The poetical works of John Nicholson ... Carefully edited from the original editions, with additional notes and a sketch of his life and writings. By W. G. Hird |
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 | The poetical works of John Nicholson |  |
When war the sword had borne through every land,
No hostile feet durst ever press the sand
Where rolling tides had washed old Albion's coast,
Nor durst they on the seas with Nelson boast,
Where Albion's waves upon the shores are broke,
And her deep thunder sleeps in heart of oak!
Oh! could that thunder rise into the cloud,
And deepest darkness hide it like a shroud,
That these might pass unnoticed through the air,
And save a noble people from despair!
Oh! that each mortar, and each heavy piece,
Might send its thunder in defence of Greece!
And Britons unto Corinth lend her aid,
While Athens sees Saint George's flags displayed;
Great Homer's spirit see the tyrants slain,
And wish to sing of Grecian wars again;
Clinton his Hector, his artillery
The gods of Greece, deep thund'ring from the sky!
The Turks would fly when British shot was rained,
And Greeks behold what ancient Homer feigned.
Oh! could we save old Grecia from her woes,
For slav'ry give her triumph o'er her foes!
She worships at the self-same sacred shrine,
Believes that Saviour, Britain, that is thine.
Where now her sculptured columns? where that tongue,
In which her warriors spoke, her poets sung?
All gone!—and youth gain wisdom from the land,
But let it sink beneath the spoiler's hand!
Europe! ye kings! could you but hear her cry,
Would you withhold from Greece her liberty?
Thousands of Britons feel their bosoms burn
To take the dust of Athens from her urn,
Throw it toward heav'n, till all her warriors see
Old Corinth triumph—ev'ry Grecian free.
Were great Demosthenes to speak one hour,
The very slaves would scorn the Turkish power;
And were the troops of old Britannia there,
Crescents would fall, and Moslems disappear.
O that the day would dawn that brings to thee,
Land of the brave, thy ancient liberty!
Then would thy bold improving language tell
How Britons fought, how Turkish tyrants fell.
No hostile feet durst ever press the sand
Where rolling tides had washed old Albion's coast,
Nor durst they on the seas with Nelson boast,
Where Albion's waves upon the shores are broke,
And her deep thunder sleeps in heart of oak!
Oh! could that thunder rise into the cloud,
And deepest darkness hide it like a shroud,
That these might pass unnoticed through the air,
And save a noble people from despair!
Oh! that each mortar, and each heavy piece,
Might send its thunder in defence of Greece!
And Britons unto Corinth lend her aid,
While Athens sees Saint George's flags displayed;
71
And wish to sing of Grecian wars again;
Clinton his Hector, his artillery
The gods of Greece, deep thund'ring from the sky!
The Turks would fly when British shot was rained,
And Greeks behold what ancient Homer feigned.
Oh! could we save old Grecia from her woes,
For slav'ry give her triumph o'er her foes!
She worships at the self-same sacred shrine,
Believes that Saviour, Britain, that is thine.
Where now her sculptured columns? where that tongue,
In which her warriors spoke, her poets sung?
All gone!—and youth gain wisdom from the land,
But let it sink beneath the spoiler's hand!
Europe! ye kings! could you but hear her cry,
Would you withhold from Greece her liberty?
Thousands of Britons feel their bosoms burn
To take the dust of Athens from her urn,
Throw it toward heav'n, till all her warriors see
Old Corinth triumph—ev'ry Grecian free.
Were great Demosthenes to speak one hour,
The very slaves would scorn the Turkish power;
And were the troops of old Britannia there,
Crescents would fall, and Moslems disappear.
O that the day would dawn that brings to thee,
Land of the brave, thy ancient liberty!
Then would thy bold improving language tell
How Britons fought, how Turkish tyrants fell.
| The poetical works of John Nicholson | |