80 Admire and sigh, and then succumb and bleed! crowd, Madden'd with centuries of drought, are loud,' And trample on each other to obtain The cup which brings oblivion of a chain Heavy and sore, -in which long yoked they plough'd The sand, or if there sprung the yellow grain, 89 'Twas not for them, their necks were too much bow'd, And their dead palates chew'd the cud of pain:who, despite of deeds Yes! the few spirits Which they abhor, confound not with the cause With a few summers, and again put forth Cities and generations — fair, when free — For, Tyranny, there blooms no bud for thee! 100 III. Glory and Empire! once upon these towers With Freedom godlike Triad! how ye sate! The league of mightiest nations, in those hours When Venice was an envy, might abate, But did not quench, her spirit — in her fate All were enwrapp'd: the feasted monarchs knew And loved their hostess, nor could learn to hate, Although they humbled — with the kingly sew The many felt, for from all days and climes She was the voyager's worship;-even her crimes Were of the softer order born of Love, 111 She drank no blood, nor fatten'd on the dead, But gladden'd where her harmless conquests spread; For these restored the Cross, that from above Hallow'd her sheltering banners, which incessant Flew between earth and the unholy Crescent, Which, if it waned and dwindled, Earth may thank The city it has clothed in chains, which clank Now, creaking in the ears of those who owe The name of Freedom to her glorious struggles; Yet she but shares with them a common woe, 121 And calld the,,kingdom" of a conquering foe, But knows what all-and, most of all, we know With what set gilded terms a tyrant juggles! IV. The name of Commonwealth is past and gone. And proud distinction from each other land, Whose sons must bow them at a monarch's motion, Vol. VIII. H 140 As if his senseless sceptre were a wand bought Rights cheaply earn'd with blood. Still, still, for ever Better, though each man's life-blood were a river, That it should flow, and overflow, than creep 150 Through thousand lazy channels in our veins, Damm'd like the dull canal with locks and chains, And moving, as a sick man in his sleep, Three paces, and then faltering: better be Where the extinguish'd Spartans still are free, Than stagnate in our marsh, or o'er the deep 160 |