When the keen axe remorseless laid
The woods of Edgecombe low,
Lest now their leafy skreen should aid
The approaches of the foe;
Astonish'd from their dark retreats
The frantic Dryads rove,
And Echo shrieks of woe repeats
Through all the wasted grove:
‘Must we,’ they cry, ‘so long who dwelt
‘On this wave-cinctur'd steep,
‘Who each rude blast unshrinking felt
‘That heaves the Atlantic deep,
‘Must we forsake these solemn shades
‘To distant regions driven,
‘Or view expos'd our forest glades
‘To every beam of heaven?—
‘But ah! what horrid scenes are these!—
‘Lo Bourbon's hostile train
‘Here spread their canvas to the breeze,
‘And darken half the main:
‘Britannia's bloody cross no more
‘Aloft triumphant flies,
‘For see by this insulted shore
‘The Gallic lilies rise!
‘Speed then, oh speed your eager toil!
‘And on this lofty steep
‘Tear every sapling from the soil
‘And launch them on the deep.
‘To you we sisters of the wood
‘At once our charge resign,
‘Ye sea-green daughters of the flood,
‘Old Ocean's Nereid line.
‘So shall they to this threaten'd place
‘A barrier firm extend,
‘And shores their shade was wont to grace,
‘Their thunder shall defend.’