Base is the purport of this epic song,
Baneful its powers;—but O! the poesy!
(What can it less when sun-born Genius sings?)
Wraps in reluctant ecstacy the soul
Where poesy is felt;—tho’ here it paint
In all the lurid traits of Nero’s heart,
The high heroic spirit of that prince
Who graced the crown he wore; Britannia’s boast,
HARRY of MONMOUTH!—he, who ne’er exposed
His ardent legions on the deathful plain
Where flamed not his broad shield, nor his white plumes,
Play’d in the battle’s van.—What claim’d he then
From France, at the sword’s point, but ceded rights
Howe’er perfidiously with-held, when pledg’d
For aye to England, after the proud day
Of Cressy’s thundering field? Then Gallia’s star
Sunk, and the planet of the argent shores
Rose glittering on the zenith’s azure height,
What time upon the broken spears of France,
And prostrate helms, immortal Glory stood,
And with the lilies of that vaunting clime,
Like a gay bridegroom, wreath’d the victor brows
Of her great EDWARD.—O! unnatural boy!
O beardless parricide! thy treacherous Muse,
In the dire splendour of MEDUSA’S charms
Balefully deck’d, an impious task essays,
Lab’ring to turn to deadliest aconite
The laurel wreaths of Agincourt;—to brand
The hallow’d lustre of the British name
With slavish meanness, with rapacious avarice,
And the wolf’s rage. Britain, whose martial fire
Applauding ages have pronounced adorn’d
With fair munificence, and temper’d still
By God-like mercy’s sway,—O, dark of heart,
As luminous of fancy! quit, for shame,
Quit each insidious pretence to virtue,
To Christian faith, and pity!—Dry thy tears
For age-pass’d woes, they are the crocodile’s,
And o’er the murder of the royal victims,
And o’er the Christian faith’s apostacy,
Witness’d in France, cry, “Vive la Liberte!”
Dip thy young hands in her o’er-flowing chalice,
Brimm’d with the gore of age, infants, and beauty,
And, throwing thy red cap aloft in air,
Laugh with the fierce hyena!