No despot dares assume illegal sway
Or wrest the law to purposes
E'en the dark robber's, and the traitor's arm
Are cover'd with a panoply complete,
Till, by a verdict of their peers condemn'd,
They lose with infamy their forfeit life.
Glorious pre-eminence in Britain's code!
Her justly honour'd boast. Ye gallant youths!
Protect it with unenervated arm,
Long as your Isle emerges from the waves
Which beat your shores, and waft your best defence.
Helvetia! at thy fate my bosom burns
With warmth indignant; though I never trod
Thy smiling plains, or scaled thy snowy heights,
Yet have I loved thee with a patriot's love,
And mourn thy abject fall. Oh! where were flown
Those spirits brave, who erst in freedom's cause,
Uprear'd their banners and repell'd each foe,
When Gallia dared with bold and impious hand
Prophane thy altars and subvert thy laws?
Was it in envy of thy simple charms,
Thy manners bland, thy dear domestic joys,
Deep contrasts to the restless tyrant's soul,
That thus he bade the minions of his power
Tear up thy furrows, and despoil thy homes?
So prize I freedom, I would not confine
One little wing'd inhabitant of air:
From infancy my heart was taught to love
And venerate the cause of liberty;
And since she hath become of power to choose,
Reason hath well confirm'd, what precept taught.
I love the feather'd race, and gladly hear
The Aviary of Heaven. Sweeter far
The wildest warblings of the woodland choir,
Untaught by human art, than all the airs
Which avarice and cruelty educe.
And do you wish variety of song,
Make it your pleasing task from earliest spring,
In some secluded, unfrequented spot
To strew a daily and a plenteous store,
Nor suffer aught to give your guests affright:
Primeval confidence, thus surely won,
Will well repay each kind assiduous care,
With the sweet harmonies of grateful song,
And Eden's garden seem to bloom anew.
Nations can weep, and shed the public tear
O'er the cold ashes of their Heroes fallen.
When Chatham died, Britons bedew'd his hearse,
O'er Abercrombie's grave they duly mourn'd,
And who that droopt not when brave Nelson fell?
What though the rocky shores of Trafalgar
Resound with victory to a wondering world,
Great in effect beyond the muses' ken,
Yet Britain deem'd that victory bought too dear
With the rich purchase of her Nelson's Life.
When will sweet peace, her silvery flag unfurl'd,
Visit the nations with her cheering smiles,
And cruel war prostrate beneath her power,
Gorged with the full repast, recumbent crouch?
My Country! Oh my Country! whilst the muse, The fond, the partial muse records thy worth
And dwells delighted on the pleasing theme;
Wrapt in prophetic dream she trembling reads
Thy future fate: What though thy shores are wash'd
With Ocean's waves; what though thy gallant sons,
Triumphant there, fill the astonish'd world
With deep amazement at thy deeds in arms
That well compeer with Greek or Roman fame?
Yet hath she cause to dread, lest luxury,
The insidious foe of kingdoms, as of men,
Debase the spirits of thy noble race,
And all thy dread exploits, be only known
To future ages, and to unborn realms
In poet's numbers, or the historic page.
So read we now, in Homer's lofty song,
Of mighty Hector and his Trojan bands,
Of fierce Achilles and the flower of Greece,
And of devoted Troy: so history tells
Of Hannibal in arms, Carthage destroy'd,
And what remains of Macedon and Greece
In later times? what of imperial Rome,
The mistress and the tyrant of the world,
Renown'd in arms, nor less in glorious deed?
Nought but the classic page: So shall it be,
Some distant day, but be it distant far,
That England's foes shall triumph o'er her fate,
And hail her fallen.-The Muse too weeps,
And feels the crimson blush suffuse her cheek
At recollection of thy monstrous crimes;
The rising sun dawns on thy eastern shores,
Marking thy conquests, and thy tyrannies;
· And redden'd his descending western beams
With indignation at the scenes of wrong,
Of rapine, cruelty, and slavery,
Which thy misguided senates have confirm'd.
These dim the lustre of the brightest gem
That radiates from thy crown; 'tis these invoke
Heaven's wrathful chastisements upon thy head,
Bid thee to groan beneath th' oppressive weight
Of strong exactions, and defensive war:
And crimes like these, must hasten thy decay.
Ye brave defenders of your country's cause, Ye Tars of Britain, nursled in her storms, I own your valour, and your high desert,
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