By treach'ry prompts the noify hound
To scent his footsteps on the ground?
Thou trait'refs vile! for this thy blood
Shall glut my rage, and dye the wood!
So faying, on the lamb he flies
Beneath his jaws the victim dies.
WRITTEN IN THE YEAR M DCC XLVI.
OURN, haplefs Caledonia, mourn
Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn!
Thy fons, for valour long renown'd,
Lie flaughter'd on their native ground;
Thy hofpitable roofs no more
Invite the ftranger to the door;
In fmoaky ruins funk they lie,
The monuments of cruelty.
The wretched owner fees, afar,
His all become the prey of war';
Bethinks him of his babes and wife,
Then fmites his breaft, and curfes life.
Thy fwains are famish'd on the rocks,
Where once they fed their wanton flocks :
Thy ravish'd virgins fhriek in vain ;
Thy infants perish on the plain.
What boots it, then, in ev'ry clime,
Thro' the wide-fpreading waste of time,
Thy martial glory, crown'd with praise,
Still fhone with undiminish'd blaze;
Thy tow'ring spirit now is broke,
Thy neck is bended to the yoke :
What foreign arms could never quell,
By civil
rage, and rancour fell.
The rural pipe and merry lay
No more fhall chear the happy day:
No focial scenes of gay delight
Beguile the dreary winter night:
No ftrains, but thofe of forrow, flow,
And nought be heard but sounds of woe,
While the pale phantoms of the slain
Glide nightly o'er the filent plain.
Oh baneful caufe, oh fatal morn,
Accurs'd to ages yet unborn!
The fons against their fathers ftood;
The parent fhed his children's blood.
Yet, when the rage of battle ceas'd,
The victor's foul was not appeas'd:
The naked and forlorn must feel
Devouring flames, and murd'ring fteel!
The pious mother doom'd to death,
Forfaken, wanders o'er the heath,
The bleak wind whistles round her head,
Her helpless orphans cry for bread.
Bereft of shelter, food, and friend,
She views the fhades of night defcend,
And, ftretch'd beneath th' inclement fkies,
Weeps o'er her tender babes, and dies.
Whilft the warm blood bedews my veins,
And unimpair'd remembrance reigns;
Refentment of my country's fate
Within my filial breaft fhall beat;
And, fpite of her insulting foe,!
My fympathizing verse shall flow,
"Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn
"Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn!”
BEFORE HIS INVASION OF BRITAIN.
HEN rough Helvetia's hardy fons obey,
And vanquish'd Belgia bows to Cæfar's fway; When, fcarce-beheld, embattled nations fall, The fierce Sicambrian, and the faithlefs Gaul; Tir'd Freedom leads her favage fons no more, But flies, fubdu'd, to Albion's utmost shore.
'Twas then, while ftillness grasp'd the fleeping air, And dewy flumbers feal'd the eye of care;
Divine AMBITION to her votary came :
Her left hand waving, bore the trump of fame;
Her right a regal scepter feem'd to hold,
With gems far-blazing from the burnish'd gold.
And thus, "My Son," the Queen of Glory said;
"Immortal Cæfar, raise thy languid head.
"Shall Night's dull chains the man of counfels bind?
"Or MORPHEUS rule the monarch of mankind?
"See worlds unvanquish'd yet await thy fword!
"Barbaric lands, that scorn a Latian lord!
« See yon proud isle, whose mountains meet the sky, "Thy foes encourage, and thy power defy!
What, tho' by Nature's firmeft bars fecur'd, "By feas encircled, and with rocks immur'd, "Shall Cæfar fhrink the greatest toils to brave, "Scale the high rock, or beat the maddening wave ?"
She spoke her words the warrior's breaft inflame
With rage indignant, and with confcious fhame;
Already beat, the fwelling floods give way,
And the fell genii of the rocks obey.
Already fhou.s of triumph rend the fkies,
And the thin rear of barbarous nations flies.
Quick round their chief his active legions ftand,
Dwell on his eye, and wait the waving hand.
The Hero rofe, majeftically flow,
And look'd attention to the crowds below.
ROMANS and Friends! is there who seeks for rest,
By labours vanquish'd, and with wounds oppreft;
That refpite Cæfar fhall with pleasure yield,
Due to the toils of many a well-fought field.
Is there who fhrinks at thought of dangers past,
The ragged mountain, or the pathlefs wafte-
While favage hofts, or favage floods oppofe,
Or fhivering fancy pines in Alpine fnows?
Let him retire to Latium's peaceful fhore ;
He once has toil'd, and Cæfar asks no more.
Is there a Roman, whofe unshaken breast
No pains have conquer'd, and no fears depreft?
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