Arm'd and inflamed, each British breast shall burn,
No youth unlaurel'd shall to you return.
Then shall we cease to exult at trophies won,
In glory's field, by heroes-not our own.
France yet shall tremble at the British sword,
And dread the vengeance of her ancient lord.

DOUGLAS;

A

TRAGEDY.

Non ego sum vates, sed prisci conscius ævi.

PROLOGUE,

SPOKEN AT LONDON.

In ancient times, when Britain's trade was arms,
And the loved music of her youth, alarms;
A god-like race sustain'd fair England's fame :
Who has not heard of gallant Percy's name?
Ay, and of Douglas? Such illustrious foes
In rival Rome and Carthage never rose !
From age to age bright shone the British fire,
And every hero was a hero's sire.

When powerful fate decreed one warrior's doom,
Up sprung the phoenix from his parent's tomb.
But whilst these generous rivals fought and fell,
These generous rivals loved each other well:
Though many a bloody field was lost and won,
Nothing in hate, in honour all was done.
When Percy, wrong'd, defied his prince or peers,
First came the Douglas with his Scottish spears;
And, when proud Douglas made his king his foe,
For Douglas, Percy bent his English bow.
Expell'd their native homes by adverse fate,
They knock'd alternate at each other's gate :
Then blazed the castle, at the midnight hour,
For him whose arms had shook its firmest tower.

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.