A false apostate train : Tears stream adown the martyr's tomb, Thy thousands strew the plain. These had no charms to please the sense, Thy foes, a frontless band, invade; On man's too feeble sight. Hence are the motley systems framed, Wise Nature mocks the wrangling herd; While law the royal agent moves, But change, or cease the' inspiring choice, Shall then the wretch whose dastard heart Shrinks at a tyrant's nobler part, VOL. III. H And only dares betray, With reptile wiles, alas! prevail, When force and rage and priestcraft fail, O! shall the bought and buying tribe, 'Avert it, Heaven; you love the brave, Nor shall a hireling's voice convey Vain prayer, the coward's weak resource! But ne'er shall flame the thundering sky In names there dwell no magic charms, Unloosed our fathers' band: Say, Greece and Rome, if these should fail, Far, far from us such ills shall be, One monarch truly great : LORD NUGENT. HYMN. Ye are the salt of the earth. SALT of the earth, ye virtuous few, Who season humankind; Lights of the world, whose cheering ray Where Misery spreads her deepest shade By dying beds, in prison glooms, Angels of love! you hover near, You wash with tears the bloody page, When vengeance threats, your prayers ascend, As down the summer stream of vice Where Guilt her foul contagion spreads, And golden spoils allure, Unspotted still your garments shine, Your hands are ever pure. Whene'er you touch the poet's lyre Each ardent thought is yours alone, Yours is the large expansive thought, You lift on high the warning voice, The dogs of hell your steps pursue, E'en yet the steaming scaffolds smoke By Seine's polluted stream; With your rich blood the fields are drench'd E'en now, through those accursed bars Where, deep in Olmutz' dungeon glooms, Yet yours is all, through History's rolls And at your tomb, with throbbing heart, In every faith, through every clime, And shrines are dress'd, and temples rise, And pæans loud, in every tongue, And lengthening honours hand your name Proceed! your race of glory run, You come, commission'd from on high, And your reward is sure. MRS. BARBAULD. TO MUSIC. QUEEN of every moving measure! On those whom secret griefs devour; Of those whom Death or Absence parts; DR. WARTON. |