POETRY. 399
Ev'ry breaft which feels thy flame
Shall kindle into martial fame,
- Till fhame (hall make the coward bold.
And Indolence her arms unfold :
Ev'n A'varice fhall protedt his hoard,
And the plough-fhare gleam a fword.
Goddefs, all thy powers diffufe ! And thou, genuine British Muse, Nurs'd amidft the Druids old Where De'va's wizard waters roll'd. Thou, that bear'ft the golden key To unlock Eternity, Summon thy poetic guard Britain ftill has many a bard Whom, when Time and Death fhall join T' expand the ore, and ftamp the coin, Late pofterity (hall own
Lineal to the Mufe's throne
Bid them leave th' inglorious theme
Of fabled fliade, or haunted ilream.
In the daify-painted mead
'Tis to Peace we tune the reed ;
But when fVar^s tremendous roar
Shakes the ifle from fhore to Ihore,
Every bard of purer fire
Tyrf^us-l'ike fhould grafp the lyrej
Wake with verfe the hardy deed.
Or in the generous ftrife like f Sidney bleed.
f Sir Philip Sidney, mortally wounded in an aflion near Zutphen, in Geldtrland.
O^g
