BEFORE the records of renown were kept,
Or theatres for dying heroes wept,
The race of fame by rival chiefs was run,
The world by former Alexanders won ;
Ages of glory in long order roll'd,
New empires rising on the wreck of old;
Wonders were wrought by Nature in her prime,
Nor was the ancient world a wilderness of time.
Yet lost to fame is virtue's orient reign;
The patriot lived, the hero died in vain,
Dark night descended o'er the human day,
And wiped the glory of the world away;
Whirl'd round the gulf, the acts of time were
tost,
Then in the vast abyss for ever lost.
Virtue, from fame disjoin'd, began to plain Her votaries few, and unfrequented fane. Her voice ascended to almighty Jove; He sent the Muses from the throne above.. The Bard arose; and, full of heavenly fire, With band immortal touch'd the immortal lyre; Heroic deeds in strains heroic sung,
All Earth resounded, all Heaven's arches rung;
The world applaud what they approved before;
Virtue and fame took separate paths no more.
Hence to the Bard, interpreter of Heaven,
The chronicle of fame by Jove is given;
His
eye the volume of the past explores,
His hand unfolds the everlasting doors;
In Minos' majesty he lifts the head,
Judge of the world, and sovereign of the dead;
On nations and on kings in sentence sits,
Dooms to perdition, or to Heaven admits;
Dethrones the tyrant, though in triumph hurl'd,
Calls up the hero from the eternal world,
Surrounds his head with wreaths that ever bloom,
And vows the verse that triumphs o'er the tomb.
While here the Muses warbled from their shrine,
Oft have you listen'd to the voice divine.
A nameless youth beheld, with noble rage,
One subject still a stranger to the stage;
A name that's music to the British ear!
A name that's worshipp'd in the British sphere!
Fair Liberty! the Goddess of the Isle,
Who blesses England with a guardian smile.
Britons! a scene of glory draws to-night!
The fathers of the land arise to sight:
The legislators and the chiefs of old,
The roll of patriots and the barons bold,
Who greatly girded with the sword and shield,
At storied Runnamede's immortal field,
Did the grand Charter of your freedom draw,
And found the base of liberty on law.
Our Author, trembling for his virgin muse,
Hopes in the favourite theme a fond excuse.
If while the tale the theatre commands,
Your hearts applaud him, he'll acquit your hands;
Proud on his country's cause to build his name,
And add the patriot's to the poet's fame,
The Hall of a Baron's Castle. Enter at opposite doors, ALBEMARLE with Norman Lords, and ARDEN with the Saxon; Archbishop; Barons, Knights, and Squires, in complete armour, and with the train of chivalry.
Archb. BARONS of England's realm, high Lords of Parliament,
Hereditary guardians of the kingdom!
Your country calls you to her last defence:
Our ancient laws, our liberties, our lives,
May in a moment fall.
Red o'er our heads
The ruthless tyrant holds oppression's rod,
Which, if not warded by heroic hand,
Will crush the British liberties for ever.
Ourselves, our children, our posterity,
Are slaves or free from this decisive hour;
For now the crisis of our fate is come,
And England's in the scale.
Albem. I boast no more The fire and spirit of my youthful days;
Days when, with Richard in the grand croisade,
We raised the siege of Ascalon; display'd
The British banners in the Holy Land,
Drove from the field the millions of the East,
Compell'd the mighty Saladine to fly,
And o'er the crescent raised the glorious cross.
My arm refuses now to draw the sword;
But let my counsel weigh: Our quarrels dropt,
Let factions now unite; with one accord
Let us deliberate for public good;
We stand united, or divided fall.
Arden. Deliberation does not suit the time;
This is the hour of action and of war.
While we consult, the tyrant, on his march,
Comes like a conflagration through the land,
Marking his way with ruin. Every step
Treads on the mangled bodies of the dying.
The wail of England weeping o'er her sons,
The voice of justice, and the cry of blood,
Call loud, "To arms, to arms!"
Baron. The voice we hear; It sounds not to the deaf. You gallant host Return this answer which we now return.
[Drawing their swords, and coming forward. Archb. I love your zeal: It is a flame from Heaven;
'Tis the high temper of the Briton bold;
And while this ardour in your bosom burns,
You never will be slaves. At such a time,
When order's fled, when government dissolves,
When the great course of justice thwarted stops,
And in the roar and riot of misrule
The voice of law is silent, Nature then
Resumes her ancient rights; ascends anew
A sovereign on her throne; recalls the sword
Which with the sceptre to the king she gave,
And whirls it flaming in her own right hand,
To dash the tyrant from his blood-stain'd car,
And guard her free-born sons.
Arden. The glorious sons
Of Gothic sires, who broke the Roman arm
Stretch'd out to wield the sceptre of the world;
Who on the ruins of imperial Rome,
And in the blood of nations and of kings
The firm foundation of their freedom laid,
Will never bend beneath a tyrant's yoke.
Rather than wear dishonourable chains,
Or follow captives at the trophied car,
Give us again the wildness of our woods,
And the fierce freedom of our great forefathers!
Archb. Forbid it, Heaven, that Britain see anew
What these sad eyes have seen! When o'er the
land,
The dire-devoted land, the curse of Rome
Flew like the thunder of avenging Heaven,
And smote the people. Then religion fled.
No bell did summon to the house of prayer;
No vested priest atoned the wrath of Heaven;
But sitting solitary, wept and wail'd
His fane forsaken, and his altar low.
Unnamed, unsprinkled in the fount of life,
The infant raised the lamentable shriek.
The bridegroom and the bride bewail'd apart
Their rites unfinish'd, and their luckless love.
Against the dying saint Heaven's gate was shut.
They sung no requiem to the parting soul,
Nor laid the ashes in the hallow'd ground!
Earth seem'd a charnel-house, and men like
ghosts
Who cross in silence at the midnight hour,
And beckon with the hand.
Arden. Yes, Barons, Britons,
The history of the tyrant's reign has run
A period, marked with the tears, the groans,
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