Hence wasting ills, hence severing factions rose,
  And gave large entrance to invading foes: 
  Truth, justice, honour, fled th’ infected shore;
  For freedom, sacred freedom, was no more. 
  Then, greatly rising in his country’s right,
  Her hero, her deliverer sprung to light: 
  A race of hardy northern sons he led,
  Guiltless of courts, untainted and unread;
  Whose inborn spirit spurned the ignoble fee,
  Whose hands scorned bondage, for their hearts were free. 
  Ask ye what law their conquering cause confessed?—­
  Great Nature’s law, the law within the breast: 
  Formed by no art, and to no sect confined,
  But stamped by Heaven upon th’ unlettered mind. 
  Such, such of old, the first born natives were
  Who breathed the virtues of Britannia’s air,
  Their realm when mighty Caesar vainly sought,
  For mightier freedom against Caesar fought,
  And rudely drove the famed invader home,
  To tyrannize o’er polished—­venal Rome. 
  Our bard, exalted in a freeborn flame,
  To every nation would transfer this claim: 
  He to no state, no climate, bounds his page,
  But bids the moral beam through every age. 
  Then be your judgment generous as his plan;
  Ye sons of freedom! save the friend of man.

  From CONRADE, A FRAGMENT

  What do I love—­what is it that mine eyes
  Turn round in search of—­that my soul longs after,
  But cannot quench her thirst?—­’Tis Beauty, Phelin! 
  I see it wide beneath the arch of heaven,
  When the stars peep upon their evening hour,
  And the moon rises on the eastern wave,
  Housed in a cloud of gold!  I see it wide
  In earth’s autumnal taints of various landscape
  When the first ray of morning tips the trees,
  And fires the distant rock!  I hear its voice
  When thy hand sends the sound along the gale,
  Swept from the silver strings or on mine ear
  Drops the sweet sadness!  At my heart I feel
  Its potent grasp, I melt beneath the touch,
  When the tale pours upon my sense humane
  The woes of other times!  What art thou, Beauty? 
  Thou art not colour, fancy, sound, nor form—­
  These but the conduits are, whence the soul quaffs
  The liquor of its heaven.  Whate’er thou art,
  Nature, or Nature’s spirit, thou art all
  I long for!  Oh, descend upon my thoughts! 
  To thine own music tune, thou power of grace,
  The cordage of my heart!  Fill every shape
  That rises to my dream or wakes to vision;
  And touch the threads of every mental nerve,
  With all thy sacred feelings!

MATTHEW GREEN

  FROM THE SPLEEN

  To cure the mind’s wrong bias, spleen
  Some recommend the bowling-green;
  Some, hilly walks; all, exercise;
  Fling but a stone, the giant dies. 
  Laugh and be well.  Monkeys have been
  Extreme good doctors for the spleen;
  And kitten, if the humour hit,
  Has harlequined away the fit.