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Where Viriatus[1] proudly trampled o'er
Fasces and Roman eagles steept in gore;
Or where he fell, with honest laurels crown'd,
The awful victim of a treacherous wound;
A wound still bathed in Honour's generous tear,
While Freedom's wounds the brave and good revere;
Still pouring fresh th' inexpiable stain
O'er Rome's patrician honour false and vain!
Or should the pride of bold revolt inspire,
And touch his bosom with unhallowed fire;
If merit spurn'd demand stern sacrifice,
O'er Ev'ra's[2] fields let dread Sertorius rise.
Dyed in his country's blood, in all the pride
Of wrongs revenged, illustrious let him ride
Enshrined, o'er Spain, in Victory's dazzling rays,
'Till Rome looks pale beneath the mounting blaze.
But let the British wanderer thro' the dales
Of Ev'ra stray, while midnight tempest wails:
