Poems by St. John Honeywood . with some pieces in prose |
 |
VERSES WRITTEN A SHORT TIME AFTER THE POPE FLED FROM ROME, AND THE CITY FELL INTO THE POSSESSION OF THE FRENCH ARMY. |
 | Poems by St. John Honeywood . |  |
75
VERSES WRITTEN A SHORT TIME AFTER THE POPE FLED FROM ROME, AND THE CITY FELL INTO THE POSSESSION OF THE FRENCH ARMY.
The great, the long expected day is come,
Big with the fate of tyranny and Rome;
Wasted, unnerv'd, engangren'd to the core,
Without a groan expires th' empurpled whore,
Whose impious pride usurp'd the rights of God,
Whose haughty foot on fawning monarchs trod;
Whose cup, which more than Circean ills contain'd,
To the black dregs besotted nations drain'd;
Whose torch wide glaring through the mental shade,
Show'd Carnage where to aim the murd'rous blade;
Whose policy, on superstition built,
Put heaven to sale, and merchandis'd with guilt:
Ign'rance and zeal in sacred league combin'd,
Fought on her side, and led in chains the mind;
Who once—but nought the splendor past avails,
Each boasted art the dying sorceress fails;
In vain her Babylonian charms she tries,
Where Reason triumphs, Superstition flies;
Rome sinks in night as Babel sunk before,
Lost is her name, her place is found no more.
Rejoice, ye nations whom her arms subdued,
Whose fields her phrenzy dyed with guilders blood:
That guiltless blood to heaven no longer cries
Unheard—avenging justice leaves the skies;
On Rome's devoted head the bolt descends;
The proud oppressor's long dominion ends.
Spirits of martyrs pure! if aught ye know,
In the bright realms of bliss, of things below,
Join the glad hymn of triumph, ye who stood
Firm for the faith, and seal'd it with your blood.
No more shall Rome disturb the world's repose,
Quench'd is her torch, and blood no longer flows;
Crush'd is the fell destroyer in her turn,
And the freed world insults her hated urn.
Big with the fate of tyranny and Rome;
Wasted, unnerv'd, engangren'd to the core,
Without a groan expires th' empurpled whore,
Whose impious pride usurp'd the rights of God,
Whose haughty foot on fawning monarchs trod;
Whose cup, which more than Circean ills contain'd,
To the black dregs besotted nations drain'd;
Whose torch wide glaring through the mental shade,
Show'd Carnage where to aim the murd'rous blade;
Whose policy, on superstition built,
Put heaven to sale, and merchandis'd with guilt:
76
Fought on her side, and led in chains the mind;
Who once—but nought the splendor past avails,
Each boasted art the dying sorceress fails;
In vain her Babylonian charms she tries,
Where Reason triumphs, Superstition flies;
Rome sinks in night as Babel sunk before,
Lost is her name, her place is found no more.
Rejoice, ye nations whom her arms subdued,
Whose fields her phrenzy dyed with guilders blood:
That guiltless blood to heaven no longer cries
Unheard—avenging justice leaves the skies;
On Rome's devoted head the bolt descends;
The proud oppressor's long dominion ends.
Spirits of martyrs pure! if aught ye know,
In the bright realms of bliss, of things below,
Join the glad hymn of triumph, ye who stood
Firm for the faith, and seal'd it with your blood.
No more shall Rome disturb the world's repose,
Quench'd is her torch, and blood no longer flows;
77
And the freed world insults her hated urn.
O Truth divine! thou choicest gift of God!
Man's guide and solace in this drear abode!
Plain was thy garb, and lovely was thy mien,
When usher'd by the spotless Nazarene:
From shouting crowds and pageantry he fled
To the lone desert or the pauper's shed;
There taught his humble followers to despise
All that the proud affect, or worldings prize;
Freely he gave to man's repentant race
The peerless treasures of his sovereign grace;
Yet bade no fires descend, no thunders roll,
To force his bounty on the wayward soul.
Join then, celestial Truth, the glad acclaim;
Crush'd is the proud usurper of thy name,
Who first with blood thy snow-white robes distain'd,
And with vain pomp thy holy rites profan'd.
Man's guide and solace in this drear abode!
Plain was thy garb, and lovely was thy mien,
When usher'd by the spotless Nazarene:
From shouting crowds and pageantry he fled
To the lone desert or the pauper's shed;
There taught his humble followers to despise
All that the proud affect, or worldings prize;
Freely he gave to man's repentant race
The peerless treasures of his sovereign grace;
Yet bade no fires descend, no thunders roll,
To force his bounty on the wayward soul.
Join then, celestial Truth, the glad acclaim;
Crush'd is the proud usurper of thy name,
Who first with blood thy snow-white robes distain'd,
And with vain pomp thy holy rites profan'd.
| Poems by St. John Honeywood . | |