The Monthly Mirror, IV n.s. (July, 1808), p. 50
Wrapt at the scene, methinks on fiery wings,
I roam ungovern'd thro' the midnight air,
Swift tow'ring to the moon, who softly flings
Her pallid beamings on the mountains bare:
Now have I pass'd her, and extend my flight,
Thro' realms of peace, where rolling planets stray,
Where fast before my animated sight,
The comet whirls its melancholy way!
Hark! the din thunders thro' the welkin roar!
—Pale lightnings flash upon my ravish'd eyes,—
The war-fiend rushes thro' yon sea of gore,
And Gallic eagles penetrate the skies!—
But lo! Iberia's sons in bands advance,
To wrest their freedom from the slaves of France!