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He brought thy land a blessing when he came,
He found thee savage, and he left thee tame;
Taught thee to clothe thy pink'd and painted hide,
And grace thy figure with a soldier's pride;
He sow'd the seeds of order where he went,
Improv'd thee far beyond his own intent,
And, while he rul'd thee by the sword alone,
Made thee at last a warrior like his own.
Religion, if in heav'nly truths attir'd,
Needs only to be seen to be admir'd;
But thine, as dark as witch’ries of the night,
Was form’d to harden hearts and shock the sight;
Thy Druids struck the well-hung harps they bore
With fingers deeply dyed in human gore;
And while the victim slowly bled to death,
Upon the rolling chords rung out his dying breath.

Who brought the lamp, that with awaking beams
Dispellid thy gloom, and broke away thy dreams,
Tradition, now decrepit and worn out,
Babbler of ancient fables, leaves a doubt:
But still light reach'd thee; and those gods of thine,
Woden and Thor, each tottring in his shrine,
Fell broken and defac'd at his own door,
As Dagon in Philistia long before.

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But Rome with sorceries and magic wand
Soon rais'd a cloud, that darken'd ev'ry land;
And thine was smother'd in the stench and fog
Of Tiber's marshes and the papal bog.
Then priests with bulls and briefs, and shaven

And griping fists, and unrelenting frowns,
Legates and delegates with pow'rs from Hell,
Though heav'nly in pretension, fleec'd thee well;
And to this hour, to keep it fresh in mind,
Some twigs of ihat old scourge are left behind *.
Thy soldiery, the pope's well-manag'd pack,
Were train'd beneath his lash, and knew the smack,
And, when he laid them on the scent of blood,
Would hunt a Saracen through fire and flood.
Lavish of life, to win an empty tomb,
That prov'd a mint of wealth, a mine to Rome,
They left their bones beneath unfriendly skies,
His worthless absolution all the prize.
Thou wast the veriest slave in days of yore,
That ever dragg'd a chain or tugg’d an oar;
Thy monarchs arbitrary, fierce, unjust,
Themselves the slaves of bigotry or lust,

* Which may be found at Doetors' Cominons.

Disdain'd thy counsels, only in distress
Found thee a goodly spunge for Pow'r to press.
Thy chiefs, the lords of many a petty fee,
Provok'd and harass'd, in return plagu'd thee;
Call’d thee away from peaceable employ,
Domestic happiness and rural joy,
To waste thy life in arms, or lay it down
In causeless feuds and bick'rings of their own.
Thy parliaments ador'd on bended knees
The sov'reignty, they were conven’d to please;
Whate'er was ask'd, too timid to resist,
Complied with, and were graciously dismiss'd;
And if some Spartan soul a doubt express'd,
And, blushing at the tameness of the rest,
Dar'd to suppose the subject had a choice,
He was a traitor by the gen’ral voice.
Oh slave! with pow'rs thou didst not dare exert,
Verse cannot stoop so low as thy desert;
It shakes the sides of splenetic Disdain,
Thou self-entitled ruler of the main,
To trace thee to the date when yon fair sea,
That clips thy shores, had no such charms for thee;
When other nations flew from coast to coast,
And thou hadst neither fleet nor Aag to boast.

Kneel now, and lay thy forehead in the dust;
Blush if thou canst; not petrified, thou must:
Act but an honest and a faithful part;
Compare what then thou wast, with what thou art;
And God's disposing providence confess'd,
Obduracy itself must yield the rest.-
Then art thou bound to serve him, and to prove, .
Hour after hour, thy gratitude and love.

Has he not hid thee, and thy favour'd land,
For ages safe beneath his shelt'ring hand,
Giv'n thee his blessing on the clearest proof,
Bid nations leagu'd against thee stand aloof,
And charg'd Hostility and Hate to roar
Where else they would, but not upon thy shore?
His pow'r secur'd thee, when presumptuous Spain
Baptiz'd her fleet invincible in vain;
Her gloomy monarch, doubtful and resign'd
To ev'ry pang, that racks an anxious mind,
Ask'd of the waves, that broke upon his coast,
What tidings? and the surge replied All lost!
And when the Stuart leaning on the Scot,
Then too much fear'd, and now too much fogot,
Pierc'd to the very centre of the realm,
And hop'd to seize his abdicated helm,

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'Twas but to prove how quickly with a frown, He that bad rais'd thee, could have pluck'd thee

down. Peculiar is the grace by thee possess'd, Thy foes implacable, thy land at rest; Thy thunders travel over earth and seas, And all at home is pleasure, wealth, and ease. 'Tis thus, extending his tempestuous arm, Thy Maker fills the nations with alarm, While his own Heav'n surveys the troubled scene, And feels no change, unshaken and serene. Freedom, in other lands scarce known to shine, Pours out a flood of splendour upon thine; Thou hast as bright an int’rest in her rays, As ever Roman had in Rome's best days. True freedom is where no restraint is known, That Scripture, justice, and good sense disown, Where only vice and injury are tied, And all from shore to shore is free beside. Such freedom is-and Windsor's hoary tow'rs Stood trembling at the boldness of thy pow'rs, That won a nymph on that immortal plain, Like her the fabled Phæbus woo'd in vain:

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