Thou, Freedom, here inspirest Wisdom's page, The soul of Eloquence, the poet's rage,
Bidd'st every form of mind to move at ease,
Nor thund'rest forth proud edicts how to please.
Hence the chief lights that brighten Europe rise,
And Grecian Wisdom breaks from Western skies:
Her birth superior Wisdom drew from thee,
And loves to light successive on the free.
Thy spirit too to manly minds imparts
The skill of plainer but important arts,
Whence property dispers'd, disperses might,
Nor little kings invade the common right.
Where the lone castle once a province sway'd,
And added horrors to the desert-shade,
A welcome grace its ruins now afford
To deck the gardens of the peaceful lord,
Whence o'er the corn-lands, towering to the skies,
He sees new spires of wealthy cities rise.
From thee, kind Freedom, spring the cordial cares
That weave the rich robe blyth-cy'd Plenty wears,
Wide o'er the downs the fleecy flocks bestow,
And proudly seeds of future forests sow
For future navies, which command the sea
Since Briton ow'd her lion heart to thee-
Since every Briton, bow'r'd beneath his vine,
Could gayly sing" Dear Liberty divine,'
(His babes in chorus 'round) "thy charter'd laws are mine."
Thus, thus, cool preacher for a tyrant king, None but the Briton thus, O Hume, can sing. Befrench'd in vain, to quell this manly age, Soft soothing trickles on your dulcet page ;
The nectar'd poison keen-ey'd Truth discerns,
And the meek malice quick-soul'd Freedom spurns.
What tho' for once a gen'rous tyrant rise,
Some arts to cherish which he knows to prize,
Bid Tasso's music thrill his finer frame,
And pay the poet's pow'r to raise his fame,.
Joy in the forms a Raphael calls to day,
Proud that his palace shall the show display,
Yet own, skill'd flatterer, these but copies own,
The models wrought in free-born Greece alone.
Shall the fair Arts by one man's favour blow,
Nor ope their grace but when he deigns bestow
A fav'ring beam? Is this their little day,
And must the sweet bloom suddenly decay,
Smote by some scepter'd gladiator's eye,
Whene'er their casual Antonine shall die?
A sullen tyrant checks the poet's rage,
A Nero pipes away the serious sage;
The painters-ship them off for Caprea's isle,
The loose-rob'd Spinthriæ there demand their toil,
And Cæsar wills their Art its last disgrace,
To preach pollution to the future race
By forms, that shall out live th' imperial lord,
To taint the times deliver'd from his sword.
Could Arts continue where despotic force
Might bid the lictors lead the consul-horse,
And bidden senates must pay rev'rence where
Mumps the gown'd ape in Tully's curule chair?
If Christian tyrants more benignly reign
Than ancient Neroes, 'tis a casual gain,
Or graft (thank Heav'n) that meliorates their
A murd'rous henbane is the natʼral flower.
Grant we, Racine, that Louis smil'd, in thee
(No Greek himself) the Grecian grace to see→
Beauty but borrow'd, as the lambent flame
Of Boileau's muse from Horace filch'd for Fame.
Their smirking hist❜ries were in truth their own,
But such as court-crampt slaves compose alone;
As for their muse, their rhet'ric-grant 'em grace
(A Court can give it), can your friendship trace
In their trim toils, O Hume, the force of mind
By which the self-strong Shakspere moves mankind-
In their trim toils, the towering pride of plume
Which thro' the formless void of Stygian gloom,
Up to the sun-bright blaze of Heav'n's dread throne
Our eagle Milton hath sustain'd alone—
In their trim toils, the mighty spring of soul
That launch'd the periods of a Pit to roll
O'er all the line of civil truth, and bend
The feuds of Faction to the public end,
And thence by concord once preserv'd the state,
Which concord ever shall continue great,
Whilst it continues in despite of thee,
Of French ambition, fraud, and envy, free.
Could we predict when Liberty shall die,
We should not, smiling, sing her elegy;
Nor if our constitution must decay,
Calmly conceive in your report the way.
Why thus predict—what pleasure to foretel
Events a freeman should detest as hell!
Your wisdom is rank apathy, design'd
To damp the dearest ardours of the mind.
But Britons (so you bid us) since it seems
The time must come when all your phantom dreams
Of Liberty shall melt in vacant air—
Do not protract her stay by wretched care,
Be timely wise, solicit what must come,
Nor idly deprecate no dreadful doom.
The King, who bears the Briton's best-lov'd name,
Sees such predictions treas'nous to his fame,
Enrag'd from him should one descendant rise
Thron'd at the cost of Freedom's obsequies,
But ere his blood should suffer such disgrace,
He'd wish the miscreant last of all his race.
The senseless beast by force invades his prey,
And brutal force protects the tyrant's sway.
Talons, as means, but differ from the sword,
Savage alike the beast and tyrant lord.
Monarchs ordain'd by Freedom's public choice,
In all the grandeur man can wish, rejoice.
Then loyalty a filial virtue grows,
And something like a right divine bestows.
For if the King a public father shine,
He who rebels offends a right divine.
And since through ages rose our pile of fame,
Beneath the sanctions of the regal name,
Whilst by my Winter's fires old tales go round,
And whilst with joy my British spirits bound,
When all a tip-toe the proud circle hear
Of Edwards, Henries-sill to mem'ry dear,
Great sires of Albion, shall my full soul pray,
That your time-honour'd race my country sway,
By Freedom's blest award, till Time himself decay.
CICERO'S FIRST ORATION TO CATALINE,
GODS of our Fathers! that e'en here
Thou, Cataline, should'st dare appear,
Thus load our patience, thus defy
Rome's consul, whose relentless eye
Pursues thy dread outgoings! see
The public looks all bent on thee,
See menac'd Rome on every side
Shor'd up to stem thy murd'rous tide.
This awful Senate, wert thou wise
To read thy history in their eyes,
Would shew thee that thy last atrocious night,
Thy guilt, thy inmates have not 'scap'd their sight.
O times! O manners! this we know,
And I the consul mark the blow
Thy firm hand aims-and yet this place
Thou with thy presence dar'st disgrace,
What unimagin'd horror reigns
Whilst thou, we note thee, doom'st to chains,
To death, whome'er, thou parricide,
Deem'st firm to check thy trait'rous pride.
|