 | Poems upon several occasions |  |
396
To the People of England;
A Detestation of Civil War,
From Horace's 7th Epod.
Oh! Whither do ye rush, and thus prepareTo rouse again the sleeping War?
Has then so little English Blood been spilt
On Sea and Land with equal Guilt?
Not that again; we might our Arms advance,
To check the insolent Pride of France.
Not that once more we might in Fetters bring
An humble Captive Gallick King?
But to the Wish of the insulting Gaul,
That we by our own Hands should fall.
Nor Wolves nor Lyons bear so fierce a Mind;
They hurt not their own Savage Kind:
397
Or Guilt, yet stronger, drives you on?
Answer; but none can answer; mute and pale
They stand; Guilt does o'er Words prevail:
'Tis so: Heav'ns Justice threatens us from high;
And a King's Death from Earth does cry;
E'er since the Martyr's innocent Blood was shed,
Upon our Fathers, and on Ours, and our Children's Head.
| Poems upon several occasions | |