"Lay low yon impious trappings on the ground,
Bend, superstition, bend thy haughty head,
Be mine supremacy, and mine alone:"
Thus from his firm-establish'd throne,
Replete with vengeful fury, Henry said.
High Reformation lifts her iron rod,
But lo! with stern and threatful mien,
Fury and rancour desolate the scene,
Beneath their rage the Gothic structures nod.
Ah! hold awhile your angry hands;
Ah! here delay your king's commands,
For Hospitality will feel the wound!
In vain the voice of reason cries,
Whilst uncontroul'd the regal mandate flies.

Thou, Avalon! in whose polluted womb
The patriot monarch found his narrow tomb;
Where now thy solemn pile, whose antique head
With niche-fraught turrets awe-inspiring spread,
Stood the memorial of the pious age?
Where wont the hospitable fire
In cheering volumes to aspire,
And with its genial warmth the pilgrim's woes assuage.
Low lie thy turrets now,
The desart ivy clasps the joyless hearth;
The dome which luxury yrear'd,
Though Hospitality was there rever'd,
Now, from its shatter'd brow,
With mouldering ruins loads the unfrequented earth.

Ye minstrel throng,
In whose bold breasts once glow'd the tuneful fire,
No longer struck by you shall breathe the plaintive lyre:
The walls, whose trophied sides along
Once rung the harp's energic sound,
Now damp and moss-ymantled load the ground;
No more the bold romantic lore
Shall spread from Thule's distant shore;
No more intrepid Cambria's hills among,
In hospitable hall, shall rest the child of song.

Ah, Hospitality! soft Pity's child,
Where shall we seek thee now?
Genius! no more thy influence mild
Shall gild Affliction's clouded brow;
No more thy cheering smiles impart
One ray of joy to Sorrow's heart;
No more within the lordly pile
Wilt thou bestow the bosom-warming smile.

Whilst haughty pride his gallery displays,
Where hangs the row in sullen show
Of heroes and of chiefs of ancient days,
The gaudy toil of Turkish loom
Shall decorate the stately room;
Yet there the traveller, with wistful eye,
Beholds the guarded door, and sighs, and passes by.

Not so where o'er the desart waste of sand
Speds the rude Arab wild his wandering way;
Leads on to rapine his intrepid band,
And claims the wealth of India for his prey;
There, when the wilder'd traveller distrest
Holds to the robber forth the friendly hand,
The generous Arab gives the tent of rest,
Guards him as the fond mother guards her child,
Relieves his every want, and guides him o'er the wild.

Not so amid those climes where rolls along
The Oroonoko deep his mighty flood;
Where rove amid their woods the savage throng,
Nurs'd up in slaughter, and inur'd to blood;
Fierce as their torrents, wily as the snake
That sharps his venom'd tooth in every brake,
Aloft the dreadful tomahawk they rear;
Patient of hunger, and of pain,
Close in their haunts the chiefs remain,
And lift in secret stand the deadly spear.
Yet, should the unarm'd traveller draw near,
And proffering forth the friendly hand,
Claim their protection from the warrior band;
The savage Indians bid their anger cease,
Lay down the ponderous spear, and give the pipe of peace.

Such virtue Nature gives: when man withdraws
To fashion's circle, far from nature's laws,
How chang'd, how fall'n the human breast!
Cold Prudence comes, relentless foe!
Forbids the pitying tear to flow,
And steels the soul of apathy to rest;
Mounts in relentless state her stubborn throne,
And deems of other bosoms by her own.