WHEN Britain first, at Heaven's command,
Arose from out the azure main,
This was the charter of the land,
And guardian angels sung this strain;
"Rule, Britannia! rule the waves; "Britons never will be slaves."
The nations, not so blest as thee, Muft, in their turns, to tyrants fall; While thou shalt flourish great and free, The dread and envy of them all. " Rule," &c.
Still more majestic shalt thou rife, More dreadful from each foreign stroke: As the loud blast that tears the skies,
Serves but to root thy native oak.
Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame: All their attempts to bend thee down, Will but arouse thy generous flame, But work their woe, and thy renown. " Rule," &c.
To thee belongs the rural reign; Thy cities shall with commerce shine: All thine shall be the subject main,
And every shore its circles thine.
The Muses, still with Freedom found,
Shall to thy happy coast repair :
Blest Isle! with matchless beauty crown'd,
And manly hearts to guard the fair.
"Rule, Britannia! rule the waves; "Britons never will be slaves."
ONE day the God of fond defire,
On mischief bent, to Damon said,
Why not difclose your tender fire, Not own it to the lovely maid?
The shepherd mark'd his treach'rous art, And, foftly fighing, thus reply'd;
'Tis true, you have fubdu'd my heart,
But shall not triumph o'er my pride.
The slave in private only bears
Your bondage who his love conceals; But when his passion he declares, You drag him at your chariot-wheels.
HARD is the fate of him who loves, Yet dares not tell his trembling pain, But to the sympathetic groves, But to the lonely listening plain.
Oh! when the blesses next your shade, Oh! when her footsteps next are seen In flowery tracts along the mead, In fresher mazes o'er the green, Ye gentle Spirits of the vale! To whom the tears of love are dear, From dying lilies waft a gale, And figh my forrows in her ear. O tell her what the cannot blame, Tho' fear my tongue must ever bind; Oh! tell her that my virtuous flame Is as her spotless soul refin'd, Not her own guardian angel eyes With chafter tenderness his care, Not purer her own wishes rise, Not holier her own fighs in prayer. But if, at first, her virgin fear Should start at Love's suspected name, With that of Friendship footh her ear- True love and friendship are the fame.
UNLESS with my Amanda blest, In vain I twine the woodbine bower; Unless to deck her sweeter breast, In vain I rear the breathing flower:
Awaken'd by the genial year, In vain the birds around me sing; In vain the freshening fields appear: Without my love there is no spring. SONG.
For ever, Fortune! wilt thou prove An unrelenting foe to love,
And when we meet a mutual heart, Come in between, and bid us part? Bid us figh on from day to day, And wish, and wish the foul away, Till youth and genial years are flown, And all the life of life is gone? But bufy, busy still art thou, To bind the loveless joyless vow, The heart from pleasure to delude,
To join the gentle to the rude.
For once, O Fortune! hear my prayer,
And I absolve thy future care;
All other bleffings I resign,
Make but the dear Amanda mine.
COME, gentle God of foft defire! Come and possess my happy breaft, Not fury-like in flames and fire, Or frantic folly's wildness dreft;
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