« AnteriorContinuar »
Britannia watch!-remember peerless Rome, Her high-tower'd head dash'd meanly to the ground;
Remember, Freedom's guardian, Grecia's doom,
HENCE to some Convent's gloomy isles, Where cheerful daylight never smiles: Tyrant ! from Albion haste, to slavish Rome; There by dim tapers' livid light, At the still solemn hours of night, In pensive musings walk o'er many a sounding
Thy clanking chains, thy crimson steel, Thy venom'd darts, and barbarous wheel, Malignant fiend! bear from this isle away,
Nor dare in Error's fetters bind One active, free-born British mind; That strongly strives to spring indignant from thy
Thou bad'st grim Moloch's frowning priest Snatch screaming infants from the breast, Regardless of the frantic mother's woes; Thou led'st the ruthless sons of Spain To wond'ring India's golden plain, From deluges of blood where tenfold harvests rose.
But lo! how swiftly art thou fled,
So by the Magi hail'd from far,
When Phoebus mounts his early car,
The shrieking ghosts to their dark charnels flock;
Hail then, ye friends of Reason, hail,
To Truth's high temple guide my steps aright,
DAUGHTER of Jove, relentless power,
When first thy sire to send on Earth
And bade to form her infant mind.
Scar'd at thy frown terrific, fly
To her they vow their truth, and are again believ'd.
Wisdom, in sable garb array'd,
Immers'd in rapturous thought profound,
With leaden eye, that loves the ground,
Oh, gently on thy suppliant's head,
Dread goddess, lay thy chast'ning hand! Not in thy Gorgon terrors clad,
Not circled with the vengeful band (As by the impious thou art seen) With thundering voice, and threatening mien, With screaming Horror's funeral cry, Despair, and fell Disease, and ghastly Poverty :
Thy form benign, oh goddess! wear,
To soften, not to wound my heart. The generous spark extinct revive, Teach me to love, and to forgive, Exact my own defects to scan, What others are to feel, and know myself a man.
BENEATH the beech, whose branches bare,
O'erhang the craggy road,
And whistle hollow as they wave;
A slayer of himself holds his accurs'd abode.
Lour'd the grim morn, in murky dies Damp mists involv'd the scowling skies, And dimm'd the struggling day; As by the brook, that lingering laves Yon rush-grown moor with sable waves, Full of the dark resolves he took his sullen way.
Full many a melancholy night
And sought the powers of sleep,
I mark'd his desultory pace,
His gestures strange, and varying face,
And ah! too late aghast I view'd
To spread a momentary calm
O'er his sad couch, and in the balm Of bland oblivion's dews his burning eyes to steep.
Full oft, unknowing and unknown,
He wore his endless noons alone;
Oft was he wont, in hasty fit,
Abrupt the social board to quit,
And gaze with eager glance upon the tumbling flood.
A spectre pale, appear'd;
While, as the shades of eve arose, And brought the day's unwelcome close, More horrible and huge her giant-shape she rear'd.
'Is this,' mistaken Scorn will cry, "Is this the youth whose genius high Could build the genuine rbyme? Whose bosom mild the favouring Muse Had stor❜d with all her ample views, Parent of fairest deeds, and purposes sublime.'
Ah! from the Muse that bosom mild By treacherous magic was beguil'd, To strike the deathful blow: She fill'd his soft ingenuous mind With many a feeling too refin’d, And rous'd to livelier pangs his wakeful sense of
Though doom'd hard penury to prove,
And the sharp stings of hopeless love:
To griefs congenial prone,