Thy blissful omens bid my spirit see
The boundless fields of rapture yet to be;
I watch the wheels of Nature's mazy plan,
And learn the future by the past of man.
Come, bright Improvement! on the car of
Time,
And rule the spacious world from clime to clime;
Thy handmaid arts shall every wild explore,
Trace every wave, and culture every shore.
On Erie's banks, where tigers steal along,
And the dread Indian chants a dismal song,
Where human fiends on midnight errands walk,
And bathe in brains the murderous tomahawk;
There shall the flocks on thymy pasture stray,
And shepherds dance at Summer's op'ning day;
Each wand'ring genius of the lonely glen
Shall start to view the glittering haunts of men;
And silence watch, on woodland heights around,
The village curfew, as it tolls profound.
In Lybian groves, where damned rites are done,
That bathe the rocks in blood, and veil the sun, Truth shall arrest the murd'rous arm profane, Wild Obi flies7-the veil is rent in twain.
Where barb'rous hordes on Scythian moun
Truth, Mercy, Freedom, yet shall find a home;
Where'er degraded Nature bleeds and pines,
From Guinea's coast to Sibir's dreary mines,8
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 bestow'd!
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
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!9
Warsaw's last Champion, from her height survey'd,
Wide o'er the fields, a waste of ruin laid,— Oh! Heav'n! 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,
ngth in her arms, nor mercy in her woe!
Dropp'd from her nerveless grasp the shatter'd
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 air-
On 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 smouldering 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 Heav'n! 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, 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's 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
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,
ho 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 suffering 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
That embryo spirit, yet without a name,—
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