ODE XXX.

TEARS OF CALEDONIA.

WRITTEN IN THE CLOSE OF M,DCCXLV.

BY T. SMOLLET, M.D.

MOURN, hapless Caledonia, mourn
Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn!
Thy sons, for valour long renown'd,
Lie slaughter'd on their native ground;
Thy hospitable roofs no more
Invite the stranger to the door ;
In smoky ruins sunk they lie,
The monuments of cruelty.

The wretched owner sees, afar,
His all become the prey of war:
Bethinks him of his babes and wife
Then smites his breast, and curses life.
Thy swains are famish'd on the rocks,
Where once they fed their wanton flocks:
Thy ravish'd virgins shriek in vain;
Thy infants perish on the plain.

What boots it, then, in ev'ry clime,
Thro' the wide-spreading waste of time,
Thy martial glory, crown'd with praise,
Still shone with undiminish'd blaze ?
Thy tow'ring spirit now is broke,
Thy neck is bended to the yoke:
What foreign arms could never quell,
By civil rage and rancour fell.

The rural pipe, and merry lay,
No more shall cheer the happy day :
No social scenes of gay delight
Beguile the dreary winter night:
No strains but those of sorrow flow,
And nought be heard but sounds of wo;
While the pale phantoms of the slain
Glide nightly o'er the silent plain.

Oh baneful cause, oh fatal morn,
Accurs'd to ages yet unborn!
The sons against their fathers stood;
The parent shed his children's blood.
Yet, when the rage of battle ceas'd,
The victor's soul was not appeas'd:
The naked and forlorn must feel
Devouring flames, and murd'ring steel!

The pious mother doom'd to death,
Forsaken, wanders o'er the heath;

The bleak wind whistles round her head, Her helpless orphans cry for bread; Bereft of shelter, food, and friend,

She views the shades of night descend; And, stretch'd beneath th' unclement skies, Weeps o'er her tender babes, and dies.

Whilst the warm blood bedews my veins,
And unimpair'd remembrance reigns;
Resentment of my country's fate
Within my filial breast shall beat;
And, spite of her insulting foe,
My sympathizing verse shall flow:
Mourn hapless Caledonia, mourn

ODE XXXI.

ON THE

PEACE OF AIX LA CHAPELLE,

M DCC XLVIII.

BY THE RIGHT REV. R. HURD,
(Now Bishop of Worcester.)

BE still my fears, suggest no false alarms;
The Poet's rapture and the lyric fire

Are vain enough that inclination warms;

:

No foreign influence needs the willing Muse inspire.

The willing Muse, adventurous in her flight,

Tothee,lov'd Peace, shall raise the untaught strain;
Her thy fair triumphs and thy arts delight,
Thy festive branch she bears and joins thy social train.

High on some wave-worn cliff she views serene,
Safe on the deep, the freighted navies ride;
Old Ocean joys to see the peaceful scene,
And bids his billows roll with an exulting tide.

Or, where Augusta's turrets cleave the skies,
She loves to mix with Art's inventive band,
Sees Industry in forms unnumber'd rise,
To scatter blessings wide, and civilize the land;

Or flies, with transport, to her native plain,

Sees corn-clad fields, fresh lawns, and pastures fair,

Sees Plenty vindicate her ancient reign,

And pour forth all her charms to crown the various

year.

But chief the Muse to Academic groves

Her kindred train and best-lov'd arts invite; Thro' Cam's o'ershadowing bowers intranc'd she

roves,

Whence sacred Science streams, and Genius spreads his light.

• Here will I rest, she cry'd; my laurel here

• Eternal blooms; here hangs my golden lyre, Which erst my Spenser tun'd to shepherd's ear, And loftiest Milton smote with genuine epic fire.

And O1 if aught my fond presages shew,

'On these lov'd bowers while Peace her influence

sheds.

Some hand again shall snatch it from the bough, 'Wake each high-sounding string, and charm the echoing glades.

Then shall be sung the glorious deeds of war, 'How Virtue strove, where envious Fortune sail'd: · Expecting Fame the conflict view'd from far, 'And Britain's valor crown'd, tho' Gallia's host prevail'd.