AT length revolving fates th' expected year Advance, and joy the live-long day shall cheer, Beneath the fost'ring law's auspicious dawn New harvests rife to glad th' enliven'd (_g_) lawn. With the bright prospect blest, the swains repair In social bands, and give a loose to care. Rash councils now, with each malignant plan, Each faction, that in evil hour began, At your approach are in confusion fled, Nor, while you rule, shall rear their dastard head. Alike the master and the slave shall fee Their neck reliev'd, the yoke unbound by thee. Ere now our guiltless isle, her wretched fate Had wept, and groan'd beneath th' oppressive weight Of Cruel woes; save thy victorious hand, Long fam'd in war, from Gallia's hostile land; And wreaths of fresh renown, with generous zeal, Had freely turn'd, to prop our sinking weal. Form'd as thou art, to serve _Britannia's_ crown, While _Scotia_ claims thee for her darling son; Oh! best of heroes, ablest to sustain A falling people, and relax their chain. Long as this isle shall grace the Western deep, From age to age, thy fame shall never sleep. Thee, her dread victor _Guadaloupe_ shall own, Crusht by thy arm, her slaughter'd chiefs bemoan; View their proud tents all level'd in the dust, And, while she grieves, confess the cause was just. The golden _Iris_ the sad scene will share, Will mourn her banners scattered in the air; Lament her vanquisht troops with many a sigh, Nor less to see her towns in ruin lie. Fav'rite of _Mars!_ believe, th' attempt were vain, It is not mine to try the arduous strain. What! shall an _AEthiop_ touch the martial string, Of battles, leaders, great achievements sing? Ah no! _Minerva_, with th' indignant _Nine_, Restrain him, and forbid the bold design. To a _Buchanan_ does the theme belong; A theme, that well deserves _Buchanan's_ song, 'Tis he, should swell the din of war's alarms, Record thee great in council, as in arms; Recite each conquest by thy valour won, And equal thee to great _Peleides'_ son. That bard, his country's ornament and pride, Who e'en with _Maro_ might the bays divide: Far worthier he, thy glories to rehearse, And paint thy deeds in his immortal verse. We live, alas! where the bright god of day, Full from the zenith whirls his torrid ray: Beneath the rage of his consuming fires, All fancy melts, all eloquence expires. Yet may you deign accept this humble song, Tho' wrapt in gloom, and from a faltering tongue; Tho' dark the stream on which the tribute flows, Not from the _skin_, but from the _heart_ it rose. To all of human kind, benignant heaven (Since nought forbids) one common soul has given. This rule was 'stablish'd by th' Eternal Mind; Nor virtue's self, nor prudence are confin'd