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I care not that in Arno's plain,
Or on the sportive banks of Seine,
Say, what can public themes afford,
Reserv'd for angry Heaven, and scorn'd of honest
But here, where Freedom's equal throne To all her valiant sons is known; Where all are conscious of her cares, And each the power, that rules him, shares ; Here let the Bard, whose dastard tongue Leaves public arguments unsung, Bid public praise farewell : Let him to fitter climes remove, Far from the hero's and the patriot's love, And lull mysterious monks to slumber in their cell.
O Hastings, not to all
Can ruling Heaven the same endowments lend: Yet still doth Nature to her offspring call, That to one general weal their different powers they bend,
Unenvious. Thus alone, though strains divine
He best shall prove,
Whose lays the soul with noblest passions move.
But thee, O progeny of heroes old,
Thee to severer toils thy fate requires:
The fate which form'd thee in a chosen mould, The grateful country of thy sires, Thee to sublimer paths demand; Sublimer than thy sires could trace, Or thy own Edward teach his race, Though Gaul's proud genius sank beneath his hand.
From rich domains and subject farms,
Where, long foretold, the people reigns: Where each a vassal's humble heart disdains; And judgeth what he sees; and, as he judgeth, wills.
Here be it thine to calm and guide
To watch the state's uncertain frame, And baffle Faction's partial aim: But chiefly, with determin'd zeal, To quell that servile band, who kneel To Freedom's banish'd foes; That monster, which is daily found Expert and bold thy country's peace to wound; Yet dreads to handle arms, nor manly counsel knows.
'Tis highest Heaven's command, That guilty aims should sordid paths pursue;
That what ensnares the heart should maim the hand,
And Virtue's worthless foes be false to Glory too. But look on Freedom. See, through every age, What labours, perils, griefs, hath she disdain'd! What arms, what regal pride, what priestly rage, Have her dread offspring conquer'd or sustain'd! For Albion well have conquer'd. Let the strains
Of happy swains,
Which now resound
Where Scarsdale's cliffs the swelling pastures
Bear witness. There, oft let the farmer hail
Where Ca'ndish, Booth, and Osborne sate;
Of papal snares and lawless arms
They plann'd for Freedom this her noblest reign.
This reign, these laws, this public care,
Those lofty efforts of the mind
Which social Good inspires;
Where men, for this, assault a throne,
Each adds the common welfare to his own;
And each unconquer'd heart the strength of all ac
Say, was it thus, when late we view'd
Our fields in civil blood imbrued?
When Fortune crown'd the barbarous host,
Stake his luxurious fortunes in the strife?
Or lend his boasted name his vagrant friends to
Yet, Hastings, these are they
Who challenge to themselves thy country's love; The true; the constant: who alone can weigh, What Glory should demand, or Liberty approve!
But let their works declare them. Thy free powers,
Oft nobly sways
But, sought from cowards and the lying mouth,
He, from the faithful records of his throne,
And write the good, the wise, the brave
HYMN TO THE NAIADS.
The nymphs, who preside over springs and rivulets, are addressed at day-break, in honour of their several functions, and of the relations which they bear to the natural and to the moral world. Their origin is deduced from the first allegorical deities, or powers of Nature; according to the doctrine of the old mythological poets, concerning the generation of the gods and the rise of things. They are then successively considered, as giving motion to the air and exciting summer-breezes; as nourishing and beautifying the vegetable creation; as