VERSES: ADDRESSED TO J. HORNE TOOKE AND THE COMPANY WHO MET ON JUNE 28TH, 1796,

      TO CELEBRATE HIS POLL AT THE WESTMINSTER ELECTION

      Britons! when last ye met, with distant streak

      So faintly promis’d the pale Dawn to break:

      So dim it stain’d the precincts of the Sky

      E’en Expectation gaz’d with doubtful Eye.

      But now such fair Varieties of Light 5

      O’ertake the heavy sailing Clouds of Night;

      Th’ Horizon kindles with so rich a red,

      That tho’ the Sun still hides his glorious head

      Th’ impatient Matin-bird, assur’d of Day,

      Leaves his low nest to meet its earliest ray; 10

      Loud the sweet song of Gratulation sings,

      And high in air claps his rejoicing wings!

      Patriot and Sage! whose breeze-like Spirit first

      The lazy mists of Pedantry dispers’d

      (Mists in which Superstition’s pigmy band 15

      Seem’d Giant Forms, the Genii of the Land!),

      Thy struggles soon shall wak’ning Britain bless,

      And Truth and Freedom hail thy wish’d success.

      Yes Tooke! tho’ foul Corruption’s wolfish throng

      Outmalice Calumny’s imposthum’d Tongue, 20

      Thy Country’s noblest and determin’d Choice,

      Soon shalt thou thrill the Senate with thy voice;

      With gradual Dawn bid Error’s phantoms flit,

      Or wither with the lightning’s flash of Wit;

      Or with sublimer mien and tones more deep, 25

      Charm sworded Justice from mysterious Sleep,

      ‘By violated Freedom’s loud Lament,

      Her Lamps extinguish’d and her Temple rent;

      By the forc’d tears her captive Martyrs shed;

      By each pale Orphan’s feeble cry for bread; 30

      By ravag’d Belgium’s corse-impeded Flood,

      And Vendee steaming still with brothers’ blood!’

      And if amid the strong impassion’d Tale,

      Thy Tongue should falter and thy Lips turn pale;

      If transient Darkness film thy aweful Eye, 35

      And thy tir’d Bosom struggle with a sigh:

      Science and Freedom shall demand to hear

      Who practis’d on a Life so doubly dear;

      Infus’d the unwholesome anguish drop by drop,

      Pois’ning the sacred stream they could not stop! 40

      Shall bid thee with recover’d strength relate

      How dark and deadly is a Coward’s Hate:

      What seeds of death by wan Confinement sown,

      When Prison-echoes mock’d Disease’s groan!

      Shall bid th’ indignant Father flash dismay, 45

      And drag the unnatural Villain into Day

      Who to the sports of his flesh’d Ruffians left

      Two lovely Mourners of their Sire bereft!

      ‘Twas wrong, like this, which Rome’s first Consul bore,

      So by th’ insulted Female’s name he swore 50

      Ruin (and rais’d her reeking dagger high)

      Not to the Tyrants but the Tyranny!