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WHEN the British warrior queen,
Weep upon thy matchlefs wrongs,
'Tis because refentment ties
All the terrors of our tongues.
Rome fhall perish-write that word In the blood that she has split; Perish, hopeless and abhorred,
Deep in ruin as in guilt.
Rome, for empire far renowned, Tramples on a thousand states; Soon her pride fhall kifs the ground
Hark! the Gaul is at her gates!
Other Romans shall arise,
Heedlefs of a foldier's name;
Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize, Harmony the path to fame.
Then the progeny that springs
Regions Cæfar never knew
Thy pofterity fhall fway; Where his eagles never flew, None invincible as they.
Such the bard's prophetic words,
Of his sweet but awful lyre.
She, with all a monarch's pride, Felt them in her bofom glow: Rushed to battle, fought, and died; Dying hurled them at the foe.
Ruffians, pitiless as proud,
Heaven awards the vengeance due;
Empire is on us beftowed,
Shame and ruin wait for you.
THERE was a time when Ætna's filent fire
She teemed and heaved with an infernal birth,
Havoc and devastation in the van,
Revolving feasons, fruitless as they pass,
Again the mountain feels the imprisoned foe,
Ten thousand swains the wafted scene deplore,
Ye monarchs, whom the lure of honour draws,
The mischiefs your ambitious pride inspires!