Where'er degraded Nature bleeds and pines,
From Guinea's coast to Sibir's dreary mines, (h)
Truth shall pervade th' unfathom'd darkness there,
And light the dreadful features of despair.-
Hark! the stern captive spurns his heavy load,
And asks the image back that Heaven bestowed!
Fierce in his eye the fire of valour burns,
And, as the slave departs, the man returns.

Oh, sacred Truth! thy triumph ceas'd a while,
And Hope, thy sister, ceas'd with thee to smile,
When leagued Oppression pour'd to Northern wars
Her whisker'd pandoors and her fierce hussars,
Wav'd her dread standard to the breeze of morn,
Peal'd her loud drum, and twang'd her trumpet horn;
Tumultuous Horror brooded o'er her van,
Presaging wrath to Poland-and to man!(i)
Warsaw's last champion, from her height, survey'd,
Wide o'er the fields, a waste of ruin laid,-

Oh, Heaven!" he cried, "my bleeding country save! Is there no hand on high to shield the brave? Yet, though destruction sweep these lovely plains, Rise, fellow men! our country yet remains. By that dread name, we wave the sword on high, And swear, for her to live-with her to die!"

He said, and on the rampart-heights array'd His trusty warriors, few, but undismay'd; Firm-pac'd and slow, a horrid front they form, Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm; Low murm'ring sounds along their banners fly, "Revenge, or death!"-the watchword and reply; Then peal'd the notes, omnipotent to charm, And the loud tocsin toll'd their last alarm! In vain, alas! in vain, ye gallant few, From rank to rank your volley'd thunder flew !Oh! bloodiest picture in the book of Time, Sarmatia fell, unwept, without a crime; Found not a generous friend, a pitying foe, Strength in her arms, nor mercy in her wo!

Dropp'd from her nerveless grasp the shatter'd spear, Clos'd her bright eye, and curb'd her high career;-

Hope, for a season, bade the world farewell,
And Freedom shriek'd-as Kosciusko fell!

The sun went down, nor ceas'd the carnage there, Tumultuous murder shook the midnight airOn Prague's proud arch the fires of ruin glow, His blood-dy'd waters murm'ring far below; The storm prevails, the rampart yields a way, Bursts the wild cry of horror and dismay! Hark! as the smould'ring piles with thunder fall, A thousand shrieks for hopeless mercy call! Earth shook-red meteors flash'd along the sky, And conscious Nature shudder'd at the cry!

Oh, righteous Heaven! ere Freedom found a grave, Why slept the sword, omnipotent to save?

Where was thine arm, O Vengeance! where thy rod,
That smote the foes of Zion and of God;
That crush'd proud Ammon, when his iron car
Was yok'd in wrath, and thunder'd from afar ?
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 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 saddening 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, ner nature, wither'd from the world!
Ye that the rising morn invidious mark,

And hate the light-because your docds 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 generous 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 Shakspeare's name below.

And say, supernal Powers ! 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 Lybian'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 on the free! Yet, yet, degraded men! 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 heavenly mould!
She bade no wretch his thankless labour urge,
Nor, trembling, take the pittance and the scourge:

No homeless Lybian, 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 plunderer 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 1
The shrill horn blew ;(k) at that alarum knell,
His guardian angel took a last farewell!

That funeral dirge to darkness hath resign'd
The fiery grandeur of a generous mind!-
Poor fetter'd man! I hear thee whispering low
Unhallow'd vows to Guilt, the child of Wo!
Frindless 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 funeral fires:
So falis the heart at Thraldom's bitter sigh-
So Virtue dies, the spouse of Liberty!

But not to Lybia'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!

How long your tribes have trembled, and obey'd
How long was Timour's iron sceptre sway'd ;(2)
Whose marshall'd hosts, the lions of the plain,
From Scythia's northern mountains to the main,