And their high plumes wave o'er' a British brow!

Then may his chariot,[2] wheeling o'er the plain,
Hurl death and desolation all around,
While his intrepid front appals their train,
And make our proud invaders bite the ground!

But yet I hear no lively foot advance;
No sound of triumph greets my list'ning ear!'
And I may carve this eagle-darting lance
For one, whose voice I never more shall hear!

Perhaps my vows have never reach'd the skies,
Nor heav'n, propitious, smil'd upon my pray'r;
And ah! to morrow's crimson dawn may rise
To plunge me in the horrors of despair!

Yet well he knows the dreadful spear to wield--
Alas! their fearful limbs are fenc'd with care:
And, what can valour, when th'extended shield[3]
May leave, so oft, his gen'rous bosom bare?

Say, reverend Druids, can you bless in vain?
Can you in vain extend your spotless hands?
Will not heav'n listen when its priests complain,
And save its altars from unhallow'd bands?

Oh yes! I'll fear no more! The sacred groves,[4]
That rear their untouch'd branches to the skies;
Beneath whose shade its chosen servant roves,