Here Truth's collected beams first fill'd his mind, That Nature's first best gift was Liberty." Proud of this wondrous son, sublime I stood (While louder surges swell'd my rapid flood); Then, vain as Niobe, exulting cried, Ilissus! roll thy fam'd Athenian tide; Tho' Plato's steps oft mark'd thy neighb'ring glade, Its image full on thy reflecting breast, Yet my pure stream shall boast as proud a name, And Britain's Isis flow with Attic fame. Alas! how chang'd! where now that Attic boast? See! Gothic Licence rage o'er all my coast; See! Hydra Faction spread its impious reign, Poison each breast, and madden ev'ry brain: Hence frontless crowds, that, not content to fright The blushing Cynthia from her throne of night, Blast the fair face of day; and, madly bold, The Echoes groan, the Dryads quit their haunt; Are these the sons my fost❜ring breast must rear, Grac'd with my name, and nurtur'd by my care? Must these go forth from my maternal hand To deal their insults through a peaceful land; And boast, while Freedom bleeds, and Virtue groans, That "Isis taught Rebellion to her sons?" Forbid it, Heaven! and let my rising waves Indignant swell, and whelm the recreant slaves! In England's cause their patriot floods employ, As Xanthus delug'd in the cause of Troy. Is this denied; then point some secret way Where far, far hence these guiltless streams may [spreads stray; Some unknown channel lend, where Nature Quid mihi nescio quam, proprio cum Tybride, Romam Lætatus violasse redit. Nec Numina Sedem Destituent. CLAUDIAN. ON closing flow'rs when genial gales diffuse And from the wave arose its guardian queen, Known by her sweeping stole of glossy green; While in the coral crown that bound her brow Was wove the Delphic laurel's verdant bough. As the smooth surface of the dimply flood The silver-slipper'd virgin lightly trod; From her loose hair the dropping dew she press'd, And thus mine ear in accents mild address'd: No more, my son, the rural reed employ, Nor trill the tinkling strain of empty joy ; No more thy love-resounding sonnets suit To notes of pastoral pipe or oaten flute. For hark! high-thron'd on yon majestic walls, To the dear Muse afflicted Freedom calls: When Freedom calls, and Oxford bids thee sing, Why stays thy hand to strike the sounding string? While thus, in Freedom's and in Phoebus' spite, The venal sons of slavish Cam unite; To shake yon towers when malice rears her crest, Shall all my sons in silence idly rest? |