Genius is thine, and thou art Fancy's nurse; And I will sing at Liberty's dear feet, In Afric's torrid clime, or India's fiercest heat. A. Sing where you please; in such a cause I grant An English poet's privilege to rant; But is not Freedom-at least is not ours Too apt to play the wanton with her powers, B. Agreed. But would you sell or slay your horse For bounding and curvetting in his course? Or if, when ridden with a careless rein, No. His high mettle, under good control, Gives him Olympic speed, and shoots him to the goal Let magistrates alert perform their parts; May no foes ravish thee, and no false friend A. Patriots, alas! the few that have been found He stood as some inimitable hand Would strive to make a Paul or Tully stand. Such men are raised to station and command, So Gideon earn'd a victory not his own; Poor England! thou art a devoted deer, Thee nations hunt; all mark thee for a prey; All that should be the boast of British song. Our ancestry, a gallant Christian race |