O DE,

WRITTEN IN THE YEAR M DCC XLVI.

How sleep the brave, who sink to rest,

By all their country's wishes blest!
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallow'd mold,
She there shall dress a sweeter sod,

Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.

By Fairy hands their knell is rung,

By forms unseen their dirge is sung:
There Honour comes, a pilgrim grey,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay,
And Freedom shall awhile repair,

To dwell a weeping hermit there!

Oft with thy Bosom bare art found, Pleading for him the Youth who sinks to

to Growno:

Gentlest of sky-born forms, and best ador'd:

Who oft, with songs, divine to hear,

Win'st from his fatal grasp the

spear,

And hid'st in wreaths of flowers his bloodless sword!

Thou who, amidst the deathful field,

By godlike chiefs alone beheld,

Oft with thy bosom bare art found,

Pleading for him, the youth who sinks to ground:

See, Mercy, see! with pure and loaded hands,

Before thy shrine my country's Genius stands, And decks thy altar still, tho' pierc'd with many a

wound!

E

ANTISTROPHE.

When he whom even our joys provoke,

The Fiend of Nature join'd his yoke,

And rush'd in wrath to make our isle his prey;

Thy form, from out thy sweet abode,

O'ertook him on his blasted road,

And stopp'd his wheels, and look'd his rage away.

I see recoil his sable steeds,

That bore him swift to savage deeds,

Thy tender melting eyes they own;

O Maid! for all thy love to Britain shown,

Where Justice bars her iron tower,

To thee we build a roseate bower,

Thou, thou, shalt rule our queen, and share our

monarch's throne!