Spirit of Alfred! patriot soul sublime! Thou morning-star of error’s darkest time! Prince of the Lion-heart! whose arm in fight, On Syria’s plains repell’d Saladin’s might! Edward! for bright heroic deeds revered, By Cressy’s fame to Britain still endear’d! Triumphant Henry! thou, whose valour proud, The lofty plume of crested Gallia bow’d! Look down, look down, exalted shades! and view Your Albion still to freedom’s banner true! Behold the land, ennobled by your fame, Supreme in glory, and of spotless name: And, as the pyramid indignant rears Its awful head, and mocks the waste of years; See her secure in pride of virtue tower, While prostrate nations kiss the rod of power! Lo! where her pennons, waving high, aspire, Bold Victory hovers near, “with eyes of fire!” While Lusitania hails, with just applause, The brave defenders of her injured cause; Bids the full song, the note of triumph rise, And swells th’ exulting pæan to the skies! And they, who late with anguish, hard to tell, Breathed to their cherish’d realms a sad farewell! Who, as the vessel bore them o’er the tide, Still fondly linger’d on its deck, and sigh’d; Gazed on the shore, till tears obscured their sight, And the blue distance melted into light-- The Royal exiles, forced by Gallia’s hate To fly for refuge in a foreign state-- They, soon returning o’er the western main, Ere long may view their clime beloved again: And as the blazing pillar led the host Of faithful Israel o’er the desert coast, So may Britannia guide the noble band O’er the wild ocean to their native land. O glorious isle!--O sovereign of the waves! Thine are the sons who “never will be slaves!” See them once more, with ardent hearts advance, And rend the laurels of insulting France; To brave Castile their potent aid supply, And wave, O Freedom! wave thy sword on high! Is there no bard of heavenly power possess’d To thrill, to rouse, to animate the breast? Like Shakspeare o’er the secret mind to sway, And call each wayward passion to obey? Is there no bard, imbued with hallow’d fire, To wake the chords of Ossian’s magic lyre; Whose numbers breathing all his flame divine, The patriot’s name to ages might consign? Rise, Inspiration! rise! be this thy theme, And mount, like Uriel, on the golden beam! Oh, could my muse on seraph pinion spring, And sweep with rapture’s hand the trembling string! Could she the bosom energies control, And pour impassion’d fervour o’er the soul! Oh, could she strike the harp to Milton given, Brought by a cherub from th’ empyrean heaven! Ah, fruitless wish! ah, prayer preferr’d in vain, For her--the humblest of the woodland train; Yet shall her feeble voice essay to raise The hymn of liberty, the song of praise!