AS nature lights in solitude, the blaze
Of the proud gem; and deep conceals its rays
Awhile, from human sight, till in full worth
It breaks at last, in splendor on the earth;
So in these shades, she, Ireton,(1) lit thy mind,
With all the glories which adorn our kind;—
First struck the spark, which kindling into flame,
Wreathes with a light ineffable thy name.
Hero and Statesman;—Patriot! names rever’d!
Which singly, to mankind has long endear’d
The fame of others, center’d all in Thee;
Blent with true grace, and worn with dignity.
Though faction’s breath thy glory overcast
(As fogs the sun), awhile, the shades have pass’d
Harmless away: for truth, with native might
Dispels the clouds of falsehood by her light.
Content I yield her Cato, now, to Rome;
Her Brutuses,—her Cassius,—nor become
Envious, that Greece Aristides can boast,—
Demosthenes, nor any of that host
Of glorious names, which blazon her fair page,
And swell the blast of fame through ev’ry age.
Whilst Ireton’s lofty deeds, adorn the spot,
I call my home, my country; I will not
Covet the fame which other lands can give,
Nor age, nor place, o’er that in which I live.
Who prizes freedom, prizes those who bought
The precious rights;—whose valour for him wrought
This good supreme: and holds them dear to fame,
Though tyrants brand their memory with shame.
When, from the grave, the Patriot’s limbs are torn,(2)
The despot’s triumph, and the minion’s scorn;
Like him, who would not rather rot in air,
Than with the slave a tomb of marble share?
Better the gibbet, and the high renown
The Patriot earns, than to sink slowly down
By shameful life, and fill a dastard’s grave,
Scorn’d by the wise, the virtuous, and the brave;
And when remember’d, bear the curse of all
Whose gen’rous spirits scorn tyrannic thrall.
That there exists a slave, is the disgrace
Of man alone;—nature abhors the race:
The meanest thing she makes, of meaner life,
Will wage for liberty, perpetual strife:
Toils for itself alone, secure to find
That state of comfort suited to its kind.
It, to no fellow brute, deep rev’rence yields,
Who wastes the produce of an hundred fields;
Content to follow shiv’ring in his train,
The loyal victim of a tyrant’s reign:
Nor, leagued with others, to provide a feast,
Brings slaughter’d herds to gorge some kingly beast;
Seeking no further bounty than to taste,
For all this toil, a morsel of the waste:
Then, weary, crouch and lick his wounds, o’erjoy’d
That a kind monarch has his strength employ’d,
To cater for the royal appetite,
And kept his sacred person from the fight.
Ask of the Beaver, Slave! what wholesome rules
Binds his community,—unknown to schools:
Inquire the rights he claims,—the law he gives,
In that society in which he lives?
He will instruct thee, ’tis for mutual good,
To share defence, and fellowship and food:—
That gen’ral benefit cements the tie,
Which binds his species in society.
Ask if he rears for some proud beast, a pile,
Secure and warm, and skulks himself, the while
Into a den, expos’d to pinching cold,
To damp and hunger, on the bare earth roll’d?
Content and cheerful so that worthless beast,
Which hunts not,—toils not, may profusely feast?
And learn, thy crimes, thy follies, fears, alone
Of all earth’s varied beings, make thee own
A tyrant in thy equal;—whose control
O’erawes thy pow’rs, and fetters e’en thy soul.
The brute, content with what kind nature gives,
Guards his own rights, and thus, in freedom lives.
Or, if too weak for once, to guard the spoil,
He bars no right, nor lends himself to toil
Or hunt, that others may doze out the day,
And wake to riot on his proffer’d prey.
But myriad slaves of human kind, are found
To toil and sweat,—to cultivate the ground,
To spin, to weave, to mine, ’midst foetid air
And noxious damps,—to spend their lives with care
And grief oppress’d,—by penury bow’d down,
That some vile mortal’s brows may wear a crown.
Yes! nations faint beneath this dead’ning blight!—
This mildew of oppression! in despite
Of nature’s promptings, or of reason’s call,
Bound by the spells of superstition’s thrall.
A bigot priesthood,—or a venal train
Of selfish nobles, (such as govern Spain,)
Can shackle millions! boasted reas’ning kind!
And awe, through fear of ills unknown, the mind.
Heavens! how they creep,—and cringe,—and fawn,—and fear
These earthly Gods—and meanly stoop to bear
Insult, and slav’ry’s yoke, to buy an hour
Of shameful life: whilst, in the lust of pow’r,
Their haughty despot sends his mandate forth,
And makes a prison-house of this fair earth:
Nor nobly dare to strike for Liberty,
And die for Truth,—but, with servility,
Shake like weak reeds which by the rivers stand,
And bend obsequious to the dread command.
But who is he, that through the mists of Time
Beams nobly forth, in look and port sublime,
Announc’d with benedictions on his name?
And title, fairest on the scroll of fame?
Before whom tyrants quake?—and conq’rors bow?
And haughty fav’rites sink their greatness low?
It is the Patriot! who when Danger frown’d,
And cruel foes his country hover’d round;
Whilst hearts grew faint,—and hands sunk weak with fear,
As, stain’d with blood, the Conq’ror shook his spear,
And men, like herds of deer, when on the plain
A tiger darts, in terror sought to gain
The wood’s dark fastness, or the mountain’s side,—
Rallied their hopes; and taught them to abide
With manly courage the invader’s blow,
And back the bolts of war hurl on th’ astonish’d foe:—
It is the Patriot!—he who nobly dar’d,
(When Tyranny his iron sceptre rear’d,
And millions crouch’d,) to spurn his fierce command,
And rouse the spirit of his native land.
Intent to rescue, treading in the dust
The spite of factions,—rage of Kings,—and lust
Of haughty nobles, as the vineyard’s waste
Is trodden down, by him, whose hopes are plac’d
On gath’ring a rich vintage,—firm he stood;
And sav’d his suffering Country by his blood.
Valiant to suffer! though his robe be red
With crimson spots, from those dark stains is shed
An odor, fragrant as the morning breeze
Wafted at spring time o’er the blossom’d trees;
Yea! sweeter far! for a great nation lives,
In joy and freedom, by the life it gives.
A Patriot’s blood can make a holy shrine
Of meanest earth: with pow’r, as though divine,
Can melt the heart,—can blanch the cheek, or fire
The ardent spirit with exalted ire.
No spot so barren, by such life blood fed,
’Midst snow-capt rocks,—or where dull marshes spread,—
In forest glooms,—or splendid city’s bound,
But hence is hail’d as consecrated ground.
Country, endear’d, assumes a lovelier hue,
And man, enfranchis’d, starts his race anew:
The pilgrim, wand’ring through some foreign clime,
Pensively led to mark the spoil of Time;
Beholds some widow’d city on the plain,
Who once led nations in her glorious train,
Espous’d of princes:—in whose days of mirth,
Kings sought her favor, from the ends of earth.
Whose armies, like thick clouds, around her throne
Waited, to make her royal mandates known:
And ships, shadow’d the sea—floating sublime
Like ocean demons:—linking clime to clime,
And land to land, in one vast, boundless sway,
They bade the world their lofty queen obey:
And at her feet laid down the gather’d spoil,
For which an hundred realms were doom’d to toil.
Now childless homes,—cold hearths,—forsaken halls,
Where ruin echoes to destruction’s calls,—
Alone remain: the wand’rer asks, in grief,
Why widow’d ages, close the years of brief
And flitting glory, which once round her throne
Play’d, like the sunbeams through the loop holes thrown
Which time hath worn in temple, tow’r, and roof?
Because she heeded not the sage reproof
Of patriot warning!—but, in lustful pride,
Clad in the plunder which a world supplied,
Lifted herself in grandeur o’er the rest,
And said, “I sit an eagle in my nest!”
Her people vassals, and her nobles vain,
Debauch’d and cruel, soon a tyrant’s reign
Alone, was able to uphold her pow’r;—
And there she sits—the owl’s and dragon’s dow’r.
If seeking some memento, to convey
Back to his home, which shall recall the way
His feet has trod, in his lone pilgrimage,
What think you shall his fondest thoughts engage?—
Or waken deepest feelings for the fate
Of that “discrowned Queen,” who desolate
Dwells in a desert by her ruins made:—
Whom lux’ry first debauch’d,—then kings betray’d?
Will he attempt, ’midst urns and busts, to find,
Broken and scatter’d, something which the mind
Can take unto itself? No!—all which art,
That seeks by flatt’ring marbles to impart
Remembrance of the mighty, will be cast
Heedless away:—the tombs of kings be pass’d
With unconcern;—his heart more pleas’d to save
A simple leaf that decks her Patriot’s grave.
When through the maze of history we stray,
Beset with crime! how cheering in the way,
’Midst desolations, conquests, rapine’s deeds,
Oppressions foul, at which the bosom bleeds,
To meet one name above the traitor’s lure,—
The tyrant’s frown,—who nobly seeks, to cure
Those bitter woes inflicted on mankind
By tyrant Pow’r;—his country’s wounds to bind;—
To lead exultant Freedom o’er its plains,
And teach, by virtue, man to break his chains;
As waters gushing in a desert land,
Rejoice the trav’ller,—so, refresh’d we stand,
And drink, in copious draughts, the streams which roll
Of truth and knowledge, from his gen’rous soul;—
Delighted view the landscape brighten round,
See fruits burst forth, and flow’rs adorn the ground;
Whilst man, no more debas’d, exerts new pow’rs,
And gives to truth and virtue, all his hours.
Such Patriots, Heroes, Britain! have been thine:—
Such did thy Wickliffe, Russell, Hampden shine.
Nor beams the name on hist’ry’s page more sweet,
To patriot eyes, nor one he loves to greet
With heartier welcomes, than the Chief’s, who here,
On Trent’s green banks, first drew the vital air.
No fawning parasite his soul beguil’d;
No courtly arts his youthful mind defil’d;
Nurtur’d in solitude, his thoughts were free;
Daring and brave, he scorn’d servility;
Train’d in religion, and devote to truth,
In virtuous labours pass’d his ripening youth;
Thus grew his mind, for lofty deeds prepar’d,
To sternness moulded, by the toils he shar’d;
So grows the sapling oak, ’midst woods profound,
And gathers strength from storms which beat around:
At length matur’d, a nation’s pride, in war
It guards the realm, and spreads its fame afar.
Ireton! yet lives there one, in this base age,
Whose heart thy manly virtues can engage,
To love and rev’rence; as he greets the blow,
By which thou laid’st the treach’rous Stuart low: (3)
Whilst hordes of slaves look’d on, with wond’ring awe,
And kings were taught obedience to law.
And still, in Charles’s blood, the lesson lives,
Which teaches them ’tis Public Will that gives
Alone the right to rule; and fixes sway
On subjects’ love, and interest to obey;
Not “right divine,” that charm, by Priestcraft spread
Round guilty thrones, to save th’ anointed head
From public vengeance; when its crimes no more
An outrag’d suff’ring people will endure.
Ireton, enfranchis’d England truly owes,
With all mankind, much of the bliss that grows
From rights secur’d, and privilege defin’d,
And pow’r control’d, to thy exalted mind.(4)
More had it ow’d, but, that mysterious heaven,
In all things just, deem’d that enough was given
To teach mankind, too long abas’d, to prize
What in religion,—what in freedom lies;
So, to itself, recall’d thy soul, whose ray
Had been the patriot’s guide through many a day
Of doubtful strife,—in many a troublous hour
Had chas’d his gloom, and cheer’d him by its pow’r.
Long hadst thou, Ireton, borne, ’midst toils and blood
The holy ark of Freedom;—long hadst stood
Thy Country’s hope;—lent vigour to her arms,
Light to her councils;—in her wild alarms
Been her high rock;—her strong pavilion, where
The brave took courage, and the weak lost fear;
Ere heaven, on sudden, quench’d in the dread tomb
Thy glorious light; and left the land in gloom.
As the proud steed, impatient of the reins,
Frets at the hand whose pow’r his rage restrains,
And, if he breaks the curb, will fiercer run
The dang’rous path his rider sought to shun;
Or if by shock severe he quits his seat,
The foaming courser darts on ruin fleet;
Leaves the plain track,—leaps fences yet untried,
And braves some mound, in insolence of pride,
At which he falls: so, Cromwell,(5) when the voice
No more was heard, which once controll’d his choice:
When Ireton, stern and rigid, in the cause
Of pure religion, equal rights and laws,
Remain’d no longer to abash the pride
Which sought, with bold ambition, to bestride
The prostrate strength of a great realm, whose blood
Had stream’d for Freedom as a copious flood:
Leap’d, madly o’er each guard which had secur’d
The dear-bought rights: and, in his fall, ensur’d
The ruin of that cause, so nobly won,
And left his country, and mankind, undone.
Darkness too soon o’erspread the land again,
Beneath a Tyrant’s lewd capricious reign:
Virtue and freedom were rever’d no more,
And the stern virtues sought a genial shore:(6)
A new found world! by nature’s bounty grac’d
With pow’rs stupendous;—and by wisdom plac’d,
Where, undebauch’d by regal sway, might rise
A pure Republic: to console the wise,
And teach the good, that heaven, this simple plan,
As yet, designs to staunch the woes of man:
When all shall know, from liberty what flows,
And share the bliss that equal law bestows.
But God, in wrath, the benefit suspends;
And k—s, its ministers of vengeance, sends
To rule on earth, that vicious man may see
The bitter fruits of his impiety:
For iron sceptres, only, can command,
And haughty despots rule, a venal land.
The lion roams the monarch of the wood;
For might must sway, where subjects hunt for blood.
Could ought to gen’rous spirits reconcile
The kingly rule, such monarchs as our isle,
In the fourth George presents, “a patriot King,”
Just, lib’ral, and humane, the balm must bring:
A reign where pow’r but guards the subject’s right,
And the proud crown beams fair with freedom’s light.
Had such the Stuart’s been the raging blast,
Which, from his throne, the bigot Monarch cast,
And, in dread fury, hurl’d in ruin, down,
The lofty ones of earth, had not been known.
Hid in the solitudes of private life,
Earth’s lowly sons had mingl’d not in strife
With mighty names, princes and pow’rs, whose state
Seem’d, once, to dare the wildest storms of fate.
But, as the ocean on its billows bears,
In raging mood, the mire and dirt it tears
From its low bed, and overwhelms the pride
Of halls and palaces; so drear and wide
The ravage made, when through its custom’d mound
Subjection bursts, and owns no settled bound.
O’er rank and state the torrent rises high,
Whilst ruin’d thrones and altars prostrate lie.
Let princes learn, then, righteously to sway:—
And to their subjects’ weal just def’rence pay:
Nor lust of pow’r e’er tempt them to withstand
What justice prompts the People to demand.
Let rights of conscience, social claims allow’d,
Disarm the factious, and confound the proud:
Who seek, ’midst wounded spirits,—tortur’d minds,
That cement which a suff’ring people binds.
Then shall rebellion to establish’d pow’r,
Be as the snow drift beat against a tow’r
Of massive strength; which may obscure, awhile,
Its native grandeur, but, anon, the pile
Shall show its beauty, whilst the vengeful storm
Melts at its base, no longer to deform.
Rebellion! ’tis a foul,—an odious deed!
The traitor, justly, is to death decreed:
But nations may not bear the hateful name,
Nor, in their gen’ral acts, incur the shame.
A rebel People, no where can be found;
For public will, alone, can fix the bound
Of law and right, determine the just plan
Of social government, and give to man
What may comport, in fix’d society,
With gen’ral good and private liberty.
Traitors, when rightly scann’d, are the base few
Who claim those rights which to the whole are due.
And be they kings, lords, demagogues, or mobs,
Who seek such sway, each manly bosom throbs
With anguish at their thrall; nor will sustain,
Longer than force compels, their iron reign.
The Lark, by nature taught to wing the air,
Flutters and strives, his native skies to share,
As much, when gilded wires confine his wings,
As when from rustic twigs his durance springs:
’Tis not the sort of prison, but the cage
He mourns; and freedom must his woes assuage.
A pow’r as strong as fate; which force defies:
Is that a common suffering supplies.
When men bethink them of the wrongs they feel
From tyrant’s foul contempt of public weal;
And look upon their little ones at play,
Inheritors of slav’ry! born t’obey
Oppression’s cruel lash,—yet, not allow’d
To share the good their sweat procures the proud
Enthrall’d by laws severe, unjust, refin’d
By cruel policy, the soul to bind;
Their fev’rish spirits drink their hearts blood dry
With long despair: or, else, in agony,
They burst their chains; and, reckless of the life
No longer priz’d, rush, madden’d, into strife.
Before such spirit hirelings disappear,
As leaves are scatter’d when the sullen year
Marshals its troop of storms;—and forests shake,
While from her brows fierce blasts the crown of nature take.
The gales which fan the earth,—the rolling streams,—
The echoing rocks,—the sea,—the sun’s bright beams;
All nature joins to bind, refresh, inspire,
To lift the high resolve,—to fix the strong desire;
When once a nation, rous’d from slavery,
Has caught the thrilling sound of Liberty!
From tongue to tongue,—from heart to heart it flies,
Hand clench’d in hand, the desp’rate struggle tries;
The tocsin sounds to arms! Resistance wakes:
And his weak bonds the rising giant breaks.
Such spirit call’d the valiant heroes forth,
Of Charles’s age:—theirs the exalted worth,
To strive for freedom,—rights of conscience,—all
That England’s worthies good and noble call;
And nobly triumph too,—in the just cause
Of teaching kings to rule by wholesome laws.
And ’mongst that gen’rous band, no name more dear,
Ireton! than thine: with breast estrang’d to fear;—
With fame unsullied;—uncorrupt in heart;—
In motive pure;(7) thou well perform’dst thy part.
Ireton, farewell! but, often as my eyes,
In my lone walks shall view this spire arise,
In the blue vale,—which marks the spot, rever’d,
Where thou, the glory of thy age, first shar’d
The vital air, thou shalt my rev’rence claim,
And I will pause—and bless the Patriot’s name.