The Minstrel; or the Progress of Genius

Bristling with spears, and bright with burnished shields,
The embattled legions stretch their long array;
Discord’s red torch, as fierce she scours the fields,
With bloody tincture stains the face of day.

And now the hosts in silence wait the sign.
Keen are their looks whom Liberty inspires!
Quick as the goddess darts along the line,
Each breast impatient burns with noble fires.

Her form how graceful! In her lofty mien
The smiles of love stern Wisdom’s frown controul;
Her fearless eye, determined though serene,
Speaks the great purpose, and the unconquered soul.

Mark, where Ambition leads the adverse band,
Each feature fierce and hagard, as with pain!
With menace loud he cries, while from his hand
He vainly strives to wipe the crimson stain.

Lo, at his call, impetuous as the storms,
Headlong to deeds of death the hosts are driven;
Hatred, to madness wrought, each face deforms,
Mounts the black whirlwind, and involves the heaven.

Now, Virtue, now thy powerful succour lend,
Shield them, for Liberty who dare to die —
Ah, Liberty! will none thy cause befriend!
Are those thy sons, thy generous sons, that fly!

Not Virtue’s self, when Heaven its aid denies,
Can brace the loosened nerves, or warm the heart;
Not Virtue’s self can still the burst of sighs,
When festers in the soul misfortune’s dart.

See, where by terror and despair dismayed,
The scattering legions pour along the plain!
Ambition’s car, in bloody spoils arrayed,
Hews its broad way, as Vengeance guides the rein.

But who is He, that, by yon lonely brook,
With woods o’erhung, and precipices rude,
Lies all abandoned, yet, with dauntless look,
Sees streaming from his breast the purple flood?

Ah, Brutus! ever thine be Virtue’s tear!
Lo, his dim eyes to Liberty he turns,
As, scarce supported on her broken spear,
O’er her expiring son the goddess mourns.

Loose to the wind her azure mantle flies;
From her dishevelled locks she rends the plume;
No lustre lightens in her weeping eyes,
And on her tear-stained cheek no roses bloom.

Meanwhile the world, Ambition, owns thy sway;
Fame’s loudest trumpet labours with thy name;
For thee the Muse awakes her sweetest lay,
And Flattery bids for thee her altars flame.

Nor in life’s lofty bustling sphere alone,
The sphere where monarchs and where heroes toil,
Sink Virtue’s sons beneath Misfortune’s frown,
While Guilt’s thrilled bosom leaps at Pleasure’s smile:

Full oft, where Solitude and Silence dwell,
Far, far remote, amid the lowly plain,
Resounds the voice of Woe from Virtue’s cell:
Such is man’s doom; and Pity weeps in vain.

Still grief recoils – How vainly have I strove,
Thy power, O Melancholy, to withstand!
Tired I submit; but yet, O yet remove,
Or ease the pressure of thy heavy hand.

Yet, for a while, let the bewildered soul
Find in society relief from woe;
O yield, a while, to Friendship’s soft controul;
Some respite, Friendship, wilt thou not bestow?

Come then, Philander! whose exalted mind
Looks down from far on all that charms the great;
For thou canst bear, unshaken and resigned,
The brightest smiles, the blackest frowns of Fate!

Come thou, whose love unlimited, sincere,
Nor faction cools, nor injury destroys;
Who lend’st to Misery’s moan a pitying ear,
And feel’st with ecstasy another’s joys:

Who know’st man’s frailty, with a favouring eye
And melting heart, behold’st a brother’s fall;
Who, unenslaved by Fashion’s narrow tye,
With manly freedom follow’st Nature’s call.

And bring thy Delia, sweetly-smiling fair,
Whose spotless soul no rankling thoughts deform;
Her gentle accents calm each throbbing care,
And harmonize the thunder of the storm.