University of Virginia Library

Hail, liberty sublime! hail godlike pow'r,
Coëval with the skies, to earth new born;
Thou parent of delight, thou source refin'd
Of human energy! Thou fountain vast
From whose immortal stream the soul of man
Imbibes celestial fervour! But for thee,
O! best and noblest attribute of God!
Who would the coil endure of mortal woe,
The frowns of fortune, or the taunts of pride
Float with the gale, or buffet with the storm;
Who labour thro' the busy dream of time,
War with oppression, or resist the base;
Opposing ever, and by each oppos'd,
To count succeeding conflicts; and to die?
Hail, liberty! legitimate of Heav'n!
Who, on a mountain's solitary brow
First started into life; thy sire, old time;
Thy mother, blooming, innocent, and gay,
The genius of the scene! Thy beauteous form
She gave to nature; on whose fragrant lap,
Nurs'd by the breath of morn, each glowing vein
Soon throbb'd with healthful streams. Thy sparkling eyes
Snatch'd radiance from the sun! while ev'ry limb,
By custom unrestrain'd, grew firm and strong.
Thy midnight cradle, rock'd by howling winds,
Lull'd thee to wholesome rest. Thy bev'rage pure,
The wild brook gushing from the rocky steep,
And foaming, unimpeded, down the vale.
For thee no victim bled; no groan of death
Stole on the sighing gale to pitying Heav'n!
Thy food the herbage sweet, or wand'ring vine
Bursting its luscious bounds, and scatt'ring wide
The purple stream nectareous. O'er the hills,
Veil'd with an orient canopy sublime,
'Twas thine to rove unshackl'd; or to weave
Young mountain flow'rs to deck thy flowing hair,
But not confine it. Where thy footsteps fell,
No vagrant bud was crush'd; for swift and light
As summer breezes, flew thy active limbs,
Scarce brushing the soft dews. Thy song divine,
Warbled with all the witchery of sound,
Welcom'd the varied year; nor mark'd the change
Of passing seasons: for to thee the morn
(Whether Favonius op'd the sunny east,
Flaunting its lustrous harbinger of light,
Or slow the paly glimpse of Winter's eye
Peer'd on the frozen brow of sickly day),
Still wore an aspect lovely! Ev'ning's star,
Spangling the purple splendours of the west,
And glowing, 'midst infinity of space,
Temper'd by twilight's tears, still smil'd on thee,
And bade thee dream of rapture! Nor could night,
With all its glooms opake, its howling blasts—
Thunders, appalling to the guilty soul—
Or livid fires, winging the shafts of death,
Shake the soft slumbers of thy halcyon home.
The wild was thy domain! at morn's approach
Thy bounding form uprose to meet the sun,
Thyself its proud epitome! For thou,
Like the vast orb, wert destin'd to illume
The mist-encircled world; to warm the soul,
To call the pow'rs of teeming reason forth,
And ratify the laws by nature made!

Long didst thou live, unruling and unrul'd,
The reveller of nature's wide domain!
'Till weary of thy solitude sublime,
And seeking bliss, beyond the bliss of Heav'n,
Thy truant steps the mazy haunts of men
Unheeded trod. Thy mighty voice was heard
Amidst the groans of anguish and despair,
The din of revelry, or silence deep
Of dungeon horrors; while high-bearing pride,
First taught to feel, her ghastly visage wrapp'd
In superstition's cowl. Ambition next
Assum'd the mask of valour; till revenge
Mock'd the shrewd spoiler. Terror then rush'd forth;
Her eyes glar'd wildly through the specious tears
Of holy sorrow; while her livid lip
Mutter'd relentless curses, each approv'd
By folly, cruelty, oppression, pride:
Confederate fiends, that trampled on the laws
Of bleeding nature. While they stood aghast,
Thy bosom bare, and form of godlike mould,
Burst on their startled gaze! they shrunk appall'd,
Trembling and pale! But soon the torpid spell
Of broad-ey'd horror vanish'd, and each arm
Was rais'd for slaughter. Legions bold uprose,
While fierce despair a frantic phalanx form'd
To intercept thy path! The daring host
At thy command gave way. Still, urg'd by fate,
Onward thou cam'st, o'er cliffs stupendous; where
Dark-brow'd deceit hung brooding o'er the wave
That lash'd the sands below. Down the dread gulf,
Oblivion's black domain, unnumber'd fiends
Hurl'd shrieking victims; spirits that rebell'd,
And spurn'd oppression's chain. Upon a rock
(Which seem'd the top-most beacon of the world),
A lofty fabric stood, whose ebon tow'rs
Shadow'd their pond'rous gates. At thy approach
The bolts flew wide, and with a thund'ring crash
The scene disclos'd! There on his iron throne
Terrifically frown'd despotic power,
A giant strong! his vassals, bound in chains
(Artfully twin'd with wreaths of opiate flow'rs,
Thro' which the clanking links sad music made),
Stood trembling at his gaze. Beneath his feet
Pale captives groan'd; while shad'wy spectres dire,
Of persecuted innocence and worth;
Of genius, bent to an untimely grave;—
Of ethiops, burnt beneath their native sun,
Their countless wounds wide yawning for revenge,
Rose in a mighty host,—and yell'd despair!—

The flinty fabric shook! the thund'ring spheres
Frown'd, dark as Erebus! upon its base
The Pandemonium rock'd! while with'ring bolts
From heav'n's red citadel fell fast around.
The vex'd sea, swoln above its tow'ring walls,
Foam'd madly furious. The gigantic fiend
Wav'd high his adamantine wand in vain;
Thy potent grasp palsy'd the monster's arm,
And hurl'd him fathoms down his native hell!
All earth convulsive yawn'd; while nature's hand
Crush'd the infernal throne, and in its stead,
A thousand temples rose, each dedicate
To valour, reason, liberty, and fame!

Now from her dark and solitary cell
Suspicion started, vigilant and shrewd,
Fear in her eye, and malice in her breast:
She scowl'd around, trembling, perplex'd, amaz'd,
Scarce daring to believe, yet more afraid
To doubt her startled senses. Ev'ry breeze
That whisper'd peril to the ear of night,
Bathing its ebon cheek with humid fears,
Bade her be wary: ev'ry blushing dawn
Beheld a scene of blood. The public streets
Flow'd with ensanguin'd streams: the prisons groan'd
With vengeful minions; while the subtle slaves
Aim'd at the breast of freedom. For a time
Valour with-held the desolating sword,
And pity offer'd to the lips of pride
The cup capacious, fill'd with essence pure,
Drawn from the fount of reason. Shrewd revenge,
With all the restless demons of her train,
Thirsting for blood, the sacred pledge receiv'd;
And while the eye of pity turn'd to heav'n,
Infus'd a deadly poison! on themselves
The fatal vengeance fell; they drank—and died!

Now the broad eye of freedom, like the sun,
Flam'd on the northern world! an awful beam
Descending mark'd the solitary path
To the dim cloister, where the vestal sad
Wither'd thro' life's dull hour in ling'ring death;
Her spring of youth chill'd by untimely frost,
And all the warm perceptions of her soul
Spell-bound by sorrow! What were her pursuits?
Fasting and pray'r; long nights of meditation;
And days consum'd in tears. The matin songs,
By repetition dull, familiar grown,
Pass'd o'er her lip mechanically cold,
And little mark'd devotion. The wing'd choir,
Blithe airy travellers of the sphery climes,
Hover'd around the grey and mould'ring spires
Of her dim habitation. Could their songs,
Their dulcet warblings and wild mazy trills,
Sooth the wan mourner's breast, or prompt her thoughts
Anticipating freedom? The cold moon,
Scatt'ring nocturnal incense on the world,
Stole o'er her lonely prison, sadly pale,
Rob'd in a starry vest; her crescent bright
Silver'd the ivy battlements; the haunts
Of that lone bird, whose melancholy note,
Breaking the solitude, from fev'rish dreams
Startl'd her aching breast. The fervid noon
No streamy light bestow'd to gild the cell
Where bigot frenzy barr'd the icy grate,
And spread perpetual horrors! Day retir'd;
The gaudy monarch of unbounded space,
Furling his ample vest of blushing gold,
Hie'd to his dusky bed; the vesper bell,
Pale twilight's sound funereal, rous'd her soul
From transient spells of contemplation sad,
By small and silver sounds; vibrations sweet!
Yet not more sweet than solemn. Hapless maid!
On the cold marble of her cell she kneel'd
To chant her midnight orisons, and mourn,
The slave confess'd of passion and despair!
'Twas her's to breathe upon her cross the sigh
Of unavailing grief, while love's pure torch,
In the mild radiance of her humid eyes,
Gleams like an April sun thro' passing show'rs,
To shew another idol in her breast!
Her smooth cheek reddens thro' the snowy veil
That half conceals its bloom: ah! transient bloom!
The self-reproving flush of conscious love,
Which, like the wood-wild rose, unfolds its hues,
And, drest with morning's tears, expires unseen!
Counting her beads, she number'd not her pray'rs:
Yet who can blame the vestal's wand'ring thoughts?
Could the day past, to her reflecting mind
Shew consolation? Could the relique cold
Chill the warm pulse that throbs within her breast,
Or chasten its rebellion, while no gleam
Of peace was her's, save that which hope unfolds,
The quiet of the grave? O! beamless grave!
Thou sombre curtain, which o'er life's dull scene
Throws blank oblivion; while the busy throng
Are bound in apathy, 'till lab'ring time
Dissolves them into nothing! Yet the spark
Of immortality, escap'd the bounds
Of its dark prison-clay, roves, unconfin'd,
Thro' regions infinite, and worlds unknown!
Then joyful is the hour, when, to the wretch
(Whose feet ne'er wander'd from sequester'd haunts,
Who, shut from nature's wond'rous scenery,
Breathes but a living spectre), death shall come,
Robb'd of his terrors, like a herald gay,
To force the frozen gates of bigot zeal,
Clos'd by oppression's hand, and barr'd by pride.
Ask the pale vestal's meditating soul,
Was it for this her rosy infancy
Was nurs'd with tender care? Her perfect form,
Fashion'd by all the graces and the loves,
Rear'd to the op'ning summer of delight,
A model of perfection? Was her mind,
Stor'd with the prodigality of nature,
Expanded, warm'd, enlighten'd, and inspir'd,
For this to perish? Can the sable vest,
The lawn transparent, or the pendent cross,
Deceive th' omniscient! while her beating heart
Proclaims her form'd for rational delight?
Prepost'rous sacrifice! Sweet fading flow'r!
Condemn'd to waste its bloom in one dull speck
Of freezing solitude; to lift its head,
Lovely as spring! Yet, ere the summer sun
Unfolds its od'rous breast,—to droop, and die!

'Mid the grey horrors of his narrow cell,
The wasted monk is seen. His silv'ry beard
Falls, like Helvetia's snow, half down his breast,
Shading his frozen heart. A torpid spell
Benumbs life's fountain, while the feeble pulse
Marks the slow progress of time's weary course,
With languid circulation. Ev'ry clock
That sounds the passing hour, appears the knell
Which warns him to oblivion. A coarse garb
Hangs round his meagre frame; his hollow cheek,
Shrivell'd with frequent fasting as with age,
Scarce hides his bony jaws. Beneath his cowl,
His dimly-gleaming eyes, sunk in their cells,
And glaz'd with midnight watching, ask of Heav'n
A solitary grave. Poor, breathing ghost!
Tell that still questioner, thy weary mind,
'Twas not for cloister'd, visionary glooms,
For castigation and sequester'd hours,
For cold inanity, life's conscious death,
That nature gave thee strength in busy scenes
To act a nobler part. Misguided monk!
Thou wretched slave of bigotry and fraud!
Was it to gabble o'er a canting tale,
To trim the wasting lamp, to wear away
The flinty pavement with thy wounded knees,
To scourge thy meagre flesh, embrace cold saints,
To starve thy appetites, till ev'ry bone
Shews what a wretched, ghastly thing thou art,
Robb'd of thy outward form? Was it for this
That reason dawn'd upon thy op'ning youth;
And science smil'd, while love, with sportive mein,
Danc'd gaily on, leading expectant joys
Which told thee thou wert man? O! did the spark,
Th' electric spark which kindles fancy's fire,
Ne'er in perspective bright unfold such scenes
As bade thy bosom glow, ambition warm'd,
Or melt in rapt'rous visions? What art thou?
Deluded, sad, forgotten! Like a tree
Plac'd on a blasted desert, where no sun
Visits the sapless trunk, but all around
One gloom perpetual reigns. Where are thy pow'rs?
Where the perception strong, the active mind,
Th' ethereal essence that expands the heart;
The depth of knowledge, and the will to act?
Where is the stamp which marks th' immortal soul,
And places thee above the growling brute?
Shrouded by superstition, chain'd by fear,
Benumb'd by long seclusion from the world;
While naught remains, but a lean, wither'd form,
Inert, enfeebl'd, useless, and debased!
The Indian wild, that roves the pathless steep,
Chasing the famish'd wolf, or savage bear,
Anticipates the hour when to his hut
He drags the bleeding spoil, and shouts, and sings,
In social feasting with his untaught tribes;
The blazing fire encircled, sheds a glow
On the brown cheek, and gilds the gloomy hour
Of wint'ry desolation!—O'er his hut,
Scoop'd in the snowy ridge or flinty rock,
The blast howls horrible, while the gaunt beast,
That roves for prey, fills up the sullen pause
With yell'd defiance.—On the distant shore
The white surge dashes, with a fateful sound,
While the wreck'd mariner the slipp'ry steep
Climbs desperately bold. List'ning he hears
The deaf'ning din of elements combin'd;
Where clouds embattled mingle; while beneath
Waves roll on waves, curling their tyrant heads
In wild fantastic fury. From the cliff
The sea-bird screams, while the half-shrouded moon
Throws its dim light upon the world below,
Frozen and desolate. Yet ev'n there
Man is the friend of man! While the rude grasp,
The deaf'ning war-hoop, or the uncouth garb,
Shews, with fantastic gestures, the caprice
Of ever-varying nature. But, for thee,
O solitary monk! no cheerful hour
Shall mark the summer morn, or deck the wing
Of time with sunny lustre! all, yes all,
To thee shall seem a blank; a dreadful blank,
Veiling the face of nature, while her voice
Whispers reproof; reproof that will be heard
Ev'n in the cloister's melancholy shade;
Till death shall close the tablet of thy fate,
Nor leave one friend, to pity or to praise.
Explore the dungeon's gloom, where, all alone,
The homicide expires; the guilty wretch,
Whose hands are steep'd in gore; whose timid soul,
The mild and pitying angel, hope, forsakes,
While all the demons of despair and hell
Howl in his startled ears! His weary hours
Have many a season pass'd, since to his cheek
The breeze of heav'n gave freshness; since his lip
Imbib'd th' ethereal spirit of the morn,
Or balmy sleep, the opiate of the mind,
Lull'd the sick sense of sorrow. If his brain
Snatches a transitory dream of peace;
If, wearied by perpetual, painful thought,
A short, but broken slumber fills the throne
Of tott'ring intellect: sudden and fierce
Some shriek appalling, or some spectre dire,
Taunts him to waking madness, and again
The mental fever rages! Down his cheek
The scalding tear rolls fast. His bloodshot eyes
Glare motionless and wide, as if their sense
Turn'd inward on his soul. His quiv'ring lip,
Drain'd of the life-stream by the conscious fiend,
Mutters a brief appeal to angry heav'n,
Then freezes into death. No friendly hand
Closes the beamless eye: no kindred breast
Sustains the livid cheek, grief-worn and mark'd
With water-fretted channels. His bow'd head,
Silver'd by sorrow in the prime and pride
Of lusty youth, shews like a goodly tree,
Frost-nipp'd and drooping. Wretched homicide!
Whom did he kill? The minion of his foe;
The sordid Steward, whose infuriate rage
Snatch'd from his helpless babes the well-earn'd store
Of many a toilsome hour; the pamper'd slave,
Whose mind, grown callous by oppression's task,
Repell'd compunctuous pity.—Ask thy heart,
Divine philanthropist! who rais'd his hand
Against the caitiff's life? The caitiff's self!
The petty tyrant, who with barb'rous wrongs
Propell'd him on to sin. For reason's breast,
Arm'd 'gainst oppression, in resistance strong,
Can combat giant fierceness; and tho' oft
By subtle malice vanquish'd or betray'd,
Still owns the plea of nature! In his low cell
The patient child of persecution sits,
Pensively sad. His uncomplaining tongue,
His stedfast eye, his lean and pallid cheek,
Grac'd with the stamp of dignified disdain,
Wait the approach of death. No haggard glance
Ruffles the placid orb, whose lustre, dimm'd
By dungeon vapours, like a dewy star,
Gleams 'midst surrounding darkness. On his lip
Smiles innocence, enthron'd in modest pride,
And eloquently silent! On his breast
His folded arms (shielding his guiltless heart
From the damp poisons of a living grave),
Are firmly interwoven; while his soul,
Calm as the martyr at the kindling pyre,
Holds strong with resignation. Who will now
Breathe the contagious mischiefs of his cell?
Who quit the gorgeous splendours of the sun,
To watch with him the slowly-wasting lamp,
Dim with obtrusive vapours? Who will share
The bread of misery, and with the breath
Of sympathy more palatable make
The cup of human sorrow? Who resign
The midnight revelry of happier scenes,
Turn from the banquet and illumin'd hall,
The throne of flaunting beauty, gaily deck'd,
The costly shews of life, to count with him
The silent hours of anguish? Tell, O truth!
Thou heav'n-descended judge! what has he done?
Has he refus'd to bend the flexile knee
Before the blood-stain'd foot of ruthless pow'r?
To fawn upon the bloated, lordly fool,
Who claim'd his vassalage? Has he refus'd
To load the groaning altars of the church;
Libell'd, by truth, some wanton, courtly dame;
Or, like an arrogant, rebellious knave,
Dar'd talk of freedom? Say, O vengeful man!
Are these thy destin'd victims? Is it thus
Thou deal'st the meed of justice? Dost thou think
Thy petty rage will sever them from him,
Whose attribute is mercy, and whose grace
Mocks all distinctions? O! let nature speak,
And with instinctive force inform thy soul,
That liberty, the choicest boon of heav'n,
Is reason's birth-right, and the gift of God!

In the worst den of human misery,
Behold the hopeless and forsaken wretch,
Who on the humid pavement naked lies,
Tearing his burning flesh! Then ask thy heart,
O! little greatness! and let nature's voice,
Piercing the adamantine shield of pride,
Tell thee, thy victim is thy fellow man!
Once nature's darling, now a maniac wild!
His intellectual treasures scatter'd wide,
By persecution's strong and ruthless arm,
While he, an atom, shrinking from the storm,
Flies to an unbless'd grave! Was it for this
His youth was pass'd in toil—in mental toil—
The hardest labour? Did the classic fount,
Such as Athenian sages taught to flow,
For him diffuse his renovated streams,
The muses bind his brow, the virtues grace
His bland, instinctive mind, to bow the slave
Of barb'rous ignorance! Did fancy smile,
And bid his fingers smite th' Horatian lyre,
His pulses throb with the fine fervour, strong;
His depth of thought explore the wond'rous page,
Which bade Longinus live, himself to die,
Unblest, neglected, indigent, and mad?
Did he, for this, with Newton climb the spheres,
And traverse worlds unknown? Or did the thrill
Of heav'n-born poesy, thro' ev'ry vein
Dart the electric fire, whose vivid glow
Illum'd the darken'd sense of Britain's bard,
With full Promethean blaze, while at his touch
Immortal themes, embodied, burst to view
Angels, and all the mighty hosts of heav'n,
Rang'd in tremendous glory? Pow'r supreme!
Oh! theme of justice! victims such as these
Make reason tremble; rouse the thinking soul,
And, in the frenzied agony of wrongs,
Present such sceptical and daring thoughts,
That man disowns his Maker! Guilty pride,
The crime is thine, not his; thy lofty rage,
Insulting tyranny, and cold disdain,
Pour'd fell oppression's torrent o'er his sense,
Madden'd his shrinking brain, and whelm'd his soul!
Now anarchy roam'd wide a monster fierce,
Of sullen discontent, and rancour born,
And nurs'd with blood! Breaking the sacred bonds
Of social order, trampling to the dust,
Destructions requisite of worth and laws,
And dealing desolation all around!
Veil'd by its growing wing, the dawning hour,
Which welcom'd liberty, and spread around
A pure effulgence, suddenly grew dark,
And storms impending blacken'd the broad sun.
The highmost hills re-echoed with the shouts
Of yell'd destruction; while the concave vast
Of heav'n shook horrible! The beaten ways,
By the unwearied foot of commerce made,
Were wash'd with blood: the holy altar stain'd
With gore of innocents. The good, the wise,
The smiling infant, and the hoary sage,
The pride of genius, and the boast of fame,
Sunk in the mighty ruin. Rabble rage,
And low suspicion, lurk'd beneath the guise
Of patriotic ardour. Mem'ry, rous'd
By the arch-fiend rebellion, dy'd the steel
With fury indiscriminate and wild
In the unwary heart. Rebellion then
Usurp'd the form of freedom, whose bland soul
Shrunk at the boundless and licentious rage
Of lawless innovation. 'Midst the scene,
Wild as the wintry storm, uprose the lord
Of tow'ring desolation!—on his breast,
Expanded and omnipotently strong,
A gorgon shield shone dazzling, while his arm,
Wielding a flaming sword with giant strength,
Hew'd down the tree of reason. Then the eye
Of shudd'ring liberty was dimm'd with tears,
Haggard and grief-swoln. The ensulphur'd air
Thicken'd to blot the sun!—The shriek of death
Deepen'd the midnight horrors, and the dawn
Redden'd thro' tears, while o'er th' ensanguin'd scene
Pale nature trembled: for infuriate man,
Wild with the fateful plenitude of pow'r,
Warr'd 'gainst his desperate fellow. Not alone
O'er proud oppression flew the bolts of fate;
But all around, as the swift summer storm
Tears from the mountain's brow the sturdy oak,
While the small flowret and the pois'nous weed
Alike are levell'd, so the vengeful shaft
Bore down the breathing race: the clang of arms
Deafen'd the ear of reason: the loud shout
Of uproar, frantic, now was heard to ring
The vaulty arch of heav'n, while mingling groans
Drown'd the deep sighs of nature! Liberty,
Thou rational delight! thou good
Ordain'd to bless mankind, how was thy name
Profan'd by cruelty! How dimly gleam'd
Thy heav'n-illumin'd orbs, beneath a front
Blood-stain'd and ghastly! How was thy domain
By slaughter desolated, while around,
A dread depopulation swept the path
Which anarchy had trodden. Where were then
Thy fields prolific, and thy hamlets gay,
Thy mountain revelries, and peaceful glens,
The boast of a brave peasantry? Each hour
Mark'd on the page of time some guilty deed,
The rav'nous hords wolf-like were gorg'd with blood,
While two arch demons, the fierce phalanx led
Lawless and cruel! Daring homicides,
Apostates to their God! How many fell
Beneath the arm, in usurpation strong,
Yet recreant in oppression!

On the plain
The mangled carcase black'ned; rivers bore
Their murder'd victims down the blushing wave
Of blank oblivion. O'er the flinty way
The mutilated limb and streaming heart
Met the full eye of pity. Beauty's breast,
Polluted by the touch of sensual rage,
Quiver'd beneath the fell assassin's sword;—
While outrag'd nature stamp'd the hellish deed
On retribution's tablet. Ev'ry street
Presented the wide scaffold, crimson-stain'd,
And menacing destruction. Palaces
Were now the haunts of ruthless revellers,
Of vices abject, dark conspiracies—
While uncurb'd rapine, and blaspheming rage,
Rov'd with licentious frenzy. Sacred shrines
And temples consecrate, were public marts
Of profligate debasement. Not the wise,
The virtuous, or the brave, then held the scale
Of even justice: freedom's sons inspir'd,
In vain rear'd high their banners 'mid the scene
Of madd'ning slaughter. For a time their zeal
Was mock'd with barb'rous rage; their great design
By frenzy violated, or constrain'd
By spells infernal. Then, O liberty!
Thy frantic mien, and heav'n-imploring eye,
Turn'd from the dreadful throng to trace new paths,
And seek, in distant climes, new scenes of woe.

'Mid the dread altitudes of dazzling snow
O'er-topping the huge imag'ry of nature,
Where one eternal winter seem'd to reign,
An hermit's threshold, carpeted with moss,
Diversified the scene. Above the flakes
Of silv'ry snow, full many a modest flow'r
Peep'd through its icy veil, and blushing op'd
Its variegated hues—the orchis sweet,
The bloomy cistus, and the fragrant branch
Of glossy myrtle. In the rushy cell
The lonely anchoret consum'd his days,
Unblessing and unbless'd. In early youth,
Cross'd in the fond affections of his soul
(For in his soul the purest passions liv'd)
By false ambition, from his parent home
He, solitary, wander'd: while the maid,
Whose peerless beauty won his yielding heart,
Condemn'd by lordly, needy persecution,
Pin'd in monastic horrors!

Near his sill
A little cross he rear'd; where prostrate he,
At day's pale glimpse, and when the setting sun
Tissued the western sky with streamy gold,
His orisons wou'd pour, for her whose hours
Were wasted in oblivion. Winters past,
And summers faded slow, unchearly all
To the lone hermit's sorrows. For still, love
A mild and unpolluted altar rear'd
On the white waste of wonders! From the peak
Which mark'd his neighb'ring hut, his tearful eye
Oft wander'd o'er the rich expanse below;
Oft trac'd the glow of vegetating spring,
The full-blown summer splendours, and the hue
Of tawny scenes autumnal. Still was he
By all forgotten; save by her whose breast
Sigh'd in responsive sadness to the gale
That swept her prison turrets. Five long years
Had the lone hermit turn'd the sandy glass
In silent resignation! Five long years
Had seen his graces wither, ere his youth
Of life was wasted. From the social scenes
Of human energy an alien driv'n,
He almost had forgot the face of man.
No voice had met his ear, save when perchance
The pilgrim wanderer, or the goat-herd swain,
Bewilder'd in the starless midnight hour,
Implor'd the hermit's aid, the hermit's pray'rs;
And nothing loth by pity or by pray'r
Was he to sooth the wretched. On the top
Of his low rushy dome, a tinkling bell
Oft told the weary trav'ller to approach
Fearless of danger. The small silver sound
In quick vibrations echo'd down the glade
To the dim valley's quiet, while the breeze
Slept on the glassy Leman. Thus he pass'd
His melancholy days, an alien man
From all the joys of social intercourse,
Alone, unpitied;—by the world forgot!
His scrip each morning bore the day's repast,
Gather'd on summits mingling with the clouds;
From whose bleak altitude the eye looks down,
While fast the giddy brain is rock'd by fear.
Oft would he start from visionary rest,
When roaming wolves their midnight chorus howl'd;
Or blasts tremendous shatter'd the white cliffs,
While the huge fragments, rifted by the storm,
Plung'd to the dell below! Oft would he sit,
In silent sadness, on the jutting block
Of snow-encrusted ice, and shudd'ring mark,
'Mid the vast wonders of the frozen world,
Dissolving pyramids, and threat'ning peaks,
Hang o'er his hovel, terribly sublime!
And oft, when summer breath'd its fragrant gales,
Light sweeping o'er the wastes of printless dew,
Or twilight gossamer, his pensive gaze
Trac'd the swift storm advancing, whose broad wing
Blacken'd the rushy dome of his low hut;
While the pale lightning smote the pathless top
Of tow'ring Cenis,—scatt'ring, high and wide,
A mist of fleecy snow. Then would he hear,
While mem'ry brought to view his happier days,
The trembling torrent, bursting wildly forth
From its thaw'd cavern, sweep the shaggy cliff,
Vast and stupendous! strength'ning as it fell,
And delving, 'mid the snow, a chasm rude.
One dreary night, when winter's icy breath
Half petrify'd the world; when not a star
Gleam'd thro' the blank infinity of space;
Sudden the hermit started from his couch,
Fear-struck and trembling! ev'ry limb was shook
With painful agitation. On his cheek
The blanch interpreter of horror wild
Sat terribly impressive! In his breast
The purple fount of life convulsive throbb'd,
And his broad eyes, fix'd motionless as death,
Gaz'd vacantly aghast! his feeble lamp
Was wasting rapidly! the biting gale
Pierc'd the thin texture of his narrow cell;
And silence seem'd to mark the dreary hour
With tenfold horrors! As he list'ning sat,
The cold drops pacing down his hollow cheek,
A groan, a second groan, assail'd his ear,
And rous'd him into action. To the sill
Of his low entrance he rush'd forth, and soon
The wicker bolt unfasten'd. The keen blast
His quiv'ring lamp extinguish'd, and again
His soul was thrill'd with terror. From below
A stream of light shot forth, diffusing round
A partial view of trackless solitudes;
While mingling voices seem'd, with busy hum,
To break the spell of silence! Down the steep
The hermit hasten'd; when a shriek of death
Re-echo'd to the valley! As he flew,
Half hoping, half despairing, to the scene
Of wonder-waking anguish, suddenly
The torches were extinct,—and glooms opake
Involv'd the face of nature. All below
Was wrapp'd in darkness; while the hollow moan
Of cavern'd winds, with melancholy sound,
Deepen'd the midnight horrors. Four long hours
The hermit watch'd and pray'd. And now the dawn
Broke on the eastern summits; the blue light
Shed its cold lustre on the colder brows
Of Alpine mountains; while the dewy wing
Of weeping twilight sweep'd the naked plains
Of the Lombardian landscape. On the snow,
Dappled with ruby drops, a track was made
By steps precipitate; a rugged path
Down the steep frozen chasm mark'd the fate
Of some night traveller, whose bleeding form
Had toppled from the summit. Lower still
The anchoret descended—till arriv'd
At the first ridge of snowy battlements,
Where, lifeless—ghastly, paler than the bed
On which her cheek repos'd—his darling maid
Slept in the arms of death. Frantic and wild
He clasps her well-known form, and bathes with tears
The lilies of her bosom,—icy cold!
Yet beautiful and spotless!

Now afar
The wond'ring hermit heard the clang of arms
Re-echoing from the valley! the white cliffs
Trembled, as tho' an earthquake shook their base
With terrible concussion! thund'ring peals
From warfare's brazen throat proclaim'd th' approach
Of conq'ring legions. Onward they extend
Their dauntless columns;—shouts of victory
With deaf'ning clamours ratify the toils
Of ruthless depredators! In the ranks
A ruffian met the hermit's startled gaze,
Like hell's worst demon! for his murd'rous hands
Were smear'd with gore, and on his daring breast
A golden cross, suspended, bore the name
Of his soul's darling!—Hapless anchoret!
Thy vestal saint, by his unhallow'd rage
Torn from monastic solitude, had been
The victim of rude rioters, whose souls
Had mock'd the touch of pity! To his cell
The wretched alien turn'd his trembling feet;
And, after three sad weeks of pain and pray'r,
Clos'd the dark tablet of his fate—and died!
Hail'd by the breathing race, O child of time,
Borne on thy parent's wings, thy eagle eyes
Glanc'd o'er the pendent world! Full many a spot
Seem'd dark with misery; and many a wretch
Pin'd in oppression's chain. Italia's sons,
Plac'd in the blooming garden of the world,
A second Athens, Europe's proudest clime,
Pregnant with spicy gales, and balmy dews,
Whose seminaries, rich with treasur'd lore,
Mark'd that emporeum, where the classic mind
Gave and receiv'd the pure exchange of thought;
E'en there the sun of intellect was dimm'd
By gloomy tyranny. There mis'ry's race,
Dark in the centre of expanding light,
Still groan'd beneath the worst of slavery,
The spells of superstition. Temples vast,
And shrines of massy gold, their prisons were;
Replete with galling chains; while daring hands
Dealt the decrees of heav'n; and impious tongues
Pronounc'd anathemas, to fright mankind.

Superstition! more destructive still
Than plague or famine, tyranny or war!
Thou palsying mischief, thou benumbing foe
To all the proudest energies of man!
Whence springs thy subtle desolating charm,
From pompous pageantry and bigot pride,
From mitred canopies, and shrines of gold,
And bones of mould'ring monks? Can freezing nights,
In cells where cold inanity presides,
Cloath'd in religion's meek and sainted guise,
Or long-drawn pageantry of empty show,
Conceal the trembling soul, from that dread pow'r
Which marks th' All-seeing! On Italia's shores,
On every plain, on ev'ry mountain top,
The voice of nature speaks, in mighty sounds,
To bid thee tremble! Then, O! nature, say—
Shall rich Italia's bow'rs, her citron shades,
Her vales prolific, mountains golden clad,
And rivers fring'd with nectar-teeming groves,
Re-echo with the mighty song of praise
To empyrean space, while shackled still
The man of colour dies? Shall torrid suns
Shoot downward their hot beams on mis'ry's race,
And call forth luxuries to pamper pride,
Steep'd in the Ethiop's tears, the Ethiop's blood!
Shall the caprice of nature, the deep tint
Of sultry climes, the feature varying,
Or the uncultur'd mind, endure the scourge
Of sordid tyranny, or heap the stores
Of his fair fellow man, whose ruddy cheek
Knows not the tear of pity; whose white breast
Conceals a heart, than adamant more hard,
More cruel than the tiger's! Bend thy gaze
O! happy offspring of a temper'd clime,
On whom the partial hand of nature set
The stamp of bloomy tints, proportions fine,
Unmixing with the goodly outside shew
The mind appropriate; bend thy pitying gaze
To Zembla's frozen sphere; where in his hut,
Roof'd by the rocky steep, the savage smiles,
In conscious freedom smiles, and mocks the storm
That howls along the sky. Th' unshackled limb,
Cloth'd in the shaggy hide of uncouth bear,
Or the fleet mountain elk, bounds o'er the cliff
The free-born tenant of the desert wild.
The glow of liberty, thro' ev'ry vein
Bids sensate streams revolve; the dusky path
Of midnight solitudes no terror brings,
Because he fears no lord. The prowling wolf,
Whose eye-balls redden 'midst the world of gloom,
Yells fierce defiance, form'd by nature's law
To share the desert's freedom. O'er the sky
The despot darkness reigns, in sullen pride,
Half the devoted year. His ebon wing
O'ershadows the blank space: his chilling breath
Benumbs the breast of nature; on his brow,
Myriads of stars with lucid lustre gem
His boundless diadem! The savage cheek
Smiles at the potent spoiler; braves his frown;
And while the partial gloom is most opake,
Still vaunts the mind unfetter'd! If for these
Indulgent nature breaks the bonds of woe,
Gilding the deepest solitudes of night
With the pure flame of liberty sublime;
If for the untaught sons of gelid climes,
Health cheers the darkest hour with vig'rous age,
Shall the poor African, the passive slave,
Born in the bland effulgence of broad day,
Cherish'd by torrid splendours, while around
The plains prolific teem with honey'd stores
Of Afric's burning soil; shall such a wretch
Sink prematurely to a grave obscure,
No tear to grace his ashes? Or suspire,
To wear submission's long and goading chain,
To drink the tear, that down his swarthy cheek
Flows fast, to moisten his toil-fever'd lip,
Parch'd by the noontide blaze? Shall he endure
The frequent lash, the agonizing scourge,
The day of labour, and the night of pain;
Expose his naked limbs to burning gales;
Faint in the sun, and wither in the storm;
Traverse hot sands, imbibe the morbid breeze,
Wing'd with contagion, while his blister'd feet,
Scorch'd by the vertical and raging beam,
Pour the swift life-stream? Shall his frenzied eyes,
Oh! worst of mortal miseries! behold
The darling of his soul, his sable love,
Selected from the trembling, timid throng
By the wan tyrant, whose licentious touch
Seals the dark fiat of the slave's despair!
Humanity! from thee the suppliant claims
The meed of retribution! Thy pure flame
Would light the sense opake, and warm the spring
Of boundless ecstacy; while nature's laws
So violated, plead, immortal-tongu'd,
For her dark-fated children; lead them forth
From bondage infamous! Bid reason own
The dignities of man, whate'er his clime,
Estate, or colour. And, O! sacred truth!
Tell the proud lords of traffic, that the breast
Thrice ebon-tinted, bears a crimson tide,
As pure, as clear as Europe's sons can boast.
Then, liberty, extend thy thund'ring voice
To Afric's scorching climes, o'er seas that bound
To bear the blissful tidings, while all earth
Shall hail humanity! the child of heav'n!

Where summer smiles, clad in the golden garb
Of sunny splendours! where the tangled vine,
Bending with purple clusters, richly glows!
Where the brown olive clothes the Sabine hills
In tawny veil, repelling the hot breeze,
The lab'ring throngs advance. In ev'ry eye,
The living ray of waken'd intellect
Marks reason's lamp divine! on ev'ry cheek
A stranger smile is seen, deep'ning the tint
Which southern climes diffuse, with ruddy flush
Of conscious ecstacy! The voice, unchain'd,
Breathes the pure eloquence of nature's tongue,
Mocking the fine-wrought sophistry of schools,
The pomp of learning, and the vaunted lore
Of metaphysic art. The untaught race,
Grown to maturity, yet newly born,
Above pedantic lessons, feel the glow
Of nature's own philosophy. O! change
Transcendent and sublime! Blest as the day
That, after a long night of gloom opake,
A night of months, which blotting the broad sun,
From Scandinavia's deserts, smiling comes,
And peering o'er some frozen mountain's top,
Illumes the ebon world. On ev'ry plain
Where Italy unfolds her treasur'd store
Of summer gifts luxurious, tepid dews,
And gales impregnated with spicy breath
Of buds ambrosial, greet the daring hosts
Of conquering France. The brazen cannon's roar
Echoing to heav'n's high concave, steals away
In sullen, long vibration; while around,
O'er ev'ry hill, green copse, and woodland glade,
From troublous Tiber to th' Etrurian meads,
That skirt the vale where Arno's limpid tide
Flashes the silver wave, in dulcet sounds,
The music of the tinkling mandolin
Calls forth the rustic throng, to feast, and sing,
And mingle, wildly gay, in mazy dance.
And thou, fair city, rising from the wave,
Girt with a lucid zone, thy Parian tow'rs,
Proud sea-marks, glitt'ring while the sunny beam
Glows o'er the Adriatic; thou, emerg'd
From gloomy superstition, far more dread
Than ocean's vast and liquid battlements
Rock'd by tempestuous winds, when all around
The equinoctial blast howls fierce and strong,
Braving its tyrant orb; thou, 'mid the deep,
Standst like a lofty temple, whose firm base
The green main guards triumphant; thy proud sons
Hymn the loud song of liberty, new-born;
While the white sails of welcome treasuries
(From worshipp'd Ganges, or Peruvian hills;
From odour-breathing Persia's pearly sands,
Wash'd by the Caspian wave,) to greet thy mart,
Thronging the pale horizon each new morn,
Now swell with gales propitious. Now no more
Slaughter steals hoodwink'd thro' the gloomy haunts
Of thy wave-circl'd citadel. No lord,
From the dark gondola, beholds his slave,
Whose trade is murder, deal the deadly wound
On his unwary foe; while, by the ray
Of holy lamp, the keen stilleto glares,
And the pale victim sinking, groans and dies.
Time was, and mem'ry sickens to retrace
The tablet fraught with wrongs, when seasons roll'd
O'er the small hut of lowly industry
In dim succession of eternal gloom;
Tho' rosy morn upon the eastern cliff
Burst wide her silver gates, and scatter'd round
A bright ethereal show'r! When nature's breast
Unveil'd its fragrance, and its bloomy tints,
Spangled by twilight's tears, to weary eyes,
Unbless'd with sweet repose! Poor, toil-worn race!
The hardy blossoms of a fervid soil;—
What was their hapless lot? To sigh, to pant,
To scorch and faint, while from the cloudless sky
The noon-tide beam shot downward. By their hands
The burning ploughshare thro' the Tuscan glebe
Pursued its sultry way: the smoking plains,
Refresh'd by tepid show'rs, receiv'd the pledge
Of future luxury. The tangling vine,
Nurs'd by their toil, grew fibrous: the brown rind,
Dried by the parching gale, wove close and firm,
Guarded the rich and nec'trous distillation.
The tendrils twin'd, to ev'ry point minute
The od'rous bev'rage stole, till the swoln fruit,
Empurpled by the sun, the labourers prest
To yield its luscious burthen. Yet, for them
Did summer gild the plain? Did autumn glow?
Did austral breezes fan the tepid show'r,
Scarce whisp'ring as it fell? Did the day's toil
Ensure the night's repose?—sweet recompence,
That well befits the peasant's guiltless soul!

Could they, when down the crimson plains of light
The lord of day retir'd, when ev'ry bird,
The plumy trav'ller of unbounded space,
Claim'd the short hour of rest, could labour's sons
Shake from their freckled brows the ev'ning dew,
And homeward, blithesomely, return to quaff
The honey'd cup of joy? Could they suspire
Health's breezy hour; on their own cultur'd plains
Reap the full harvest, pen their fleecy store;
Or, as the night-mist gather'd o'er the heath,
Call home their wand'ring herds?—O! suff'ring Carle!
When the rich vintage heap'd the lordly board,
Moisten'd the feasted lip, or flashing foam'd
Within its crystal prison, amber-dyed;
When nectar, thrice distill'd by burning gales,
Sated the palate of the pamper'd fool;
What were thy poor rewards?—A scanty boon!
Dealt out with freezing scorn, or brutal pride;
A rushy pillow, and a mountain hut,
Whose sides of clay, and tempest-shatter'd roof,
Scarce screen'd thy bosom from the wint'ry blast;
(The very dogs of princes warmer hous'd!)
While the long hour, 'till morning's dawn, stole on
In sullen sadness, or in fruitless pray'r!

Turn to the marble palaces of pride,
The velvet hangings, and the golden shows,
That made their tables groan! Behold their feasts
Of luscious fruits, and blood-inflaming spice;
Their oily syrups of ambrosial flow'rs,
Conserves, thrice essenc'd in Phœnician dews,
Fit for the sick'ning palate of the wretch
By luxury unnerv'd! Beneath his feet,
The polish'd pavement must be sprinkled o'er
With perfumes of Arabia! From above,
The lattic'd roof, with summer flow'rs o'erhung,
'Midst aromatic sweets, shed cooling airs
On his feast-fever'd cheek! On ev'ry side,
In sumptuous colonnades of Parian stone,
Or glitt'ring granite, or the fibrous earth
Of rich Sienna's hills; slow-breathing flutes,
In dulcet strains, take captive the dull sense
Thro' the long hour of feasting; cheating time
With enervating bliss! O! contrast infinite!
Yet who, amidst the mortal myriads,
Most labour'd to embellish nature's plan
Of boundless wonders? Who, with ceaseless toil,
Dug from the beamless mazes of the earth
The boast of varying climes, from Lybia's groves
To caves Armenian, guarded by the rocks
Of wild Euphrates? Who, but the sons of toil,
Enrich'd the sculptur'd dome, reviv'd the arts,
Sinking, o'ewhelm'd, amidst the wrecks of time?

Look round the lofty palaces of pride,
Behold the breathing canvas, wond'rous proof
Of imitative pow'r! where human forms,
Colours, and space, miraculously rang'd,
Drew order out of chaos! where the vast
Of bold perception varied hues disclos'd,
From the rich foliage of embow'ring woods,
To mountains, azure capp'd, scarce visible
Amid the dusk of distance. Trace the lines
That form the graceful statue, Grecian born
From rough-hewn quarries! See the rounding limb,
The modest look serene! which marks the nymph
Of Medicean fame: pround monument
Of heav'n-instructed genius! thou shalt charm
When pomp and pride shall mingle in the mass
Of undistinguish'd clay, inanimate!
That, having borne its hour of busy toil,
Shrinks into shapeless nothing! Dreadful thought!
To mingle with the cold and senseless earth;
In spells of dull inanity to rest;
The noblest passions, and the living pow'rs
Of intellectual light, the soul's pure lamp,
All, all extinguish'd! Tell me, nature's God!
Then what is the warm magic that supplies
The strong life-loving flame, which fills the breast,
Enliv'ning time's slow journey? Liberty!
If thou art not the impulse exquisite,
Where does it dwell? What else can teach the wretch
(Lab'ring with mortal ills, disease and pain,
Deep-wounding poverty, presumptuous scorn,
High-crested arrogance, affections spurn'd,)
To bear the weight of thought, and linger out
This weary task of being? Blest with thee,
The peasant were as happy as his lord—
For nature knows no difference! Summer smiles
For the poor cottager, and smiling shews
The vegetating scene, diffusing fair
And equal portions for the sons of earth!
But man, proud man, a bold usurper, takes
The law of nature from its destin'd course,
And fashions it at pleasure! Hence we trace
The gloomy annals of receding time
Spotted with gore, and blurr'd by pity's tears,
Where genius, virtue, nature's progeny!
Mark'd by th' Eternal's hand with ev'ry charm,
Have shrunk beneath oppression!—bow'd the neck
Before the blood-stain'd shrines of impious fraud,
Flouted by fools, the gilded dregs of earth,
And forc'd to hide the gushing tear of scorn,
Till driv'n to mountain caves, and desert glooms,
The godlike wonders fled. The first, sublime,
The darling of his race; majestic! grand!
With eyes, whose living lustre beam'd afar
The blaze of intellect, Promethean-touch'd,
And infinitely radiant!—

By his side,
Beauteous and mild as morn's returning star,
The maiden, virtue, mov'd! and who can tell
But in some hovel low, whose rushy roof
The barren cliff defends from wint'ry storms,
The godlike pair, scorning the din of fools,
(Ambition's clamour, which the despot death
Awhile observes, then, with his iron hand,
Locks in eternal silence!) who can tell,
But the proud pair, by reason's pow'r sustain'd,
Cherish a glorious race? Statesmen and chiefs,
Poets, and sage philosophers, whose lore
Might rival ancient Greece, and nobly prove
The solitude of virtue—wisdom's sons!
Thy day begins to dawn! Reason sublime!
Thy penetrating eye, no more obscur'd
By superstition, politic and shrewd,
Beholds, beneath the cowl of whining fraud,
Blood-thirsty tyrants! subtle hoodwink'd knaves,
Who, 'mid the gloomy labyrinths of time,
Have murder'd millions. Heap'd the bigot pile,
And bit the brand accurs'd, where martyr'd saints
Fed the consuming flame. Who, bound in oaths,
Hostile to man, insulting to their God,
Wove the thick veil which closely shrouded round
Th' infernal Inquisition! Hydra fiend!
Whose wide-extended hand and ruthless pow'r,
Grasp'd the Peruvian desert, rooting thence
The tree of reason, and enforcing zeal
Which instinct shunn'd, while ages sanctified
A grandly fervid worship! In that cause
How many perish'd, while the ensanguin'd hords
Of sanctified despoilers, dyed the steel
In blood and innocence. Oh! sacred truth!
How are thy laws profan'd, when cavils shrewd
Warp the instinctive mind, and bend the will
To tenets politic: when interest rules
The mind's strong energies, and bigot fangs
Blur the fair aspect of religion pure
To feed ambition's maw; destructive gulf,
Yawning, but never, never sated!—Now, no more
Shall reason, palsied by licentious pow'r,
Pay flexile homage to the lofty fool,
The carping minion, or the high-rais'd shrew,
While with'ring victims cram the ebon jaws
Gf Gallia's fell Bastile. O! dreadful hour!
Disastrous to the groaning tribes of earth,
And doubly horrible, in sight of heav'n!
Trace but the source of ev'ry mortal crime,
Of rapine, murder, or the hopeless pang
Of that misguided and blaspheming wretch
Who disavows his God. Whence do they rise?
From what deep hell, than Acheron more dark,
More terrible to think of? Ask thy heart,
O thou, who blest with giddy fortune's smiles,
Canst riot in voluptuous wanton joys,
Feed on the banquet prodigally rich,
Nursing the embryo mischiefs of disease,
Clothe thy gross frame, bloated with idleness,
In silk, and gems, and perfumes exquisite,
Recline on downy beds, where o'er thy breast,
Sated with feasting, hangs the gay festoon
Of costly velvet; while, till busy noon,
In Doric halls, crouded with motley slaves,
The vestibules of pride, the drooping child
Of humble virtue waits; 'till his faint form,
Struggling with poverty and conscious worth,
Is spurn'd indignant, or compell'd to hide,
In some lone corner of obscure distress,
Those mental treasures, which would make thee poor
By fair comparison. Then why is he
Forc'd by the tyranny of custom's law,
To yield thee homage? Fortune is his foe!
He wants that vile contaminating dross,
Which gives to falsehood all the grace of truth;
To fools respect; to villains empty praise;
Buys fawning smiles from sycophants and knaves;
Deadens the hand of justice; seals the tongue
Of busy admonition, hateful guest
To that dull empty dupe, whose ear imbibes
The honey'd poison of deceitful tongues,
While int'rest holds a mirror to his breast,
Which flatters, while it damns him. At his gate
The famish'd beggar lies; the lame, the blind,
The poor artificer, or vet'ran bold,
Whose guiltless age and mutilated limbs
Are his proud passports! Dost thou feel for him,
Thy brother man, but nobler than thyself,
By nature's heraldry? Behold his scars,
His silver hairs, scatter'd by ev'ry blast
That wings the wintry storm. Does gratitude
To him present a portion of that wealth—
Which he, by many an hour of fierce exploit,
Rescued from foreign foes? Does fancy paint,
Amid thy dreams of labour'd respiration,
The stormy night, when on the tatter'd shrouds,
Drench'd by the pelting show'r, while deaf'ning peals
Rung in his startled ears, the seaman stood
Braving the dreadful gulf that yawn'd below!
Such was the mendicant that haunts thy gate!
So were his youthful hours consum'd for thee;
When o'er the rocking deck the sulphur'd flash
Of desolating war its terrors threw
Midst dying groans: while thund'ring peal on peal
The brazen tongue of slaughter roar'd revenge,
Making heav'n's concave tremble! See that cheek
Wither'd by torrid suns, or frozen climes,
Bath'd with a silent tear. Beside him stands,
With half-retiring step and modest eye,
Fraught with the silent eloquence of woe,
His mis'ry's only hope, a beauteous girl,
Gentle as innocent! Her daily task
Is filial piety, attention sweet,
That marks th' angelic mind! Her outstretch'd arm
Guides the slow footsteps of her drooping sire,
Grown blind with age, and wearied out with toil:
Yet, 'midst the sombre wilderness of woe,
Her voice breeds comfort; and her thrifty hand,
When on a bed of straw her parent sleeps,
Is turn'd to industry. O! fortune blind!
Thou, from whose lap uncounted treasures fall,
Strewing the paths of folly and of pride
With rich redundancy of nature's stores—
Till the pall'd fancy sicken, and the sense
Faint with satiety: O! fortune blind!
Hadst thou no little hoard for modest worth,
No silent nook in the vast space of earth,
Where the wrong'd child of poverty might rest,
Screen'd from the worst of mortal miseries,
The cold contempt of ignorance and pride.
How glows the patriot soul, while fancy's dream
Anticipates the day when ruthless war
Shall cease to desolate! Prophetic hope
Beholds the heav'nly vision, bleeding France,
When o'er thy blooming vales and tawny hills,
Thy pine-clad summits and thy yellow plains,
Thy peaceful tribes shall rove. The laughing throng,
Link'd in the bonds of social amity,
Live for each other. Honesty and mirth,
Twin children of the mountain cottagers,
Labour and peace, come dancing o'er the heath,
Purpled with fragrant flow'rs. Before them fly,
Flutt'ring their sunny wings, unshackled loves;
And hope, with sparkling eyes, whose humid lids
Are fill'd with tears of joy! The breezy hills,
Glowing with fruits redundant, seem to snatch
The sun-beam's lustre; while exulting health
Bounds o'er the topmost summit. The soft dews
Spangle her airy vest of gossamer,
And bathe her od'rous bosom. On her cheek,
Deepen'd by exercise, the orient tint
Plays on the dimpled smile, while thro' her veins
The temper'd blood its purple channel fills
By streams revolving; not with sluggish pace
Of glutted feasting, or benumbing sloth,
But pure and limpid as the vagrant brook
Wand'ring in liquid lapse along the vale,
And bright'ning as it wanders. All around
Reason and peace, exulting, dance o'er flowers
Whose austral fragrance thro' the whisp'ring air
Scatter a world of sweets.

Then, smiling spring!
Thy beauties shall unfold redundantly
To strew the paths of peace! Then, summer, thou
Shalt wear thy golden stole, with cheek of fire
Flush'd by extatic bliss, thy broad clear eye
Flaming o'er fields luxuriant! Then shall
Fame, led on by smiling commere, drop her tear
On valour's grave, while rustic revellers
Mark the long hour of autumn's closing day
By many a simple tale, as simply told,
Of hardy valour; then the spacious hearth,
Encircled by the sons of toil, shall blaze,
Which thro' the long day fed its embers faint,
Lonely and unattended.

Then the sound
Of boisterous glee shall echo to the roof,
While the tir'd lab'rer joins, with half-clos'd eyes,
The clam'rous burthen of the uncouth song.

Who has not seen the cheerful harvest home!
Enliv'ning the scorch'd field, and greeting gay
The slow decline of autumn? All around
The yellow sheaves, catching the burning beam,
Glow golden-lustred; and the trembling stem
Of the slim oat, or azure corn-flow'r,
Waves on the hedge-rows shady. From the hill
The day-breeze softly steals with downward wing,
And lightly passes, whisp'ring the soft sounds
Which moan the death of summer. Glowing scene,
Nature's long holiday! Luxuriant, rich,
In her proud progeny, she smiling marks
Their graces, now mature, and wonder-fraught!

Hail! season exquisite!—and hail, ye sons
Of rural toil!—ye blooming daughters!—ye
Who, in the lap of hardy labour rear'd,
Enjoy the mind unspotted! Up the plain,
Or on the sidelong hill, or in the glen,
Where the rich farm, or scatter'd hamlet, shews
The neighbourhood of peace, ye still are found,
A merry and an artless throng, whose souls
Beam thro' untutor'd glances. When the dawn
Unfolds its sunny lustre, and the dew
Silvers the outstretch'd landscape, labour's sons
Rise, ever healthful,—ever cheerily,
From sweet and soothing rest;—for fev'rish dreams
Visit not lowly pallets! All the day
They toil in the fierce beams of fervid noon—
But toil without repining! The blithe song,
Joining the woodland melodies afar,
Flings its rude cadence in fantastic sport
On echo's airy wing! The pond'rous load
Follows the weary team: the narrow lane
Bears on its thick-wove hedge the scatter'd corn,
Hanging in scanty fragments, which the thorn
Purloin'd from the broad waggon.

On the plain
The freckled gleaner gathers the scant sheaf,
And looks, with many a sigh, on the tythe heap
Of the proud, pamper'd pastor! To the brook
That ripples shallow down the valley's slope,
The herds slow measure their unvaried way;—
The flocks along the heath are dimly seen
By the faint torch of ev'ning, whose red eye
Closes in tearful silence. Now the air
Is rich in fragrance!—fragrance exquisite!
Of new-mown hay, of wild thyme dewy wash'd,
And gales ambrosial, which, with cooling breath,
Ruffle the lake's grey surface. All around
The thin mist rises, and the busy tones
Of airy people, borne on viewless wings,
Break the short pause of nature. From the plain
The rustic throngs come cheerly; their loud din
Augments to mingling clamour. Sportive hinds,
Happy!—more happy than the Lords ye serve!—
How lustily your sons endure the hour
Of wintry desolation! and how fair
Your blooming daughters greet the op'ning dawn
Of love-inspiring spring!

Hail! harvest home!
To thee, the muse of nature pours the song,
By instinct taught to warble; instinct pure,
Sacred, and grateful to that pow'r ador'd,
Which warms the sensate being, and reveals
The soul self-evident!—beyond the dreams
Of visionary sceptics! Scene sublime!
Where earth presents her golden treasuries;
Where balmy breathings whisper to the heart
Delights unspeakable! Where seas, and skies,
And hills and vallies,—colours, odours, dews,
Diversify the work of nature's God!

Now turn, my Muse,
To Albion's plain prolific; where serene,
Temper'd by reason, liberty delights
To warm th' enlighten'd mind! Where, since the days
When her bold Barons ratified their deed,
Freedom has smil'd triumphant and secure.
Oh! favoured isle, long may discordant broils
Be sever'd from thy shores; may howling war
Blow its dread blast far, Albion, far from thee,
While thy white ramparts, tow'ring o'er the waves,
Shall bid thy foes defiance! Here the hind
Enjoys the well-earn'd produce of his toil,
And sleeps secure, protected by those laws
Form'd for the peasant and the prince alike.
Still may thy infants, Albion, instinct taught,
Prattle of liberty; the sun-burnt swain,
As slow the flaming torch of day retires,
Sing the loud strain of freedom and of joy.
Still may no wrongs invade his midnight dreams,
No guilty wish contaminate his will,
To violate the laws: for 'tis the sting
Of keen oppression that gives birth to crimes,
And brutalizes man. The rav'nous wolf
Feeds not upon his kind,—his murd'rous will
Being but instinctive. Lions prowl abroad,
Famish'd and watchful of the desert path
Where the lone traveller passes; on his kind
He scorns to batten: none but thinking man
Preys on his species, sheds his brother's blood,
And while opposing, still oppos'd, derides
The pleading tongue of nature. Let the brave
Turn to the clay-built hovel of content,
Where peace and reason consecrate the toils
Which virtue's sons endure. See! at their door
No shiv'ring pilgrims wait the murd'rous glance
Of scowling superstition. No dark fiend
Dashes the frugal cup with terror's gall,
Or from the fever'd lip, with churlish hand,
Snatches the cooling draught. No bigot wrath
Starves the poor sinner into faith; or steals
From fainting toil that wholesome nourishment
Which nature meant for all, nor mark'd the day
Nor hour of recreation. Albion! still
May thy brave peasantry indignant turn
From priestcraft, ignorance, and bigot fraud,
To view in nature's wonders, nature's God!
For where can man so proudly contemplate
Th' Omniscient's pow'r, as in the tablet vast
Of infinite creation? Ev'ry breeze
Seems the soft whispering of nature's voice,
Fraught with the lore of reason. Ev'ry leaf
That flaunts its vernal hue, or eddying falls,
Its fibres wither'd by autumnal skies,
A moral lesson shews. The rippling rill
Prattles with nature's tongue. The ev'ning gale
Moans the decline of day: while twilight's tears
Fall on the dusky wings of chilling night,
Spreading to hide its triumphs. The vast dome
Gleams with unnumber'd stars, the prying eyes
Of those bright centinels, ethereal borne,
That watch the sleep of nature. O'er the main,
In ebon car aërial, lightning wing'd,
The pealing thunder whirling his vast flight,
A short-liv'd fiend, gigantic born, the son
Of equinox, rides furious. The freed winds
Howl as he passes by. The foamy waste
Bounds with convulsive horrors; while the waves
Lash the loud-sounding shore. O! nature's God!
These are the varied pages of that lore
Which reason searches; these the awful spells
That seize on all the faculties of man,
And bind them to allegiance. For that pow'r
Which speaks in mighty thunder, wakes the soul,
Breathing in balmy gales; is seen alike
In the swift lightning and the ling'ring hue
Of ev'ning's purple veil; looks thro' the stars,
And whispers 'mid the solitude sublime
Of thickening glooms nocturnal: from the east
Flames forth his burning eye: the grateful earth
Welcomes his glances with her boundless stores,
And robes herself in splendours: odours rich,
And colours varying, decorate her breast,
To greet the Lord of nature: forests wild
And oceans multitudinous unfold
Their wonders to his gaze! Then why should man
Creep like a reptile, fearful to explore
The page of human knowledge? Why mistrust
The sensate soul, the faculty supreme
Which instinct wakens? Reason, pow'r sublime!
Accept the strain spontaneous from the Muse,
Which nurs'd on Albion's cliffs, delights to sing
Of liberty, and thee, her Albion's boast.
And tho' no flight sublime shall grace her toil,
No classic lore expand her thinking mind,
Prophetic inspiration, rapt, shall pour
This mystic oracle. The pendent globe
Shall greet, with pæans loud, the sacred claim
To Britain's sons, by reason ratified;
And when the God of nature, “trumpet-tongu'd,”
Shall check the fiery steeds that hurl the car
Of shouting vict'ry, time shall trace her course
On the proud tablet of eternal fame;
And nature, tow'ring 'mid the wrecks of war,
Shall bless her British shores, which grandly lift
Their rocky bulwarks o'er the howling main,
Firm and invincible, as Britain's sons,
The sons of reason! unappall'd and free!