These had no charms to please the sense,
No graceful port, no eloquence,

To win the Muse's throng:
Unknown, unsung, unmark'd they lie;
But Caesar's fate o'ercasts the sky,

And Nature mourns his wrong.

Thy foes, a frontless band, invade;
Thy friends afford a timid aid,

And yield up half the right.
Ev'n Locke beams forth a mingled ray,
Afraid to pour the flood of day

On man's too feeble sight.

Hence are the motley systems fram'd,
Of right transferr'd, of power reclaim'd;
Distinctions weak and vain.

Wise nature mocks the wrangling herd;
For unreclaim'd, and untransferr'd,
Her pow'rs and rights remain.

While law the royal agent moves,
The instrument thy choice approves,

We bow through him to you.
But change, or cease th' inspiring choice,
The sov'reign sinks a private voice,

Alike in one, or few!

Shall then the wretch, whose dastard heart

Shrinks at a tyrant's nobler part,

And only dares betray;

With reptile wiles, alas! prevail,

Where force, and rage, and priest-craft fail, To pilfer pow'r away?

O! shall the bought, and buying tribe,
The slaves who take, and deal the bribe,
A people's claims enjoy?

So Indian murd'rers hope to gain
The pow'rs, and virtues of the slain,
Of wretches they destroy.

"Avert it, Heav'n! you love the brave, "You hate the treach'rous, willing slave, "The self-devoted head. "Nor shall an hireling's voice convey "That sacred prize to lawless sway, "For which a nation bled."

Vain pray'r, the coward's weak resourcel
Directing reason, active force,

Propitious Heaven bestows.
But ne'er shall fame the thund'ring sky,
To aid the trembling herd that fly
Before their weaker foes.

In names there dwell no magic charms,
The British virtues, British arms

Unloos'd our fathers' band:

Say, Greece and Rome! if these should fail, What names, what ancestors avail,

To save a sinking land ?

Far, far from us such ills shall be,
Mankind shall boast one nation free,

One monarch truly great :
Whose title speaks a People's choice,
Whose sovereign will a People's voice,
Whose strength a prosp'rous State.

ODE II.

ON

TRUE GREATNESS.

BY THE REV. MR. HUDSON.

LET who will climb the towery steep
Of sovereignty, with slippery strides,
Where, on the bosom of the deep

Below, the pitchy pinnace rides:
A death's head flag, unfurl'd to view,
Waves ghastly; and a sable crew
Gaze from the deck, and seem to wait,
Dash'd down the pointed rocks, the rash unfortunate.
Mine be the low and level way,
Amid the quiet vale to stray.

Safe in some sylvan lodge to dwell,

And lull'd by the clear stream that speeds
By shallow fords to rustling reeds,

And small lakes, fring'd with homely asphodel.

There sits the calm, the rural sage,
With nature's volume fair in view;
And meditates the shining page

Replete with wonders ever new:
While Wisdom points on either hand,
Where plants, and herbs, and flow'rets stand

In emerald groves, and shadowy glades,
In furzy moors, or musky-smelling meads.
Truth, in her liquid glass serene,
To him explains each moral scene:

Oft, in the downward skies, a train
Of tinsel insect he surveys,

Or glow-worm, with fallacious blaze,
Just emblem of court greatness, frail and vain.

Oft in his woodland walk he stops to mark
The spirited and youthful lark,
Warn'd by the dawning in the dappled east,
Lift his melodious flight thro' upper air;
Late the low tenant of the rushy nest

Now sings unrivall'd in his radiant sphere.
The pondering Hermit then sees Merit roam,
Above the nurslings of the courtly dome,
On Glory's sparkling wheels, rais'd from its hum-
ble dome.

First of the families of fame,

That Rome's imperial city grace, From rural huts and hamlets came

The Fabian and Fabrician race; With that firm judge that could contemn And banish the proud diadem. To Sabine fields she owes the vine, Whose tendrils yet round Virtue's column twine; Which braves Oppression's wintry breath, And stand the icy touch of Death.