The Poetical Works of Ebenezer Elliott :: :: University of Virginia Library

In other days, time-darken'd Conisb'rough,
Men thought of Hengist when they spoke of thee!
My native river murmurs near thee now,
As then it murmur'd, hasting to the sea,
Through hazel bowers, where memory loves to be;
But in these days, thy pilgrims whisper low
The name of Scott, and join with his thy name.
Him, the Napoleon of Parnassus, thou
Hast seen with Shakspeare equal deem'd in fame;
Nor may the Cæsar of the Muses claim,
His throne unshared. Twice thirteen years are past,
Since hither, almost dead with care, I came,
What time another Cæsar fiercely cast
O'er earth his stormy shade, which kings beheld aghast.

Through Russian wastes that Cæsar chased a cloud:
Calm was its aspect; for it had the power
To make his crowded host a lifeless crowd,
He being conquer'd in that fated hour,
Which gave his queen destruction for a dower.
Slow was its motion, and few accents loud
Broke from its chamber'd thunder as it fled;
But, when it stopp'd and spake, the conqueror bow'd,

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Lower than vanquish'd kings, his laurel'd head.
They, waking from the vileness of their dread,
Gazed on the self-crown'd wretch, in mean surprise;
Then, with the vulgar dust, which he had spread
Around the consul's chair, bedimm'd his eyes,
And bade him die, as baffled baseness dies.

Yet better was it, that the Fool of Force
Triumph'd by force, and fell by force subdued,
Than that the ancient thrones of foot and horse
Had quelled, at once, the uproused multitude,
Whom giant wrongs with Titan might embued.
Well fought the people under Terror's wing;
And banded monarchs trembled, fled, and sued;
For Terror reign'd, Gaul's omnipresent king!
And homed, on tyrants' hearths the storm they brewed!
They serve us still, with strife! still, still renew'd;
The fight of fate accelerates their doom;
Themselves they mar, by battle, fraud, and feud;
And in large letters, of mixed flame and gloom,
Write, “The Republic! cometh, and will come.”

Come the Republic then! Or come the will
Of one wise despot! Let the Nation sway
Or be swayed well! But we will not be still
Of fifty thousand kingly-wolves the prey:
O Britain, sweep them from thy hearth away!

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What! shall they reign alone, like the simoom,
Kings of the dead? Not so! we toil, and pay;
And here we perish pall'd beneath their gloom—
Ere Mockery, throned o'er London's ashes, say,
“Behold a manless land! a nation's tomb!”
The heavens shall cry, Ha, ha! and shout their doom;
Their names shall be a byword of dismay;
Chaff for the whirlwind shall their pomp become;
Their homes be graves, and dust for ruin they.
Come the republic then! but not the strife
Of want-struck millions for immediate bread!
“The labour of the poor man is his life,”
And on our lives shall palaced fraud be fed?
“They who rob him, strike Me!” the Lord hath said;
“They break my everlasting covenant!
And therefore worms beneath their pride are spread;
For are not murderers number'd with the dead?
Fainting, their sons shall ask, their daughters pant,
For drink and bread, in vain; and both shall flee
Unbless'd, go where they may, o'er land or sea,
And learn how hard to bear are scorn and want!
For I (the poor man's God) his strength will be,
And shake the dead leaves down, but save the tree!”