See Roman fire in Hampden's bosom swell, And fate and freedom in the shaft of Tell! Say, ye fond zealots to the worth of yore, Hath Valour left the world-to live no more? No more shall Brutus bid a tyrant die, And sternly smile with vengeance in his eye? Hampden no more, when suffering Freedom calls, Encounter fate, and triumph as he falls? The patriot's virtue and the poet's song, That slumber yet in uncreated dust, man, When shall the world call down, to cleanse her shame, That embryo-spirit, yet without a name,That friend of Nature, whose avenging hands Shall burst the Lybian's adamantine bands? Who, sternly marking on his native soil The blood, the tears, the anguish, and the toil, Shall bid each righteous heart exult, to see Peace to the slave, and vengeance on the free! Yet, yet, degraded men! th' expected day That breaks your bitter cup, is far away; Trade, wealth, and fashion, ask you still to bleed, And holy men give scripture for the deed; Scourged, and debased, no Briton stoops to save A wretch, a coward; yes, because a slave!— Eternal Nature! when thy giant hand Had heaved the floods, and fixed the trembling land, When life sprung startling at thy plastic call, Endless her forms, and man the lord of all! Say, was that lordly form inspired by thee, To wear eternal chains and bow the knee? Was man ordained the slave of man to toil, Yoked with the brutes, and fettered to the soil; Weighed in a tyrant's balance with his gold? No! Nature stamped us in a heavenly mould! She bade no wretch his thankless labour urge, Nor, trembling, take the pittance and the scourge! No homeless Libyan, on the stormy deep, To call upon his country's name, and weep! Lo! once in triumph, on his boundless plain, The quivered chief of Congo loved to reign; With fires proportioned to his native sky, Strength in his arm, and lightning in his eye; Scoured with wild feet his sun-illumined zone, The spear, the lion, and the woods, his own; Or led the combat, bold without a plan, An artless savage, but a fearless man! The plunderer camel-alas! no glory smiles For Congo's chief on yonder Indian isles; For ever fallen! no son of Nature now, With freedom chartered on his manly brow! Faint, bleeding, bound, he weeps the night away, And when the sea-wind wafts the dewless day, Starts, with a bursting heart, for ever more To curse the sun that lights their guilty shore! The shrill horn blew; at that alarum-knell His guardian angel took a last farewell! That funeral dirge to darkness hath resigned The fiery grandeur of a generous mind! Poor fettered man! I hear thee whispering low Unhallowed vows to Guilt, the child of Woe! Friendless thy heart; and canst thou harbour there A wish but death-a passion but despair? The widowed Indian, when her lord expires, Mounts the dread pile and braves the funeral fires! So falls the heart at Thraldom's bitter sigh! So_Virtue dies, the spouse of Liberty? But not to Libya's barren climes alone, Ye Orient realms, where Ganges' waters run! How long was Timour's iron sceptre swayed! Whose marshalled hosts, the lions of the plain, From Scythia's northern mountains to the main, Raged o'er your plundered shrines and altars bare, With blazing torch and gory scymitar,Stunn'd with the cries of death each gentle gale, And bathed in blood the verdure of the vale! Yet could no pangs the immortal spirit tame, When Brama's children perished for his name; The martyr smiled beneath avenging power, And braved the tyrant in his torturing hour! When Europe sought your subject realms to gain, And stretched her giant sceptre o'er the main, Taught her proud barks the winding way to shape, And braved the stormy spirit of the Cape; The curse of kingdoms peopled with despair! Could stamp disgrace on man's polluted name, IN joyous youth, what soul hath never known And barter, with their gold, eternal shame! But hark! as bowed to earth the Bramin kneels, From heavenly climes propitious thunder peals! Of India's fate her guardian-spirits tell, Prophetic murmurs breathing on the shell, And solemn sounds that awe the listening mind, Roll on the azure paths of every wind. “Foes of mankind! (her guardian-spirits say) Revolving ages bring the bitter day, When Heaven's unerring arm shall fall on you, And blood for blood these Indian plains bedew; Nine times have Brama's wheels of lightning hurled His awful presence o'er the alarmed world; Nine times hath Guilt, through all his giant frame, Convulsive trembled, as the Mighty came; Nine times hath suffering Mercy spared in vain But Heaven shall burst her starry gates again! He comes! dread Brama shakes the sunless sky With murmuring wrath, and thunders from on high; Heaven's fiery horse, beneath his warrior form, Paws the light clouds, and gallops on the storm! Wide waves his flickering sword; his bright arms glow Thought, feeling, taste, harmonious to its own? Who hath not paused while Beauty's pensive eye Asked from his heart the homage of a sigh? Who hath not owned, with rapture-smitten frame, The power of grace, the magic of a name? There be, perhaps, who barren hearts avow, Cold as the rocks on Torneo's hoary brow; There be, whose loveless wisdom never failed, In self-adoring pride securely mailed:— But, triumph not, ye peace-enamoured few! Fire, Nature, Genius, never dwelt with you! For you no Fancy consecrates the scene Where rapture uttered vows, and wept between; 'Tis yours, unmoved, to sever and to meet; No pledge is sacred, and no home is sweet! Who that would ask a heart to dulness wed, The waveless calm, the slumber of the dead? No; the wild bliss of Nature needs alloy, And fear and sorrow fan the fire of joy! And say, without our hopes, without our fears, Without the home that plighted love endears, Without the smile from partial beauty won, Oh! what were man?—a world without a sun. Till Hymen brought his love-delighted hour, There dwelt no joy in Eden's rosy bower! In vain the viewless seraph lingering there At starry midnight charmed the silent air; In vain the wild-bird carolled on the steep, To hail the sun, slow wheeling from the deep; Like summer-suns, and light the world below; tread! "To pour redress on India's injured realm, The oppressor to dethrone, the proud to The whispering wave, the murmur of the Still slowly passed the melancholy day, Thy pencil traces on the lover's thought And still the stranger wist not where to Some cottage-home, from towns and toil stray. remote, The world was sad!— the garden was a wild! And man, the hermit, sighed till woman smiled! True, the sad power to generous hearts may bring Delirious anguish on his fiery wing; But can the noble mind for ever brood, Shame to the coward thought that e'er betrayed The noon of manhood to a myrtle-shade! Of hopeless love to murmur and repine! Her blissful visions on thy pensive hour, The peaceful tenor of unvaried bliss, To faultless nature true, he stole a grace Then glowed the tints, pure, precious, and refined, And mortal charms seemed heavenly when combined! Love on the picture smiled! Expression poured Her mingling spirit there and Greece adored! So thy fair hand, enamoured Fancy, gleans The treasured pictures of a thousand scenes; Where love and lore may claim alternate hours, With Peace embosomed in Idalian bowers! Remote from busy Life's bewildered way, O'er all his heart shall Taste and Beauty sway! Free on the sunny slope, or winding shore, With hermit steps to wander and adore! There shall he love, when genial morn appears, Like pensive Beauty smiling in her tears, To watch the brightening roses of the sky, And muse on nature with a poet's eye!And when the sun's last splendour lights the deep, The woods, and waves, and murmuring winds asleep; When fairy-harps th' Hesperian planet hail, And the lone cuckoo sighs along the vale, His path shall be where streamy mountains swell Their shadowy grandeur o'er the narrow dell, Where mouldering piles and forests intervene, And down the vale his sober step returns; Let Winter come! let polar spirits sweep The darkening world, and tempest-troubled deep! Though boundless snows the withered heath deform, And the dim Sun scarce wanders through the storm, Yet shall the smile of social love repay With mental light the melancholy day! And, when its short and sullen noon is o'er, The ice-chained waters slumbering on the shore, How bright the faggots in his little hall Blaze on the hearth, and warm the pictured wall! How blest he names, in Love's familiar tone, The kind fair friend, by nature marked his own; And in the waveless mirror of his mind, Views the fleet years of pleasure left behind, Since Anna's empire o'er his heart began! Since he first called her his before the holy man! Trim the gay taper in his rustic dome, And light the wintry paradise of home; And let the half-uncurtained window hail Some way-worn man benighted in the vale! Now, while the moaning night-wind rages | Faint in his wounds, and shivering in the blast, high, As sweep the shot-stars down the troubled The Swedish soldier sunk—and groaned his last! sky, While fiery hosts in heaven's wide circle play, And bathe in lurid light the milky-way, Safe from the storm, the meteor, and the shower, Some pleasing page shall charm the solemn hour With pathos shall command, with wit beguile, A generons tear of anguish, or a smile- How gallant Albert, and his weary crew, Heaved all their guns, their foundering bark to save, And toiled—and shrieked—and perished on the wave! Yes, at the dead of night, by Lonna's steep, The seaman's cry was heard along the deep; There on his funeral waters, dark and wild, The dying father blest his darling child! Oh, Mercy shield her innocence! he cried, Spent on the prayer his bursting heart, and died! Or they will learn how generous worth sublimes The robber Moor, and pleads for all his crimes; How poor Amelia kissed, with many a tear, His hand blood-stained, but ever, ever dear! Hung on the tortured bosom of her lord, And wept and prayed perdition from his sword. Nor sought in vain! at that heart-piercing ery File after file the stormy showers benumb, Freeze every standard-sheet, and hush the drum! Horseman and horse confessed the bitter pang, And arms and warriors fell with hollow clang! Yet, ere he sunk in Nature's last repose, Ere life's warm torrent to the fountain froze, The dying man to Sweden turned his eye, Thought of his home, and closed it with a sigh! Imperial Pride looked sullen on his plight, And Charles beheld-nor shuddered at the sight! Above, below, in Ocean, Earth, and Sky, Pure from their God, created millions dwell, storm (When o'er each Runic altar, weed-entwined, The vesper-clock tolls mournful to the wind), Counts every wave-worn isle, and mountain hoar, From Kilda to the green Ierne's shore; So, when thy pure and renovated mind This perishable dust hath left behind, Thy seraph-eye shall count the starry train, Like distant isles embosomed in the main ; The strings of Nature cracked with agony! Rapt to the shrine where motion first began, He, with delirious laugh, the dagger hurled, | And light and life in mingling torrent ran; And burst the ties that bound him to the From whence each bright rotundity was world! hurled, Turn from his dying words, that smite with steel The shuddering thoughts, or wind them on the wheel Turn to the gentler melodies that suit From clime to clime descend, from age to age! Yet there, perhaps, may darker scenes obtrude Than Fancy fashions in her wildest mood; There shall he pause, with horrent brow, to rate What millions died-that Cæsar might be great! Or learn the fate that bleeding thousands bore, Marched by their Charles to Dneiper's swampy shore; The throne of God,—the centre of the world! Oh! vainly wise, the moral Muse hath sung That suasive HOPE hath but a Syren-tongue! True, she may sport with life's untutored day, Nor heed the solace of its last decay, But yet, methinks, when Wisdom shall Thus, with forgiving tears, and reconciled, | Back to its heavenly source thy being goes, The king of Judah mourned his rebel child; Swift as the comet wheels to whence he Musing on days, when yet the guiltless boy rose; Smiled on his sire, and filled his heart with joy. My Absalom! the voice of Nature cried; Oh! that for thee thy father could have died! For bloody was the deed, and rashly done, That slew my Absalom!-my son!-my son! Unfading HOPE! when life's last embers burn, When soul to soul, and dust to dust return, Heaven to thy charge resigns the awful hour! Oh! then, thy kingdom comes! Immortal Power! What though each spark of earth-born rapture fly The quivering lip, pale cheek, and closing eye! Bright to the soul thy seraph-hands convey And all the phœnix spirit burns within! run, From your unfathomed shades, and viewless spheres, A warning comes, unheard by other ears. "Tis Heaven's commanding trumpet, long and loud, Like Sinai's thunder, pealing from the cloud! While Nature hears, with terror-mingled trust, The shock that hurls her fabric to the dust; And, like the trembling Hebrew, when he trod The roaring waves, and called upon his God, With mortal terrors clouds immortal bliss, And shrieks, and hovers o'er the dark abyss! Daughter of Faith, awake, arise, illume The dread unknown, the chaos of the tomb; Melt, and dispel, ye spectre-doubts, that roll Cimmerian darkness on the parting soul! Fly, like the moon-eyed herald of dismay, Chased on his night-steed by the star of day! The strife is o'er-the pangs of nature close, And life's last rapture triumphs o'er her woes. Hark! as the spirit eyes, with eagle-gaze, The noon of Heaven undazzled by the blaze, On heavenly winds, that waft her to the sky, Float the sweet tones of star-born melody; Wild as that hallowed anthem sent to hail Bethlehem's shepherds in the lonely vale, When Jordan hushed his waves and midnight still Watched on the holy tow'rs of Zion-hill! Soul of the just! companion of the dead! Where is thy home, and whither art thou fled? Doomed on his airy path a while to burn, And doom'd, like thee, to travel, and return.— Hark! from the world's exploding centre driven, With sounds that shook the firmament of heaven, Careers the fiery giant, fast and far, run, Curbs the red yoke,and mingles with the sun! And o'er the path by mortal never trod, One hopeless, dark idolater of chance, In joyless union wedded to the dust, Frail as the leaf in Autumn's yellow bower, As ocean-wrecks illuminate the storm; Are these the pompous tidings ye proclaim, Lights of the world, and demi-gods of Fame? Is this your triumph-this your proud applause, Children of Truth, and champions of her cause? For this hath Science searched,on weary wing, By shore and sea-each mute and living thing! Launched with Iberia's pilot from the steep, To worlds unknown, and isles beyond the deep? Or round the cope her living chariot driven, And wheeled in triumph through the signs of Heaven? Oh! star-eyed Science, hast thou wandered there, To waft us home the message of despair? Then bind the palm, thy sage's brow to suit, Of blasted leaf, and death-distilling fruit! |