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 Heaven! 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 yoked 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 heaved 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 given, And, like Prometheus, bring the fire of Heaven! 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 : The march of Genius, and the powers of man; 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 lived-or Sidney died?— Ye fond adorers of departed fame, Who 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 tuned, amid her chosen throng, 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, Nor Tell disclose, through peril and alarm, |