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Arise, O Lord! and hear thy people's call!

Nor for one man let three great kingdoms fall! • O that my blood may glut the barbarous rage

Of Freedom's foes, and England's ills assuage ! « Grant but that prayer, I alk for no repeal, • A willing victim for my country's weal ! • With rapt'rous joy the crimson stream fhall flow, • And my heart leap to meet the friendly blow!

• But should the fiend, tho' drench'd with human gore, • Dire Bigotry, insatiate, thirst for more ; • And, arm'd from Rome, seek this devoted land; • Death in her eye, and bondage in her hand : • Blaft her fell purpose ! blaft her foul desires ! • Break short her sword, and quench her horrid fires!

• Raise up some champion, zealous to maintain • The sacred compact by whịch monarchs reign! • Wise to foresee all danger from afar, • And brave to meet the thunders of the war! • Let pure religion, not to forms confin'd, « And love of freedom, fill his generous mind! " Warm let his breaft with sparks celestial glow, • Benign to man, the tyrant's deadly foe! • While sinking nations reft upon

his

arm, • Do thou the great Deliverer field from harm! • Inspire his councils! aid his righteous sword ! • Till Albion rings with Liberty reftorid ! • Thence let her years in bright fuccefsion run! • And Freedom reign coeval with the sun !!

'Tis done, my Cavendish ; Heav'n has heard my pray'r : So speaks my heart, for all is rapture there.

To Belgia's coaft advert thy ravish'd eyes,
That happy coast whence all our hopes arise !
Behold the Prince, perhaps thy future king!
From whose green years matureft blessings spring ;
Whose youthful arm, when all-o’erwhelming power
Ruthless march'd forth his country to devour,

With firm-brac'd nerve repell’d the brutal force,
And stopp'd th'unweildy giant in his course.
Great William, hail ! who sceptres could defpife,
And spurn á crown with imretorted eyes!
O when will princes learn to copy thee,
And leave mankind, as Heaven ordain'd them, free!

Hafte, mighty chief! our injur'd rights reftore !
Quick spread thy fails for Albion's longing shore !
Haste, mighty chief! ere millions groan enslav'd;
And add three realms to one already fav'd!
While Freedom lives, thy memory shall be dear,
And reap fresh honours each returning year ;
Nations preserv'd fall yield immortal fame,
And endless ages blefs thy glorious name!

Then shall my Cavendish, foremoft in the field,
By justice arm’d, his sword conspicuous wield;
While willing legions croud around his car,
And rush impetuous to the righteous war.
On that great day be every chance defy'd,
And think thy Roffel combats by thy fide ;
Nor, crown'd with victory, cease thy generous toil,
Till firmeft peace secure this happy ille.

Ne’er let thine honest, open heart, believe
Professions fpecious, forg'd but to deceive ;
Fear may extart them, when resources fail,
But O! reject the baseless, flattering tale.
Think not that promises or oaths can bind,
With folemn ties, a Rome-devoted mind;
Which yields to all the holy juggler faith,
And deep imbibes the bloody, damning faith.
What tho' the bigot raise to heaven his eyes,
And call th' Almighty witness from the skies !
Soon as the wish'd occafion he explores,
To plant the Roman crofs on England's fhores,
All, all will vanish, while his priests applaud,
And saint the perjurer for the pious fraud !

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Far

Far let him Ay these freedom-breathing climes,
And seek proud Rome, the fofterer of his crimes ;
There let him trive to mount the Papal chair,
And (caster empty thunders in the air,
Grimly preside in fuperftition's school,
And carse those kingdoms he could never rule.

Here let me pause, and bid the world adieu,
While heaven's bright manfions open to my view !

Yet still one care, one tender care remains;
My bounteous friend, relieve a father's pains !
Watch o'er my fon, inform his waxen youth,
And mould his mind to virtue and to truth ;
Soon let him learn fạir liberty to prize,
And
envy

him who for his country dies;
In one short sentence to comprize the whole,
Transfuse to his the virtues of thy soul

Preserve thy life, my too, too generous friend,
Nor seek with mine thy happier fate to blend!
Live for thy country, live to guard her laws;
Proceed, and prosper, in the glorious cause ;
While I, tho' vanquish'd, scorn the field to dy,
But boldly face my foes, and bravely die !

Let princely Monmouth courtly wiles beware,
Nor trust too far to fond paternal care ;
Too oft dark deeds deform the midnight cell,
Heaven only knows how noble Effex fell!
Sidney yet lives, whose comprehensive mind
Ranges at large thro' fyftems unconfin'd;
Wrapt in himself, he scorns the tyrant's power,
And hurls defiance even from the Tower ;
With tranquil brow awaits th' unjust decree,
And, arm'd with virtue, looks to follow me.

Cavendish, farewel! May Fame our names entwine !
Thro' life I lov'd thee-dying, I am thine ;
With pious rites let duft to duft be thrown,
And thus inscribe my monumental tone:

• Here

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· Here RUSSEL lies, enfranchis'd by the grave!

He priz'd his birthright, nor would live a slave. • Few were his words, but honest and sincere, • Dear were his friends, his country till more dear; • In parents, children, wife, fupremely bless'd, • But that one passion fwallow'd all the rest ; • To guard her freedom was his only pride ; • Such was his love, and for that love he dy'd.

• Yet fear not thou, when Liberty displays
• Her glorious flag, to fteer his course to praise;
• For know, (whoe'er thou art that read's his fate,
• And think'st, perhaps, his sufferings were too great!)
• Bless'd as he was, at her imperial call,
• Wife, children, parents, he refign'd them all ;
• Each fond affection then forsook his foul,
. And Amor Patriæ occupied the whole ;
• In that great cause he joy'd to meet his doom,
• Bless’d the keen axe, and triumph'd o'er the tomb !

The hour draws near -But what are hours to me?
Hours, days, and years hencé undistinguish'd flee!
Time, and his glass, unheeded pass away,
Absorb'd and lost in one vast flood of day!
On Freedom's wings my foul is borne on high,
And soars exulting to it's native sky!

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THE WINTER'S WALK.

BY DR. JOHNSON.

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EHOLD, my fair, where'er we. rove,

What dreary prospects round us tife; The naked hill, the leaflefs grove,

The hoary ground, the frowning skies !

Nor

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DEAR SIR,

Dublin, July 5, 1744.
Y the lyre of Apollo, the locks of the muses,

And the pure lucid stream Aganippe produces,
My Ellis, I love thee, then pay me in kind,
Let the thought of a friend never flip from your mind ;

Z

So

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