PEACE, IGNOMINY, AND DESTRUCTION.
[]AROUND th' enduring martyr's hallow'd ſhrine
Their brighteſt flowers the holy Muſes twine!
With roſes bluſhing from the fields of war,
Their ſkilful hands adorn the victor's car!
And, for the candid brow of peace, they bring
The modeſt honours of the early ſpring!
But for the peace that lifts th' imploring eye,
From whoſe frail breaſt eſcapes the coward's ſigh,
No muſe applauding one ſmall leaf ſhall bring
Of all the foliage of the early ſpring;
But, from her bow'r, ſhall Ignominy rend
A branch of nightſhade for her gentle friend!
[2]THESE painful eyes behold an Engliſh Peer
(His weak Memorial ſicklied o'er with fear,)
In humble attitude a ſuppliant ſtand,
To claim the friendſhip of a murd'rous band!
The plaintive breathings of the ſnow-wing'd dove
Ill ſuit the imperial meſſenger of Jove—
Who ſhould, by long-excited vengeance driv'n,
Bear in his graſp the thunderbolt of heav'n;
OH, my lov'd country! time-ennobled realm,
Where jealous honour ſtill has watch'd the helm;
Th' unclouded glory long to Europe known
Which claſps thy loins like a refulgent zone:
Say, will thy hand the hallow'd ceſtus tear,
And yield thy virtue to the tainting air?
For me—unmark'd by honours, wealth, or fame,
No ſwelling title blazoning round my name!—
To be a fleeting bubble of thy earth
Inflames my mounting ſoul with pride of birth!
Oh, ſacred parent! ſtill thyſelf revere;
To honour's call, to virtue's voice, be near:
Blur not the brightneſs of thy heav'nly cauſe
With one dim moment's intervening pauſe.
[3] Better to fall in glory's full career,
Embracing honour on th' untimely bier;
Than weak, ſubdued, with agoniſing ſtrife,
Waſte (in the ſocket) the laſt gleams of life.
Say, if to cloathe with light the laughing ſkies
The God of Day were doom'd no more to riſe,
Were it not better, in the pomp of pow'r,
In the rich ardour of meridian hour,
To ruſh abrupt from heav'n with downward flight
A flaming chaos to the jaws of night;
Than tinge the ocean with a ling'ring ray,
Expiring in the ſilence of decay?
YET think not France from nature will depart,
And chace the fiend that grapples to her heart;
That the wild tigreſs will forego her prey,
Couch with the kid, and with the lambkin play;
That the fond child ſhall ſtretch his little hand
To lead the lion in a flowr'y band!
Theſe beauteous emblems of the days of old
With this mock concord no reſemblance hold:
No heavy drops of mandragora ſteep
The dragon's eyelids in the dews of ſleep!
[4] The gift extended by a faithleſs foe
Is the concealment of a lurking woe:
'Tis like the pauſe that Nature's ſtorm beſtows,
An awful calm—the thunder's dread repoſe!
MY anxious eyes ſolicit ſtill in vain
Some ſign that might my failing hopes ſuſtain;
Some ſacred altar, rob'd in ſpotleſs white,
Where candour's prieſt performs the genial rite;
Where long-tried ſtateſmen, fraught with wiſdom's lore,
Whoſe hair the hand of peace hath ſilver'd o'er,
With learned fathers ſway'd by virtue's rule,
Whom peace hath tutor'd in religion's ſchool;
Where, penſive as they walk'd, the holy breeze
Flew through the ſhady cloiſter whiſp'ring peace.
For theſe beſt pledges, other ſcenes ariſe—
Th' enchanter's cauldron ſmites my wond'ring eyes!
Behold a troop of ghaſtly ſhapes advance
In frantic mood, and form a horrid dance;
Now bending low, theſe haggard forms of hell
Breathe the dark pray'r, and mutter the dread ſpell:
And now into the turbid ſtream they throw
(With imprecations big with future woe)
[5] The galling tears that flow'd from beauty's cheek,
The voice of agony, and terror's ſhriek,
The blood that trickled from affliction's dart,
The ſighs exhaling from a broken heart,
The burſt of anguiſh, murder's piercing cry,
The ſcreams that hurried thro' the midnight ſky,
The famiſh'd infant's deep expiring groan,
The dungeon'd victim's ſolitary moan,
The clotted hair which deſperation tore,
The milk of murder'd mothers ſtreak'd with gore,
The plaint of innocence, the virgin's pray'r
Which the rude raviſher conſign'd to air,
The hallow'd edicts by religion plann'd,
And holy wedlock's deſecrated band.
Behold the infernal ſorcerers unite
To cloſe their incantation's fearful rite,
And leering caſt into the vaſe proſound,
The likeneſs of two ſkulls which once were crown'd!
SAY, for theſe fiends, if England can deſcend
To weave the bond that grapples friend to friend,
Flown is the ſpirit of her living fame;—
And what remains?—a carcaſe of a name!
[6]COU'D I like DRYDEN wield the bolts of war,
Or boaſt the warm exuberance of PARR?
The glow of mind, the piercing ray of heav'n,
By nature's liberal hand to ORFORD giv'n?
The zeal of him whoſe energetic ſtrain
Unfolds the ſorrows of the negro train,
Brings the heart-rending tale to Britain's ear,
And bids compaſſion pay her long arrear:
The arguments that flow from WYNDHAM'S ſenſe,
Well guarded round by reaſon's ſtrongeſt fence;
The ſacred boon by CHATHAM'S SON poſſeſt,
The muſe of eloquence that ſires his breaſt:
The quiver richly ſtored with attic darts,
Which genius to his SHERIDAN imparts:
Th' exalting winnow'd purity of ſoul
With which FITZWILLIAM ſoars beyond controul;
Who, greatly daring, with a zeal ſevere
Stemm'd the wild deluge of opprobious fear;
And, on the day eternally renown'd,
Like ABDIEL, was the only faithful found:—
Had I theſe pow'rs concenter'd in one form,
I'd pour on England the reſiſtleſs ſtorm,
To wake her ſoul, to rouſe her mental part,
And chace her ſombrous lethargy of heart.
[7]Do ſome pretend that juſtice holds the ſcales
That o'er French councils honour now prevails?
Approach the dial in the dead of night,
Demand the hour by artificial light;
Then virtue ſeek with an inquiring eye,
Amid the ſyſtem unillum'd from high.
* Mark yon ſad cemetery's ſtarleſs gloom,
Where time ſhall ne'er unlock the rav'nous tomb,
Where ſhadowy death ſhall a dread vigil keep,
'Midſt the ſtill horror of eternal ſleep.
There the pledg'd maiden, at th' approach of eve,
O'er the dear relics of the youth ſhall grieve,
While her dark creed ſhall urge the ſting of woe,
And bid her flowing tears for ever flow:
Hope dares not whiſper to her clouded eye
To ſend a glance to time's unſolding ſky,
Where pity weaves the amaranthine chain
To circle lovers ne'er to part again.
THERE, too, the mother, with affliction wild,
Bends o'er the grave that holds her darling child,
[8] For ever holds—No pleaſing viſion cries,
"Suppreſs the tears that trickle from thine eyes,
"Ah! know thy child with angels ſoars on high
"In the bright regions of the upper ſky,
"And, deck'd with wings that glitter to the ray,
"Plays on the ſun-beams of eternal day."—
Her dark'ning creed, with no aſſuagement fraught,
Forbids her ſoul to graſp the cheering thought!
THERE, too, the friend his other-ſelf ſhall mourn,
From his habitual ſight for ever torn;
Forbid to look to that celeſtial ſhore
Whoſe bliſsful bow'rs ſhall friend to friend reſtore
Thus the ſtrong chain their ſacrilege has riv'n
Which bound in ſacred union earth and heav'n;
Made ev'ry future high reverſion void;
The rights of immortality deſtroy'd;
Compell'd the claims of merit to be mute;
Creation's lord degraded to a brute;
And, what their hell-conſtructed thought deſign'd,
Inſulted nature, and dethron'd the mind!
[9]* BEHOLD here flow'rets deck the length'ning way,
The ſlow proceſſion moves in bright array:
A gorgeous ſpectacle! ovation's car!
Preſs'd by no hero ſlaughter'd in the war,
But preſs'd by him who ſcatter'd wild alarm,
And rais'd 'gainſt virtue his deſtructive arm:
Who dar'd on truth's bright ſhield, in evil hour,
The poiſon'd ſhafts of blaſphemy to ſhow'r.
His ardent vot'ries—a licentious crowd—
Uplift their champion, feſt'ring in his ſhroud,
And, while the grave-worms faſten on his frame,
High honours pay to his irrev'rent name!
Pale Irreligion comes with all her train—
Her atheiſt choir—to act the rites profane;
She comes with all the witlings of the land,
Her grave Buffoons, her academic band!
The ſteps of the fam'd Porch they now aſcend,
And through the pillar'd Iſles their march they bend,
An hoſt of praiſeful voices rends the Fane
And impious echoes multiply the ſtrain.
But when the corſe was to the vault convey'd,
Night round the temple flung her darkeſt ſhade;
[10] With terror heav'd the ſympathetic ground
From every altar breath'd a ſigh profound;
And fiends rejoic'd, while angels wept around!
TIME was when France preferred her learned name,
And wore the wreath beſtow'd by claſſic fame:
Mark the dread change!—the cold immoral blaſt
Has chill'd the plants of ſcience as it paſs'd,
Nipt the young thought juſt burſting from its fold,
And froze inſtruction's current as it roll'd.
SEE education weeping on the ground;
Her globes, her torch, her emblems ſcatter'd round;
Her children all are fled!—the path, that leads
To her auguſt abode, is choak'd with weeds:
She mourns her ſabbaths, and her rites ſuppreſs'd;
She mourns her ſilent hours' ignoble reſt.
Who now appears the tutoreſs of youth,
To cheer the darken'd mind with beams of truth?
(With thoſe clear rays which her bright noon adorn,)
To ſtreak and beautify her pupil's morn.
[11]FROM the wide-yawning ground now burſts to view
A form gigantic, and of ſable hue;
'Tis Inhumanity—ſhe comes to trace
Inſtruction's precepts to the riſing race:
She feaſts their minds—not with theatric ſhow,
But with live ſcenes of dire en-ſanguin'd woe!
Gluts their affections with atrocious food,
With acts of wrath, and feſtivals of blood!
* Behold her children, new to war's alarms,
At her commandment graſp their little arms!
Behold yon aged group, whoſe ſilver hair
Demands compaſſion and intreats to ſpare!
'Gainſt theſe—whoſe crimes are poverty and age,
She bids her pupils act their virgin rage;
And as they now impel the death-wing'd balls,
Some benefactor, or ſome parent falls!
With horror's deep'ning dye ſo early ſtain'd,
In maſſacrous employ ſo early train'd,
Will they not terrify the future day
Whoſe rudiments of vice ſuch proofs diſplay?
—'Gainſt theſe to war is Virtue's beſt cruſade:
She cries "Oh, England! haſten to my aid!
[12] "See atheiſt cruelty her weapons wield!
"Lift to her blow thy conſecrated ſhield."
OH! that the warning voice to me was giv'n,
Which once reſounded through the vault of heav'n,
Woe to the ſons of Earth!
I would o'erwhelm
With ſudden terror the unconſcious realm;
Till graſping one great plan by truth deſign'd
The will of many gath'ring to one mind,
With courage added to prophetic fear,
She ſhould to France an iron aſpect wear.
WOE to the land, which (ſhamefully ſecure)
Shrinks from the toil that wiſdom bids endure,
Declines the ſteps of glory to retrace,
And ſhuns calamity to meet diſgrace!—
Misfortune is the night expecting day;
Diſgrace a ſtain that ſeas can't waſh away.
[13]* A VOICE prophetic ſmote the paſſive air,
And cried to Media—Haſte! prepare, prepare!
Reſume the ſhields, and make the arrows bright;
Direct to Babylon their haſty flight:
Oh! thou, who fill'ſt the trembling earth with woe,
Deſtroying mountain! I'm thy dreadful foe;
I will put forth my arm, and thou ſhal't ruſh,
With flaming ruin, and, deſcending cruſh
Deep to th' intombing vale!
Cou'd England hear,
The ſound perchance wou'd vibrate on her ear;
And ſhe referring to that ruinous pow'r,
Would catch the leſſon of the preſent hour:
Like Media, ſhe would dart a threat'ning eye,
Proud to perform the menace from on high,
And cry to heav'n as ſhe aſcends the car,
"Thou art my battle-axe, my ſtrength of war."
THEN ceaſe, oh Britain! time-ennobled land!
Ceaſe to implore what virtue can't demand!
Yes! I adjure thee by thy days of yore;
By thine illuſtrious fame's untainted ſtore:
[14] By all the rev'rence thy great ſtateſmen claim,
Who rais'd, on wiſdom's plan, thy wond'rous frame;
By all thy ſons, who in thy cauſe have bled;
By all the tears their drooping widows ſhed!
By all thy ſacred bards, whoſe magic lays
Sound in thy porch and dignify thy praiſe;
By thy benevolence—that brilliant gem
Whoſe luſtre plays around thy diadem;
By all the charities that moſt endear;
By Emigrancy's meek imploring tear;
Thou'lt not reject her at her utmoſt need,
Nor plant thy footſteps on the broken reed:—
Yes! I adjure thee by the ſainted train,
Who heav'n-inſtructed rear'd thy awful fane;
Who for imperial Rome's gay pomp of lights,
Her pageant altars, and her ſcenic rites,
Gave to thy holy lips a purer pray'r
Whoſe chaſte aſcenſion breathes celeſtial air.
OFT' when in vain the art of med'cine ſtrives,
How nature truſting to herſelf revives!
So—wou'd our buſy ſtate-empirics ceaſe
To pour the opium of repoſing peace—
[15] England would ſtart from her ignoble eaſe,
And riſe ſuperior to her new diſeaſe,
And boldly graſp the madd'ning arm of France,
* 'Till, like AGAVE wak'ning from her trance,
She trembling caſts her haggard eyes around,
And views her infant bleeding on the ground.
BUT if cold reaſon with her length'ning chain
Comes ev'ry vigorous purpoſe to reſtrain:—
Ah! then no time can England's fame reſtore,
The curtain drops, and glory's ſcene is o'er.
—Reſign'd, ſubmiſſive to my humbler [...]tate,
Excluded from the conclave of the ſtate,
It cheers me to reflect I'm not decreed
To make this bond of peace my act and deed!
'Ere I wou'd fix th'irrevocable ſeal,
And legaliſe what ſhame can ne'er repeal,
† I'd be the wretch whoſe infidel deſigns
Creep in his mawkiſh, cold, lethargic lines:
Who meanly caters from dim reaſon's ray,
While bright religion pours a flood of day,
[16] Who from the gates of wiſdom turns aſide,
And takes Lucretius for his moral guide.
I'd rather (by the nine accurſt) produce
The harſh crab vintage of the Baviad muſe,
Whoſe cynic numbers not devoid of art
Spring from the workings of a bilious heart,
Coarſe, unrefin'd, inelegantly keen,
The foul o'erflowings of ſelf-tortur'd ſpleen.
THOU, who haſt long attain'd th'immortal goal
While choral plaudits ſound from pole to pole!
The glowing ſun-ſet of whoſe honour'd day
Expands the brilliance of meridian ray:
Who haſt from ſtates remov'd th' incumbent ſhade,
And the wide ſphere of government diſplay'd,
The diſtant azure of whoſe vague extremes
Thou haſt illum'd with Truth's unerring beams:
Our houſhold deity! who warns, foretells,
Points to the den where the huſh'd monſter dwells,
Preſents our perils awfully to view,
And bids the Country to herſelf be true.
Oh, Sage of Beaconsfield! indulge the muſe
Who the ſame track (thou haſt adorn'd) purſues;
Who gleans thy ſcatt'rings, graſps the falling grain
From the full harveſt of thy loaded wane!
THE END.