The Poetical Works of Thomas Pringle With A Sketch of his Life, by Leitch Ritchie |
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| II. |
| III. |
VERSES,
ON THE RESTORATION OF DESPOTISM IN SPAIN, IN 1823. |
 | The Poetical Works of Thomas Pringle |  |
195
VERSES, ON THE RESTORATION OF DESPOTISM IN SPAIN, IN 1823.
'Tis the old tale! perfidious wars,
And forts and fields for tyrants gain'd;
And kings, and emperors, and czars,
Colleagued to hold mankind enchain'd.
And forts and fields for tyrants gain'd;
And kings, and emperors, and czars,
Colleagued to hold mankind enchain'd.
'Tis the old tale!—an abject race,
To wisdom, virtue, mercy blind,
Resumes the jealous despot's place,
Triumphant o'er man's soaring mind.
To wisdom, virtue, mercy blind,
Resumes the jealous despot's place,
Triumphant o'er man's soaring mind.
And Freedom's hopes again are crush'd,
All soil'd the flag she late unfurl'd,
Her song upon the mountains hush'd,—
While sullen gloom pervades the world.
All soil'd the flag she late unfurl'd,
Her song upon the mountains hush'd,—
While sullen gloom pervades the world.
And, one by one, each glorious light
Is quench'd at foul Oppression's nod,
Whose league unhallow'd courts the night,
To clinch the chain and ply the rod.
Is quench'd at foul Oppression's nod,
Whose league unhallow'd courts the night,
To clinch the chain and ply the rod.
Thus sink the stars in sickening gloom,
And poisonous fogs the heavens infold,
When fiends and ghouls forsake the tomb,
Their hellish sacrament to hold!
And poisonous fogs the heavens infold,
When fiends and ghouls forsake the tomb,
Their hellish sacrament to hold!
196
And now, as erst in elder days,
The patriot earns a traitor's fame;
And Mina, like sad Brutus, says—
“Virtue is but an empty name!”
The patriot earns a traitor's fame;
And Mina, like sad Brutus, says—
“Virtue is but an empty name!”
Alas, for Spain! that fiercely fought,
Nor vainly, 'gainst a nobler foe;
Now, by the Bourbon sold and bought,
And shamed and sunk without a blow.
Nor vainly, 'gainst a nobler foe;
Now, by the Bourbon sold and bought,
And shamed and sunk without a blow.
Degraded Spain! a fitting fate
A waits her with her recreant chief;
Foul superstition, fraud, and hate,
And mockery amidst her grief.
A waits her with her recreant chief;
Foul superstition, fraud, and hate,
And mockery amidst her grief.
Alas, for craven Italy!
That chants in Austria's iron cage
Her soft voluptuous minstrelsy,
To charm the brutal Vandal's rage.
That chants in Austria's iron cage
Her soft voluptuous minstrelsy,
To charm the brutal Vandal's rage.
And thou, betray'd, insulted Pole,
And Saxon of the Elbe and Rhine,
I see the iron pierce your soul,
The tears commingling with your wine.
And Saxon of the Elbe and Rhine,
I see the iron pierce your soul,
The tears commingling with your wine.
I hear deep curses mutter'd low,
See fingers grasp the warrior's brand,
To burst the bondman's chain—But, no!
Ye have the heart without the hand.
See fingers grasp the warrior's brand,
To burst the bondman's chain—But, no!
Ye have the heart without the hand.
But now my glance to England turns,
Whose beacon light, 'midst ocean set
Impregnable, for ever burns,
To tell where Freedom lingers yet.
Whose beacon light, 'midst ocean set
Impregnable, for ever burns,
To tell where Freedom lingers yet.
197
And to that guardian Isle, the eye
Of fetter'd Europe fondly bends,
Waiting for England's battle cry
To rouse the earth's remotest ends.
Of fetter'd Europe fondly bends,
Waiting for England's battle cry
To rouse the earth's remotest ends.
And slumberest thou, my Native Land!
While Slaves and Despots league around?
Ah! where is Chatham's high command,
To bid thy warning trumpet sound?
While Slaves and Despots league around?
Ah! where is Chatham's high command,
To bid thy warning trumpet sound?
And where is Chatham's mighty Son?
And he—the thunderbolt of war
That shiver'd all he struck upon—
The Chief of Nile and Trafalgar!
And he—the thunderbolt of war
That shiver'd all he struck upon—
The Chief of Nile and Trafalgar!
And where are Fox and Sheridan—
Of Freedom's friends were they the last?
Remains there not a living man
Still fit to sound that signal blast?
Of Freedom's friends were they the last?
Remains there not a living man
Still fit to sound that signal blast?
Yes, hark!—it sounds!—I hear it now—
And Britain rouses at the peal,
And binds the helmet on her brow,
And grasps once more the glittering steel
And Britain rouses at the peal,
And binds the helmet on her brow,
And grasps once more the glittering steel
Her mighty voice is on the breeze—
Her martial step is on the plain—
Her flag's afloat upon the seas—
To bid the world be free again!
Her martial step is on the plain—
Her flag's afloat upon the seas—
To bid the world be free again!
Uprise the nations at her call,—
As once they started with a bound
To hurl to earth the tyrant Gaul,
Who fiercely trod them to the ground.
As once they started with a bound
To hurl to earth the tyrant Gaul,
Who fiercely trod them to the ground.
198
But not, as then, to stoop their necks
Again beneath the despot's yoke;
And idly champ the curb—that checks
The fretful spirit it has broke.
Again beneath the despot's yoke;
And idly champ the curb—that checks
The fretful spirit it has broke.
No! Courts and Congresses must yield
To Nations bursting from their chain—
And, under Britain's guardian shield,
Law, Freedom, Truth, begin their reign.
To Nations bursting from their chain—
And, under Britain's guardian shield,
Law, Freedom, Truth, begin their reign.
1823.
| The Poetical Works of Thomas Pringle | |