Classic Poem

On Gallia's plains, where sways proud Bourbon's race,
From Durham, once thy fav'rite native place,
Deign to accept this humble, artless lay,
Design'd to hail you on your natal day.
With gloomy aspect, here, that day returns;
An anxious mother, here, your absence mourns;
From her swoln eyes maternal torrents roll,
And thus, in plaintive tone, she pours her soul:
“This joyful day, which gave my Marg'ret birth,
“No longer smiles with joy and festive mirth;
“But now, far other thoughts my mind employ,
“Fond cares disturb my peace, and banish joy;
“Far from her anxious friends, and native home,
“In foreign climes my child is gone to roam:
“'Tis this, which melts my throbbing heart in woe;
“And this the source, from whence my sorrows flow.”
Return, sweet maid, to Britain's isle return,
Nor longer let this tender mother mourn;
Dissolv'd in joy, she'll clasp you to her breast!
Your sensibility can feel the rest.
Return, sweet maid, to Britain's isle return,
And then, poor Flora too shall cease to mourn;
Nor mournful looks, nor moving gestures shew,
The dumb pathetic eloquence of woe.
Ah! what temptation can induce your stay,
Where tyranny maintains despotic sway;
Where sordid slavery drags her galling chain,
And bigotry and superstition reign;
Where gross idolatry must give offence,
To sober decency and common sense;
Where beads and crosses constitute the saint,
And beauty wears the horrid mask of paint.
Where'er you go, the sprightly crowd among
Smart beaux, and petit maitres, round you throng,
Fops, proud, presuming, arrogant, and vain,
An insignificant, conceited train!
Just taught to dance, to fence, and dress their hair,
And load with fawning compliments the fair.
Such the important business of each day;
And such the mighty talents they display.
Can you, fair maid, their borrow'd wit sustain,
And not repel them with a just disdain?
I see your gen'rous soul superior rise,
And all their tinsell'd fopperies despise.
Rise, in comparison, Britannia rise!
Behold the contrast with impartial eyes!
Here, vain embroider'd fops are disapprov'd,
And only men of sense and merit lov'd;
Here, liberty her sacred standard rears,
Erect and firm, unaw'd by slavish fears.
Here, property is every subject's claim,
His own his substance, not an empty name:
Unstain'd with blood, unus'd to groans and tears,
Religion, here, her mildest aspect wears;
And peace and jocund plenty, hand in hand,
Diffuse their blessings o'er o'er the happy land!
Here, may revolving suns your birth-day crown
With health prosperity, and bright renown!
Then haste, return, to bless your native shore,
And may you never, never quit it more.