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Stothard del.

Heath foulp

Plate IV.

Publifh'd as the Act directs, by Harrison & CMarch, 1,1781.

Page 303, line 5.


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

⚫ And Heaven, in battle, fhield 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 fofter mould, • What can to thee a wretch like me endear!

The fpring, the motive of thy love unfold;

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

⚫ Yet foft awhile-methinks that hoary brow,

That plaintive voice-Ah, bear with my diftrefs!

• Or much remembrance is effac'd, or now,

A tender father's tear-dew'd cheek I prefs!"


On knees of gratitude I bless the skies,

That Amabella to herself restore !


Ah, wherefore doft thou joy! thy daughter dies:

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Support me to yon couch-I can no more

I feel, I feel the pulfe of life retire!

Ah, deign to hear thy dying child reveal,

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'Lock'd in her breast, she dar'd so long conceal!..


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By thee unfanction'd, did I plight my love,
And, all to thee unknown, a bride became.'


• Harmodius will to both a father prove.'


To him thy pardon thou canft ne'er proclaim!

Three fleeting hours had fcarcely call'd me bride, • When he was fummon'd to the martial plain; • And there-forgive these tears-in beauty's pride, • The much-lamented valiant youth was flain.

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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 fhe 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 tranfport in my breast?

Why glow my thoughts, and whither would the Mufe

Afpire with rapid wing? Her country's caufe

Demands her efforts; at that facred call

She fummons all her ardour, throws afide


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,
Difdain of infult, dread of infamy,

One thought of publick virtue yet furvive,
She means to wake it, rouze the gen'rous flame,
With patriot zeal infpirit ev'ry breast,

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 fuppliant nations? Where, indeed!
If that protection, 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 try,
I'll aim to shake this vile degen'rate floth;
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 fpeeches? All that can move, awaken, fire, tranfport; Come, the bold ardour of the Theban bard! Th' arouzing thunder of the patriot Greek! The soft perfuafion of the Roman fage! Come, all! and raife me to an equal height, A rapture worthy of my glorious caufe! Left my best efforts failing, fhould debafe

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 beft infpirers, raife my flight
High as the Theban's pinion, and with more



Than Greek or Roman flame, exalt my foul.
Oh! could I give the vaft ideas birth,
Expreffive of the thoughts that flame within,
No more fhould lazy Luxury detain

Our ardent youth! no more should Britain's fons
Sit tamely paffive by, and careless hear

The prayers, fighs, groans, (immortal infamy!)
Of fellow Britons, with oppreffion funk,
In bitterness of foul demanding aid,
Calling on Britain, their dear native land,
The land of liberty; fo greatly fam'd
For juft redrefs; the land so often dy'd
With her beft blood, for that arouzing caufe,
The freedom of her fons; thofe fons that now,
Far from the manly bleffings of her fway,
Drag the vile fetters of a Spanish lord!

And dare they, dare the vanquish'd fons of Spain
Enslave a Briton? Have they then forgot,

So foon forgot, the great, th
immortal day,
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 Jove,
From fwift impending vengeance fled in vain:
Are thefe our lords! And can Britannia fee
Her foes oft vanquifh'd, thus defy her pow'r,
Infult her standard, and inflave her fons,
And not arise to justice? Did our fires,
Unaw'd by chains, by exile, or by death,
Preferve inviolate her guardian rights,
To Britons ever facred! that their fons

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Might give them up to Spaniards! Turn your eyes,
Turn ye degen'rate, who with haughty boast
Call yourselves Britons, to that difmal gloom,
That dungeon dark and deep, where never thought
Of joy or peace can enter; fee the gates


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