Whence this unwonted transport in my breast? Why glow my thoughts, and whither would the Muse Aspire with rapid wing? Her country's cause Demands her efforts: at that sacred call She summons all her ardour, throws aside The trembling lyre, and with the warrior's trump She means to thunder in each British ear; And if one spark of honour or of fame, Disdain of insult, dread of infamy, One thought of public virtue yet survive, 10 She means to wake it, rouse the generous flame, With patriot zeal inspirit every breast, And fire each British heart with British wrongs. Alas, the vain attempt! what influence now Can the Muse boast! or what attention now Is paid to fame or virtue? Where is now The British spirit, generous, warm, and brave, So frequent wont from tyranny and woe To free the suppliant nations? Where, indeed! If that protection, once to strangers given, 20 Be now withheld from sons? Each nobler thought, That warrn'd our sires, is lost and buried now In luxury and avarice. Baneful vice! How it unmans a nation! yet I'll try, I'll aim to shake this vile degenerate sloth; I'll dare to rouse Britannia's dreaming sons To fame, to virtue, and impart around A generous feeling of compatriot woes. Come, then, the various powers of forceful speech, All that can move, awaken, fire, transport! 30 Come the bold ardour of the Theban bard! The arousing thunder of the patriot Greek! The soft persuasion of the Roman sage! Come all! and raise me to an equal height, A rapture worthy of my glorious cause! Lest my best efforts, failing, should debase The sacred theme; for with no common wing The Muse attempts to soar. Yet what need these? My country's fame, my free-born British heart, Shall be my best inspirers, raise my flight 40 High as the Theban's pinion, and with more Than Greek or Roman flame exalt my soul. Oh! could I give the vast ideas birth Expressive of the thoughts that flame within, No more should lazy Luxury detain Our ardent youth; no more should Britain's sons Sit tamely passive by, and careless hear The prayers, sighs, groans, (immortal infamy!) Of fellow Britons, with oppression sunk, In bitterness of soul demanding aid, 50 Calling on Britain, their dear native land, The land of Liberty; so greatly famed For just redress; the land so often dyed With her best blood, for that arousing cause, The freedom of her sons; those sons that now Far from the manly blessings of her sway, Drag the vile fetters of a Spanish lord. And dare they, dare the vanquish'd sons of Spain Enslave a Briton? Have they then forgot, So soon forgot, the great, the immortal day, 60 When rescued Sicily with joy beheld The swift-wing'd thunder of the British arm Disperse their navies? when their coward bands