A KING in bloom of youth, for freedom die!
Our bard, though bold, durst not have soar'd so high.
This is no credulous admiring age;
But sacred, sure, the faith of Plutarch's page.
In simple style that ancient sage relates
The tale of Sparta, chief of Grecian states:
Eight hundred years it flourish'd, great in arms,
On dangers rose, and grew amidst alarms.
Of Sparta's triumph you have heard the cause,
More strong, more noble than Lycurgus' laws;
How Spartan dames, by glory's charms inspired,
The son, the lover, and the husband fired.
Ye fair of Britain's isle, which justly claims
The Grecian title, land of lovely dames,
In Britain's cause, exert your matchless charms,
And rouse your lovers to the love of arms.
Hid, not extinct, the spark of valour lies;
Your breath shall raise it flaming to the skies.
Now Mars his bloody banner hangs in air,
And bids Britannia's sons for war prepare:
Let each loved maid, each mother bring the shield,
And arm their country's champions for the field.