 | The Poetical Works of John Critchley Prince |  |
No. I. “LET THE BOISTEROUS BACCHANAL.”
Let the boisterous Bacchanal sing of his bowl,
That blight of the body, that scourge of the soul;
Let the libertine boast of the wreck he hath made,—
Of the hearts he hath tempted, and won, and betrayed;
Let the soldier exult o'er the blood-seeking sword,
Though his deeds have by thousands been cursed and deplored:
Be mine the proud pleasure to weave at command,
A song for the poor of my own fatherland.
That blight of the body, that scourge of the soul;
Let the libertine boast of the wreck he hath made,—
Of the hearts he hath tempted, and won, and betrayed;
Let the soldier exult o'er the blood-seeking sword,
Though his deeds have by thousands been cursed and deplored:
Be mine the proud pleasure to weave at command,
A song for the poor of my own fatherland.
Let the tyrant send forth his iniquitous law,
To insult the sad millions, and keep them in awe;
Although it were wiser to govern and guide
By justice and love, than oppression and pride;
Let a self-seeking priesthood preach patience to man,
Though to “reck their own rede” be no part of their plan:
Be mine the proud glory to weave at command,
A song for the poor of my own fatherland.
To insult the sad millions, and keep them in awe;
Although it were wiser to govern and guide
By justice and love, than oppression and pride;
Let a self-seeking priesthood preach patience to man,
Though to “reck their own rede” be no part of their plan:
Be mine the proud glory to weave at command,
A song for the poor of my own fatherland.
Let the venal bard flatter, and court the caress
Of “the minions of splendour who shrink from distress;”
Let him turn from the lowly, and shut from his songs
Their faith and affections, their rights and their wrongs;
Let him cling to the mighty, and flutter his hour
In the warm smile of plenty, the sunshine of power;
Be mine the proud duty to weave at command,
A song for the poor of my own fatherland.
Of “the minions of splendour who shrink from distress;”
Let him turn from the lowly, and shut from his songs
Their faith and affections, their rights and their wrongs;
Let him cling to the mighty, and flutter his hour
In the warm smile of plenty, the sunshine of power;
Be mine the proud duty to weave at command,
A song for the poor of my own fatherland.
| The Poetical Works of John Critchley Prince | |