For thou wast born amid the din of arms, And suck'd a breast that panted with alarms. While yet thou wast a grov'ling puling chit, Thy bones not fashion'd, and thy joints not knit, The Roman taught thy stubborn knee to bow, Though twice a Cæsar could not bend thee now. His victory was that of orient light, When the sun's shafts disperse the gloom of night. Thy language at this distant moment shows How much the country to the conqu'ror owes; Expressive, energetic, and refined, It sparkles with the gems he left behind: He brought thy land a blessing when he came, He found thee savage, and he left thee tame; Taught thee to clothe thy pink'd and painted hide, And grace thy figure with a soldier's pride; He sow'd the seeds of order where he went, Improved thee far beyond his own intent, And, while he ruled thee by the sword alone, Made thee at last a warrior like his own. Religion, if in heavenly truths attired, Needs only to be seen to be admired; But thine, as dark as witch'ries of the night, Was form'd to harden hearts and shock the sight; Thy Druids struck the well-hung harps they bore With fingers deeply dyed in human gore; And, while the victim slowly bled to death, Upon the rolling chords rung out his dying breath. Who brought the lamp, that with awaking beams Dispell'd thy gloom, and broke away thy dreams, Tradition, now decrepit and worn out, Babbler of ancient fables, leaves a doubt : But still light reach'd thee; and those gods of thine, Woden and Thor, each tott'ring in his shrine, Fell broken and defaced at his own door, As Dagon in Philistia long before. But Rome, with sorceries and magic wand, Soon raised a cloud that darken'd every land; And thine was smother'd in the stench and fog Of Tiber's marshes and the papal bog.
Then priests, with bulls and briefs, and shaven
And griping fists, and unrelenting frowns, Legates and delegates with powers from hell, Though heavenly in pretension, fleeced thee well; And to this hour, to keep it fresh in mind, Some twigs of that old scourge are left behind.* Thy soldiery, the Pope's well-managed pack, Were train'd beneath his lash, and knew the smack, And, when he laid them on the scent of blood, Would hunt a Saracen through fire and flood. Lavish of life, to win an empty tomb, That proved a mint of wealth, a mine to Rome, They left their bones beneath unfriendly skies, His worthless absolution all the prize. Thou wast the veriest slave in days of yore, That ever dragg'd a chain or tugg'd an oar; Thy monarchs arbitrary, fierce, unjust, Themselves the slaves of bigotry or lust, Disdain'd thy counsels, only in distress Found thee a goodly sponge for Power to press. Thy chiefs, the lords of many a petty fee, Provoked and harass'd, in return plagued thee; Call'd thee away from peaceable employ, Domestic happiness and rural joy, To waste thy life in arms, or lay it down In causeless feuds and bick'rings of their own. Thy parliaments adored on bended knees The sov'reignty, they were convened to please; Whate'er was ask'd, too timid to resist, Complied with, and were graciously dismiss'd; And if some Spartan soul a doubt express'd, And, blushing at the tameness of the rest, Dared to suppose the subject had a choice, He was a traitor by the general voice. Oh slave! with powers thou didst not dare exert, Verse cannot stoop so low as thy desert; It shakes the sides of splenetic Disdain, Thou self-entitled ruler of the main,
To trace thee to the date when yon fair sea, That clips thy shores, had no such charms for thee; When other nations flew from coast to coast, And thou hadst neither fleet nor flag to boast. Kneel now, and lay thy forehead in the dust; Blush if thou canst; not petrified, thou must: Act but an honest and a faithful part;
Compare what then thou wast with what thou art; And God's disposing providence confess'd, Obduracy itself must yield the rest.- Then thou art bound to serve him, and to prove, Hour after hour, thy gratitude and love.
Has he not hid thee, and thy favour'd land, For ages safe beneath his sheltering hand, Given thee his blessing on the clearest proof, Bid nations leagued against thee stand aloof, And charged Hostility and Hate to roar Where else they would, but not upon thy shore? His power secured thee, when presumptuous Spain Baptized her fleet invincible in vain;
Her gloomy monarch, doubtful and resign'd To every pang, that racks an anxious mind, Ask'd of the waves, that broke upon his coast, What tidings? and the surge replied-All lost! And when the Stuart leaning on the Scot, Then too much fear'd, and now too much forgot, Pierced to the very centre of the realm, And hoped to seize his abdicated helm, 'Twas but to prove how quickly with a frown He that had raised thee could have pluck'd thee
Peculiar is the grace by thee possess'd, Thy foes implacable, thy land at rest; Thy thunders travel over earth and seas, And all at home is pleasure, wealth, and ease. 'Tis thus, extending his tempestuous arm, Thy Maker fills the nations with alarm, While his own Heaven surveys the troubled scene, And feels no change, unshaken and serene. Freedom, in other lands scarce known to shine, Pours out a flood of splendour upon thine;
Thou hast as bright an interest in her rays As ever Roman had in Rome's best days. True freedom is where no restraint is known, That Scripture, justice, and good sense disown, Where only vice and injury are tied, And all from shore to shore is free beside. Such freedom is-and Windsor's hoary towers Stood trembling at the boldness of thy powers, That won a nymph on that immortal plain, Like her the fabled Phœbus woo'd in vain: He found the laurel only-happier you Th' unfading laurel, and the virgin too !*
Now think, if Pleasure have a thought to spare; If God himself be not beneath her care; If Business, constant as the wheels of time, Can pause an hour to read a serious rhyme; If the new mail thy merchants now receive, Or expectation of the next give leave; Oh think! if chargeable with deep arrears For such indulgence gilding all thy years, How much, though long neglected, shining yet, The beams of heavenly truth have swell'd the debt. When persecuting zeal made royal sport With tortured innocence in Mary's court, And Bonner, blithe as shepherd at a wake, Enjoy'd the show, and danced about the stake; The sacred Book, its value understood, Received the seal of martyrdom in blood. Those holy men, so full of truth and grace, Seem to reflection of a diff'rent race; Meek, modest, venerable, wise, sincere, In such a cause they could not dare to fear; They could not purchase earth with such a prize, Or spare a life too short to reach the skies. From them to thee convey'd along the tide, Their streaming hearts pour'd freely when they died Those truths, which neither use nor years impair, Invite thee, woo thee, to the bliss they share.
What dotage will not vanity maintain? What web too weak to catch a modern brain ? The moles and bats in full assembly find, On special search, the keen-eyed eagle blind. And did they dream, and art thou wiser now? Prove it if better, I submit and bow. Wisdom and goodness are twin-born, one heart Must hold both sisters, never seen apart. So then-as darkness overspread the deep, Ere Nature rose from her eternal sleep, And this delightful earth, and that fair sky, Leap'd out of nothing, call'd by the Most High; By such a change thy darkness is made light, Thy chaos order, and thy weakness might; And He, whose power mere nullity obeys, Who found thee nothing, form'd thee for his praise. To praise him is to serve him, and fulfil, Doing and suff'ring, his unquestion'd will; 'Tis to believe what men inspired of old, Faithful, and faithfully informed, unfold; Candid and just, with no false aim in view, To take for truth what cannot but be true; To learn in God's own school the Christian part, And bind the task assign'd thee to thine heart: Happy the man there seeking and there found, Happy the nation where such men abound.
How shall a verse impress thee? by what name Shall I adjure thee not to court thy shame? By theirs, whose bright example unimpeach'd Directs thee to that eminence they reach'd, Heroes and worthies of days past, thy sires? Or his, who touch'd their hearts with hallow'd fires? Their names, alas! in vain reproach an age, Whom all the vanities they scorn'd engage! And His, that seraphs tremble at, is hung Disgracefully on every trifler's tongue, Or serves the champion in forensic war To flourish and parade with at the bar. Pleasure herself perhaps suggests a plea, If interest move thee, to persuade e'en thee;
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