LONG-FAVORED England! be not thou misled By monstrous theories of alien growth, Lest alien frenzy seize thee, waxing wroth, Self-smitten till thy garments reek dyed red With thy own blood, which tears in torrents shed Fail to wash out, tears flowing ere thy troth
Be plighted, not to ease, but sullen sloth,
- the ghost of false hope fled Into a shameful grave. Among thy youth,
My Country! if such warning be held dear, Then shall a veteran's heart be thrilled with joy, One who would gather from eternal truth,
For time and season, rules that work to cheer, - to save the People, not destroy.
MEN of the Western World! in Fate's dark book Whence these opprobrious leaves of dire portent? Think ye your British Ancestors forsook Their native Land, for outrage provident ; From unsubmissive necks the bridle shook, To give, in their Descendants, freer vent And wider range to passions turbulent, To mutual tyranny a deadlier look?
Nay, said a voice, soft as the south-wind's breath, Dive through the stormy surface of the flood
To the great current flowing underneath; Explore the countless springs of silent good; So shall the truth be better understood, And thy grieved Spirit brighten strong in faith.
DAYS undefiled by luxury or sloth, Firm self-denial, manners grave and staid, Rights equal, laws with cheerfulness obeyed, Words that require no sanction from an oath, And simple honesty a common growth, This high repute, with bounteous Nature's aid, Won confidence, now ruthlessly betrayed At will, your power the measure of your troth!— All who revere the memory of Penn
Grieve for the land on whose wild woods his name Was fondly grafted with a virtuous aim, Renounced, abandoned, by degenerate Men, For state-dishonor black as ever came To upper air from Mammon's loathsome den.
AT BOLOGNA, IN REMEMBRANCE OF THE LATE INSURREC
Aн, why deceive ourselves! by no mere fit
Of sudden passion roused shall men attain
True freedom where for ages they have lain Bound in a dark, abominable pit,
With life's best sinews more and more unknit. Here, there, a banded few who loathe the chain May rise to break it: effort worse than vain For thee, O great Italian nation, split
Into those jarring fractions.
Be one fixed mind for all; thy rights approve To thy own conscience gradually renewed; Learn to make Time the father of wise Hope; Then trust thy cause to the arm of Fortitude, The light of Knowledge, and the warmth of Love.
HARD task! exclaim the undisciplined, to lean On Patience, coupled with such slow endeavor, That long-lived servitude must last for ever. Perish the grovelling few, who, pressed between Wrongs and the terror of redress, would wean Millions from glorious aims. Our chains to sever, Let us break forth in tempests now or never! What, is there then no space for golden mean And gradual progress?—Twilight leads to day, And, even within the burning zones of earth, The hastiest sunrise yields a temperate ray; The softest breeze to fairest flowers gives birth:
Think not that Prudence dwells in dark abodes, She scans the future with the eye of gods.
As leaves are to the tree whereon they grow And wither, every human generation
Is to the Being of a mighty nation,
Locked in our world's embrace through weal and
Thought that should teach the zealot to forego Rash schemes, to abjure all selfish agitation, And seek through noiseless pains and moderation The unblemished good they only can bestow. Alas! with most, who weigh futurity Against time present, passion holds the scales: Hence equal ignorance of both prevails, And nations sink; or, struggling to be free, Are doomed to flounder on, like wounded whales Tossed on the bosom of a stormy sea.
Dead to the very name? Presumption fed On empty air! That name will keep its hold
Of all who for her rights watched, toiled, and bled, Knows that this prophecy is not too bold.
What! how! shall she submit in will and deed To Beardless Boys, an imitative race,
The servum pecus of a Gallic breed? Dear Mother! if thou must thy steps retrace, Go where at least meek Innocency dwells; Let Babes and Sucklings be thy oracles.
FEEL for the wrongs to universal ken Daily exposed, woe that unshrouded lies And seek the Sufferer in his darkest den, Whether conducted to the spot by sighs And moanings, or he dwells (as if the wren Taught him concealment) hidden from all eyes In silence and the awful modesties
Of sorrow ; - feel for all, as brother Men! Rest not in hope want's icy chain to thaw By casual boons and formal charities; Learn to be just, just through impartial law; Far as ye may, erect and equalize; And what ye cannot reach by statute, draw Each from his fountain of self-sacrifice!
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