Liberty, by Agnes Bulmer
I.
II.
III.
V.
VI.
VII.
VIII.
IX.
X.
XI.
XII.
XIII.
XIV.
XV.
XVI.
XVII.
XVIII.
XIX.
XX.
Fair Liberty! I love thy cheerful mien,
When lightly bounding o'er rude mountains grey,
In sportive fawn or antlered roebuck seen,
Or squirrel darting in fantastic play
Amid the leafy shade
By sylvan forests made;
Or timid cony fleet,
Dancing on downy feet,
To crop the springing blade with early flowerets gay.
II.
I love thee in the wild-rose clustered fair,
With blossoms tinted soft as beauty's cheek,--
In woodbines, breathing perfume on the air,
In hedge-row, violet, or daisy meek;
In fragrant eglantine,
In tendril'd plants, that twine,
Simple, and wild, and free,
O'er bower, and branch, and tree,
And nature's softest charms in graceful silence speak.
III.
I hail thee on the sprightly skylark's wing,
Trilling glad welcome to the lord of day;
In woodland notes, that greet the ear of Spring,
Descending mild; in roseate garland's gay,
Fanned by Favonian gales,
As bright, through breezy vales,
Or o'er rejoicing meads
Her jocund train she leads,
While Echo blithe awakes, responsive to their lay.
When proud she piles her mountain-heights sublime,
Rides the rude billows of the rolling sea,
Or, charioted in clouds, from clime to clime
Her bolted thunder bears,
Her fiery shaft prepares,
Unfurls the whirlwind's wing,
Bids clashing tempests ring,
And with embattling spheres confounds the sons of time.
V.
By Nature loved and cherished, thou to man,
Sweet Liberty, as Heaven's best boon, art dear:
Man formed erect, with godlike port, to scan
The Deity!--His glorious image here:
He triumphs in thy smile,
And holds thee proud the while,
Blest birthright of his soul,
Which owns but one control,
And yields to God alone, its worship, praise, and fear.
VI.
He spurns the chain: the prison'd eagle, less
Ruffles his plumes, immured in captive-thrall;
Though manacles his withering limbs oppress,
Though sad beneath fell torture's scourge he fall,
Yet claims his spirit high
Its conscious dignity,
And stern with swelling breast,
Thoughts, but to Heaven expressed,
His angered manhood chafes, when ruthless fetters gall.
VII.
Man is Heaven's offspring; Heaven in grace benign,
With sacred sympathies inspired his soul,
Bade holy Love her silken cords entwine,
To hold sweet Liberty in soft control;
Love leads with gentlest rein,
That huntress of the plain;
With golden link she binds
The bravest loftiest minds,
And stills, with charmed voice, rude passion's restless roll.
VIII.
Love, sweet ally of Freedom, gently binds
The social compact with affection's cord,
Yet spurns the wild misrule of lawless minds,
The frantic reign of Anarchy abhorred:
The wise, the good, from thee,
O sacred Liberty!
Alone the wreath receive,
Which Truth and Justice weave,
And Virtue only wears, by Honour's just award.
IX.
Not thine the roar of democratic strife,
Tumultuous as the ever-surging wave,
To battle-field transforming peaceful life,
Where proud ambition tempts his venturous slave
With meteor-halos bright,
That shine with dubious light,
Till envious Darkness shrouds
The wildering beam with clouds,
And o'er his unhoused head impetuous tempests rave.
X.
Nor art thou she, loud boast of classic song,
With brows bright wreathed by Victory and Fame,
Whom Genius honoured, whom the brave, the strong,
Invested with thy glory and thy name:
That plumed goddess proud,
To whom the boisterous crowd
Their servile worship paid,
Who states and senates swayed,
While warrior voices stern upheld her dauntless claim.
XI.
Yet was she fierce, and turbulent, and wild,
The pageant idol of ungoverned will,
Unused to social gentleness, the child
Of truant Nature, restless, roving still;
But thou, of gentler mood,
Delightest not in rude
And ever-changing strife,
No hurricane thy life,
But pure and healthful gales thy floating canvas fill.
XII.
Yes! Liberty is order, virtue, peace,
'Tis valour, when the right her sword demands;
She bids the jarring voice of Discord cease,
Her heart is warm with charity, her hands
Beneficence employs;
To calm Contentment's joys
Her holy aid she lends,
On Truth's bright path attends,
And cheers with blitheful song rude Labour's swarthy bands.
XIII.
Britannia! dost thou boast thyself the child,
The friend of Freedom, since on mountains rude,
Through desert glens, and woodland forests wild,
Thy roving step the hunter's toil pursued?
Dost thou rejoice to own
A proud and stately throne,
'Midst circling waters placed,
By Truth and Justice based,
And long by distant lands with wondering envy viewed?
XIV.
Say, dost thou glory in the sevenfold might
Of sacred Law's impenetrable shield?
Revere impartial Justice? for the right,
Prepared the balance or the sword to wield?
Hast thou not learned to prize
Life's sweetest, tenderest ties,
Secure from ruffian hands
Of cruel spoiler bands,
More fell than evening wolves that scour the pasture field?
XV.
Cradled on ocean billows, thou hast borne
Thy trident-sceptre with a steadfast hand,
Thy noble brow the victor's wreath hath worn,
Of laurels culled in many a far-famed land;
Can then thy generous mind,
With servile fetters bind
A brother's neck, as free,
A heart, to Liberty
Bound firmly as thine own, by Nature's kindly band?
XVI.
Hark! comes there not a wailing on the blast?
A voice, as if the Genius of the deep,
From yon wide weltering water-floods, had cast,
On some lorn strand, a lonely wretch, to weep
The wreck of cherished bliss?
Hope's brightest promises,
His drear and rueful fate,
Lost, lonely, desolate,
Where only wild winds rave and surging billows sweep?
XVII.
Britannia! comes not such a voice to thee,
That blends upbraidings with its woe-worn wail?
Is not Hope wrecked in dire captivity?
And hoarser, harsher, than wild tempest-gale,
Or boisterous billow's roar,
On rude, bleak, barren shore,
Comes not to Slavery's ear,
Oppression's voice of fear?
And tells not Afric wronged as sad and dark a tale?
XVIII.
Oh! thou hast sinned, even Nature's parent voice
Attaints the baseness of thy treacherous crime;
Beneath bright skies, her blooming isles rejoice,
Her flowers breathe fragrance, and her woods sublime
Wave in the laughing wind;
But earth-born Avarice, blind,
With foul pestiferous breath,
Hath scattered seeds of death,
To rise in rifest plagues through long succeeding time.
XIX.
But, no! a deprecating prayer ascends,
And suppliant hands are lifted to the skies;
Closed long,--too long--yet now proud Albion bends
Her listening ear to Afric's mournful cries;
She burns to break the chain,
To cleanse the dark, dark stain
From those fair isles away;
To pour the gladdening ray
Of Liberty and light on Slavery's tear-dimmed eyes.
XX.
Arouse thee, Albion! thou whose lofty neck
Could never stoop the captive's yoke to bear;
No more thy brows with clustering roses deck,
With Victory's chaplet, wreathe thy sun-bright hair,
Till thy stern lion bold,
Loose from his murderous hold
His lacerated prey;
Till, where the tortured victim writhing lay,
Justice and Peace benign plant Freedom's standard fair.
Agnes Bulmer.