Classic Poem

Foe to thy country's foes; 'tis thine to claim
From Britain's genuine sons a British fame —
Too long French manners our fair isle disgraced;
Too long French fashions shamed our native taste.
Still prone to change, we half resolved to try
The proffer'd charms of French FRATERNITY .
Fair was her form, and F REEDOM 's honour'd name
Conceal'd the horrors of her secret shame:
She claim'd some kindred with that guardian power,
Long worshipp'd here in Britain's happier hour:
Virtue and Peace, she said, were in her train,
The long-lost blessings of Astraea's reign. —
But soon the vizor dropp'd — her haggard face
Betray'd the Fury lurking in the Grace —
The false attendants that behind her press'd,
In vain disguised, the latent guilt confess'd.
P EACE dropt her snow-white robe, and, shudd'ring, shew'd
A MBITION 's mantle reeking fresh with blood;
Presumptuous F OLLY stood in R EASON'S form,
Pleased with the power to ruin, — not reform;
P HILOSOPHY , proud phantom, undismay'd,
With cold regard the ghastly train survey'd;
Saw P ERSECUTION gnash her iron teeth,
While Atheists preach'd the eternal sleep of death!
Saw A NARCHY the social chain unbind,
And D ISCORD sour the blood of human kind;
Then talk'd of Nature's Rights, and Equal Sway;
And saw her system safe — and stalk'd away!

Foil'd by our Arms , where'er in arms we met,
With ARTS LIKE THESE , the foe assails us yet.
Hopeless the fort to storm, or to surprise,
More secret wiles his envious malice tries:
Diseased himself, spreads wide his own despair,
Pollutes the fount, and taints the wholesome air:

While many a chief, to glory not unknown,
Alarms each hostile shore, and guards our own,
'Tis THINE , the latent treachery to proclaim;
An humbler warfare, but the cause the same.
In vain had Pompey crush'd the Pontic host,
And chased the pirate swarm from every coast;
Had not the Civic Consul's watchful eye
Track'd through the windings of conspiracy,
The crew that leagued their country to o'erthrow;
The base confederates of a Gallic foe;
Exposed, confounded, shamed, and forced away,
The " J ACOBIN R EFORMER of his day. "

'Tis THINE a subtler mischief to pursue,
And drag a deeper, darker, plot to view;
Whate'er its form, still ready to engage,
Detect its malice, or resist its rage:
Whether it whispers low, or raves aloud,
In sneers profane, or blasphemies avow'd;
Insults its King, reviles its Country's cause,
And, scaped from justice, braves the lenient laws: —
Whate'er the hand, in desperate faction bold,
By native hate inspired, or foreign gold:
Traitors absolved, and libellers released,
The recreant peer, or renegado priest;
The Sovereign-people 's cringing, crafty slave,
The dashing fool, and instigating knave,
Each claims thy care; nor think the labour vain;
Vermin have sunk the Ship that ruled the Main.

'Tis THINE , with truth's fair shield to ward the blow,
And turn the weapon back upon the foe:
To trace the skulking fraud, the candid cheat,
That can retract the falsehood, yet repeat:
To wake the listless, slumb'ring as they lie,
Lapt in the embrace of soft security;
To rouse the cold, re-animate the brave,
And shew the cautious ALL THEY HAVE TO SAVE .

Erect that standard A LFRED first unfurl'd,
Britain's just pride, the wonder of the world;
Whose staff is Freedom's spear, whose blazon'd field
Beams with the C HRISTIAN C ROSS , the R EGAL S HIELD ;
That standard, which the Patriot Barons bore,
Restored, from Runimede's resounding shore;
Which since consign'd to William's guardian hand,
Waved in new splendour o'er a grateful land;
Which oft in vain by force or fraud assail'd,
Has stood the shock of ages — and prevail'd.

Yes! the BRIGHT SUN OF B RITAIN yet shall shine,
The clouds are earthborn, but his fire divine!
That temperate splendour, and that genial heat,
Shall still illume, and cherish empire's seat;
While the red meteor, whose portentous glare.
Shot plagues infectious through the troubled air,
Admired, or fear'd no more, shall melt away,
Lost in the radiance of HIS BRIGHTER DAY !