The firſt fair lot which earth affords, is his;
And if he falls, he falls above a throne.
When ſuch their leader, can the brave deſpair?
Freedom the cauſe, and Paoli the chief!
Succeſs to your fair hopes! a Britiſh Muſe,
Tho' weak and powerleſs, lifts her fervent voice,
And breathes a prayer for your ſucceſs. Oh could
She ſcatter bleſſings as the morn ſheds dews,
To drop upon your heads! but patient hope
Muſt wait th' appointed hour; ſecure of this,
That never with the indolent and weak
Will freedom deign to dwell; me mull be ſeiz'd
By that bold arm that wreſtles for the bleſſing:
'Tis heaven's beſt gift, and muſt be bought with blood.
When the ſtorm thickens, when the combat burns,
And pain and death in every horrid ſhape
That can appall the feeble, prowl around,
Then virtue triumphs; then her tow'ring form
