A birth-day Ode, December 31st 1788 and To Mr E---- on his translation of and commentaries on Martial

A Birth-day Ode December 31.st -- 1788 1C 601

Afar th' illustrious Exile roams,
Whom kingdoms on this day should hail!
An Inmate of the casual shed;
On transient Pity's bounty fed;
Haunted by busy Mem'ry's bitter tale!
Beasts of the forest have their savage homes,
But He who should imperial purple wear
Owns not the lap of earth where rests his royal head:
His wretched refuge, dark Despair,
While ravening Wrongs and Woes pursue;
And distant far the faithful Few
Who would his sorrows share!
False flatterer, Hope, away!
Nor think to lure us as in days of yore:
We solemnize this sorrowing natal day,
To prove our loyal truth -- we can no more;
And owning Heaven's mysterious sway,
Submissive, low adore!

Ye

Ye honor'd, mighty Dead,
Who nobly perish'd in the glorious cause,
Your King, your Country, and her Laws;
From great Dundee who smiling Victory led,
And fell a martyr in her arms,
(What breast of northern ice but warms)
To bold Balmerino's undying name,
Whose soul of fire, lighted at Heaven's high flame,
Deserves the brightest wreath departed heroes claim;
Nor unreveng'd your fate shall lie;
It only lags, the fatal hour:
Your blood shall with incessant cry
Awake at last th' unsparing Power!
As from the cliff with thundering course
The snowy ruin smokes along,
With doubling speed and gathering force,
Till deep it crashing whelms the cottage in the vale,
So Vengeance' arm, ensanguin'd, strong,
Shall with resistless might assail:
Usurping Br-ns--ck's head shall lowly lay,
And St--art's wrongs & yours with tenfold weight repay.
Perdition

Perdition, baleful child of Night,
Rise and revenge the injur'd right
Of St--arts' Royal Race!
Lead on th' unmuzzled hounds of Hell
Till all the frighted Echoes tell
The blood-notes of the chace!
Full on the quarry point their view,
Full on the base, degenerate usurping crew,
The tools of Faction, and the Nation's curse:
Hark! how the cry grows on the wind;
They leave the lagging gale behind;
Their savage fury pitiless they pour;
With murdering eyes already they devour:
See Br-ns--ck spent, a wretched prey;
His life, one poor, despairing day
Where each avenging hour still ushers in a worse!
Such Havock, howling all abroad,
Their utter ruin bring;
The base Apostates to their God,
Or rebels to their King!
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Wrote on a blank leaf in E---'s pompous
translation of Martial --------

To Mr. E--------
O thou whom Poesy abhors,
Whom Prose has turned out of doors,
Heardst thou yon goran -- proceed no further;
'Twas laurall'd Martial calling Murther!
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