Classic Poem

ODE I

1.

Take up thy prophecy,
Thou dweller in the mountains, who hast numbed
Thy soul in solitude,
Holding communion with immortal minds,
Poets and Sages of the days of old
And with the sacred food
Of meditation and of lore divine
Hast fed thy heavenly part;
Take up thy monitory strain.
O son of song, a strain severe
Of warning and of woe!

2.

O Britain, O my Mother Isle,
Ocean's imperial Queen,
Thou glory of all lands!
Is there a curse upon thee, that thy sons
Would rush to ruin, drunk
With sin, and in infuriate folly blind?
Hath Hell enlarged itself,
And are the Fiends let loose
To work thine overthrow?

3.

For who is she
That, on the many-headed Beast
Triumphantly enthroned,
Doth ride abroad in state,
The Book of her Enchantments in her hand?
Her robes are stain'd with blood,
And on her brazen front
Is written Blasphemy .

4.

Know ye not then the Harlot? know ye not
Her shameless forehead, her obdurate eye,
Her meretricious mien,
Her loose, immodest garb, with slaughter foul!
Your Fathers knew her; when delirious France,
Drunk with her witcheries,
Upon the desecrated altar set
The Sorceress, and, with rites
Inhuman and accurst,
O'er all the groaning land
Perform'd her sacrifice

5.

Your Fathers knew her! when the nations round
Received her maddening spell,
And call'd her Liberty,
And in that name proclaim'd
A jubilee for guilt;
When their blaspheming hosts defied high Heaven,
And wheresoe'er they went let havock loose;
Your Fathers knew the Sorceress! They stood firm,
And, in that hour of trial faithful found,
They raised the Red Cross flag.

6.

They knew her; and they knew
That not in scenes of rapine and of blood,
In lawless riotry,
And wallowing with the multitude obscene,
Would Liberty be found!
Her in her form divine,
Her genuine form, they knew;
For Britain was her home;
With Order and Religion there she dwelt;
It was her chosen seat,
Her own beloved Isle.
Think not that Liberty
From Order and Religion e'er will dwell
Apart; companions they
Of heavenly seed connate.

7.

Woe, woe for Britain, woe!
If that society divine,
By lewd and impious uproar driven,
Indignantly should leave
The land that in their presence hath been blest!
Woe, woe! for in her streets
Should gray-hair'd Polity
Be trampled under foot by ruffian force,
And Murder to the noon-day sky
Lift his red hands, as if no God were there,
War would lay waste the realm;
Devouring fire consume
Temples and Palaces;
Nor would the lowliest cot
Escape that indiscriminating storm,
When Heaven upon the guilty nation pour'd
The vials of its wrath.

8.

These are no doubtful ills!
The unerring voice of Time
Warns us that what hath been again shall be;
And the broad beacon-flame
Of History casts its light
Upon Futurity

9.

Turn not thy face away,
Almighty! from the realm
By thee so highly favored, and so long.
Thou who in war hast been our shield and strength,
From famine who hast saved us, and hast bade
The Earthquake and the Pestilence go by,
Spare us, O Father! save us from ourselves!
From insane Faction, who prepares the pit
In which itself would fall;
From rabid Treason's rage, —
The poor priest-ridden Papist's erring zeal, —
The lurking Atheist's wiles, —
The mad Blasphemer's venom, — from our foes,
Our follies and our errors, and our sins,
Save us, O Father! for thy mercy's sake,
Thou who ALONE canst save!