 | Philodamus |  |
PROLOGUE, by a Friend.
Spoken by Mr. HULL.
To-night
no conqueror marks his course in blood,
No patriot dies to earn the public good!
No empire crumbles, and no plot succeeds,
Nor liberty expires, nor monarch bleeds!
Nor paint we, for resemblance of the times,
Ambitious virtues, and heroic crimes!
No patriot dies to earn the public good!
No empire crumbles, and no plot succeeds,
Nor liberty expires, nor monarch bleeds!
Nor paint we, for resemblance of the times,
Ambitious virtues, and heroic crimes!
O'er humbler scenes of peaceful life we move,
Familiar sorrows, and domestic love!
No classic tears we draw by rules of art,
Nor aim thro' education at the heart!
Nor hope we nature in those tears to find,
Which science borrows of th'impassive mind!
But in rude hearts, the quarry where she rests,
And elemental pangs in unwrought breasts:
As when the sparks of borrow'd light expire,
We strike the rugged bed of genial fire!
Familiar sorrows, and domestic love!
No classic tears we draw by rules of art,
Nor aim thro' education at the heart!
Nor hope we nature in those tears to find,
Which science borrows of th'impassive mind!
But in rude hearts, the quarry where she rests,
And elemental pangs in unwrought breasts:
As when the sparks of borrow'd light expire,
We strike the rugged bed of genial fire!
And if by chance our muse to soar shall dare,
In purer regions of sublimer air—
Should paint, unmask'd what Roman virtue was,
Her venal justice, her distorted laws—
She asks no heart with treasur'd knowledge fraught,
—Th'unletter'd Indian needs not to be taught.
Where'er her bloody banner Europe waves,
Or war or commerce marks the land for slaves:
What havoc has the lordly Roman made,
That Asia mourns not for ignoble trade?
—Trade draws the sword, and fraud with force combin'd,
Sit brooding o'er the chains of half mankind!
In purer regions of sublimer air—
Should paint, unmask'd what Roman virtue was,
Her venal justice, her distorted laws—
She asks no heart with treasur'd knowledge fraught,
—Th'unletter'd Indian needs not to be taught.
Where'er her bloody banner Europe waves,
Or war or commerce marks the land for slaves:
What havoc has the lordly Roman made,
That Asia mourns not for ignoble trade?
—Trade draws the sword, and fraud with force combin'd,
Sit brooding o'er the chains of half mankind!
Oh may each gracious drop that dews our scenes,
Each generous sigh our hapless story wins,
Be drops of balm to ease a nation's pains,
Be mercy's breath o'er India's wasted plains;
So might she cease to curse the British name,
Forget her bleeding wrongs—our crimson shame;
So might we snatch from memory's faithful page
The blushing record—and redeem our age!
Each generous sigh our hapless story wins,
Be drops of balm to ease a nation's pains,
Be mercy's breath o'er India's wasted plains;
So might she cease to curse the British name,
Forget her bleeding wrongs—our crimson shame;
So might we snatch from memory's faithful page
The blushing record—and redeem our age!
| Philodamus | |