Soon hurled headlong from the realms on high,
Vanquish'd, they seek to hide their heads in night.
Nor stop we yet the current of our verse,
Still other heroes claim our rapt'rous lays;
Brave ALBEMARLE's exploits, O muse! rehearse,
And waft, to diftant times, his well-earn'd praise.
Let youths unborn say how th' Iberian fled,
Before th' British chieftan's conqu'ring host ;
How, o'er the field, Havannah's pride was spread,
And Moro's ramparts levell'd with the duft.
Nor blufh, O mufe! thy chaplet to bestow
On him who led th' unhappy fons of Spain;
Be virtue honour'd, or in friend or foe,
Or in Britannia's, or Iberia's, train.
Thus fought Rome's champion, Africanus bold, And thus the dauntlefs Hannibal withstood; Till Latian Ardor, Punic rage, control'd,
And drench'd the fields with Carthaginian blood.
Thus fhine the acts of GEORGE's glorious day,
Illuftrious Prince, with early honours crown'd;
Ordain'd by heav'n a matchless race to fway,
In arms victorious, as in arts renown'd!
Give way ye wonders of an ancient date!
Enough have liv'd old Creffy and Poitiers;
Henry and Edward long have fhone in state,
And Alfred's name fubdu'd a waste of years.
These once o'er Europe spread their glories wide-
But now new worlds our Monarch's fceptre own,
And tho' the deep his distant realms divide,
In ev'ry 'fubject's heart is fix'd his throne.
Happy this* Tract of rich productive soil
(No more the dwelling of a favage race)
Where golden harvefts crown the peafant's toil,
And cheerful plenty gladdens ev'ry face.
But happier ftill, if war's fad scenes were o'er,
And widows ceas'd to mourn their husbands
When Peace shall spread her reign from shore to
And orphans for their fires no more complain.
Then might the Muses (fweet celeftial Maids!)
In this fair land vouchsafe to fix their feat;
Nor leaving Thefpia's ever-pleasing shades,
Would the harmonious Sifters then regret.
A city in Boeotia, at the foot of Parnaffus.
Much boots it us to court their facred lore,
To gen'rous deeds to animate the foul,
The fage inftruction o'er the mind to pour,
And all the giddy paffions to control;
To brand proud Folly, and bold Vice to shame,
To teach that Wealth is but a tranfient joy,
To fhew that Honour is the road to fame,
And Virtue is true blifs, without alloy.
Such are the maxims which the facred Nine
Delight to warble o'er the deathless lyre;
Such are the garlands they delight to twine;
Then hither hafte ye foul-exalting Choir-
N. B. The foregoing verfes feem to have undergone several corrections from the Author fince their firft publication; but the ftanzas that follow in the manufcript are too much unfinished to be added, without making alterations that would not be juftifiable.
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