If without other guide than the bright stars,           

             The love of what is lofty and divine,           

             Or the desire of gaining for mankind,           

             Now fettered and held down to poison'd food,           

             Its unpolluted birth-right           

             —they dared on,           

             Plunging at once into untravelled realms,           

             And bringing, as the harvest of their toil,           

             Arms which will make each potent talisman,           

             Each charm, and spell, and dire enchantment sink           

             In endless infamy—without a hope           

             To trick their bloated, and their wither'd limbs,           

             In any Proteus vestment of disguise,           

             Again to awe and ruinate the world.           

                        

             Oh! my dear brother, little did I think These lines would be prophetic, yet to me They seem so; for I since have felt deep woe, And passed through seas of anguish to attain A view of mysteries wonderful and sad—             Since they are rivetted, through every clime, With shame, and guilt, and wretchedness on all That bear what only is the curse of life, Whilst they remain, which have confronted time, Wearing the semblance, sporting with the names Of truth and valour, liberty and God, Successfully, through each recorded age, But yet may fall, and 

 Prev. P 46/47 next