| |
| IN 1 all the varied change and state of life, | |
| The calm of solitude, or noisy strife, | |
| Man still is man, and read him as you will, | |
| Unstript, he stands the child of interest still; | |
| The wandering Tartar, and the swarthy Moor; | 5 |
| The Parthian archer, and Norwegian boor; | |
| The booted Pole, whose birthright is his sword; | |
| The bearded Saxon, barter’d by his lord; | |
| The stubborn Russ, devoted to his czar; | |
| The crafty Frenchman, clamorous for war; | 10 |
| The whisker’d Spaniard, solemn, grave, and sad; | |
| The Highland soldier, in his tartan plaid; | |
| The soft Italian, studious of wile; | |
| The generous Briton, faithful to his isle; | |
| The brave Columbian, freedom’s favor’d son; | 15 |
| All, all alike, the race of interest run. | |
| Seldom the wise man may expect to find | |
| That rich, rare diamond, an unbiass’d mind; | |
| Few, few are those whose pure, exalted hearts | |
| Are proof against corruption’s cunning arts, | 20 |
| Who act for others, not themselves alone, | |
| No pliant courtiers bending round a throne. | |
| In this drear age, when misery’s cup o’erflows, | |
| When fate has loosed the train of human woes; | |
| In this drear age, which rouses virtue’s fears, | 25 |
| When intrigue triumphs o’er a world in tears; | |
| Thine too, my country, has high heaven decreed, | |
| Be the hard lot to suffer and to bleed. | |
| Alas! what crime has stern, unyielding fate, | |
| Doom’d all thy woes, dear land, to expiate? * * * * * * | 30 |
| Columbia spurn’d at heaven’s just decree, | |
| To idols bow’d, and bent her votive knee; | |
| In days of prosperous peace she swell’d with pride, | |
| And madly vain, eternal right defied; | |
| Behold her punishment, deception’s art | 35 |
| Has planted rankling sorrow in her heart; | |
| Outcasts and wretches, foster’d on her soil, | |
| Her riches plunder, load themselves with spoil, | |
| While virtue wandering through her ruin’d shore, | |
| Is left to batten on a meagre moor. | 40 |
| Yet deeper grief her land is doom’d to bear; | |
| Her harvests smile, with each revolving year; | |
| Her wealth still grows beneath her careful hand. | |
| But grows, to glut intrigue’s rapacious band; | |
| Prometheus thus, in fabled days of old, | 45 |
| Crown’d with success, grew arrogant and bold; | |
| Braved heaven’s high lord, with blest immortals strove, | |
| And raised his arm against the throne of Jove; | |
| The god enraged, with mighty vengeance hurl’d | |
| The daring miscreant to the nether world; | 50 |
| In durance stretch’d, and bound with massy chains, | |
| Condemn’d to torment and eternal pains; | |
| On his torn breast a greedy vulture fares, | |
| Sucks the warm blood, the tender liver tears; | |
| In vain devours, in vain the torrent flows, | 55 |
| Still, still, the bloody feast immortal grows. | |
| May heaven, all bounteous, with benignant hand, | |
| Shower choicest blessings o’er thee, dearest land! | |
| But, ah! be faithful to thyself the while, | |
| And guard against the arts of crafty wile; | 60 |
| With harvest’s sheaf her ruddy temples bound, | |
| Does not blithe Ceres cheerful smile around? | |
| Are not thy hills with verdant honors spread? | |
| Does not the oak thus warn thee from its shade? | |
| “Behold, Columbia, yon extended plain; | 65 |
| Do all its luscious fruits thus blush in vain? | |
| Where is the hand that harvest to collect, | |
| Or where the force, such plenty to protect? | |
| Shall idle waste permit those fruits to die, | |
| Or fall to earth and there neglected lie? | 70 |
| Cerulean waves old ocean stretches wide, | |
| Thy girting strands yet eager kiss his tide; | |
| Freight the blue billows of the roaring deep, | |
| Thy commerce loiters—lo! kind zephyrs sweep; | |
| Let me descend from every hill and plain | 75 |
| And bear your produce o’er the briny main, | |
| To save your commerce from dark plunder’s stroke | |
| Bid freedom’s thunders clothe her native oak.” | |
| Alas, my country! why in darkness lay? | |
| Why close thine eyes and shun the dawning day? | 80 |
| The gaunt wolf prowls, the tiger is abroad; | |
| The shepherds see their havoc, and applaud; | |
| Remember, oh, remember who have bled! | |
| Thy youth’s defenders, stern oppression’s dread. | |
| Dear was the treasure which your ransom bought, | 85 |
| For many, and gallant, were the brave who fought; | |
| O, then respect thyself, thy rights preserve, | |
| Stand forth in vigor, swell each generous nerve; | |
| With high-soul’d honor raise the arm of force, | |
| Nor longer wayward tread a devious course; | 90 |
| Arrest corruption, strip delusion bare, | |
| And drive the artful leopard from his lair; | |
| Behold thy sons in meanest bondage lie, | |
| Forge their own chains, for stripes and slavery sigh | |
| What magic charm, what incantation fell, | 95 |
| Has mix’d the potion, wove the fatal spell? | |
| Is he less slave, who yields to wear the chain, | |
| While one, or while one thousand tyrants reign? | |
| Trust me, the difference is not vastly great | |
| If demagogues or despots rule a state; | 100 |
| Self is the shrine where either basely bend; | |
| Self all the object, self the dearest friend. | |
| And are you free? behold your barter’d polls! | |
| Wisdom is silent—while intrigue cajoles. | |
| Hear yon unletter’d upstart coarsely bawl, | 105 |
| He seeks your suffrage for the congress hall; | |
| What virtues brings he to that lofty seat? | |
| Deception’s scholar, skill’d to cringe and cheat. | |
| He pours the whiskey in a copious flood, | |
| While reeling drunkards call him wise and good; | 110 |
| Nay more, perhaps from distant lands he came, | |
| And sports the tinsel of a foreign name; | |
| Perhaps in France, with eager eyes, he saw | |
| Disorder triumph over prostrate law: | |
| Perhaps he heard around a bleeding queen, | 115 |
| A nation shout, “God save the guillotine!” | |
| Perhaps he tells you with exulting smile, | |
| The rebel story of his dear green isle; | |
| Besides, Columbia’s native sons are weak, | |
| Smite them on one, they turn the other cheek. | 120 |
| Their recreant arms are quite unskill’d to wield | |
| The warrior’s blade, and rule the battle field; | |
| Much prone to fear, the coward souls aspire | |
| No further than the cravings of desire; | |
| Illiterate they, in science dull and slow, | 125 |
| So Europe says, and sure it must be so. | |
