On Reading Walter Scotís
CHARM'D by the patriot muse of Flodden Field, My country's dearer claims the while forgot, I almost wish'd that Surry's host might yield, And (pardon England) long'd to be a Scot. For torpid is the heart that doth not feel, As he directs, the poet's powerful spell, When heaven-born genius fires his patriot zeal, And bids him sing so sweetly and so well. And highly too it crown'd my fond desire, In this long barren dearth of Southern song, To hear once more proud Ettrick's living lyre, Each glowing chord's harmonious swell prolong; Whose strains sublime, like deepening thunders, roll The battle's stormy wave, and fill th' impassioned soul!
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