ON THE GENERAL RISING OF THE FRENCH.
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Nor must the hind who tills thy soil
The ripened vintage stay to press,
Till Rapture crown the flowing bowl,
And Freedom boast of full success.
Briareus-like extend thy hands,
That every hand may crush a foe;
In millions pour thy generous bands,
And end a warfare by a blow!
Then wash with sad repentant tears
Each deed that clouds thy glory's page;
Each phrensied start impelled by fears,
Each transient burst of headlong rage:
Then fold in thy relenting arms
Thy wretched outcasts where they roam;
From pining want and war's alarms,
O call the child of misery home!
