III.

Behold th' immeafurable train of care,

Exil'd, like thee, to our BRITANNIA Come! She, their fure refuge in the last despair,

The child of Sorrow's univerfal home.

Her Peasants with her Princes vie

Who shall softeft balms supply:

These their Palaces beftow

And fcepter'd Grief forgets its woe,

Those uplift the lowly latch,

And beckon Sorrow to their thatch.

Friend to the Wretched! ALBION's equal eye Warms, like the Sun, ALL human misery.

But, favour'd Stranger! would't thou know

yet more

Her temper-see her in the grace of Power:

Oh! if, by fome reverse of fudden fate,

Conqueft again fhould on her Banners wait,
And her now exulting Foe

: Yield to all-fubduing woe,

And in the hour of need her aid explore,

From vict'ry fallen to distress,

The Lion rage of ALBION would be o'er,

Prompt to pardon and to bless,

Her mighty heart, would by the warmth of love,

Melt to the foftness of the mated dove.

V.

Ye fragments of each plunder'd coaft!

Check the Mufe, if here the boast.

No, ye fad Band! who midft your ruins smile;

Ye own, for ye have felt, the Genius of our Ifle :

ALBION fuccours all who figh,

Such is ber EQUALITY.

Sure,

VI.

Sure, Pity's angel at her birth,
Breath'd bounty in her foul to temper Power,
And bade her be, in deep Misfortune's hour,"
Th' afylum of the fuffering Earth.

VII.

Say ye, who with her spirit proudly glow, Her native fons-fay, have ye in her laws, Ye who have dar'd to hope for Heaven below, Found as her earthly mark fome venial flaws? Nobly reform them-but, with filial hand, Devote yourselves to fave a generous Land. Who, in an hour like this, but would his force impart

His arm, his blood-to guard a parent's heart? Say ye, who now defended by her Laws,

Ye Strangers in her gate, would ye not rife,

As her adopted Sons, to aid her Caufe,
And, dying, triumph in the facrifice?

Yes! ye have feen the wretch, howe'er
opprefs'd,

To her fhelt ring bofom fly,

As if it were their tender mother's breaft,
And there as in a cradle lye.

VIII.

And fhall thofe whom she has bred,
Nurs'd in her arms, and at her bofom fed,
Shall her own Sons, whom firft fhe taught
to know

The awful Rights e'en of that Alien's woe,
And all the facred truths which lye.

In the rich code of Hofpitality;

Shall they, forgetful of the precepts giv'n,

Call down the "THANKLESS CHILD'S" dread

curfe from Heav'n?

Ah!

Ah! no! To fave her from a threaten'd wound,

What hofts have perifh'd on the reeking

ground!

Nor fhall th' embattled Thousands that remain, Inactive view this crifis of their fate:

Her Patriots, with a manly pride,

All little quarrels thrown afide,

All petty ftrife for place or power,

The contefts of an idle hour,

Shall, with one foul, unanimoufly great,

By wisdom and heroic deeds, embalm their Breth'ren flain!

IX.

Nor ye, her Patriots, doubt BRITANNIA'S

care:

Northink the will, with fatal rashness, DARE
To wafte the treasure of her Children's

blood :

Alas already has the crimson flood,

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