We look for, and have promise to behold A better country, such as earth has none-- Yet, England, am I still thy duteous son, And never will this heart be dead or cold At the relation of thy glories old, Or of what newer triumphs thou hast won, Where thou as with a mighty arm hast done The work of God, quelling the tyrants bold. Elect of nations, for the whole world’s good Thou wert exalted to a doom so high-- To outbrave Rome’s “triple tyrant,” to confound Every oppressor, that with impious flood Would drown the landmarks of humanity, The limits God hath set to nations and their bound[3].
The nations may not be trod out, and quite Obliterated from the world’s great page-- The nations, that have filled from age to age Their place in story. They who in despite Of this, a people’s first and holiest right, In lust of unchecked power or brutal rage, Against a people’s life such warfare wage, With man no more, but with the Eternal fight. They who break down the barriers He hath set, Break down what would another time defend And shelter their own selves: they who forget (For the indulgence of the present will) The lasting ordinances, in the end Will rue their work, when ill shall sanction ill.
ON HIS REPORTED CONDUCT TOWARDS THE POLES.
What would it help to call thee what thou art? When all is spoken, thou remainest still With the same power and the same evil will To crush a nation’s life out, to dispart All holiest ties, to turn awry and thwart All courses that kind nature keeps, to spill The blood of noblest veins, to maim, or kill With torture of slow pain the aching heart. When our weak hands hang useless, and we feel Deeds cannot be, who then would ease his breast With the impotence of words? But our appeal Is unto Him, who counts a nation’s tears, With whom are the oppressor and opprest, And vengeance, and the recompensing years.
ON THE RESULTS OF THE LAST FRENCH REVOLUTION.
How long shall weary nations toil in blood, How often roll the still returning stone Up the sharp painful height, ere they will own That on the base of individual good, Of virtue, manners, and pure homes endued With household graces--that on this alone Shall social freedom stand--where these are gone, There is a nation doomed to servitude? O suffering, toiling France, thy toil is vain! The irreversible decree stands sure, Where men are selfish, covetous of gain, Heady and fierce, unholy and impure, Their toil is lost, and fruitless all their pain; They cannot build a work which shall endure.