Wrung from her sons, and speeded by her kings! Oh, irksome days! when wicked thrones combine With papal craft to gull their native land!
Such was our fate while Rome's director taught Of subjects born to be their monarch's prey, To toil for monks, for gluttony to toil,
For vacant gluttony; extortion, fraud,
For avarice, envy, pride, revenge, and shame!
O doctrine breath'd from Stygian caves! exhal'd
From inmost Erebus!-Such Henry's reign!
Urging his loyal realm's reluctant hand
To wield the peaceful sword, by John erewhile
Forc'd from its scabbard, and with burnish'd lance
Essay the savage cure, domestic war!
And now some nobler spirits chas'd the mist
Of general darkness. Grosted* now adorn'd
The mitred wreath he wore, with Reason's sword
Staggering Delusion's frauds; at length beneath
Rome's interdict expiring calm, resign'd
No vulgar soul, that dar'd to Heaven appeal!
But, ah! this fertile glebe, this fair domain,
Had well nigh ceded to the slothful hands
Of monks libidinous, ere Edward's care
The lavish hand of deathbed fear restrain'd.
Yet was he clear of Superstition's taint?
He, too, misdeemful of his wholesome law,
Ev'n he, expiring, gave his treasur'd gold
To fatten monks on Salem's distant soil!
Yes;
the Third Edward's breast, to papal sway
So little prone, and fierce in honour's cause,
Could Superstition quell! before the towers
* Bishop of Lincoln, called Malleus Romanorum.
Of haggard Paris, at the thunder's voice
He drops the sword, and signs ignoble peace!
But still the night, by Romish arts diffus'd,
Collects her clouds, and with slow pace recedes;
When, by soft Bourdeau's braver queen approv'd
Bold Wickliff rose; and while the bigot power
Amidst her native darkness skulk'd secure,
The demon vanish'd as he spread the day..
So from his bosom Cacus breath'd of old
The pitchy cloud, and in a night of smoke
Secure, awhile his recreant life sustain'd;
Till fam'd Alcides, o'er his subtlest wiles
Victorious, cheer'd the ravag'd nations round.
Hail, honour'd Wickliff! enterprising sage!
An Epicurus in the cause of truth!
For 'tis not radiant suns, the jovial hours
Of youthful spring, an ether all serene,
Nor all the verdure of Campania's vales,
Can chase religious gloom! 'Tis reason, thought,
The light, the radiance, that pervades the soul,
And sheds its beams on Heaven's mysterious way!
As yet this light but glimmer'd, and again
Error prevail'd; while kings, by force uprais'd,
Let loose the rage of bigots on their foes,
And seek affection by the dreadful boon
Of licens'd murder. Ev'n the kindest prince,
The most extended breast, the royal Hal!
All unrelenting heard the Lollard's cry
Burst from the centre of remorseless flames;
Their shrieks endur'd! O stain to martial praise !
When Cobham, generous as the noble peer
That wears his honours, paid the fatal price
Of virtue blooming ere the storms were laid!
"T'was thus, alternate, truth's precarious flame Decay'd or flourish'd. With malignant eye The pontiff saw Britannia's golded fleece, Once all his own, invest her worthier sons! Her verdant vallies and her fertile plains, Yellow with grain, abjure his hateful sway! Essay'd his utmost art, and inly own'd No labours bore proportion to the prize. So when the tempter view'd, with envious eye, The first fair pattern of the female frame, All Nature's beauties in one form display'd And centering there, in wild amaze he stood; Then only envying Heaven's creative hand, Wish'd to his gloomy reign his envious arts Might win this prize, and doubled every snare. And vain were reason, courage, learning, all, Till power accede: till Tudor's wild caprice Smile on their cause; Tudor! whose tyrant-reign With mental freedom crown'd, the best of kings Might envious view, and ill prefer their own! Then Wolsey rose, by Nature form'd to seek Ambition's trophies, by address to win, By temper to enjoy-whose humbler birth Taught the gay scenes of pomp to dazzle more.
Then from its towering height, with horrid sound Rush'd the proud Abbey: then the vaulted roofs, Torn from their walls, disclos'd the wanton scene Of monkish chastity! Each angry friar
Crawl'd from his bedded strumpet, muttering low
An ineffectual curse. The pervious nooks
That, ages past, convey'd the guileful priest
To play some image on the gaping crowd,
Imbibe the novel day-light, and expose,
Obvious, the fraudful enginery of Rome,
As though this opening earth to nether realms
Should flash meridian-day, the hooded race
Shudder, abash'd to find their cheats display'd;
And, conscious of their guilt, and pleas'd to wave
Its fearful meed, resign'd their fair domain.
Nor yet supine, nor void of rage, retir'd
The pest gigantic, whose revengeful stroke
Ting'd the red annals of Maria's reign,
When from the tenderest breast each wayward priest
Could banish mercy, and implant a fiend!
When Cruelty the funeral pyre uprear'd,
And bound Religion there, and fir'd the base !
When the same blaze, which on each tortur'd limb
Fed with luxuriant rage, in every face
Triumphant faith appear'd, and smiling hope.
O bless'd Eliza! from thy piercing beam
Forth flew this hated fiend, the child of Rome;
Driven to the verge of Albion, linger'd there,
Then with her James receding, cast behind
One angry frown, and sought more servile climes.
Henceforth, they plied the long-continued task
Of righteous havoc, covering distant fields
With the wrought remnants of the shatter'd pile
While through the land the musing pilgrim sees
A tract of brighter green, and in the midst
Appears a mouldering wall, with ivy crown'd,
Or gothic turret, pride of ancient days!
Now but of use to grace a rural scene,
To bound our vistas, and to glad the sons
Of George's reign, reserv'd for fairer times!
Sed neque Medorum silvæ, ditissima terre
Nec pulcher Ganges, atque auro turbidus Hæmus
Laudibus Angligenum certent; non Bactra, nec Indi,
Totaque turriferís Panchaia pinguis arenis.
Yet let not Medean woods, (abundant tract!)
Nor Ganges* fair, nor Hæmus,† miser-like,
Proud of his hoarded gold, presume to vie
With Britain's boast and praise: nor Persian Bactra,
Nor India's coasts, nor all Panchaia's sands,
Rich, and exulting in their lofty towers.
LET the green olive glad Hesperian shores;
Her tawny citron and her orange groves,
These let Iberia boast; but if in vain
To win the stranger plant's diffusive smile.
The Briton labours, yet our native minds,
Our constant bosoms, these the dazzled world
May view with envy; these Iberian dames
Survey with fix'd esteem and fond desire.
Hapless Elvira! thy disastrous fate
May well this truth explain, nor ill adorn
The British lyre; then chiefly, if the Muse,
Nor vain nor partial, from the simple guise
*Ganges-the greatest river, which divides the Indies in two
+Hamus-an high mountain, dividing Thrace and Thessaly. Bactra-the Bactrians, provincials of Persia.
§ Panchaia-a country of Arabia-Felix, fruitful in frankincense and various spices; remarkable also for its many towers and lofty buildings.
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