 | Three Hundred Sonnets |  |
273
POLITICS IN 1839.
Chill'd is the patriot's hope, the poet's prayer:Alas, for England and her tarnish'd crown,
Her sun of ancient glory going down,
Her foes triumphant in her friends' despair:
What wonder should the billows overwhelm
A bark so mann'd by Comus and his crew,
‘Youth at the prow, and Pleasure at the helm?’—
Yet, no!—we will not fear; the loathing realm
At length has burst its chains; a motley few,
The pseudo-saint, the boasting infidel,
The demagogue and courtier, hand in hand,
No more besiege our Zion's citadel:
But, high in hope comes on this nobler band,
For God, the Sovereign, and our Father-land.
| Three Hundred Sonnets | |