Page:The Seasons - Thomson (1791).djvu/147

 To glut the vengeance of a vanquish'd foe. Then, active still and unrestrain'd, his mind Explor'd the vast extent of ages past, And with his prison-hours enrich'd the world; Yet found no times, in all the long research, So glorious, or so base, as those he prov'd, In which he conquer'd, and in which he bled. Nor can the Muse the gallant pass, The plume of war! with early laurels crown'd, The lover's myrtle, and the poet's bay. A too is thine, illustrious land, Wise, strenuous, firm, of unsubmitting soul, Who item'd the torrent of a downward age To slavery prone, and bade thee rise again, In all thy native pomp of freedom bold. Bright, at his call, thy age of Men effulg'd, Of Men on whom late time a kindling eye Shall turn, and tyrants tremble while they read. Bring every sweetest flower, and let me strew The grave where lies; whose temper'd blood With calmest chearfulness for thee resign'd, Stain'd the sad annals of a giddy reign; Aiming at lawless power, tho' meanly sunk In loose inglorious luxury. With him His friend, the, fearless bled; Of high determin'd spirit, roughly brave, By antient learning to th' enlightened love Of antient freedom warm'd. Fair thy renown In awful Sages and in noble Bards; Soon as the light of dawning Science spread Her orient ray, and wak'd the Muses' song. Thine is a, hapless in his choice, Unfit to stand the civil storm of state, And thro' the smooth barbarity of courts, With