And flitting glory, which once round her throne Play’d, like the sunbeams through the loop holes thrown Which time hath worn in temple, tow’r, and roof? Because she heeded not the sage reproof Of patriot warning!--but, in lustful pride, Clad in the plunder which a world supplied, Lifted herself in grandeur o’er the rest, And said, “I sit an eagle in my nest!” Her people vassals, and her nobles vain, Debauch’d and cruel, soon a tyrant’s reign Alone, was able to uphold her pow’r;-- And there she sits--the owl’s and dragon’s dow’r. If seeking some memento, to convey Back to his home, which shall recall the way His feet has trod, in his lone pilgrimage, What think you shall his fondest thoughts engage?-- Or waken deepest feelings for the fate Of that “discrowned Queen,” who desolate Dwells in a desert by her ruins made:-- Whom lux’ry first debauch’d,--then kings betray’d? Will he attempt, ’midst urns and busts, to find, Broken and scatter’d, something which the mind Can take unto itself? No!--all which art, That seeks by flatt’ring marbles to impart Remembrance of the mighty, will be cast Heedless away:--the tombs of kings be pass’d With unconcern;--his heart more pleas’d to save A simple leaf that decks her Patriot’s grave. When through the maze of history we stray, Beset with crime! how cheering in the way, ’Midst desolations, conquests, rapine’s deeds, Oppressions foul, at which the bosom bleeds, To meet one name above the traitor’s lure,-- The tyrant’s frown,--who nobly seeks, to cure Those bitter woes inflicted on mankind By tyrant Pow’r;--his country’s wounds to bind;-- To lead exultant Freedom o’er its plains, And teach, by virtue, man to break his chains; As waters gushing in a desert land, Rejoice the trav’ller,--so, refresh’d we stand, And drink, in copious draughts, the streams which roll Of truth and knowledge, from his gen’rous soul;-- Delighted view the landscape brighten round, See fruits burst forth, and flow’rs adorn the ground; Whilst man, no more debas’d, exerts new pow’rs, And gives to truth and virtue, all his hours. Such Patriots, Heroes, Britain! have been thine:-- Such did thy Wickliffe, Russell, Hampden shine. Nor beams the name on hist’ry’s page more sweet, To patriot eyes, nor one he loves to greet With heartier welcomes, than the Chief’s, who here, On Trent’s green banks, first drew the vital air. No fawning parasite his soul beguil’d; No courtly arts his youthful mind defil’d; Nurtur’d in solitude, his thoughts were free; Daring and brave, he scorn’d servility; Train’d in religion, and devote to truth, In virtuous labours pass’d his ripening youth; Thus grew his mind, for lofty deeds prepar’d, To sternness moulded, by the toils he shar’d;