EPITAPH ON KING JOHN.
JOHN rests below. A man more infamous
Never hath held the sceptre of these realms,
And bruised beneath the iron rod of Power
The oppressed men of England. Englishman!
Curse not his memory. Murderer as he was,
Coward and slave, yet he it was who signed
That Charter which should make thee morn and
Be thankful for thy birthplace; - Englishman!
That holy Charter, which shouldst thou permit
Force to destroy, or Fraud to undermine,
Thy children's groans will persecute thy soul,
For they must bear the burden of thy crime.
WESTBURY, 1798.
STRANGER! Whose steps have reached this solitude,
Know that this lonely spot was dear to one
Devoted with no unrequited zeal
To Nature. Here, delighted, he has heard
The rustling of these woods, that now perchance
Melodious to the gale of summer move;
And underneath their shade on yon smooth rock,
With gray and yellow lichens overgrown,
Often reclined, watching the silent flow
Of this perspicuous rivulet, that steals
Along its verdant course, till all around
Had filled his senses with tranquillity,
And ever soothed in spirit he returned
A happier, better man. Stranger! perchance,
Therefore, the stream more lovely to thine eye
Will glide along, and to the summer gale
The woods wave more melodious. Cleanse thou,
The weeds and mosses from this lettered stone.
FOR A MONUMENT AT TORDESILLAS.
SPANIARD! if thou art one who bows the knee
Before a despot's footstool, hie thee hence!
This ground is holy: here Padilla died,
Martyr of Freedom. But, if thou dost love
Her cause, stand then as at an altar here,
And thank the Almighty that thine honest heart,
Full of a brother's feelings for mankind,
Revolts against oppression. Not unheard
Nor unavailing shall the grateful prayer
Ascend; for honest impulses will rise,
Such as may elevate and strengthen thee
For virtuous action. Relics silver-shrined,
And chanted mass, would wake within the soul
Thoughts valueless and cold compared with these.
BRISTOL, 1796.
FOR A COLUMN AT TRUXILLO.
PIZARRO here was born; a greater name
The list of Glory boasts not. Toil and Pain,
Famine and hostile Elements, and Hosts
Embattled, failed to check him in his course,
Not to be wearied, not to be deterred,
Not to be overcome. A mighty realm
He overran, and with relentless arm
Slew or enslaved its unoffending sons;
And wealth and power and fame were his rewards.
There is another world beyond the grave,
According to their deeds where men are judged.
O Reader! if thy daily bread be earned
By daily labor,-yea, however low,
However painful be thy lot assigned,—
Thank thou, with deepest gratitude, the God
Who made thee, that thou art not such as he.
BRISTOL, 1796.
FOR THE CELL OF HONORIUS, AT THE
CORK CONVENT, NEAR CINTRA.
HERE, caverned like a beast, Honorius passed,
In self-affliction, solitude, and prayer,
Long years of penance. He had rooted out
All human feelings from his heart, and fled
With fear and loathing from all human joys.
Not thus in making known his will divine
Hath Christ enjoined. To aid the fatherless,
Comfort the sick, and be the poor man's friend,
And in the wounded heart pour gospel-balm,
These are the injunctions of his holy law,
Which whoso keeps shall have a joy on earth,
Calm, constant, still increasing, preluding
The eternal bliss of heaven.
Stranger, the Anchorite's mistaken zeal!
He painfully his painful duties kept,
Sincere, though erring. Stranger! do thou keep Thy better and thine easier rule as well.
FOR A MONUMENT AT TAUNTON,
THEY suffered here whom Jeffreys doomed to death
In mockery of all justice, when the Judge
Unjust, subservient to a cruel King,
Performed his work of blood. They suffered here,
The victims of that Judge and of that King;
In mockery of all justice, here they bled,
Unheard. But not unpitied, nor of God
Unseen, the innocent suffered; not unheard
The innocent blood cried vengeance; for at length
The indignant nation in its power arose,
Resistless. Then that wicked Judge took flight,
Disguised in vain: not always is the Lord.
Slow to revenge. A miserable man,
He fell beneath the people's rage, and still
The children curse his memory. From the throne
The obdurate bigot who commissioned him,
Inhuman James, was driven. He lived to drag
Long years of frustrate hope; he lived to load
More blood upon his soul. Let tell the Boyne,
Let Londonderry tell, his guilt and shame;
And that immortal day when on thy shores,
La Hogue, the purple ocean dashed the dead!
WESTBURY, 1798.
FOR A TABLET AT PENSHURST.
ARE days of old familiar to thy mind,
O Reader? Hast thou let the midnight hour
Pass unperceived, whilst thou in fancy lived
With high-born beauties and enamoured chiefs,
Sharing their hopes, and, with a breathless joy
Whose expectation touched the verge of pain,
Following their dangerous fortunes? If such lore
Hath ever thrilled thy bosom, thou wilt tread,
As with a pilgrim's reverential thoughts,
The groves of Penshurst. Sidney here was born;
Sidney, than whom no gentler, braver man
His own delightful genius ever feigned,
Illustrating the vales of Arcady
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