Where was the storm that slumber'd till the host
Of blood-stain'd Pharaoh left their trembling coast;
Then bade the deep in wild commotion flow,
And heav'd an ocean on their march below!
Departed spirits of the mighty dead!

Ye that at Marathon and Leuctra bled!
Friends of the world! restore your swords to man;
Fight in his sacred cause, and lead the van!
Yet for Sarmatia's tears of blood atone,
And make her arm as puissant as your own!
Oh! once again to Freedom's cause return
The patriot Tell-the Bruce of Bannockburn!
Yes! thy proud lords, unpitied land! shall see
That man hath yet a soul-and dare be free!
A little while along thy sadd'ning plains
The starless night of desolation reigns:
Truth shall restore the light by Nature giv'n,
And, like Prometheus, bring the fire of Heav'n!
Prone to the dust Oppression shall be hurl'd,
Her

name, her nature, wither'd from the world!
Ye that the rising morn invidious mark,
And hate the light-because your deeds are dark;
Ye that expanding truth invidious view,
And think, or wish the song of Hope untrue,
Perhaps your little hands presume to span
The march of Genius, and the pow'rs of Man;
Perhaps ye watch, at Pride's unhallow'd shrine,
Her victims, newly slain, and thus divine-
"Here shall thy triumph, Genius, cease, and here,
Truth, Science, Virtue, close your short career.'
Tyrants! in vain ye trace the wizard ring;
In vain ye limit Mind's unwearied spring:

What! can ye lull the winged winds asleep
Arrest the rolling world, or chain the deep!
No-the wild wave contemns your scepter'd hand-
It roll'd not back when Canute gave command!
Man! can thy doom no brighter soul allow!
Still must thou live a blot on Nature's brow!
Shall War's polluted banner ne'er be furl'd!
Shall crimes and tyrants cease but with the world!
What! are thy triumphs, sacred Truth! belied!
Why then hath Plato liv'd-or Sydney died!
Ye fond adorers of departed fame,

Who warm at Scipio's worth, or Tully's name!
Ye that, in fancied vision, can admire
The sword of Brutus, and the Theban lyre!
Wrapt in historic ardour, who adore

Each classic haunt, and well-remember'd shore,
Where Valour tun'd, amid her chosen throng,
The Thracian trumpet and the Spartan song;
Or, wand'ring thence, behold the later charms
Of England's glory, and Helvetia's arms!
See Roman fire in Hampden's bosom swell!
And fate and freedom in the shaft of Tell!
Say, ye fond zealots to the worth of yore,
Hath Valour left the world-to live no more!
No more shall Brutus bid a tyrant die,
And sternly smile with vengeance in his eye!
Hampden no more, when suff'ring Freedom calls,
Encounter fate, and triumph as he falls!
Nor Tell disclose, through peril and alarm,
The might that slumbers in a peasant's arm!
Yes! in that gen'rous cause for ever strong,
The patriot's virtue, and the poet's song,

Still, as the tide of ages rolls away,

Shall charm the world, unconscious of decay!
Yes there are hearts, prophetic Hope may trust,
That slumber yet in uncreated dust,

Ordain'd to fire th' adoring sons of earth.
With every charm of wisdom and of worth;
Ordain'd to light, with intellectual day,
The mazy wheels of Nature as they play,
Or, warm with Fancy's energy to glow,
And rival all but Shakespeare's name below!
And say, supernal Pow'rs! who deeply scan
Heav'n's dark decrees, unfathom'd yet by man,
When shall the world call down, to cleanse her
shame,

That embryo spirit, yet without a name—
That friend of Nature, whose avenging hands
Shall burst the Libyan's adamantine bands!
Who, sternly marking on his native soil,
The blood, the tears, the anguish, and the toil,
Shall bid each righteous heart exult to see
Peace to the slave, and vengeance to the free!
Yet, yet, degraded nien! th' expected day
That breaks your bitter cup is far away;
Trade, wealth, and fashion ask you still to bleed,
And holy men give scripture for the deed;
Scourg❜d and debas'd, no Briton stoops to save
A wretch, a coward; yes, because a slave!
Eternal Nature! when thy giant hand.

Had heav'd the floods, and fix'd the trembling land

When life sprung startling at thy plastic call,
Endless her forms, and Man, the lord of all—

Say, was that lordly form inspir'd by thee
To wear eternal chains, and bow the knee!
Was man ordain'd the slave of man to toil
Yok'd with the brutes, and fetter'd to the soil,
Weigh'd in a tyrant's balance with his gold!
No Nature stamp'd us in a heav'nly mould!
She bade no wretch his thankless labour urge,
Nor, trembling, take the pittance and the scourge!
No homeless Libyan, on the stormy deep,
To call upon his country's name, and weep!
Lo! once in triumph on his boundless plain
The quiver'd chief of Congo lov'd to reign;
With fires proportion'd to his native sky,
Strength in his arm, and lightning in his eye;
Scour'd with wild feet his sun-illumin'd zone,
The spear, the lion, and the woods his own;
Or led the combat, bold without a plan,
An artless savage, but a fearless man!

The plund'rer came-alas! no glory smiles
For Congo's chief on yonder Indian isles;
For ever fallen! No son of Nature now,
With Freedom charter'd on his manly brow!
Faint, bleeding, bound, he weeps the night away,
And, when the sea-wind wafts the dewless day,
Starts, with a bursting heart, for ever more
To curse the sun that lights their guilty shore.

The shrill horn blew! 10 At that alarum knell
His guardian angel took a last farewell!
That fun'ral dirge to darkness hath resign'd
The fiery grandeur of a gen'rous mind!-
Poor fetter'd man! I hear thee whisp'ring low
Unhallow'd vows to Guilt, the child of Woe!

F

Friendless thy heart! and, canst thou harbour there A wish but death-a passion but despair!

The widow'd Indian, when her lord expires, Mounts the dread pile, and braves the funʼral fires; So falls the heart at Thraldom's bitter sigh! So Virtue dies, the spouse of Liberty! But not to Libya's barren climes alone, To Chili, or the wild Siberian zone, Belong the wretched heart and haggard eye, Degraded worth, and poor misfortune's sigh!Ye orient realms where Ganges' waters run! Prolific fields! dominions of the Sun!

II

How long your tribes have trembled, and obey'd!
How long was Timur's iron sceptre sway'd!
Whose marshall'd hosts, the lions of the plain,
From Scythia's northern mountains to the main,
Rag'd o'er your plunder'd shrines and altars bare
With blazing torch and gory scymitar!—
Stunn'd with the cries of death each gentle gale,
And bath'd in blood the verdure of the vale!
Yet could no pangs th' immortal spirit tame,
When Brama's children perish'd for his name;
The martyrs smil'd beneath avenging pow'r,
And brav❜d the tyrant in his tort'ring hour!

When Europe sought your subject realms to gain,
And stretch'd her giant sceptre o'er the main;
Taught her proud barks their winding way to shape,
And brav'd the stormy spirit of the Cape; 12
Children of Brama! then was mercy nigh
To wash the stain of blood's eternal dye!
Did Peace descend to triumph and to save
When free born Britons cross'd the Indian wave!