And shook a shake so drear of head,
Was ne'er pacific skull so full of No!
And ever and anon he beat
The devil's tattoo with curious heat;
And though sometimes, each dreary pause between,
Dejected Dangy at his side,
Her man-subduing voice applied,
Yet still he kept his sad and alter'd mien, While each gulp'd oath and curse seem'd bursting to be said.
Thy numbers, Armament, to nought were fix'd,
Sad proof of thy distressful state;
Of differing themes the veering song was mix'd,
And now it call'd "To Arms!" now raving said,
"No, wait."
With eyes up-turn'd, as one amaz'd,
James Monro sat aloof, and gaz'd;
And from his calm sequester'd seat,
(A place by distance made more sweet)
Sent through the newsman's horn his free-born soul:
And dashing oft from kindred ground
Doubling journals join'd the sound:
Through courts and camps the better measures stole,
Or in some patriot's themes, with fond delay,
Round an awful calm diffusing,
Love of peace, and letter'd musing,
Their useful murmurs plied away.
But oh! how finished was the happy tone,
When brave San Miguel, Spaniard good and true,
(His No! to all the monarchs flung,
His face on fire, yet laughing too)
Read that inspiring Note, with which the Cortes rung!
The freeman's truth, to freemen only known!
Portugal sped it's chaste-eyed Queen ;
Writers and Liberty-Boys were seen
Peeping their prison-bars between ;
Brown Italy rejoic'd to hear,
And courts leap'd up, and seiz'd their hats for fear.
Last came Greece's crowning trial:
She, by painful steps advancing,
Had first to foreign lands her pray'rs address'd;
But soon she stood upon her own denial,
The noble voice fair Freedom lov'd the best.
They would have thought who heard the sound,
They saw in Marathon her ancient men
Crushing the turban'd slaves again,
For all their mighty pomp and prancing;
While as the flying Turks kiss'd their steeds' manes,
Russ left with Pruss their strange, fantastic ground:
Free were our presses seen, our trade unbound,
And Frank, amid their frolic play,
As if he knew no longer what to say, Shook heaps of powder from his head and brains.
O Freedom, self-defended maid,
Friend of Pleasure, Wisdom's aid,
Why, goddess, why, so long denied,
Bid not these idler's stand aside?
In the Old World, in the New,
You've shewn us what your will can do,
And why then longer waste a thought
On full-grown boys, that won't be taught?
Where is thy native, simple heart,
Devote to virtue, fancy, art?
Arise, as in that elder time,
Self-sufficing, pure, sublime!
Thy wonders, in that godlike age,
Fill thy recording children's page:
'Tis said, and I believe the tale,
Thy humblest friends could more prevail,
And talk'd in Greek of finer things,
Than all which charms the ear of kings,
Aye, all together, meek and slaughterly,
Bob, Chateaubriand, and the Quarterly.
O bid their vain endeavours cease;
Complete the just designs of Greece;
Return in all thy simple state,
And clip the tails that kings think great.
PRINTED BY C, H. REYNELL, BROAD STREET, GOLDEN SQUARE.
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