Classic Poem

Some thoughts occasioned by the present juncture

Britain? That Word pronounc'd, is an Alarm:
It warms the Blood, tho' frozen in our Veins;
Awakes the Soul, and sends her to the Field,
Enamour'd of the glorious Face of Death.
Britain? — There's noble magic in the Sound.
O what illustrious Images arise?
Embattled, round me, blazes the Pomps of War.
By Sea, by Land, at Home, in Foreign Climes,
What full-blown Laurels, on our Father's Brows?
Ye radiant Trophies! and imperial Spoils!
Ye Scenes! Astonishing to modern Sight!
Let me, at least, enjoy you in a Dream;
Why vanish? Stay, ye Godlike Strangers! stay
Strangers! — I wrong my Countrymen. They wake;
High beats the Pulse; the noble Pulse of War
Beats to that antient Measure, that Grand March,
Which, then, prevail'd, when Britain highest soar'd;
And every Battle pay'd for Heroes slain.
No more our great Forefathers stain our Cheeks
With Blushes; Their Renown, our Shame, no more.
In military Garb, and sudden Arms,
Up starts Old Britain; Crosiers are laid by;
Trade wields the Sword; and Agriculture leaves
Her half-turn'd Furrow: Other Harvests fire
A noble Avarice; Avarice of Renown!
And Laurels are the Growth of every Field.
In distant Courts is our Commotion felt;
And less like Gods, fit Monarchs on their Thrones.
What Arm can want, or Sinews, or Success,
Which, lifted from an honest Heart, descends,
With all the Weight of British Wrath, to cleave
The Papal Mitre, or the Gallic Chain,
At every Stroke; and save a sinking Land?
Or Death, or Victory, must be resolved;
To dream of Mercy, O how Tame! how Mad!
Where, o'er black Deeds, the Crucifix display'd,
Fools think Heaven purchas'd by the Blood they shed;
By giving, not supporting, Pains and Death?
Nor simple Death! When They, the greatest Saints,
Who must subdue all Tenderness of Heart;
Students in Tortures! When, in Zeal to Him,
Whose darling Title is the Prince of Peace;
The Best turn ruthless Butchers, for our Sakes;
To save us in a World, they Recommend,
And yet Forbear; Themselves with Earth content;
And chiefly Those, who Rome's first Honours wear,
Whose Name, from Jesus; and whose Arts, from Hell
And shall a Pope-bred Princeling crawl ashore,
Replete with Venom, Guiltless of a Sting,
And whistle Cut-throats, with these Swords, that scrap'd
Their barren Rocks, for wretched Sustenance,
To cut his Passage to the British Throne?
One, that has suck'd in Malice with his Milk,
Malice to Britain, Liberty, and Truth?
Less savage was his Brother-Robber's Nurse,
The howling Nurse of plundering Romulus
Ere yet, far worse than Pagan harbour'd there.