Ode to the Benevolence of England

Stranger! would'st thou ALBION know? Ask the family of woe. Ask the tribes who swarming round, In her arms have succour found: Or, if one of that sad band, Thou hast sought her sacred land, To thy heart thou may'st refer For BRITANNIA's Character! If that heart hath pow'r to feel, This glorious truth it will reveal: Be thou the humblest child e'en Care will own, Or the illustrious ruin of a throne, 'Twas not thy rank or station—'twas thy GRIEF, Spread her protecting arms to offer thee relief.

Yet, stranger! had'st thou brought her mines of wealth, Or come beneath the smile of Heaven, In all the gay festivity of health, Thou had'st but bought what she has given: Nor had thy purchas'd welcome been sincere, But never can'st thou doubt her homage to thy tear.

Behold th' immeasurable train of care, Exil'd, like thee, to our BRITANNIA come! She, their sure refuge in the last despair, The child of Sorrow's universal home. Her Peasants with her Princes vie Who shall softest balms supply: These their Palaces bestow And scepter'd Grief forgets its woe, Those uplift the lowly latch, And beckon Sorrow to their thatch. Friend to the Wretched! ALBION's equal eye Warms, like the Sun, ALL human misery.

But, favour'd Stranger! would'st thou know yet more Her temper—see her in the grace of Power: Oh! if, by some reverse of sudden fate, Conquest again should on her Banners wait, And her now exulting Foe Yield to all-subduing woe, And in the hour of need her aid explore, From vict'ry fallen to distress, The Lion rage of ALBION would be o'er, Prompt to pardon and to bless, Her mighty heart, would by the warmth of love, Melt to the softness of the mated dove.

Ye fragments of each plunder'd coast! Check the Muse, if here she boast. No, ye sad Band! who midst your ruins smile; Ye own, for ye have felt, the Genius of our Isle: ALBION succours all who sigh, Such is her EQUALITY.

Sure, Pity's angel at her birth, Breath'd bounty in her soul to temper Power, And bade her be, in deep Misfortune's hour, Th' asylum of the suffering Earth.

Say ye, who with her spirit proudly glow, Her native sons—say, have ye in her laws, Ye who have dar'd to hope for Heaven below, Found as her earthly mark some venial flaws? Nobly reform them—but, with filial hand, Devote yourselves to save a generous Land. Who, in an hour like this, but would his force impart— His arm, his blood—to guard a parent's heart? Say ye, who now defended by her Laws, Ye Strangers in her gate, would ye not rise, As her adopted Sons, to aid her Cause, And, dying, triumph in the sacrifice? Yes! ye have seen the wretch, howe'er oppress'd, To her shelt'ring bosom fly, As if it were their tender mother's breast, And there as in a cradle lye.

And shall those whom she has bred, Nurs'd in her arms, and at her bosom fed, Shall her own Sons, whom first she taught to know The awful Rights e'en of that Alien's woe, And all the sacred truths which lye In the rich code of Hospitality; Shall they, forgetful of the precepts giv'n, Call down the "THANKLESS CHILD'S" dread curse from Heav'n? Ah! no! To save her from a threaten'd wound, What hosts have perish'd on the reeking ground! Nor shall th' embattled Thousands that remain, Inactive view this crisis of their fate: Her Patriots, with a manly pride, All little quarrels thrown aside, All petty strife for place or power, The contests of an idle hour, Shall, with one soul, unanimously great, By wisdom and heroic deeds, embalm their Breth'ren slain!

Nor ye, her Patriots, doubt BRITANNIA's care: Nor think she will, with fatal rashness, DARE To waste the treasure of her Children's blood: Alas! already has the crimson flood, Like Life's rich streams drawn from their parent source, Profusely drain'd the all-supplying heart, The mass impoverished in its wholesome course, And check'd the action of each nobler part!

This awful truth she feels in ev'ry vein, And feels it with an anxious mother's pain; And though to guard inviolate her Land, Her Laws, her Life, she claims the filial hand, Ev'n while she views her loyal Sons in arms, She trembles with a parent's fond alarms: With pride she sees bright FREEDOM grace her Throne, Nor grudges other States the blessings of her own! She wars alone with ruthless strife That dooms the Orphan and the Wife To dungeons, chains, or death, Because the Sire who gave them breath, Or the lov'd Lord in trembling terror flew, Proscription and his fate in view! And what their crimes? Too oft the chance of birth, Sublimer genius, or superior worth! Foe to the cruel means—but to the END BRITANNIA and her BRITONS are a friend. Oh! ne'er would ALBION quench the sacred flame, Divinely bright! that gilt her path to fame, Ah no! when the dread thirst of blood is o'er, And ruthless rage shall stain the cause no more, With honest joy our ALBION shall embrace Her Gallic foes, and own them of a kindred race!

But when fair Honour's voice—'twill be a voice from Heav'n— Shall cry, Hold! hold! the pow'r to spare is giv'n, Thy Land, thy Law, thy Liberty secure, The offer'd Olive now will Peace ensure: O! should she then, with fell disnatur'd rage, Waste one rich drop of gen'rous ENGLAND'S blood, The Muse that freely gives this votive page, Will pour indignant Censure's broadest flood; Ev'n though, like ROME's firm Sire, to be sincere, Justice should strike her victim with a tear!