 | The Poems of Robert Bloomfield |  |
90
Dilapidation's wasting hand
Shall tear thy pond'rous walls, to guard
The slumb'ring steed, or fence the yard;
Or wheels shall grind thy pride away
Along the turnpike road to Hay,
Where fierce Glendow'r's rude mountaineers
Left war's attendants, blood and tears,
And spread their terrors many a mile,
And shouted round the flaming pile.
May Heav'n preserve our native land
From blind ambition's murdering hand;
From all the wrongs that can provoke
A people's wrath, and urge the stroke
That shakes the proudest throne! Guard, Heav'n,
The sacred birth-right thou hast given;
Bid justice curb, with strong control,
The desp'rate passions of the soul.
| The Poems of Robert Bloomfield | |