“How long, oh Heaven! shall power with impious hand In cruel bondage bind proud Britain's land, Or heresy in fair Religion's robe Usurp her empire and control the globe!— Hypocrisy in true Religion's name Has filled the land of Britain long with shame, And Freedom, captive, languishes in chains, While with her sceptre, Superstition reigns. Restore, oh Heaven! the reign of peace and love, And let thy wisdom to thy people prove That Freedom too is governed by her rules,— No toy for children, and no game for fools;— Freed from restraint the erring star would fly Darkling, and guideless, through the untravelled sky— The stubborn soil would still refuse to yield The whitening harvest of the fertile field; The wanton winds, when loosened from their caves, Would drive the bark uncertain through the waves This magnet lost, the sea, the air, the world, To wild destruction would be swiftly hurled! And say, just Heaven, oh say, is feeble man Alone exempt from thy harmonious plan? Shall he alone, in dusky darkness grope, Free from restraint, and free, alas! from hope? Slave to his passions, his unbridled will, Slave to himself, and yet a freeman still? No! teach him in his pride to own that he Can only in obedience be free— That even he can only safely move, When true to loyalty, and true to love.” As she speaks, a bright star appears at the farther end of the stage, and ascending slowly, at length stands over the altar, where she kneels. Extending her arm towards the star, she rises and cries in triumph:— “I hail the sign, pure as the starry gem, Which rested o'er the babe of Bethlehem— My prayer is heard, and Heaven's sublime decree Will rend our chains, and Britain shall be free!” Then enters the embodiment of Puritanism, represented in the peculiar dress of the Roundheads—with peaked hat, a quaint black doublet and cloak, rigidly plain, and cut in the straight fashion of the sect; black Flemish breeches, and grey hose; huge square-toed shoes, tied with coarse leather thongs; and around the waist a buff leather belt, in which he wears a sword. He comes in singing, as he walks, one of the Puritan versions, or rather perversions of the Psalms, which have so grossly marred the exquisite beauty of the original, and of which one stanza will suffice the reader:— “Arise, oh Lord, save me, my God, For thou my foes hast stroke, All on the cheek-bone, and the teeth Of wicked men hast broke.”[30] Then standing at some distance from the altar, he rolls up his eyes, till nothing but the whites can be seen, and is exercised in prayer. With a smile of bitter contempt the genius of True Liberty proceeds:—