Your victories shall marble grace,

Your German trophies we shall trace,
Display'd o'er Minden's plain :
While Fame revers'd her trumpet sounds,
Reclining honour counts her wounds,
Departing in disdain.

A solid, senseless form ingrate,
In attitude of servile state,
Shall your perfections show:

Brisk NED your prowess shall relate,

And CUMBERLAND shall mourn your fate,

THAT MONUMENT OF WOE!

ODE XXXIX.

ON SOME

LATE PUBLICATIONS,

ASCRIBED TO

RICHARD CUMBERLAND, ESQ.

CURS'D be the pen by faction sway'd,
The tool of blind invective made,
The foe to virtuous fame;

That dares amongst the mean and base,
With more than German rancour place
Much injur'd SACKVILLE's name.

When half America was lost,

And timid DARTMOUTH left his post,
He took the dang'rous lead;

To vindicate insulted laws,

And hazard in his country's cause,

His fortunes and his head.

With affluence blest, and blest with friends,

Connected for no selfish ends,

His happiness was home;

He knew the joys of private life,
He lov'd his children and his wife,
Nor wish'd abroad to roam.

Already toss'd on boist❜rous seas,
His object was domestic ease;
Not all the smiles of court,
Not all that lavish princes give,
Or greedy favorites receive,

Could tempt him out of port.

But, by the will of adverse fate,
When foul rebellion shook the state,
And poison'd half the realm;

No luke-warm prudence cou'd control
The patriot spirit of his soul :
He boldly grasp'd the helm.

He only heard his country's call,
Ease, comfort, quiet, safety, all
That wisdom's thought to teach,
Submitted to the vast desire
To keep the empire still entire,
Or perish in the breach.

ODE XL.

THE

GENIUS OF BRITAIN.

IN ALLUSION TO THE PRESENT TIMES. WRITTEN IN MDCCLXXV.

WHERE roams the genius of the British Isle,
The awful spirit of the ancient times?
Sun-born, the child of fire, what distant climes
Lure thy lorn steps from this thy native soil?

Ye oaks, of everlasting growth!

Ye black pines waving in the clouds!
Ye mountains, red with Heaven's wrath!
Ye rocks, whose heads the vapours shroud!
Say, have ye ye seen him?-By his tread
Well known, of thundering sound,
His voice of whirlwind, and his head
With blazing meteors crown'd.

Say, Etna, seest thou from thy burning throne,

Or o'er the land, or o'er the wide-spread seas, The path or shadow of a son free-born? Or hearest thou around thy triple zone,

Or in the scorching beam, or sea-born breeze,

Save groans of abject woe, or taunts of swelling scorn? Then dwells he not with thee: his sullen ear,

Not music floating on Sicilian gales,
His eye, not beauty panting with desire,

His heart, not Ceres' mantle in the vales,
His soul, not Bacchus rob'd with purple fire,
One moment can detain to thraldom near,
The sickly child of sloth, and pale unmanly fear.

O mountain Appenine! and distant thou,
The fairest and the tallest of the plain,
That near Olympian Pisa wreath'dst thy brow
With laurels won beneath thy fair domain,
Howe'er thou'rt call'd !—And thou of surer name,
That near the haunted stream,
Inspir'dst the poet's dream !-

And northern ye, that, like a chain,.
Bind in Epirus' golden plain !-
Ceraunian mountains, thunder scarr'd!
And ye that like a rampart stood,

Link'd in holy brotherhood,

And saw the routed Persian host,

Their pride, their hope, their glory lost,

When the sea-scourging Xerxes dar'd,

In thought, but vainly dar'd to yoke the Grecian fame!

Alas, the days that ye have seen
Are now as if they ne'er had been!