HE whom just laws imprison, still is free Beyond the proudest slaves of tyranny. This Belcour felt, e'en then, when (smarting sore From fresh restraint, which heavily he bore) He threw his eye o'er that diurnal page Whose columns war with Tory dogmas wage; Then, as he mark'd the freedom of debate, Where talent and where truth alone are great, And read how Right Divine and Priestcraft reign, 10 He scarce refrain'd, though moving in a crowd, From uttering these ardent thoughts aloud : "Hail to the Press! wide reaching; whose control Awes the mad wishes of the tyrant's soul; Vast artery of life, through which the stores That feed the growth of Truth, Opinion pours; The mighty lens through which she points the rays That kindle Error's records into blaze; When Superstition in his blood-stain'd den Claims his dire sacrifice the souls of men, Scare the foul vampyre from his spell-bound prey, And plague him with intolerable day. 20 Gigantic engine! power that supersedes The long prescriptive Use that Folly pleads, O happy England! though some spots obscure Dwell on thy faults,-thy foibles magnify; Proud of the title of thy son, I see In thee the cradle of the bold and free. Land of my fathers! may thy children keep, E'en as they guard the empire of the deep, Their rights, and liberty to truth assures, Even so and more-That shields from foreign sway, This fills all home-born tyrants with dismay. 30 Exult, ye dwellers of the sea-girt isle! Tho' the earth's mighty rulers round you smile O'er broken promises, and souls transferr'd All unconsenting, like the grazing herd, They turn an anxious eye toward your shores, Whence free Press the voice of reason pours, your And bar their subjects from the dangerous page That shows the baseness of their vassalage. O Spain! thou noble and romantic soil! Of bigots and of Ferdinand the spoil! O might but for a year, a month, a week, The press unmuffled to thy children speak, Soon would the springing dawn of a new light Dispel thy darker than Egyptian night, Beneath whose thickness on thy vitals prey The fiends that dare not face the beams of day. 40 50 The time must come,-speed, ye benignant powers, Friendly to man, the tardy-gaited hours When not from British senators alone The voice of truth may mount up to a throne. And show, while error back to night is hurl'd, 60 So much was Belcour on such thoughts intent, He reck'd not on his march what eyes were bent. The well-drest interesting stranger view'd; And straight her scheming brain, as wont, began To calculate some vantage from the man. E 70 |