Once Superstition, in a fatal hour, O'er Europe rais'd the sceptre of her power; She reign'd triumphant minister of death, And Peace and Pleasure faded in her breath; Deep in monastic solitude entomb'd, The bud of beauty wither'd ere it bloom'd; The brilliant eye where love had sought to dwell, Shed all its lustre o'er the cloister'd cell; The smiling lip, of bright vermillion dye, Grew pale, and quiver'd with the passing sigh; The music floating from each tuneful tongue, With midnight hymns the Gothic arches rung. Here, through Reflection's eye, the pensive mind Sought with regret for objects far behind; And found Remembrance, as she heav'd a sigh, Drew back the soul just soaring to the sky; Save where misguided zeal in peace withdrew, From each bright pleasure, each enchanting view. The still retreat pale Melancholy sought, And found each object suited to her thought; Soft Sensibility might here deplore, And feel the shaft of falsehood wound no more; The sport of fortune, long to comfort lost, With hope far banish'd, expectation cross'd; Explor'd these scenes to weep for anguish past, Where the swell'd throbbing heart has burst at last. The Eternal from the throne of grace survey'd, With eye averse, the sacrifice they made; No forc'd devotion found acceptance there, No grateful incense issu'd from her prayer. Thus Superstition could not fix her sway In heaven, but look'd on earth to seize her prey; And yet, unsated with domestic pain, Sought to extend the terrors of her reign. She saw, as on the fatal height she stood, Her impious altars drench'd in guiltless blood; Where Fortitude with candid virtue join'd, And sought by sacred truths to save mankind; There she bestow'd her persecutions dire, And close pursu'd with unrelenting ire; Nor ceas'd to scourge them with her vengeful rod, Till each, a martyr saint, embrac'd his god. The British youth, torn from his much lov'd home, O'er foreign seas and foreign coasts to roam, Amid the fury of the piercing blast, The swell'd wave circling round the shiver'd mast, While bursting peals of thunder rend the skies, And o'er the deck, the foaming billows rise, Awhile in terror views the lightning glare With streaming horror, through the midnight air: -- The storm once past, he gains the friendly ray Of Hope, to guide him through the dangerous way; Smiling, she bids each future prospect rise, Through Fancy's varied mirror, to his eyes. Not so the slave: oppress'd with secret care, He sinks the hapless victim of despair; Or doom'd to torments that might even move The steely heart, and melt it into love; Till, worn with anguish, withering in his bloom, He falls, an early tenant of the tomb! Shall Britain view, unmov'd, sad Afric's shore Delug'd so oft in streams of purple gore! Britain, where science, peace, and plenty smile, Virtue's bright seat, and freedom's favour'd isle! Rich are her plains and fruitful is her clime, The scourge of tyrants, and the boast of time; Of every virtue, every worth possest, That fires the hero's or the patriot's breast: There, nobly warm'd with animating fire, Our Shakspere struck his soul-commanding lyre; There scenes of bliss immortal Milton sung, And notes harmonious issued from his tongue: And bards like these shall boast in every age, While native genius glows in Hayley's page; While genius bids, to our enchanted eyes, In Swift's own strains, a second Pope arise. When Truth, perplex'd in error's thorny maze, Threw o'er the world obscur'd and darken'd rays, Then Newton rose, unveil'd the beauteous maid: He spoke, and nature stood at once display'd. These were the souls that Britain once possess'd, When genuine virtue fir'd the patriot's breast; And still shall she protect fair freedom's cause, And vindicate her violated laws; Waft peace and freedom to a wretched land, And scatter blessings with a liberal hand. |