And trembles lest the tottering wall Should on her sleeping infants fall. Now let us louder strike the lyre, For my heart glows with martial fire,-- I feel, I feel, with sudden heat, My big tumultuous bosom beat; The trumpet's clangours pierce my ear, A thousand widows' shrieks I hear, Give me another horse, I cry, Lo! the base Gallic squadrons fly; Whence is this rage?--what spirit, say, To battle hurries me away? 'Tis Fancy, in her fiery car, Transports me to the thickest war, There whirls me o'er the hills of slain, Where Tumult and Destruction reign; Where, mad with pain, the wounded steed Tramples the dying and the dead; Where giant Terror stalks around, With sullen joy surveys the ground, And, pointing to the ensanguined field, Shakes his dreadful gorgon shield! Oh, guide me from this horrid scene, To high-arched walks and alleys green, Which lovely Laura seeks, to shun The fervours of the mid-day sun; The pangs of absence, oh, remove! For thou canst place me near my love, Canst fold in visionary bliss, And let me think I steal a kiss, While her ruby lips dispense Luscious nectar's quintessence! When young-eyed Spring profusely throws From her green lap the pink and rose, When the soft turtle of the dale To Summer tells her tender tale; When Autumn cooling caverns seeks, And stains with wine his jolly cheeks; When Winter, like poor pilgrim old, Shakes his silver beard with cold; At every season let my ear Thy solemn whispers, Fancy, hear. O warm, enthusiastic maid, Without thy powerful, vital aid, That breathes an energy divine, That gives a soul to every line, Ne'er may I strive with lips profane To utter an unhallowed strain, Nor dare to touch the sacred string, Save when with smiles thou bidst me sing. Oh, hear our prayer! oh, hither come From thy lamented Shakspeare's tomb, On which thou lovest to sit at eve, Musing o'er thy darling's grave; O queen of numbers, once again Animate some chosen swain, Who, filled with unexhausted fire, May boldly smite the sounding lyre, Who with some new unequalled song May rise above the rhyming throng, O'er all our listening passions reign, O'erwhelm our souls with joy and pain, With terror shake, and pity move, Rouse with revenge, or melt with love; Oh, deign to attend his evening walk, With him in groves and grottoes talk; Teach him to scorn with frigid art Feebly to touch the enraptured heart; Like lightning, let his mighty verse The bosom's inmost foldings pierce; With native beauties win applause Beyond cold critics' studied laws; Oh, let each Muse's fame increase! Oh, bid Britannia rival Greece! MISCELLANEOUS. SONG. FROM 'THE SHAMROCK, OR HIBERNIAN CROSSES.' DUBLIN, 1772. 1 Belinda's sparkling eyes and wit Do various passions raise; And, like the lightning, yield a bright, But momentary blaze. 2 Eliza's milder, gentler sway, Her conquests fairly won, Shall last till life and time decay, Eternal as the sun.