When scrutineers for private ends,
Against the vote declare their friends;
Or judge as you stand there alive,
That five is more than forty-five;
Look up, ye Britons! cease to sigh,
For your redemption draweth nigh.
When George shall condescend to hear
The modest suit, the humble prayer;
A prince, to purpled pride unknown!
No favourites disgrace the throne!
Look up, ye Britons! sigh no more,
For your redemption's at the door.
When time shall bring your wish about,
Or, seven-years lease, you sold, is out;
No future contract to fulfil;
Your tenants holding at your will;
Raise up your heads! your right demand! For your redemption's in your hand.
Then is your time to strike the blow, And let the slaves of Mammon know, Briton's true sons A BRIBE can scorn, And die as free as they were born. VIRTUE again shall take her seat, And your redemption stand compleat.
As Spring, now approaches with all his gay train, And scatters his beauties around the green plain, Come then, my dear charmer, all scruples remove, Accept of my passion, allow me to love.
Without the soft transports which love must inspire,
Without the sweet torment of fear and desire,
Our thoughts and ideas are never refin'd,
And nothing but winter can reign in the mind.
But love is the blossom, the spring of the soul,
The frosts of our judgments may check, not controul,
In spite of each hindrance, the spring will return,
And nature with transports refining will burn.
This passion celestial, by Heav'n was design'd,
The only fix'd means of improving the mind,
When it beams on the senses, they quickly display,
How great and prolific, how pleasing the ray.
Then come, my dear charmer, since love is a flame,
Which polishes nature, and angels your frame,
Permit the soft passion to rise in your breast,
I leave your good nature to grant me the rest.
Shall the beautiful flow'rets all blossom around,
Shall Flora's gay mantle, enamel the ground,
Shall the red blushing blossom be seen on the tree,
Without the least pleasure or rapture for me?
And yet, if my charmer should frown when I sing,
Ah! what are the beauties, the glories of spring!
The flowers will be faded, all happiness fly,
And clouds veil the azure of every bright sky.
This and the following Poems are reprinted from the Supplement to Chatterton's Miscellanies.
I have received both your favours - The Muse alone must tell my joy.
O'ERWHELM'D with pleasure at the joyful news,
I strung the chorded shell, and woke the Muse.
Begin, O Servant of the Sacred Nine!
And echo joy through ev'ry nervous line:
Bring down th' etherial Choir to aid the Song;
Let boundless raptures smoothly glide along.
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