Yet, heaven-inspired, he knew, beyond control
With strains sublime, to rouse the torpid soul,
Swell with proud hopes the heart, and, by his breath,
Kindle the love of fame, the scorn of death.
And shall the British Muse, 'midst war's alarms,
In silence rest, nor rouse her sons to arms?
Shall Britons yield an unresisting prey,
And own a base Usurper's foreign sway?
No-when ye march to guard your sea-girt shore,
"Return victorious, or return no more."

Greece, in her freedom's most propitious hour,
Wag'd impious wars, in quest of spoil, or power;
And Rome, through many an age, unjustly brave,
Fought to oppress, and conquer'd to enslave.
E'en the bright wreaths, our Edwards, Henries, claim,
Crown'd not the cause of Freedom, but of Fame;
While fond Ambition, with misguided zeal,
Sought England's glory more than England's weal,
But when, of old, to chase a foreign host,
The painted guardians of our Albion's coast,
O'er her white cliffs descending, from afar,
On Cæsar's legions pour'd the tide of war,
When scythed chariots swept th' ensanguin'd plain,
Then bards, enraptur'd, sung this patriot strain :
"Ye generous youths, who guard the British shore!
Return victorious! or return no more!"

Again Britannia sounds her just alarms;
Nor lures by Int'rest or Ambition's charms,
But prompts to deeds, which fairer trophies yield
Than grac'd e'en Agincourt's immortal field,
And bids you guard, in free and gallant strife,
All that adorns, improves, or sweetens life.
Your homes, by faithful love and friendship blest,
Each pledge of love, now smiling at the breast.
Your daughter's, fresh in bloom, mature in charms,
Doom'd (should he conquer) to the spoiler's arms;
Yoursons, who hear the Tyrant's threats with scorn,
The joys, the hopes, of ages yet unborn;

All, all, endear this just, this sacred cause,

Your Sov'reign's throne, your Freedom, Faith, and Laws,
Champions of Britain's cherish'd rights ye stand:

Protect, preserve, avenge your native land!
For lo! she cries, amidst the battle's roar,
"Return victorious, or-return no more!".
VOL. XLV.
3 N

From

FROM THE CRISIS, A POEM.

By the Rev. Mr. MAURICE.

BRITONS! the crisis of your fate draws near,
Exalt your standards, grasp th' avenging spear;

In radiant arms indissolubly join'd,

Be firm, and brave the pow'rs of earth combin'd.

But oh! Britannia, what immortal strain Shall paint thy triumphs on the boundless main ; Who sing the heroes that, from age to age, Thro' ev'ry clime have bid thy thunder rage;

From burning realms, where southern deeps resound," To where eternal frosts the pole surround!

Who shall thy Howard's deathless feats recite,

Thy fearless Drake's, invincible in fight?

Whose valour, with the storms of heav'n combin'd,
The proud armada to the depths consign'd!
To ardent glory's noblest fires awake,
What terrors could appal the soul of Blake?
When on the Belgic chief, that dared to sweep
With high-suspended broom, th' insulted deep;
Furious he rush'd, and tore, indignant, down
The barb'rous emblem of usurp'd renown:
Then, driving o'er the surge the routed foe,
Swept the proud vaunter to the gulphs below!

Far distant on the vast Atlantic main,
To check the ravages of hostile Spain,
Skilful as brave, along a dread-fraught coast,
Pocock to vict'ry leads a gallant host:
Condemn'd to perish on a barb'rous strand,
Pale round his vessels glides a spectred band;
And oft before his midnight couch they rise,
Flames in their hands, and lightning in their eyes;
Revenge, they shout, and tow'rds Havannah's spires
Wave their red arms, and point their hostile fires.

'Mid threat'ning rocks, and waves in mountains roll'd, Great Hawke, contending with the storm, behold! Nor rocks, nor roaring surge, nor madd'ning wind, From its firm centre, shake his stedfast mind; On Fate's tremendous verge, the line he forms, To France, more dreadful than a thousand storms;

Bids, through a night of clouds, the fleet advance,
And hostile fires illume the gay expanse.
In vain their broken line their Gauls oppose,
While, as the furious conflict fiercer glows,
The British cannon raising, tier o'er tier,
Flame on their van, and thunder on their rear.
Wild as the whirlwinds, that impetuous sweep
The raging surface of the troubled deep;
The Gallic vessels o'er the surge are toss'd,
Or swell the pomp of Britain's victor host!
'Twas then, from heav'n, the brilliant deed to crown,
Britannia's angel rush'd in lightning down;
From France her naval wreath for ever tore,
And stamp'd to dust, on Biscay's stormy shore !

If, urg'd by rage, and furious from despair,
Again her baffled fleets the ocean dare,
Terrific Neptune, on thy billowy field,
The lion Howe shall British vengeance wield;
Or Rodney, dreadful in her kindled ire,
Rain on those fleets a storm of liquid fire.
While far remote, in India's sultry sky,
Cornwallis bids her flag thiumphant fly;
And, by her Barrington resistless hurl'd,
Albion's deep thunder shakes the western world.

Sublimely thron'd on Vincent's rocky height,
Hark! Glory, from her shrine of circling light,
Loud hails her Jervis, on th' Iberian main,
Resistless bursting thro' the line of Spain !
Ardent to gain the wreath that Russel crown'd,
And brave Boscawen's vet'ran temples bound,
Reckless of storms, behold intrepid Hood,
Plough, with unwearied toil, the briny flood;
In all her ports the skulking foe he braves,
And burns to plunge him in the whelming waves.
Last, but not humblest, on the roll of fame,
With nerve of adamant, with soul of flame,
See fearless Duncan, ranging undismay'd,
Belgium's dire shore, with death and peril spread,
And rush, regardless of impending doom,
Where ev'ry billow yawns-a wat'ry tomb!
Tho' ruin hover in a thousand forms,
Resolv'd Batavia's marshall'd fleet he storms;
Tremendous on the foe his vengeance falls,
And thick around descend the rattling balls.
Retreat is vain; behind the breakers roar,
While Britain's wasteful t
ve before;
3 N2

The

Thy fearless Drake's, ir direful thirst of blood

AS

, all ages, feel the high alarms,
's call, impatient rush to arms;
meet a foe their souls disdain,

Is on shore, and sovereigns on the main!

tory rush on, ye dauntless bands,
e of Europe trembles in your hands!
for glory pant, for Britain burn,
the sheath the avenging blade return,
berty her trampled rights regain,
pice re-assume her ancient reign,
inquished Gaul in blood her crimes bemoan,
eaven's avenging arm repentant own;

the chains she forg'd for Europe, bound,
her vain rage, and prostrate bite the ground!

tons! the crisis of her fate draws near;
ince your standards, launch th' avenging spear,
diant arms indissolubly join'd,

ir firmness hath subdu'd the world combin'd!

LINES

7. of Scotland, who fell at the Battle of Flodden, by T. CAMPBELL, Esq. (unpublished.)

"TWAS he that rul'd his country's heart,
With more than royal sway;

But Scotland saw her James depart,
And sadden'd at his stay.

She heard his fate-she wept her grief—
That James her lov'd, her gallant chief,
Was gone for ever more:

But this she learnt, that, ere he fell,

(Oh Men! oh Patriots! mark it well) -
His fellow soldiers round his fall,
Enclos'd him like a living wall,

Mixing their kindred gore!
Nor was the day of Flodden done,
Till they were slaughter'd one by one;
And this may serve to shew :
When Kings are Patriots none will fly
When such a King was doom'd to die,
Oh who would death forego*?

3 N 3

ΕΡΙΤΑΡΗ,

gallant promise, made by our beloved monarch, that, in case of invasion,

be found, in the hour of danger, at the head of his troops, gave birth to e effusion.