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 See them once more, with ardent hearts advance, And rend the laurels of insulting France; To brave Castile their potent aid supply, And wave, O Freedom! wave thy sword on high!

Is there no bard of heavenly power possess'd To thrill, to rouse, to animate the breast? Like Shakspeare o'er the secret mind to sway, And call each wayward passion to obey? Is there no bard, imbued with hallow'd fire, To wake the chords of Ossian's magic lyre; Whose numbers breathing all his flame divine, The patriot's name to ages might consign? Rise, Inspiration! rise! be this thy theme, And mount, like Uriel, on the golden beam!

Oh, could my muse on seraph pinion spring, And sweep with rapture's hand the trembling string! Could she the bosom energies control, And pour impassion'd fervour o'er the soul! Oh, could she strike the harp to Milton given, Brought by a cherub from th' empyrean heaven! Ah, fruitless wish! ah, prayer preferr'd in vain, For her—the humblest of the woodland train; Yet shall her feeble voice essay to raise The hymn of liberty, the song of praise!