Classic Poem

XI.

Yet here ingenious labour reigns:
For whom poor Artist dost thou toil?
Reap'st thou the profit of thy pains,
Is thine this richly cultur'd soil?
A tear suffuses his meek eye,
He faints for want; I see him die!
My breast with indignation heaves.
Stern Tyranny, is this thy joy,
Seek'st thou to blast, oppress, destroy;
Are dying groans the sounds thy idol pleas'd receives?

XII.

Oh! cast thy eyes on Afric's sons,
Who blacken in the solar beam;
Where Niger or where Gambia runs,
Resounds the agonizing scream
Of slaves condemn'd to ceaseless toil,
To perish in a distant soil,
Far from their country, kindred, fires.
Rous'd by reiterated groans,
Their cause indignant Justice owns,
And Man's inherent right from brother Man requires.

XIII.

Her voice let British wisdom hear;
Let British freedom give redress:
Britain, whose name oppressors fear,
Whose aid the injur'd ever bless;
When mighty nations all around,
Sunk in servility profound,
Or arm'd but in a despot's cause;
Impell'd by Freedom's magic charm,
She bade her couchant lion arm,
And taught her Kings to fear the spirit of her laws.

XIV.

Whence was this recent tide of woe?
Can sighs from thee, stern nation, spring?
From Gratitude thy sorrows flow,
And weep the Father and the King:
Trembling she sees that mighty mind,
To sever's burning rage resign'd,
Where late each temper'd virtue shone.
If human hopes of succour fail,
Oh! let her prayers with heav'n prevail —
The patriot king restor'd, fills his paternal throne.

XV.

To thee, fair realm, at heav'n's award,
A year profuse in blessings came;
For when it heal'd thy wounded Lord,
It fix'd thy greatness and thy fame.
Luxuriant plenty decks thy shores,
And see, where sound yon dashing oars,
On Peace enamour'd Commerce smiles;
His lov'd society she craves,
And shews her dowry, which the waves
From every region bear to these her favorite isles.

XVI.

Perfect, thou youngest child of time!
Thy predecessors noble care:
Let virtue, in each peopled clime,
Freedom's unsullied standard rear;
The sanguine sword of discord sheath,
And o'er the harrass'd nations breath
The renovating gales of peace;
Bid thy mild suns to Britain's king
Arise with healing on their wing:
Then will his country's joys admit no more encrease!