University of Virginia Library

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111

VERSES, Occasioned by the Fifth of November.

Mourn, Rome! thy baffled Arts, thy conquer'd Arms,
For know! 'tis Heav'n thy impious Zeal disarms;
Learn by thy Fate, and oft-experienc'd Cost,
Our Temples still the true Palladium boast:
With Shame review that dire vindictive Day,
When hostile Nations plow'd the liquid Way;
With rebel Rage inspir'd, but ah! how vain
They brav'd the Cynthia of our British Main!
Wing'd with false Hopes, their floating Cities flew,
Like Sodom, doom'd to flaming Vengeance too:
Immortal Drake, the British Thunder drove,
Swift, as the Bolt, hot-hissing from above;

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Wide o'er the Main, the bright Infection flew,
And flying, with tempestuous Fury grew;
Reflecting Billows shot a gleamy Glare,
And boil'd, and flam'd, with Elemental War;
From the deep Cavern of his ouzy Bed,
Old Ocean's Sire emerg'd his azure Head;
Like scorching Xanthus, felt his Floods retire,
And roar'd in Anguish at the God of Fire:
But when he saw Britannia's Peace alarm'd,
And Heav'n, and Drake, with sacred Vengeance arm'd;
With billowing Storms he urg'd the Work of Fate,
And heav'd huge Mountains at the burning Fleet;
The burning Fleet deplore their impious Aim,
And dread the Thund'rer, now they feel his Flame;
With Shame, with Anguish, and with Guilt, expire,
Or sink in watry Floods, or Floods of Fire.

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But, as when once, the rebel Titans strove,
And fell sad Victims to a vengeful Jove;
Sprung from the Poison of their Hydra Gore,
A Race arose, as impious as before;
A Race, that durst usurp the bless'd Abodes,
Defy the Thund'rer, and dethrone the Gods:
So, from this base Defeat, with impious Rage,
New Titans dar'd our British Gods engage;

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114

Salmoneus like, with mimick Power they strove,
And madly arm'd the Thunder 'gainst its Jove.

And now the gloomy Wings of sable Night,
Embrown'd the silver Empire of the Night;

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115

Nor yet the choral Cock proclaim'd the Day,
But all in Silence, all in Horror lay;
No breathing Breeze the dreery Forest shakes,
And Heaven alone with watchful Treason wakes:
Repos'd, the meditated Martyr lay,
Nor slumb'ring dream'd himself a future Prey:
Well might he rest secure from mortal Fear,
Whose Happiness was Heaven's peculiar Care!

Lo! thro' the Gloom, a darting Lustre streams,
And, like a Comet, sheds its baleful Beams;
Like that, each baleful Beam malignant Springs,
Denouncing Fate to Empires, and to Kings:
For lo! black Treason lifts her Hydra Head,
Struck at her Monster-Form, she starts afraid,
Shrinks in the deepest Gloom, and seeks the darkest Shade!
But, ah! she turns—“O Britain see thy Doom—
“Awake! arise! 'tis Hell conspires! 'tis Rome!

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Thanks Heaven! thy Beams dispel the hideous Sprite,
She flies, she sinks, she seeks th' Abyss of the Night.
Sink Fury! to the deepest Hell of Pains,
There, curse thy Rage, in adamantine Chains!
But, hark! Britannia's rousing Lion roars,
And thunders Treason thro' her concave Shores;
But Heaven protects—ye Echoes! waft it round,
Ye repercussive Rocks! repeat the Sound.

Hence learn, O treach'rous Rome! repuls'd retire,
And only with Britannia's Peace, conspire;
Oft as thy Plots, and Stratagems engage,
As often shalt thou mourn thy baffled Rage;
For know, we dare thy poor intending Hate,
Whilst Walpole stands the Bulwark of our State:
Whilst his judicious Hands our Vessel guide,
Boldly we'll stem Old Time's tempestuous Tide;

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Led by that Star, the Storms of Fate defy,
And launch into immense Eternity.