Classic Poem

The haughty Spaniard, who, with hopeless eye,
O'er Calpe's Straits sees British banners fly,
Was, (ere in slothful bigotry was lost
His ardent courage) glory's proudest boast;
The sacred cross to Asia's realms he bore,
And, in his own deep woods, the invading Moor
Met in fierce contest: Each undaunted Son
Of both Castiles, or nobler Arragon,
And they, who on the rude Biscayan shore
Heard the vast billows of the Atlantic roar,
All, by the fire of martial glory led,
Beneath her crimson banner fought and bled:
High beat each heart in her imperious cause,
And, owning hers, disdain'd all other laws.
The Torch of love, no more a lambent flame,
Serv'd but to light them to their idol — Fame.
While all that sooths our age, or charms our youth,
In female tenderness and female truth,
Bliss, that, to all but man, high heaven denies,
Homeborn delights, domestic charities,
They tasted not: nor knew they to rejoice
That reason, sweetest in a woman's voice,
Still bids the lover, husband, friend adore,
When transcient beauty fascinates no more:
From Prototypes like these, who lived, we know,
And fought and died, three hundred years ago,
Our Poet to-night his hero draws,
The fierce, vindictive slave of honour's laws: —
By softer passions mov'd, to nature true,
His lovely heroine he describes from you ,
Women of England! — Lo a bard unknown
Covets your favour — yet in abject tone
He scorns to plead — more general this appeal
Shall be, to all who think , to all who feel .
Of party guiltless, shunning all offense,
Trusting alone to nature, truth and sense,
To this whole audience he his cause confides,
Where British Candour hears, & British taste decides.