On a Modern Epic

Base is the purport of this epic song, Baneful its powers;—but O! the poesy! (What can it less when sun-born Genius sings?) Wraps in reluctant ecstacy the soul Where poesy is felt;—tho’ here it paint In all the lurid traits of Nero’s heart, The high heroic spirit of that prince Who graced the crown he wore; Britannia’s boast, HARRY of MONMOUTH!—he, who ne’er exposed His ardent legions on the deathful plain Where flamed not his broad shield, nor his white plumes, Play’d in the battle’s van.—What claim’d he then From France, at the sword’s point, but ceded rights Howe’er perfidiously with-held, when pledg’d For aye to England, after the proud day Of Cressy’s thundering field? Then Gallia’s star Sunk, and the planet of the argent shores Rose glittering on the zenith’s azure height, What time upon the broken spears of France, And prostrate helms, immortal Glory stood, And with the lilies of that vaunting clime, Like a gay bridegroom, wreath’d the victor brows Of her great EDWARD.—O! unnatural boy! O beardless parricide! thy treacherous Muse, In the dire splendour of MEDUSA’S charms Balefully deck’d, an impious task essays, Lab’ring to turn to deadliest aconite The laurel wreaths of Agincourt;—to brand The hallow’d lustre of the British name With slavish meanness, with rapacious avarice, And the wolf’s rage. Britain, whose martial fire Applauding ages have pronounced adorn’d With fair munificence, and temper’d still By God-like mercy’s sway,—O, dark of heart, As luminous of fancy! quit, for shame, Quit each insidious pretence to virtue, To Christian faith, and pity!—Dry thy tears For age-pass’d woes, they are the crocodile’s, And o’er the murder of the royal victims, And o’er the Christian faith’s apostacy, Witness’d in France, cry, “Vive la Liberte!” Dip thy young hands in her o’er-flowing chalice, Brimm’d with the gore of age, infants, and beauty, And, throwing thy red cap aloft in air, Laugh with the fierce hyena!