914 
ANNUAL REGISTER, ,1803. 
FROM THE CRISIS, A POEM. 
By the Rev. Mr. Maurice. 
RITONS! the crisis of your fate draws near, 
Exalt your standards, grasp th’ avenging spear ; 
In radiant arms indissolubly join’d, 
Be firm, and brave the pow’rs of earth combin’d. 
But oh! Britannia, what immortal strain 
Shall paint thy triumphs on the boundless main ; 
Who sing the heroes that, from age to age, 
Thro’ ev’ry clime have bid thy thunder rage ; 
«: From burning realms, where southern deeps resound,” 
‘To where eternal frosts the pole surround ! | 
Who shall thy Howard’s deathless feats recite, 
Thy fearless Drake’s, invincible in fight ? 
Whose valour, with the storms of heay’n combin’d, 
The proud armada to the depths consign’d ! 
To ardent glory’s noblest fjres awake, 
What terrors could appal the soul of Blake? 
When on the Belgic chief, that dared to sweep 
With high-suspended broom, th’ insulted deep,; 
Furious he rush’d, and tore, indignant, down 
The barb’rous emblem of usurp’d renown : 
Then, driving o’er the surge the routed foe, 
Swept the proud yaunter to the gulphs below ! 
Far distant on the vast Atlantic main, 
To check the ravages of hostile Spain, 
Skilful as brave, along a dread-fraught coast, 
Pocock to viét’ry leads a gallant host : 
Condemn’d to perish on a barb’rous strand, 
Pale round his vessels glides a speétred band ; 
And oft before his midnight couch they rise, 
Flames in their hands, and lightning in their eyes 5 
Revenge, they shout, and tow’rds Havannah’s spires 
Wave their red arms, and point their hostile fires. 
*Mid threat’ning rocks, and waves in mountains roll’d, 
Great Hawke, contending with the storm, behold! 
Nor rocks, nor roaring surge, nor madd’ning wind, 
Fron its firm centre, shake his stedfast mind 5 
On Fate’s tremendous verge, the line he forms, 
To France, more dreadful than a thousand storms ; - gid 
ids, _ 
