  Farewell, farewell, old Fifty-five! to thee, This circling ball no longer homage yields; Thy record’s closed, and frail humanity Stands trembling ’neath the rod that conscience wields. For now, methinks, that record’s page reveals A long dark roll of follies, faults, and crimes Before His eye, whose love in vain appeals To hearts ingrate; whose goodness glads our times, And spreads with genial gifts the wide earth’s varied climes. Upon thy wingÈd hours, old Fifty-five, Alternate hopes and fears have trembling hung, Capricious as the fleecy clouds which drive Athwart the summer sky, a motley throng Of joys and griefs, have swiftly swept along. Now o’er the welkin peal the bridal bells; Anon the mournful funeral dirge is sung; Big with this truth each passing moment swells,— “Beyond the sky alone unchanging pleasure dwells.” Farewell, old Fifty-five! the visions fair Which down thy sparkling vista erst appeared, Beguiling Mammon’s votaries with the glare Of sordid wealth in pile on pile upreared, Have flitted past, and left a blank, uncheered By one bright gleam, in many an aching breast. O were the sober truth more wide revered, And gaping folly’s golden dreams repressed, How few would groan beneath the gambler’s dark unrest. Few were our tears, old Fifty-five, hadst thou Consigned alone the noisome vampire band To disappointment blank, and carking woe: But thou with undiscriminating hand Hast flung on poverty’s inclement strand Full many a one styled “noblest work of God.” His lowing herds have perished from the land, Or haply o’er his fields a blight has trod; Still, he can trusting say, “My Father holds the rod.” Farewell, old Fifty-five! bright o’er thy days, Celestial truth has flung her radiant bow; Benignant from her throne she stoops to raise Each moiling slave of ignorance and woe. Her silv’ry voice proclaims to high and low This blood-bought truth, “man’s mind and tongue are free.” May every human breast responsive glow, Till superstition, pride, and bigotry, Their lofty heads abase, and like grim spectres flee. Farewell, old Fifty-five! inhuman war With blood-red hand has o’er thy cycle swept. Horrific still he rolls his thund’ring car ’Mid ghastly wounds, and dying groans unwept. The cannon’s roar which long in silence slept, Unceasing echoes o’er the dismal scene; Deep blushing, Mercy from her throne has stept, While eager Rapine stalks with hideous mien, And gloating scan’s the flaming city’s lurid sheen. O Liberty! Britannia’s proudest boast; O Liberty! man’s brightest heritage; Why on thy steps attendant should a host Of sanguinary passions fiercely rage? Or why should history’s memorable page Be blotted o’er with sighs and groans and tears? When will grey time mature the golden age, When men shall snap their swords and quiv’ring spears, And Peace triumphant reign o’er all the circling years? Farewell, old Fifty-five—as ling’ring still Thy last faint echoes on the ear expire, And sadd’ning thoughts the heaving bosom fill, Hope strings anew her animating lyre. Eternal truth—the soul’s immortal fire— Ere long shall claim the homage of the world, High o’er gaunt Slavery’s blazing funeral pyre Shall Freedom’s crimson banner wave unfurled, And Ignorance and Vice from their dark thrones be hurled. William Selwyn. Port Elizabeth, January 1, 1856. |
|
