Poems By Mr. Polwhele. In three volumes |
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 | Poems |  |
Struck from the monarch's ponderous sceptre, flew
The co-resisting spirit, to renounce
The universal vassalage; while knights
High-helm'd, amid the proudly-scutcheon'd halls
Throng'd round their armed barons, at whose board
Nectareous mead from the full goblet glanc'd
Its amber stream—while minstrels harp'd the deeds
Of British heroes, and the vaulted roofs
Echoed the song of glory! Nor the domes
Of each inferior chieftain ceas'd to sound
That echo! Strait, in one confederate band,
Ev'n peasants, as (a vassal-troop) they rose,
To bulwark the baronial rights, entrench'd
With deepening foss, their own. And see, the chain
Of feodal tyranny thro' all its links
Relaxing, the low hamlet's brighten'd wall
Reflects the chearful blaze, at evening-close,
Nor heeds “the far-off curfew.” Village-peace
Smooths, undisturb'd, her pinions, and sits still;
Resting her eye upon the curling smoke
That blends its volume with the sapphire heaven!
But insecure and fleeting was the boon
Of civil harmony, that, scarce enjoy'd,
Fled the vain grasp. The people's threats, the torch
Of dire commotion, fields o'erslow'd with blood,
Perfidious treaties, and rekindled war,
Past, in repeated series, ere the state
Repos'd its quiet on the wills of all.
The co-resisting spirit, to renounce
The universal vassalage; while knights
High-helm'd, amid the proudly-scutcheon'd halls
95
Nectareous mead from the full goblet glanc'd
Its amber stream—while minstrels harp'd the deeds
Of British heroes, and the vaulted roofs
Echoed the song of glory! Nor the domes
Of each inferior chieftain ceas'd to sound
That echo! Strait, in one confederate band,
Ev'n peasants, as (a vassal-troop) they rose,
To bulwark the baronial rights, entrench'd
With deepening foss, their own. And see, the chain
Of feodal tyranny thro' all its links
Relaxing, the low hamlet's brighten'd wall
Reflects the chearful blaze, at evening-close,
Nor heeds “the far-off curfew.” Village-peace
Smooths, undisturb'd, her pinions, and sits still;
Resting her eye upon the curling smoke
That blends its volume with the sapphire heaven!
But insecure and fleeting was the boon
Of civil harmony, that, scarce enjoy'd,
Fled the vain grasp. The people's threats, the torch
Of dire commotion, fields o'erslow'd with blood,
96
Past, in repeated series, ere the state
Repos'd its quiet on the wills of all.
| Poems | |