Part 2

As nature lights in solitude, the blaze Of the proud gem; and deep conceals its rays Awhile, from human sight, till in full worth It breaks at last, in splendor on the earth; So in these shades, she, IRETON,(1) lit thy mind, With all the glories which adorn our kind;-- First struck the spark, which kindling into flame, Wreathes with a light ineffable thy name. Hero and Statesman;--Patriot! names rever’d! Which singly, to mankind has long endear’d The fame of others, center’d all in Thee; Blent with true grace, and worn with dignity. Though faction’s breath thy glory overcast (As fogs the sun), awhile, the shades have pass’d Harmless away: for truth, with native might Dispels the clouds of falsehood by her light. Content I yield her Cato, now, to Rome; Her Brutuses,--her Cassius,--nor become Envious, that Greece Aristides can boast,-- Demosthenes, nor any of that host Of glorious names, which blazon her fair page, And swell the blast of fame through ev’ry age. Whilst IRETON’S lofty deeds, adorn the spot, I call my home, my country; I will not Covet the fame which other lands can give, Nor age, nor place, o’er that in which I live. Who prizes freedom, prizes those who bought The precious rights;--whose valour for him wrought This good supreme: and holds them dear to fame, Though tyrants brand their memory with shame. When, from the grave, the Patriot’s limbs are torn,(2) The despot’s triumph, and the minion’s scorn; Like him, who would not rather rot in air, Than with the slave a tomb of marble share? Better the gibbet, and the high renown The Patriot earns, than to sink slowly down By shameful life, and fill a dastard’s grave, Scorn’d by the wise, the virtuous, and the brave; And when remember’d, bear the curse of all Whose gen’rous spirits scorn tyrannic thrall. That there exists a slave, is the disgrace Of man alone;--nature abhors the race: The meanest thing she makes, of meaner life, Will wage for liberty, perpetual strife: Toils for itself alone, secure to find That state of comfort suited to its kind. It, to no fellow brute, deep rev’rence yields, Who wastes the produce of an hundred fields; Content to follow shiv’ring in his train, The loyal victim of a tyrant’s reign: Nor, leagued with others, to provide a feast, Brings slaughter’d herds to gorge some kingly beast; Seeking no further bounty than to taste, For all this toil, a morsel of the waste: Then, weary, crouch and lick his wounds, o’erjoy’d That a kind monarch has _his_ strength employ’d, To cater for the royal appetite, And kept his sacred person from the fight. Ask of the Beaver, Slave! what wholesome rules Binds his community,--unknown to schools: Inquire the rights he claims,--the law he gives, In that society in which he lives? He will instruct thee, ’tis for mutual good, To share defence, and fellowship and food:-- That gen’ral benefit cements the tie, Which binds his species in society. Ask if he rears for some proud beast, a pile, Secure and warm, and skulks himself, the while Into a den, expos’d to pinching cold, To damp and hunger, on the bare earth roll’d? Content and cheerful so _that_ worthless beast, Which hunts not,--toils not, may profusely feast? And learn, thy crimes, thy follies, fears, alone Of all earth’s varied beings, make thee own A tyrant in thy equal;--whose control O’erawes thy pow’rs, and fetters e’en thy soul. The brute, content with what kind nature gives, Guards his own rights, and thus, in freedom lives. Or, if too weak for once, to guard the spoil, He bars no right, nor lends himself to toil Or hunt, that others may doze out the day, And wake to riot on his proffer’d prey. But myriad slaves of human kind, are found To toil and sweat,--to cultivate the ground, To spin, to weave, to mine, ’midst fœtid air And noxious damps,--to spend their lives with care And grief oppress’d,--by penury bow’d down, That some vile mortal’s brows may wear a crown. Yes! nations faint beneath this dead’ning blight!-- This mildew of oppression! in despite Of nature’s promptings, or of reason’s call, Bound by the spells of superstition’s thrall. A bigot priesthood,--or a venal train Of selfish nobles, (such as govern Spain,) Can shackle millions! boasted reas’ning kind! And awe, through fear of ills unknown, the mind. Heavens! how they creep,--and cringe,--and fawn,--and fear These earthly Gods--and meanly stoop to bear Insult, and slav’ry’s yoke, to buy an hour Of shameful life: whilst, in the lust of pow’r, Their haughty despot sends his mandate forth, And makes a prison-house of this fair earth: Nor nobly dare to strike for Liberty, And die for Truth,--but, with servility, Shake like weak reeds which by the rivers stand, And bend obsequious to the dread command. But who is he, that through the mists of Time Beams nobly forth, in look and port sublime, Announc’d with benedictions on his name? And title, fairest on the scroll of fame? Before whom tyrants quake?--and conq’rors bow? And haughty fav’rites sink their greatness low? It is the Patriot! who when Danger frown’d, And cruel foes his country hover’d round; Whilst hearts grew faint,--and hands sunk weak with fear, As, stain’d with blood, the Conq’ror shook his spear, And men, like herds of deer, when on the plain A tiger darts, in terror sought to gain The wood’s dark fastness, or the mountain’s side,-- Rallied their hopes; and taught them to abide With manly courage the invader’s blow, And back the bolts of war hurl on th’ astonish’d foe:-- It is the Patriot!--he who nobly dar’d, (When Tyranny his iron sceptre rear’d, And millions crouch’d,) to spurn his fierce command, And rouse the spirit of his native land. Intent to rescue, treading in the dust The spite of factions,--rage of Kings,--and lust Of haughty nobles, as the vineyard’s waste Is trodden down, by him, whose hopes are plac’d On gath’ring a rich vintage,--firm he stood; And sav’d his suffering Country by his blood. Valiant to suffer! though his robe be red With crimson spots, from those dark stains is shed An odor, fragrant as the morning breeze Wafted at spring time o’er the blossom’d trees; Yea! sweeter far! for a great nation lives, In joy and freedom, by the life it gives. A Patriot’s blood can make a holy shrine Of meanest earth: with pow’r, as though divine, Can melt the heart,--can blanch the cheek, or fire The ardent spirit with exalted ire. No spot so barren, by such life blood fed, ’Midst snow-capt rocks,--or where dull marshes spread,-- In forest glooms,--or splendid city’s bound, But hence is hail’d as consecrated ground. Country, endear’d, assumes a lovelier hue, And man, enfranchis’d, starts his race anew: The pilgrim, wand’ring through some foreign clime, Pensively led to mark the spoil of Time; Beholds some widow’d city on the plain, Who once led nations in her glorious train, Espous’d of princes:--in whose days of mirth, Kings sought her favor, from the ends of earth. Whose armies, like thick clouds, around her throne Waited, to make her royal mandates known: And ships, shadow’d the sea--floating sublime Like ocean demons:--linking clime to clime, And land to land, in one vast, boundless sway, They bade the world their lofty queen obey: And at her feet laid down the gather’d spoil, For which an hundred realms were doom’d to toil. Now childless homes,--cold hearths,--forsaken halls, Where ruin echoes to destruction’s calls,-- Alone remain: the wand’rer asks, in grief, Why widow’d ages, close the years of brief And flitting glory, which once round her throne Play’d, like the sunbeams through the loop holes thrown Which time hath worn in temple, tow’r, and roof? Because she heeded not the sage reproof Of patriot warning!--but, in lustful pride, Clad in the plunder which a world supplied, Lifted herself in grandeur o’er the rest, And said, “I sit an eagle in my nest!” Her people vassals, and her nobles vain, Debauch’d and cruel, soon a tyrant’s reign Alone, was able to uphold her pow’r;-- And there she sits--the owl’s and dragon’s dow’r. If seeking some memento, to convey Back to his home, which shall recall the way His feet has trod, in his lone pilgrimage, What think you shall his fondest thoughts engage?-- Or waken deepest feelings for the fate Of that “discrowned Queen,” who desolate Dwells in a desert by her ruins made:-- Whom lux’ry first debauch’d,--then kings betray’d? Will he attempt, ’midst urns and busts, to find, Broken and scatter’d, something which the mind Can take unto itself? No!--all which art, That seeks by flatt’ring marbles to impart Remembrance of the mighty, will be cast Heedless away:--the tombs of kings be pass’d With unconcern;--his heart more pleas’d to save A simple leaf that decks her Patriot’s grave. When through the maze of history we stray, Beset with crime! how cheering in the way, ’Midst desolations, conquests, rapine’s deeds, Oppressions foul, at which the bosom bleeds, To meet one name above the traitor’s lure,-- The tyrant’s frown,--who nobly seeks, to cure Those bitter woes inflicted on mankind By tyrant Pow’r;--his country’s wounds to bind;-- To lead exultant Freedom o’er its plains, And teach, by virtue, man to break his chains; As waters gushing in a desert land, Rejoice the trav’ller,--so, refresh’d we stand, And drink, in copious draughts, the streams which roll Of truth and knowledge, from his gen’rous soul;-- Delighted view the landscape brighten round, See fruits burst forth, and flow’rs adorn the ground; Whilst man, no more debas’d, exerts new pow’rs, And gives to truth and virtue, all his hours. Such Patriots, Heroes, Britain! have been thine:-- Such did thy Wickliffe, Russell, Hampden shine. Nor beams the name on hist’ry’s page more sweet, To patriot eyes, nor one he loves to greet With heartier welcomes, than the Chief’s, who here, On Trent’s green banks, first drew the vital air. No fawning parasite his soul beguil’d; No courtly arts his youthful mind defil’d; Nurtur’d in solitude, his thoughts were free; Daring and brave, he scorn’d servility; Train’d in religion, and devote to truth, In virtuous labours pass’d his ripening youth; Thus grew his mind, for lofty deeds prepar’d, To sternness moulded, by the toils he shar’d; So grows the sapling oak, ’midst woods profound, And gathers strength from storms which beat around: At length matur’d, a nation’s pride, in war It guards the realm, and spreads its fame afar. IRETON! yet lives there one, in this base age, Whose heart thy manly virtues can engage, To love and rev’rence; as he greets the blow, By which thou laid’st the treach’rous STUART low:(3) Whilst hordes of slaves look’d on, with wond’ring awe, And kings were taught obedience to law. And still, in Charles’s blood, the lesson lives, Which teaches them ’tis Public _Will_ that gives Alone the right to rule; and fixes sway On _subjects’ love_, and _interest to obey_; Not “right divine,” that charm, by Priestcraft spread Round guilty thrones, to save th’ anointed head From public vengeance; when its crimes no more An outrag’d suff’ring people will endure. IRETON, enfranchis’d England truly owes, With all mankind, much of the bliss that grows From rights secur’d, and privilege defin’d, And pow’r control’d, to thy exalted mind.(4) More had it ow’d, but, that mysterious heaven, In all things just, deem’d that enough was given To teach mankind, too long abas’d, to prize What in religion,--what in freedom lies; So, to itself, recall’d thy soul, whose ray Had been the patriot’s guide through many a day Of doubtful strife,--in many a troublous hour Had chas’d his gloom, and cheer’d him by its pow’r. Long hadst thou, IRETON, borne, ’midst toils and blood The holy ark of Freedom;--long hadst stood Thy Country’s hope;--lent vigour to her arms, Light to her councils;--in her wild alarms Been her high rock;--her strong pavilion, where The brave took courage, and the weak lost fear; Ere heaven, on sudden, quench’d in the dread tomb Thy glorious light; and left the land in gloom. As the proud steed, impatient of the reins, Frets at the hand whose pow’r his rage restrains, And, if he breaks the curb, will fiercer run The dang’rous path his rider sought to shun; Or if by shock severe he quits his seat, The foaming courser darts on ruin fleet; Leaves the plain track,--leaps fences yet untried, And braves some mound, in insolence of pride, At which he falls: so, Cromwell,(5) when the voice No more was heard, which once controll’d his choice: When IRETON, stern and rigid, in the cause Of pure religion, equal rights and laws, Remain’d no longer to abash the pride Which sought, with bold ambition, to bestride The prostrate strength of a great realm, whose blood Had stream’d for Freedom as a copious flood: Leap’d, madly o’er each guard which had secur’d The dear-bought rights: and, in his fall, ensur’d The ruin of that cause, so nobly won, And left his country, and mankind, undone. Darkness too soon o’erspread the land again, Beneath a Tyrant’s lewd capricious reign: Virtue and freedom were rever’d no more, And the stern virtues sought a genial shore:(6) A new found world! by nature’s bounty grac’d With pow’rs stupendous;--and by wisdom plac’d, Where, undebauch’d by regal sway, might rise A pure Republic: to console the wise, And teach the good, that heaven, this simple plan, As yet, designs to staunch the woes of man: When all shall know, from liberty what flows, And share the bliss that _equal law_ bestows. But God, in wrath, the benefit suspends; And k--s, its ministers of vengeance, sends To rule on earth, that vicious man may see The bitter fruits of his impiety: For iron sceptres, only, can command, And haughty despots rule, a venal land. The lion roams the monarch of the wood; For might must sway, where subjects hunt for blood. Could ought to gen’rous spirits reconcile The kingly rule, such monarchs as our isle, In the fourth George presents, “_a patriot King_,” Just, lib’ral, and humane, the balm must bring: A reign where pow’r but guards the subject’s right, And the proud crown beams fair with freedom’s light. Had such the Stuart’s been the raging blast, Which, from his throne, the bigot Monarch cast, And, in dread fury, hurl’d in ruin, down, The lofty ones of earth, had not been known. Hid in the solitudes of private life, Earth’s lowly sons had mingl’d not in strife With mighty names, princes and pow’rs, whose state Seem’d, once, to dare the wildest storms of fate. But, as the ocean on its billows bears, In raging mood, the mire and dirt it tears From its low bed, and overwhelms the pride Of halls and palaces; so drear and wide The ravage made, when through its custom’d mound Subjection bursts, and owns no settled bound. O’er rank and state the torrent rises high, Whilst ruin’d thrones and altars prostrate lie. Let princes learn, then, righteously to sway:-- And to their subjects’ weal just def’rence pay: Nor lust of pow’r e’er tempt them to withstand What justice prompts the _People_ to demand. Let rights of conscience, social claims allow’d, Disarm the factious, and confound the proud: Who seek, ’midst wounded spirits,--tortur’d minds, That cement which a suff’ring people binds. Then shall rebellion to establish’d pow’r, Be as the snow drift beat against a tow’r Of massive strength; which may obscure, awhile, Its native grandeur, but, anon, the pile Shall show its beauty, whilst the vengeful storm Melts at its base, no longer to deform. _Rebellion!_ ’tis a foul,--an odious deed! The traitor, justly, is to death decreed: But _nations_ may not bear the hateful name, Nor, in their gen’ral acts, incur the shame. A _rebel People_, no where can be found; For public will, alone, can fix the bound Of law and right, determine the just plan Of social government, and give to man What may comport, in fix’d society, With gen’ral good and private liberty. Traitors, when rightly scann’d, are the base _few_ Who claim those rights which to the whole are due. And be they kings, lords, demagogues, or mobs, Who seek such sway, each manly bosom throbs With anguish at their thrall; nor will sustain, Longer than force compels, their iron reign. The Lark, by nature taught to wing the air, Flutters and strives, his native skies to share, As much, when gilded wires confine his wings, As when from rustic twigs his durance springs: ’Tis not the _sort_ of prison, but the _cage_ He mourns; and freedom must his woes assuage. A pow’r as strong as fate; which force defies: Is that a common suffering supplies. When men bethink them of the wrongs they feel From tyrant’s foul contempt of public weal; And look upon their little ones at play, Inheritors of slav’ry! born t’obey Oppression’s cruel lash,--yet, not allow’d To share the good their sweat procures the proud Enthrall’d by laws severe, unjust, refin’d By cruel policy, the soul to bind; Their fev’rish spirits drink their hearts blood dry With long despair: or, else, in agony, They burst their chains; and, reckless of the life No longer priz’d, rush, madden’d, into strife. Before such spirit hirelings disappear, As leaves are scatter’d when the sullen year Marshals its troop of storms;--and forests shake, While from her brows fierce blasts the crown of nature take. The gales which fan the earth,--the rolling streams,-- The echoing rocks,--the sea,--the sun’s bright beams; All nature joins to bind, refresh, inspire, To lift the high resolve,--to fix the strong desire; When once a nation, rous’d from slavery, Has caught the thrilling sound of LIBERTY! From tongue to tongue,--from heart to heart it flies, Hand clench’d in hand, the desp’rate struggle tries; The tocsin sounds to arms! Resistance wakes: And his weak bonds the rising giant breaks. Such spirit call’d the valiant heroes forth, Of Charles’s age:--theirs the exalted worth, To strive for freedom,--rights of conscience,--all That England’s worthies good and noble call; And nobly triumph too,--in the just cause Of teaching kings to rule by wholesome laws. And ’mongst that gen’rous band, no name more dear, IRETON! than thine: with breast estrang’d to fear;-- With fame unsullied;--uncorrupt in heart;-- In motive pure;(7) thou well perform’dst thy part. IRETON, farewell! but, often as my eyes, In my lone walks shall view this spire arise, In the blue vale,--which marks the spot, rever’d, Where thou, the glory of thy age, first shar’d The vital air, thou shalt my rev’rence claim, And I will pause--and bless the Patriot’s name.

SONG.

Fill the cup to the ghosts of the dead! The sage and the hero of old:-- The men who for liberty bled, Unaw’d, uncorrupted by gold.

CHORUS.

Their mem’ries we’ll cherish, Their names ne’er shall perish, The rights which they won shall by us be preserv’d:-- The glory they earn’d shall by us be deserv’d!

Strike the harp to the praise of the dead! With songs their high honors proclaim:-- Our valiant forefathers! who bled For country, and freedom, and fame. Their mem’ries we’ll cherish, Their names ne’er shall perish, The rights which they won shall by us be preserv’d:-- The glory they earn’d shall by us be deserv’d!

Chant a dirge to the shades of the dead! The worthies of Albion’s story: But let no weak tears be shed; They rest in the light of their glory. Their mem’ries we’ll cherish, Their names ne’er shall perish, The rights which they won shall by us be preserv’d:-- The glory they earn’d shall by us be deserv’d!

“O ENGLAND, MY COUNTRY!”

O England, my country! the land of the free; Thou queen of the ocean, most fair! The myrtle and laurel belong unto thee; To science and liberty dear: When dark clouds of slavery hung o’er the world, And Europe was buried in night, Midst thee, was the standard of freedom unfurl’d, Religion o’er thee shed her light.

Should conquest allure thee; aggression provoke; How terrible art thou array’d! But mercy descends, as thy arm gives the stroke, To heal the deep wounds war has made. The light of the nations, my country! art thou; A beacon that cheers the world round; Thy name is a refuge--in it monarchs hide, And earth’s thousand realms own its sound.

Go search the bright record of deeds which belongs To France, or to Spain’s proudest days, Their glory was built on humanity’s wrongs, Their fame was the lightning’s fierce blaze: But England! thy glory is rais’d on true worth, And fair, as it beams o’er the wave, Sheds light which illumines the crowns of the earth, And cheers e’en the hut of the slave.

TO LIBERTY.

_Written at the Tomb of Col. Hutchinson, Owthorpe, Nottinghamshire._

Hail! heaven-born Liberty! I feel thy pow’r Awakening in my breast, at this lone hour, As o’er thy martyr’s tomb I fondly bend; Such holy, fervent ecstasy, That health, and strength, and life, for thee! In noble daring I would freely spend. Who blushes not, to bear the name of _Slave_, Let him not venture near this hallow’d grave. There is a fresh’ning odour round, Which makes the freeman’s heart to bound Like summer leaves;--but the blanch’d cheek, Tyrants and vassals show,--bespeak A fear is on them, which awakens dread, As though their step should rouse th’ indignant dead.

NOTES.