Rome's interdict expiring calm, resign'd
No vulgar soul, that dared to Heav'n appeal! But, ah! this fertile glebe, this fair domain, Had well-nigh ceded to the slothful hands Of monks libidinous; ere Edward's care The lavish hand of deathbed Fear restrain'd. Yet was he clear of Superstition's taint? He, too, misdeemful of his wholesome law, Even he, expiring, gave his treasured gold To fatten monks on Salem's distant soil!
Yes, the Third Edward's breast, to papal sway So little prone, and fierce in honour's cause, Could Superstition quell! before the towers Of haggard Paris, at the thunder's voice He drops the sword, and signs ignoble peace!
But still the Night, by Romish art diffused, Collects her clouds, and with slow pace recedes; When, by soft Bourdeau's braver queen approved, Bold Wickliff rose; and while the bigot power Amidst her native darkness skulk'd secure, The demon vanish'd as he spread the day. So from his bosom Cacus breathed of old The pitchy cloud, and in a night of smoke Secure, awhile his recreant life sustain'd; Till famed Alcides, o'er his subtlest wiles Victorious, cheer'd the ravaged nations round.
Hail, honour'd Wickliff! enterprising sage! An Epicurus in the cause of truth!
For 'tis not radiant suns, the jovial hours Of youthful Spring, an ether all serene, Nor all the verdure of Campania's vales, Can chase religious gloom! "Tis reason, thought, The light, the radiance, that pervades the soul, And sheds its beams on heaven's mysterious way!
As yet this light but glimmer'd, and again Error prevail'd; while kings by force upraised, Let loose the rage of bigots on their foes, And seek affection by the dreadful boon Of licensed murder. Even the kindest prince, The most extended breast, the royal Hal, All unrelenting heard the Lollards' cry Burst from the centre of remorseless flames; Their shrieks endured! O stain to martial praise! When Cobham, generous as the noble peer That wears his honours, paid the fatal price Of virtue blooming ere the storms were laid!
"Twas thus, alternate, truth's precarious flame Decay'd or flourish'd. With malignant eye The pontiff saw Britannia's golden fleece, Once all his own, invest her worthier sons! Her verdant valleys, and her fertile plains, Yellow with grain, abjure his hateful sway! Essay'd his utmost art, and inly own'd No labours bore proportion to the prize.
So when the tempter view'd, with envious eye, The first fair pattern of the female frame, All Nature's beauties in one form display'd, And centering there, in wild amaze he stood; Then only envying Heaven's creative hand; Wish'd to his gloomy reign his envious arts Might win this prize, and doubled every snare. And vain were reason, courage, learning, all, Till power accede; till Tudor's wild caprice Smile on their cause; Tudor! whose tyrant reign, With mental freedom crown'd, the best of kings Might envious view, and ill prefer their own! Then Wolsey rose, by Nature form'd to seek Ambition's trophies, by address to win,
By temper to enjoy-whose humbler birth Taught the gay scenes of pomp to dazzle more.
Then from its towering height with horrid sound Rush'd the proud abbey: then the vaulted roofs, Torn from their walls, disclosed the wanton scene Of monkish chastity! Each angry friar Crawl'd from his bedded strumpet, muttering low An ineffectual curse. The pervious nooks, That, ages past, convey'd the guileful priest To play some image on the gaping crowd, Imbibe the novel daylight, and expose, Obvious, the fraudful enginery of Rome. As though this opening earth to nether realms Should flash meridian day, the hooded race Shudder, abash'd to find their cheats display'd, And, conscious of their guilt, and pleased to waive Its fearful meed, resign'd their fair domain. Nor yet supine, nor void of rage, retired The pest gigantic; whose revengeful stroke Tinged the red annals of Maria's reign,
When from the tenderest breast each wayward priest Could banish mercy and implant a fiend!
When cruelty the funeral pyre uprear'd,
-And bound Religion there, and fired the base!
When the same blaze, which on each tortured limb Fed with luxuriant rage, in every face
Triumphant faith appear'd, and smiling hope. O blest Eliza! from thy piercing beam. Forth flew this hated fiend, the child of Rome; Driven to the verge of Albion, linger'd there, Then with her James receding, cast behind One angry frown, and sought more servile climes. Henceforth they plied the long-continued task Of righteous havoc, covering distant fields
With the wrought remnants of the shatter'd pile; While through the land the musing pilgrim sees A tract of brighter green, and in the midst Appears a mouldering wall, with ivy crown'd, Or Gothic turret, pride of ancient days! Now but of use to grace a rural scene, To bound our vistas, and to glad the sons Of George's reign, reserved for fairer times!
Sed neque Medorum silvæ, ditissima terra Nec pulcher Ganges, atque auro turbidus Hamus, Laudibus Angligenûm certent; non Bactra, nec Indi, Totaque thuriferis Panchaia pinguis arenis.
Let the green olive glad Hesperian shores; Her tawny citron, and her orange groves, These let Iberia boast; but if in vain, To win the stranger plant's diffusive smile, The Briton labours, yet our native minds, Our constant bosoms, these the dazzled world May view with envy; these Iberian dames Survey with fix'd esteem and fond desire.
Hapless Elvira! thy disastrous fate May well this truth explain, nor ill adorn The British lyre; then chiefly, if the Muse, Nor vain, nor partial, from the simple guise Of ancient record catch the pensive lay, And in less grovelling accents give to Fame. Elvira loveliest maid! the Iberian realm Could boast no purer breast, no sprightlier mind, No race more splendent, and no form so fair.
Such was the chance of war, this peerless maid, In life's luxuriant bloom, enrich'd the spoil Of British victors, victory's noblest pride! She, she alone, amid the wailful train Of captive maids, assign'd to Henry's care, Lord of her life, her fortune, and her fame! He, generous youth! with no penurious hand, The tedious moments, that unjoyous roll Where Freedom's cheerful radiance shines no more, Essay'd to soften; conscious of the pang That Beauty feels, to waste its fleeting hours In some dim fort, by foreign rule restrain'd, Far from the haunts of men, or eye of day!
Sometimes, to cheat her bosom of its cares, Her kind protector number'd o'er the toils Himself had worn; the frowns of angry seas, Or hostile rage, or faithless friend, more fell Than storm or foe; if haply she might find Her cares diminish'd; fruitless, fond essay ! Now to her lovely hand, with modest awe The tender lute he gave; she, not averse, Nor destitute of skill, with willing hand Call'd forth angelic strains; the sacred debt Of gratitude, she said, whose just commands Still might her hand with equal pride obey! Nor to the melting sounds the nymph refused Her vocal art; harmonious as the strain Of some imprison'd lark, who, daily cheer'd By guardian cares, repays them with a song; Nor droops, nor deems sweet liberty resign'd.
The song, not artless, had she framed to paint Disastrous passion; how, by tyrant laws Of idiot custom sway'd, some soft-eyed fair Loved only one, nor dared that love reveal!
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