Of haggard Paris, at the thunder's voice
He drops the sword, and signs ignoble peace!
But still the night, by Romish art diffused,
Collects her clouds, and with slow pace recedes;
When, by soft Bourdeau's braver queen approved,
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 breathed of old
The pitchy cloud, and in a night of smoke
Secure, a while his recreant life sustain'd;
Till famed Alcides, o'er his subtlest wiles
Victorious, cheer'd the ravaged nations round,
Hail, honour'd Wickliff! enterprizing 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 upraised,
Let loose the rage of bigots on their foes,
And seek affection by the dreadful boon
Of licensed murder. E'en the kindest prince,
The most extended breast, the royal Hal!
All unrelenting heard the Lollards' cry
Burst from the centre of remorseless flames;
Their shrieks endured! 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!
'Twas thus, alternate, truth's precarious flame Decay'd or flourish'd. With malignant eye The pontiff saw Britannia's golden fleece, Once all his own, invest her worthier sons! Her verdant valleys 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 centring 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, disclosed 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 daylight, 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 pleased to wave Its fearful meed, resign'd their fair domain.
Nor yet supine, nor void of rage, retired The pest gigantic, whose revengeful stroke Tinged the red annals of Maria's reign; [priest When from the tenderest breast each wayward Could banish mercy, and implant a fiend! When Cruelty the funeral pyre uprear'd, And bound Religion there, and fired the base! When the same blaze, which on each tortured Fed with luxuriant rage, in every face [limb 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, reserved for fairer times!
Sed neque Medorum silvæ, ditissima terra!
Nec pulcher Ganges, atque auro turbidus Hæmus,
Laudibus Angligenum certent; non Bactra, nec Indi,
Totaque turriferis Panchaia pinguis arenis.
Yet let not Median woods, (abundant tract!)
Nor Ganges fair, nor Hæmus2 miser-like,
Proud of his hoarded gold, presume to vie
With Britain's boast and praise: nor Persian Bactra 3,
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
Of ancient record catch the pensive lay,
1 Ganges-the greatest river, which divides the Indies in two parts.
2 Hamus-a high mountain, dividing Thrace and Thessaly. 3 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.
And in less groveling accents give to fame.
Elvira! loveliest maid! the' Iberian realm
Could boast no purer breast, no sprightlier mind,
No race more splendent, and no form so fair.
Such was the chance of war, this peerless maid,
In life's luxuriant bloom, enrich'd the spoil
Of British victors, victory's noblest pride!
She, she alone, amid the wilful train
Of captive maids, assign'd to Henry's care,
Lord of her life, her fortune, and her fame !
He, generous youth! with no penurious hand
The tedious moments that unjoyous roll
Where Freedom's cheerful radiance shines no more
Essay'd to soften; conscious of the
pang
That Beauty feels, to waste its fleeting hours
In some dim fort, by foreign rule restrain❜d,
Far from the haunts of men or eye of day!
Sometimes, to cheat her bosom of its cares,
Her kind protector number'd o'er the toils
Himself had worn; the frowns of angry seas,
Or hostile rage, or faithless friend, more fell
Than storm or foe; if haply she might find
Her cares diminish'd; fruitless, fond essay!
Now to her lovely hand, with modest awe,
The tender lute he gave; she, not averse,
Nor destitute of skill, with willing hand
Call'd forth angelic strains; the sacred debt
Of gratitude, she said, whose just commands
Still might her hand with equal pride obey!
Nor to the melting sounds the nymph refused
Her vocal art; harmonious as the strain
Of some imprison'd lark, who, daily cheer'd
By guardian cares, repays them with a song;
Nor droops, nor deems sweet liberty resign'd.
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