Classic Poem

Britons! when last ye met, with distant streak
So faintly promis'd the pale Dawn to break;
So dim it stain'd the precincts of the Sky
E'en Expectation gaz'd with doubtful Eye.
But now such fair Varieties of Light
O'ertake the heavy sailing Clouds of Night;
Th' Horizon kindles with so rich a red,
That, tho' the Sun still hides his glorious head,
Th' impatient Matin-bird assur'd of Day
Leaves his low nest to meet its earliest ray;
Loud the sweet song of Gratulation sings,
And high in air claps his rejoicing wings!
Patriot & Sage! whose breeze-like Spirit' first
The lazy mists of Pedantry dispers'd,
(Mists, in which Superstition's pigmy band
Seem'd Giant Forms, the Genii of the Land!),
Thy struggles soon shall wak'ning Britain bless,
And Truth & Freedom hail thy wish'd success.
Yes Tooke! tho' foul Corruption's wolfish throng
Outmalice Calumny's imposthum'd Tongue,
Thy Country's noblest & determin'd Choice,
Soon shalt thou thrill the Senate with thy voice;
With gradual Dawn bid Error's phantoms flit,
Or wither with the lightning flash of Wit;
Or with sublimer mien & tones more deep
Charm sworded Justice from mysterious Sleep,
'By violated Freedom's loud Lament,
Her Lamps extinguish'd & her Temple rent;
By the forc'd tears, her captive Martyrs shed;
By each pale Orphan's feeble cry for bread;
By ravag'd Belgium's corse-impeded Flood,
And Vendée steaming still with brothers' blood!'
And if amid the strong impassion'd Tale,
Thy Tongue should falter & thy Lips turn pale;
If transient Darkness film thy aweful Eye,
And thy tir'd Bosom struggle with a sigh:
Science & Freedom shall demand to hear
Who practis'd on a Life so doubly dear;
Infus'd the unwholesome anguish drop by drop
Pois'ning the sacred stream, they could not stop!
Shall bid thee with recover'd strength relate
How dark & deadly is a Coward's Hate:
What seeds of Death by wan Confinement sown
When prison-echoes mock'd Disease's groan!
Shall bid th' indignant Father flash dismay,
And drag th' unnatural Villain into Day
Who to the sports of his flesh'd Ruffians left
Two lovely Mourners of their Sire bereft!
'Twas wrong, like this, which Rome's first Consul bore,
So by th' insulted Female's name he swore
Ruin (& rais'd her reeking dagger high)
Not to the Tyrants but the Tyranny!!