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Written on the breaking out of the War between Austria

and France.

Thrice-foild, once more, 0 Austria! to the plain

Thou lead'st, in arms, thy renovated powers ;

And, though through clouds the doubtful Future lours, Brav'st toil and danger with a high disdain. The nations round, a fallen and trembling train,

Wait anxiously, while Fear each heart devours,

For the dread conflict of the coming hours Shall break, or rivet, Europe's galling chain. String every nerve, bid all thy courage rise;

No common ardour must thy soul inflame:
Thou hast no safe retreat when Victory flies ;

No midway path between disgrace and fame;
Here, freedom, peace and glory, meet thine eyes ;
There, slavery, ruin, and eternal shame.



On the Fall of Saragossa,

Proud conqueror ! though o'er the ruin'd wall,

Of Saragossa thy red banners wave,
Though thousands of her sons, at duty's call, :

Have rush'd to find an hunourable grave;

Yet thou, accurs’d Ambition's restless slave, Check thy mean triumph o’er their glorious fall! How poor and dim thy diadems, Gaul! To those bright palms that shade the slaughter'd

brave. History their patriot valour shall record;

And Freedom, bending o'er their sacred tomb, With grateful tears their noble toils reward:

While thou, descending to the infernal gloom,

To meet the tyrants and the murderer's doom, Shalt leave a name by earth and heaven abhorr'd!. 1809.

R. A. D.

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To France,

Detested land! such deep and deadly hate

As once to Rome the Punic hero swore
I vow to thee! O! were but mine the fate

Over thy pale and trembling plains to pour
The tempest of the battle, and to crush

In dust forever all thy vaunting pride, Impetuous to the glorious task I'd rush,

Terror, Despair, Destruction, by my side!
Nor do I hate thee, France, for this alone,
That thou from age to age thyself hast shown

Foe to the realm that rules the subject waves;
But that thy sons, detested land! are still
A race accurst, prone to extremes of ill;
Blood-dripking tyrants, or dust-licking-slaves !

R. A. D.


Pulteney, the fourth young Spring now clothes the

earth, Since

my rude muse with laureate wreaths essay'd To deck the sacred spot, where he is laid Who form’d my genius, and who gave me birth ; Yet o'er my gayest hours of social mirth

Oft still his absence casts a saddening shade:

Oft still to him my secret tears are paid While memory fondly dwells upon

his worth. Hence mindful, who most shar'd his grateful love

By many an act of generous kindness won,
This page I mark, O Pulteney! with thy name;
Happy, if so I draw thee to approve
The pious gratitude which warms the son,
Howe'er thy nicer taste the poet blame.

ť to


To F. N. C. Mundy, Esq. Author of " Needwood Forest."


MUNDY, whose song hath taught the forest swain

To view fair NEEDWOOD thro’ the radiauce clear

Of bright imagination, taught the tear
To glisten in his eye for other's pain,
And own that taste and virtuc are not vain,

How was thy pipe melodious wont to cheer

The wintry groves, when every leaf was sere, And brighten summer with its artful strain! Say by what meed shall Needwood court thy stay?

She unsuspecting twines in amorous care Her favourite holly and her flower bells-gay,

To deck with modest hand her lover's hair, Ah, do not thou her gentle hopes betray,

And doom her tender bosom to despair!

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