Ode For General Washingtons Birthday（2 / 3）
surrounded by the tuneful choir,
the bards that erst have struck the patriot lyre,
and rous'd the freeborn briton's soul of fire,
no more thy england own!
dare injured nations form the great design,
to make detested tyrants bleed?
thy england execrates the glorious deed!
beneath her hostile banners waving,
every pang of honour braving,
england in thunder calls, “the tyrant's cause is mine!”
that hour accurst how did the fiends rejoice
and hell, thro' all her confines, raise the exulting voice,
that hour which saw the generous english name
linkt with such damned deeds of everlasting shame!
thee, caledonia! thy wild heaths among,
fam'd for the martial deed, the heaven-taught song,
to thee i turn with swimming eyes;
where is that soul of freedom fled?
immingled with the mighty dead,
beneath that hallow'd turf where wallace lies
hear it not, wallace! in thy bed of death.
ye babbling winds! in silence sweep,
disturb not ye the hero's sleep,
nor give the coward secret breath!
is this the ancient caledonian form,
firm as the rock, resistless as the storm?
show me that eye which shot immortal hate,
blasting the despot's proudest bearing;
show me that arm which, nerv'd with thundering fate,
crush'd usurpation's boldest daring!— ↑返回顶部↑
the bards that erst have struck the patriot lyre,
and rous'd the freeborn briton's soul of fire,
no more thy england own!
dare injured nations form the great design,
to make detested tyrants bleed?
thy england execrates the glorious deed!
beneath her hostile banners waving,
every pang of honour braving,
england in thunder calls, “the tyrant's cause is mine!”
that hour accurst how did the fiends rejoice
and hell, thro' all her confines, raise the exulting voice,
that hour which saw the generous english name
linkt with such damned deeds of everlasting shame!
thee, caledonia! thy wild heaths among,
fam'd for the martial deed, the heaven-taught song,
to thee i turn with swimming eyes;
where is that soul of freedom fled?
immingled with the mighty dead,
beneath that hallow'd turf where wallace lies
hear it not, wallace! in thy bed of death.
ye babbling winds! in silence sweep,
disturb not ye the hero's sleep,
nor give the coward secret breath!
is this the ancient caledonian form,
firm as the rock, resistless as the storm?
show me that eye which shot immortal hate,
blasting the despot's proudest bearing;
show me that arm which, nerv'd with thundering fate,
crush'd usurpation's boldest daring!— ↑返回顶部↑