 | Dartmoor, and other poems |  |
Oh! had the Vision call'd in that deep dream,
Paul eastward to have borne his sacred theme;
With Heaven's rich gifts, to feed the Tartar wild,
And not the Macedonian, Europe's child:
Had no kind Spirit, casting fears behind,
Bless'd with a pulse that beat for all mankind,
(Whose breast the light contain'd) once thoughtful stood,
Framing luxurious schemes for human good;
Beheld where Albion's stately clifts appear'd,
And boldly to the barbarous Briton steer'd;
How had our savage faith its strength maintain'd,
And what e'en here the night that now had reign'd!
Paul eastward to have borne his sacred theme;
With Heaven's rich gifts, to feed the Tartar wild,
And not the Macedonian, Europe's child:
Had no kind Spirit, casting fears behind,
Bless'd with a pulse that beat for all mankind,
(Whose breast the light contain'd) once thoughtful stood,
Framing luxurious schemes for human good;
Beheld where Albion's stately clifts appear'd,
And boldly to the barbarous Briton steer'd;
How had our savage faith its strength maintain'd,
And what e'en here the night that now had reign'd!
| Dartmoor, and other poems | |