Poetry of the Anti-Jacobin: Comprising the Celebrated Political and Satirical Poems, of the Rt. Hons. G. Canning, John Hookham Frere, W. Pitt, the Marquis Wellesley, G. Ellis, W. Gifford, the Earl of Carlisle, and Others.
History
Poetry of the Anti-Jacobin: Comprising the Celebrated Political and Satirical Poems, of the Rt. Hons. G. Canning, John Hookham Frere, W. Pitt, the Marquis Wellesley, G. Ellis, W. Gifford, the Earl of Carlisle, and Others.
English poetry; France -- History -- Revolution, 1789-1799 -- Poetry; Great Britain -- Politics and government -- 1789-1820
FOE TO THY COUNTRY’S FOES! ’tis THINE to claim
From Britain’s genuine sons a British fame—
Too long French manners our fair isle disgraced;
Too long French fashions shamed our native taste.
Still prone to change, we half-resolved to try
The proffered charms of FRENCH FRATERNITY.
Fair was her form, and FREEDOM’S honour’d name
Conceal’d the horrors of her secret shame:
She claim’d some kindred with that guardian pow’r,
Long worshipp’d here in Britain’s happier hour:
Virtue and Peace, she said, were in her train,
The long-lost blessings of ASTRÆA’S reign—
But soon the vizor dropp’d—her haggard face
Betray’d the FURY lurking in the GRACE—
The false attendants that behind her press’d,
In vain disguised, the latent guilt confess’d:
PEACE dropt her snow-white robe, and shudd’ring show’d
AMBITION’S mantle reeking fresh with blood;
Presumptuous FOLLY stood in REASON’S form,
Pleased with the power to ruin,—not reform;
PHILOSOPHY, proud phantom, undismay’d,
With cold regard the ghastly train survey’d;
Saw PERSECUTION gnash her iron teeth,
While _Atheists_ preach’d the _eternal sleep of death_;
Saw ANARCHY the social chain unbind,
And DISCORD sour the blood of human kind;
Then talk’d of Nature’s Rights, and Equal Sway;
And saw her system safe—AND STALK’D AWAY!
Foil’d by our ARMS, where’er in ARMS we met,
With ARTS LIKE THESE the foe assails us yet.
Hopeless the fort to storm, or to surprise,
More secret wiles his envious malice tries;
Diseas’d himself, spread wide his own despair,
Pollutes the fount, and taints the wholesome air.
While many a Chief, to glory not unknown,
Alarms each hostile shore, and guards our own,
’Tis THINE, the latent treachery to proclaim;
An humbler warfare, but the cause the same.
In vain had POMPEY crush’d the PONTIC HOST,
And chas’d the pirate swarm from every coast;
The crew that leagu’d their country to o’erthrow;
The base confederates of a GALLIC[116] foe;
Had not the Civic Consul’s watchful eye
Track’d through the windings of conspiracy,
Exposed, confounded, shamed, and forced away,
The “JACOBIN REFORMER[117] of his day”.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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