 | Elvira |  |
PROLOGUE.
War
is no more: those thunders cease to rowl,
That lately shook the globe from pole to pole;
When Britain sought and triumph'd o'er her foe,
Wherever winds can waft or waters flow.
She, and she only could, bade discord cease,
And, having humbled, gave the nations peace.
May its wish'd influence, thro' this favor'd Isle,
On every brow, in every bosom, smile!
'Twas union made her Queen of land and main:
'Tis that alone her triumphs can maintain;
Improve those blessings, arts will now adorn,
And send them safe to Britons yet unborn.
That lately shook the globe from pole to pole;
When Britain sought and triumph'd o'er her foe,
Wherever winds can waft or waters flow.
She, and she only could, bade discord cease,
And, having humbled, gave the nations peace.
May its wish'd influence, thro' this favor'd Isle,
On every brow, in every bosom, smile!
'Twas union made her Queen of land and main:
'Tis that alone her triumphs can maintain;
Improve those blessings, arts will now adorn,
And send them safe to Britons yet unborn.
O might no other strife your hearts divide,
Than how a culprit-author should be try'd;
Ours, whom no mean, no partial interest moves,
Would be the victim of that peace he loves.
Yet, why this fear? Good nature is your boast:
And, who most want it, ever feel it most.
Abroad, you knew to conquer and to spare:
And, as your cause, your conduct too was fair.
Then, what you gave so nobly to the foe,
At home, and to a friend, you sure will show.
Than how a culprit-author should be try'd;
Ours, whom no mean, no partial interest moves,
Would be the victim of that peace he loves.
Yet, why this fear? Good nature is your boast:
And, who most want it, ever feel it most.
Abroad, you knew to conquer and to spare:
And, as your cause, your conduct too was fair.
Then, what you gave so nobly to the foe,
At home, and to a friend, you sure will show.
His scenes, to night, no feign'd adventure bring:
If tears shall flow, from real ills they spring.
What Lisbon trembling saw and truly mourn'd;
What her first Muse in epic strains adorn'd;
What Paris next bedew'd with copious tears,
Now, to the Sons of Britain, late appears.
To you, wherever Truth and nature reign,
And Terror shakes, and Pity melts the strain;
Wherever these declare the genuine bard,
Your warm applauses are his sure reward:
Then, while such Judges strike our author's view,
His fears are from himself, and not from you.
If tears shall flow, from real ills they spring.
What her first Muse in epic strains adorn'd;
What Paris next bedew'd with copious tears,
Now, to the Sons of Britain, late appears.
To you, wherever Truth and nature reign,
And Terror shakes, and Pity melts the strain;
Wherever these declare the genuine bard,
Your warm applauses are his sure reward:
Then, while such Judges strike our author's view,
His fears are from himself, and not from you.
| Elvira | |