But generous valour scorns a boasting word,
And conscious virtue reaps her own reward,
Yet conscious virtue bids thee now to speak,
Tho' guilty blushes kindle o'er your cheek :—
If wafting wars, and painful toil at length,
Had drain'd our veins, and wither'd all our strength,
How could'st thou, Cruel ! form the
vile design,
And round our necks the wreath of bondage twine !
And if some ling'ring spirit rouz'd to strife,
Bid ruffian murder drink the dregs of life :
Shall future ages e'er forget the deed ?
And shalln't for this imperious B-----n bleed
?
When comes the period Heav'n predestines must,
When Europe's glories shall be whelm'd in dust,
When our proud fleets the naval wreath shall wear,
And o'er her empires hurl the bolts of war,
Unnerv'd by fate, the boldest heart shall
fair,
And midst their guards, auxiliar Kings grow pale :
In vain shall B-----n lift her supplicant eye,
An alien'd offspring feels no filial tie,
Her tears in vain shall bathe the soldiers feet,
Remember, Ingrate ! B-st-n's
crimson'd street ;
Whole hecatombs of lives the deed shall pay,
And purge the murders of that guilty day.—
BUT why to future periods look so far,
What force e'er fac'd us,
that we fear'd to dare ?
Then