What shame, alas! one little Isle Should dare its native laws maintain! At Gallia’s threats serenely smile, And, scorning her dread power, triumphant rule the main. For this have guiltless victims died In crowds at thy ensanguined shrine! For this has recreant Gallia’s pride O’erturned Religion’s Fanes, and braved the Wrath Divine! What Throne, what Altar, have we spared To spread thy power, thy joys impart? Ah! then, our faithful toils reward! And let each falchion pierce some loyal Briton’s heart. [THE FOLLOWING IS A TRANSLATION, BY DUNCOMBE, OF HORACE’S ODE TO FORTUNE, _Of which the above Ode is a parody_. O Goddess, whose propitious sway Thy Antium’s favourite sons obey; Whose voice from depth of woe recalls The wretch, and triumphs turns to funerals; From Thee, rich crops the needy swain Implores. Thee, sovereign of the main, The mariner invokes, who braves In a Bithynian bark the Cretan waves; Thee, Scythians, wandering far and near, And unrelenting Dacians, fear: The warlike sons of Italy; Cities, and realms, and empires, worship Thee. Mothers of barbarous monarchs dread, And purple tyrants, lest thou tread With spurning foot, and scatter round The sculptured column on th’ encumbered ground; And lest the fickle crowd should break Their bonds; and with loud clamours wake The peaceful to assert their right By force of arms, and quell usurping might. Ruthless necessity prepares The way for Thee; and ever bears Huge nails in her strong hands of brass The wedge, the hook, and lead’s hot molten mass. Thee Hope and white robed Faith, adore, So rarely found!—She, when no more Thou smil’st, attends the fallen great Stript of his gay attire and stately seat. But venal crowds and harlots fly: And, if the flowing casks are dry, When to the dregs the wine they drink, From friendship’s yoke the false associates shrink. Thy aid for Cæsar Rome implores, Conduct him safe to Britain’s shores, The limits of the world; and lead Our new-raised bands against the trembling Mede. Alas! we mourn our crimes, our scar And brethren slain in civil wars: How oft have Roman youth embrued Their savage hands in streams of social blood! What has this Iron Age not dared? What Gods revered? What Altars spared? O! point again the blunted steel, And let the Massagete our vengeance feel!—ED.]