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SPOKEN AT LONDON.
In ancient times, when Britain's trade was arms,
This night a Douglas your protection claims; A wife! a mother! Pity's softest names: The story of her woes indulgent hear, And grant your suppliant all she begs, a tear. In confidence she begs; and hopes to find Each English breast, like noble Percy's, kind.
SPOKEN AT EDINBURGH.
In days of classic fame, when Persia's Lord
Such proud pre-eminence not valour gave,
Above the rest the Tragic Muse admired Each Attic breast with noblest passions fired. In peace their poets with their heroes shared Glory, the hero's and the bard's reward. The Tragic Muse each glorious record kept, And, o'er the kings she conquer'd, Athens wept.*
Here let me cease, impatient for the scene; To you I need not praise the Tragic Queen: Oft has this audience soft compassion shown To woes of heroes, heroes not their own.
* See the Pcrsai of TEschylus.
This night our scenes no common tear demand,