Strophe.
Thy spirit, Independence, let me share,
Lord of the lion-heart and eagle-eye,
Thy steps I follow with my bosom bare,
Nor heed the storm that howls along the sky.
Deep in the frozen regions of the north,
A goddess violated brought thee forth,
Immortal Liberty! whose look sublime
Hath bleach’d the tyrant’s cheek in every varying clime.
What time the iron-hearted Gaul,
With frantic superstition for his guide,
Arm’d with the dagger and the pall,
The sons of Woden to the field defied;
The ruthless hag, by Weser’s flood,
In Heaven’s name urged the infernal blow;
And red the stream began to flow:
The vanquish’d were baptized with blood!
Antistrophe.
The Saxon prince in horror fled
From altars stained with human gore;
And Liberty his routed legions led,
In safety, to the bleak Norwegian shore.
There in a cave asleep she lay,
Lull’d by the hoarse-resounding main;
When a bold savage pass’d that way,
Impell’d by destiny, – his name Disdain.
Of ample front the portly chief appear’d:
The hunted bear supplied a shaggy vest;
The drifted snow hung on his yellow beard;
And his broad shoulders braved the furious blast.
He stopp’d – he gazed – his bosom glow’d,
And deeply felt th’ impression of her charms:
He seized th’ advantage Fate allow’d;
And straight compress’d her in his vigorous arms.
Strophe.
The curlew scream’d, the tritons blew
Their shells to celebrate the ravish’d rite;
Old Time exulted as he flew;
The light he saw in Albion’s happy plains,
Where under cover of a flowering thorn,
Wile Philomel renew’d her warbled strains,
Th’ auspicious fruit of stolen embrace was born –
The mountain dryads seized with joy
The smiling infant to their charge consign’d;
The Doric Muse caress’d the favourite boy;
The hermit Wisdom stored his opening mind.
As rolling years matured his age,
He flourish’d bold and sinewy as his sire;
While the mild passions in his breast assuage
The fiercer flames of his maternal sire.
Antistrophe.
Accomplish’d thus, he wing’d his way,
And zealous roved from pole to pole,
The rolls of right eternal to display,
And warm with patriot thoughts th’ aspiring soul.
On desert isles ’twas he that raised
Those spires that gild the Adriatic wave,
Where Tyranny beheld amazed
Fair Freedom’s Temple, where he mark’d her grave.
He steel’d the blunt Batavian’s arms
To burst th’ Iberian’s double chain;
And cities rear’d, and planted farms,
Won from the skirts of Neptune’s wide domain.
He, with the generous rustics, sate
On Uri’s rocks in close divan;
And wing’d that arrow sure as fate,
Which ascertain’d the sacred rights of man.
Strophe.
Arabia’s scorching sand he cross’d,
Where blasted Nature pants supine,
To Freedom’s adamantine shrine;
And many a Tartar-horde forlorn, aghast,
He snatch’d from under fell Oppression’s wing;
And taught amidst the dreary waste
Th’ all-cheering hymns of Liberty to sing.
He virtue finds, like precious ore,
Diffused through every baser mould,
E’en now he stands on Calvi’s rocky shore,
And turns the dross of Corsica to gold.
He, guardian genius, taught my youth
Pomp’s tinsel livery to despise:
My lips, by him chastised to truth,
Ne’er paid that homage which the heart denies.
Antistrophe.
Those sculptured halls my feet shall never tread,
Where varnish’d Vice and Vanity combined,
To dazzle and seduce, their banners spread;
And forge vile shackles for the freeborn mind.
Where Insolence his wrinkled front uprears,
And all the flowers of spurious Fancy blow;
And Title his ill-woven chaplet wears,
Full often wreathed around the miscreant’s brow;
Where ever dimpling Falsehood, pert and vain,
Presents her cup of stale Profession’s froth;
And pale Disease, with all his bloated train,
Torments the sons of Gluttony and Sloth.
Strophe.
In Fortune’s ear behold that minion ride,
With either India’s glittering spoils oppress’d:
so moves the sumpter-mule, in harness’d pride,
That bears the treasure which he cannot taste.
For him let venal bards disgrace the bay,
And hireling minstrels wake the tinkling string;
Her sensual snares let faithless Pleasure lay;
And all her jingling bells fantastic Folly ring;
Disquiet, Doubt, and Dread shall intervene;
And Nature, still to all her feelings just,
In vengeance hang a damp on every scene,
Shook from the baleful pinions of Disgust.
Antistrophe.
Nature I’ll court in her sequester’d haunts
By mountain, meadow, streamlet, grove, or cell,
Where the poised lark his evening ditty chants,
And Health, and Peace, and Contemplation dwell.
There Study shall with Solitude recline;
And Friendship pledge me to his fellow-swains;
And Toil and Temperance sedately twine
The slender cord that fluttering Life sustains:
And fearless Poverty shall guard the door;
And Taste, unspoil’d, the frugal table spread;
And Industry supply the humble store;
And Sleep, unbribed, his dews refreshing shed:
White-mantled Innocence, ethereal sprite,
Shall chase far off the goblins of the night;
And Independence o’er the day preside,
Propitious power! my patron and my pride.
—————
The End
And that’s the End of the Poem
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