Foe to thy country’s foes! ’tis THINE to claim
From Britain’s genuine sons a British fame—
Too long French manners our fair isle disgraced;
Too long French fashions shamed our native taste.
Still prone to change, we half-resolved to try
The proffered charms of French fraternity.
Fair was her form, and Freedom’s honour’d name
Conceal’d the horrors of her secret shame:
She claim’d some kindred with that guardian pow’r,
Long worshipp’d here in Britain’s happier hour:
Virtue and Peace, she said, were in her train,
The long-lost blessings of AstrÆa’s reign—
But soon the vizor dropp’d—her haggard face
Betray’d the Fury lurking in the Grace—
The false attendants that behind her press’d,
In vain disguised, the latent guilt confess’d:
Peace dropt her snow-white robe, and shudd’ring show’d
Ambition’s mantle reeking fresh with blood;
Presumptuous Folly stood in Reason’s form,
Pleased with the power to ruin,—not reform;
Philosophy, proud phantom, undismay’d,
With cold regard the ghastly train survey’d;
Saw Persecution gnash her iron teeth,
While Atheists preach’d the eternal sleep of death;
Saw Anarchy the social chain unbind,
And Discord sour the blood of human kind;
Then talk’d of Nature’s Rights, and Equal Sway;
And saw her system safe—AND STALK’D AWAY!
Foil’d by our Arms, where’er in ARMS we met,
With ARTS LIKE THESE the foe assails us yet.
Hopeless the fort to storm, or to surprise,
More secret wiles his envious malice tries;
Diseas’d himself, spread wide his own despair,
Pollutes the fount, and taints the wholesome air.
While many a Chief, to glory not unknown,
Alarms each hostile shore, and guards our own,
’Tis THINE, the latent treachery to proclaim;
An humbler warfare, but the cause the same.
In vain had Pompey crush’d the Pontic host,
And chas’d the pirate swarm from every coast;
The crew that leagu’d their country to o’erthrow;
The base confederates of a
Gallic[116] foe;
Had not the Civic Consul’s watchful eye
Track’d through the windings of conspiracy,
Exposed, confounded, shamed, and forced away,
The “
Jacobin Reformer[117] of his day”.
’Tis THINE a subtler mischief to pursue,
And drag a deeper, darker, plot to view;
Whate’er its form, still ready to engage,
Detect its malice, or resist its rage;
Whether it whispers low, or raves aloud,
In sneers profane, or blasphemies avow’d;
[118]Insults its King, reviles its Country’s cause,
And, ’scaped from Justice, braves the lenient Laws:
Whate’er the hand in desperate faction bold,
By native hate inspired, or foreign gold;
Traitors absolved, and libellers released,
The recreant Peer, or renegado Priest;
[119]The Sovereign-people’s cringing, crafty slave,
The dashing fool, and instigating knave,
Each claims thy care; nor think the labour vain—
Vermin have sunk the Ship that ruled the Main.
’Tis THINE, with Truth’s fair shield to ward the blow,
And turn the weapon back upon the foe:
To trace the skulking fraud, the candid cheat,
That can retract the falsehood, yet repeat;
To wake the listless, slumb’ring as they lie,
Lapt in th’ embrace of soft security;
To rouse the cold, re-animate the brave,
And shew the cautious all they have to save.
Erect that standard Alfred first unfurl’d,
Britain’s just pride, the wonder of the world;
Whose staff is Freedom’s spear, whose blazon’d field
Beams with the Christian Cross, the Regal Shield;
That standard which the Patriot Barons bore,
Restored, from Runimede’s resounding shore;
Which since consign’d to William’s guardian hand,
Waved in new splendour o’er a grateful land;
Which oft in vain by force or fraud assail’d,
Has stood the shock of ages—and prevail’d.
Yes! the bright sun of Britain yet shall shine—
The clouds are earth-born, but his fire divine;
That temperate splendour, and that genial heat,
Shall still illume, and cherish Empire’s Seat;
While the red Meteor, whose portentous glare
Shot plagues infectious through the troubled air;
Admired, or fear’d no more, shall melt away,
Lost in the radiance of HIS BRIGHTER DAY!
