SPOKEN IN THE THEATRE AT OXFORD,
INSTALLATION OF LORD GRENVILLE.
GRENVILLE, few years have had their course, since last Exulting Oxford view'd a spectacle
Like this day's pomp ; and yet to those who throng'd These walls, which echo'd then with Portland's praise, What change hath intervened! The bloom of spring Is fled from many a cheek, where roseate joy And beauty bloom'd; the inexorable Grave Hath claim'd its portion; and the band of youths, Who then, collected here as in a port
From whence to launch on life's adventurous sea, Stood on the beach, ere this have found their lots Of good or evil. Thus the lapse of years, Evolving all things in its quiet course,
Hath wrought for them; and though those years have Fearful vicissitudes, of wilder change Than history yet had learnt, or old romance In wildest mood imagined, yet these too, Portentous as they seem, not less have risen
Each of its natural cause the sure effect,
All righteously ordain'd. Lo! kingdoms wreck'd, Thrones overturn'd, built up, then swept away Like fabrics in the summer clouds, dispersed By the same breath that heap'd them; rightful kings, Who, from a line of long-drawn ancestry Held the transmitted sceptre, to the axe Bowing the anointed head; or dragg'd away To eat the bread of bondage; or escaped Beneath the shadow of Britannia's shield, There only safe. Such fate have vicious courts, Statesmen corrupt, and fear-struck policy, Upon themselves drawn down; till Europe, bound In iron chains, lies bleeding in the dust, Beneath the feet of upstart tyranny : Only the heroic Spaniard, he alone Yet unsubdued in these degenerate days, With desperate virtue, such as in old time Hallow'd Saguntum and Numantia's name, Stands up against the oppressor undismay'd. So may the Almighty bless the noble race, And crown with happy end their holiest cause!
Deem not these dread events the monstrous birth Of chance! And thou, O England, who dost ride Serene amid the waters of the flood,
Preserving, even like the Ark of old, Amid the general wreck, thy purer faith, Domestic loves, and ancient liberty, Look to thyself, O England! for be sure, Even to the measure of thine own desert, The cup of retribution to thy lips
Shall soon or late be dealt!..a thought that well Might fill the stoutest heart of all thy sons With aweful apprehension. Therefore, they Who fear the Eternal's justice, bless thy name, Grenville, because the wrongs of Africa Cry out no more to draw a curse from Heaven On England!—for if still the trooping sharks Track by the scent of death the accursed ship Freighted with human anguish, in her wake Pursue the chace, crowd round her keel, and dart Toward the sound contending, when they hear The frequent carcass from her guilty deck Dash in the opening deep, no longer now The guilt shall rest on England; but if yet There be among her children, hard of heart And sear❜d of conscience, men who set at nought Her laws and God's own word, upon themselves Their sin be visited!.. the red-cross flag, Redeem'd from stain so foul, no longer now Covereth the abomination.
O Grenville, and while ages roll away
This shall be thy remembrance. Yea, when all For which the tyrant of these abject times Hath given his honourable name on earth,
His nights of innocent sleep, his hopes of heaven ; When all his triumphs and his deeds of blood, The fretful changes of his feverish pride, His midnight murders and perfidious plots, Are but a tale of years so long gone by,
That they who read distrust the hideous truth, Willing to let a charitable doubt
Abate their horror; Grenville, even then Thy memory will be fresh among mankind Afric with all her tongues will speak of thee, With Wilberforce and Clarkson, he whom Heaven, To be the apostle of this holy work,
Raised up and strengthen'd, and upheld through all His arduous toil. To end the glorious task, That blessed, that redeeming deed was thine: Be it thy pride in life, thy thought in death, Thy praise beyond the tomb. The statesman's fame Will fade, the conqueror's laurel crown grow sere ; Fame's loudest trump upon the ear of Time Leaves but a dying echo; they alone
Are held in everlasting memory, Whose deeds partake of heaven.
Nations unborn, in cities that shall rise
Along the palmy coast, will bless thy name; And Senegal and secret Niger's shore,
And Calabar, no longer startled then
With sounds of murder, will, like Isis now,
Ring with the songs that tell of Grenville's praise.
Where a sight shall shuddering sorrow find, Sad as the ruins of the human mind.
TIME, Morning. SCENE, The Shore.
ONCE more to daily toil, once more to wear The livery of shame, once more to search With miserable task this savage shore! O thou, who mountest so triumphantly In yonder Heaven, beginning thy career Of glory, O thou blessed Sun! thy beams Fall on me with the same benignant light Here, at the farthest limits of the world, And blasted as I am with infamy, As when in better years poor Elinor Gazed on thy glad uprise with eye undimm'd By guilt and sorrow, and the opening morn Woke her from quiet sleep to days of peace. In other occupation then I trod
The beach at eve; and then when I beheld The billows as they roll'd before the storm
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