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HARMODIUS. • Her roving thought no trace of reason bears :

• To her rack'd mind, O Heav'n! thy peace impart ! A loving parent bathes thy cheek with tears;

• Harmodius holds thee to his breaking heart !'


To thee, I grateful kneel, O generous seer !

• Who doft, to one unknown, thy care extend ! • Along thy path may Peace her olives rear,

• And Heaven, in battle, field thy dearest friend!


• For me, who droop beneath Misfortune's shower,

• I had a father-now, alas! a foe• Thoul't blush to hear-in forrow's darkest hour,

• He leaves his child abandon'd to her woe!


· But to thy heart, that's fram'd of softer mould,

• What can to thee a wretch like me endear! · The spring, the motive of thy love unfold ;

Say, fay, for me why flows that friendly tear!

• Yet soft awhile-methinks that hoary brow,

· That plaintive voice-Ah, bear with my distress! • Or much remembrance is effac'd, or now, • A tender father's tear-dew'd cheek I press!'

HARMODIUS. « On knees of gratitude I bless the skies, " That Amabella to herself restore !

AMABELLA. • Ah, wherefore doft thou joy! thy daughter dies :

Support me to yon couch I can no more

• I feel, I feel the pulse of life retire !

. Ah, deign to hear thy dying child reveal, • What, in rebellion to thy juft desire,'

• Lock'd in her breast, the dar'd so long conceal!


• By thee unsanction'd, did I plight my love,
• And, all to thee unknown, a bride becamę.".

• Harmodius will to both a father prove.'

AMABELLA. • To him thy pardon thou canst ne'er proclaim !

· Three fleeting hours had scarcely call'd me bride,

• When he was summon’d to the martial plain ; • And there-forgive these tears in beauty's pride,

• The much-lamented valiant youth was Nain.

• What tho' unworthy of thy care I prove,

To thy remembrance let thy child be dear ; · Thy kind compaffion let the daughter move,

• When this weak frame shall press th' untimely bier.'

More would she fay--her voice began to fail,

From her faint eye life's lingering spark retir'd; The ripening cherry on her lip grew pale,

She heav'd a figh-and in that figh expir'd.







HENCE this unwonted transport in my breast?

Why glow my thoughts, and whither would the Muse Aspire with rapid wing? Her country's cause Demands her efforts ; at that sacred call She summons all her ardour, throws aside


The trembling lyre, and with the warrior's trump
She means to thunder in each British ear;
And if one spark of honour or of fame,
Disdain of insult, dread of infamy,
One thought of publick virtue yet survive,
She means to wake it, róuže the gen’ronis flame,
With patriot zeal inspirit ev'ry breaft,
And fire each British heart with British wrongs!

Alas, the vain attempt ! what influence now
Can the Muse boast or what attention now
is paid to fame or virtue? Where is now

The British spirit, generous, warm and brave ;
So frequent wont from tyranny and woe
To free the suppliant nations ? Where, indeed!
If that protečtion, once to ftrangers giv’n,
Be now witheld from fons ! Each nobler thought
That warm'd our fires, is loft and buried now
In luxury and av'rice. Baneful vice!
How it unmans a nation! Yet I'll
I'll aim to shake this vile degen'rate foth ;
I'll dare to rouze Britannia's dreaming fons
To fame, to virtue, and impart around
A generous feeling of compatriot woes.

Come, then, the various powers of forceful speechl is
All that can move, awaken, fire, transport;
Come, the bold ardour of the Theban bard !
Th'arouzing thunder of the patriot Greek !
The soft persuasion of the Roman sage!
Come, all! and raise me to an equal height,
A rapture worthy of my glorious cause !
Left my best efforts failing, hould debase
The facred theme; for with no common wing
The Muse attempts to foar. Yet, what need these?
My country's fame, my free-born British heart,
Shall be my best inspirers, raise my flight
High as the. Theban's pinion, and with more



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Than Greek or Roman fame, exalt


Oh! could I give the vast ideas birth,
Expressive of the thoughts that Aame within,
No more should lazy Luxury detain
Our ardent youth! no more should Britain's sons
Sit tamely paffive by, and careless hear
The prayers, fighs, groans, (immortal infamy!)
Of fellow Britons, with oppression funk,
In bitterness of foal demanding aid,
Calling on Britain, their dear native land,
The land of liberty; so greatly fam'd
For just redress; the land so often dy'd
With her best blood, for that arouzing cause,
The freedom of her fons ; those sons that now,
Far from the manly blessings of her sway,
Drag the vile fetters of a Spanish lord!
And dare they, dare the vanquish'd sons of Spain
Enslave a Briton ? Have they then forgot,
So foon forgot, the great, th' immortal đay,
When refcu'd Sicily with joy beheld
The swift-wing'd thunder of the British arm
Disperse their navies ? When their coward bands
Fled, like the raven from the bird of Jové,
From swift impending vengeance fled in vain :
Are these our lords! And can Britannia see
Her foes oft vanquifh'd, thus defy her pow'r,
Insult her standard, and inslave her fons,
And not arise to justice ? Did our sites,
Unaw'd by chains, by exile, or by death,
Preserve inviolate her guardian rights,
To Britons ever sacred! that their fons
Might give them up to Spaniards! Turn your eyes,
Turn ye degen'rate, who with haughty boast
Call yourselves Britons, to that dismal gloom,
That dungeon dark and deep, where never thought
Of joy or peace can enter ; see the gates


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