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A false apostate train : Tears stream adown the martyr's tomb, Unpitied in their harder doom,

Thy thousands strew the plain. These had no charms to please the sense, No graceful port, no eloquence

To win the Muse's throng: Unknown, unsung, unmark'd they lie; .But Cæsar's fate o'ercasts the sky,

And Nature mourns his wrong.
Thy foes, a frontless band, invade;
Thy friends afford a timid aid,

And yield up half thy light.
Even Locke beams forth a mingled ray,
Afraid to pour the flood of day

On man's too feeble sight.

Hence are the motley systems framed, Of right transferr'd, of power reclaim’d,

Distinctions weak and vain. Wise Nature mocks the wrangling herd; For unreclaim'd and untransferr'd

Her powers and rights remain. While law the royal agent moves, The instrument thy choice approves,

We bow through him to you. But change, or cease the inspiring choice, The sovereign sinks a private voice,

Alike in one or few!

Shall then the wretch whose ard he
Shrinks at a tyrant's nobler part,


And only dares betray,
With reptile wiles, alas! prevail,
When force and rage and priestcraft fail,

To pilfer power away?
O! shall the bought and buying tribe,
The slaves who take and deal the bribe,

A people's claims enjoy!
So Indian murderers hope to gain
The powers and virtues of the slain,

Of wretches they destroy.

• Avert it, Heaven; you love the brave,
You hate the treacherous, willing slave,

The self-devoted head.
Nor shall a hireling's voice convey
That sacred prize to lawless sway,

For which a nation bled.'

Vain prayer, the coward's weak resource!
Directing reason, active force

Propitious Heaven bestows.
But ne'er shall flame the thundering sky
To aid the trembling herd that fly

Before their weaker foes.

In names there dwell no magic charms,
The British virtues, British arms

Unloosed our fathers' band :
Say, Greece and Rome, if these should fail,
What names, what ancestors avail,

To save a sinking land ?

Far, far from us such ills shall be,
Mankind shall boast one nation free,

One monarch truly great :
Whose title speaks a people's choice,
Whose sovereign will a people's voice,

Whose strength a prosperous state.



Ye are the salt of the earth.

SALT of the earth, ye virtuous few,

Who season humankind;
Lights of the world, whose cheering ray

Illumes the realms of mind ;
Where Misery spreads her deepest shade

Your strong compassion glows;
From your bless'd lips the balm distils

That softens mortal woes.
By dying beds, in prison glooms,

Your frequent steps are found;
Angels of love! you hover near,

To bind the stranger's wound.
You wash with tears the bloody page,

Which human crimes deform;
When vengeance threats, your prayers ascend,

And break the gathering storm. As down the summer stream of vice

The thoughtless many glide, Upwards you steer your steady bark,

And stem the rushing tide.

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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

A loftier strain is heard;
Each ardent thought is yours alone,

And every burning word,
Yours is the large expansive thought,

The high heroic deed;
Exile and chains to you are dear,

To you 'tis sweet to bleed.
You lift on high the warning voice,

When public ills prevail;
Yours is the writing on the wall,

That turns the tyrant pale.
The dogs of hell your steps pursue,

With scoff and shame and loss ;
The hemlock bowl 'tis yours to drain,

To taste the bitter cross.
E’en yet the steaming scaffolds smoke

By Seine's polluted stream;
With your rich blood the fields are drench'd

Where Polish sabres gleam.
E’en now, through those accursed bars

In vain we send our sighs,
Where, deep in Olmutz' dungeon glooms,

The patriot martyr lies.
Yet yours is all, through History's rolls

The kindling bosom feels;
And at your tomb, with throbbing heart,

The fond enthusiast kneels.

In every faith, through every clime,

Your pilgrim steps we trace ;
And shrines are dress’d, and temples rise,

Each hallow'd spot to grace :
And pæans loud, in every tongue,

And choral hymns resound;
And lengthening honours hand your name

To time's remotest bound.

Proceed! your race of glory run,

Your virtuous toils endure!
You come, commission'd from on high,
And your reward is sure.



QUEEN of every moving measure !
Sweetest source of purest pleasure !
Music! why thy powers employ
Only for the sons of Joy?
Only for the smiling guests
At natal or at nuptial feasts ?
Rather thy lenient numbers pour
On those whom secret griefs devour;
Bid be still the throbbing hearts
Of those whom Death or Absence parts;
And with some softly whisper'd air
Smooth the brow of dumb Despair.


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