 | Fredolfo |  |
PROLOGUE.
Who has not heard of that romantic clime,Where, throned in wildness, Nature reigns sublime;
Where the young peasant, 'mid creation's shock,
Slumbers in peace upon his cradle rock;
And as the lightnings flash and thunders roll,
To danger educates his ardent soul;
Till the full spirit, now in years mature,—
As its own mountain-torrent grand and pure—
Worships the spot where despotism fell,
And fate and freedom wing'd the shaft of Tell!
Britons! o'er such a scene the Muse to-night
Rises rejoicing on her plumes of light,
Proudly assured to every bosom here
The soil of liberty is doubly dear!
Yet is not war her sanguinary theme—
The statesman's madness, or the warrior's dream!
The sad vicissitudes of mortal weal,
The pangs that all have felt, or yet may feel—
A daughter's anguish, and a father's fall—
Such is our theme to-night:—of Nature's call
What human breast, till life's last awful hour,
Denies the echo or disowns the power?—
Not for his theme, but Muse, the stranger fears,
Nor dreams of plaudits, so he win but tears!
| Fredolfo | |