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 Are autumn's rainbow hues no longer seen?
Flows the ‘Green River’ through its vale no more?
Steals not thy ‘Rivulet’ by its banks of green?
Wheels upward from its dark and sedgy shore
Thy ‘Water Fowl’ no longer?—that the mean
And vulgar strife, the ranting and the roar
Extempore, like Bottom's should be thine,—
Thou feeblest truck-horse in the Hero's line!
Lost trio! —turn ye to the minstrel pride
Of classic Britain. Even effeminate Moore
Has cast the wine-cup and the lute aside
For Erin and O'Connell; and before
His country's altar, Bulwer breasts the tide
Of old oppression. Sadly brooding o'er
The fate of heroes struggling to be free,
Even Campbell speaks for Poland. Where are ye?
Hirelings of traitors!—know ye not that men
Are rousing up around ye to retrieve
Our country's honor, which too long has been
Debased by those for whom ye daily weave
Your web of fustian; that from tongue and pen
Of those who o'er our tarnished honor grieve,
Of the pure-hearted and the gifted, come
Hourly the tokens of your master's doom?
Turn from their ruin! Dash your chains aside!
Stand up like men for Liberty and Law,
And free opinion. Check Corruption's pride,
Soothe the loud storm of fratricidal war,—
And the bright honors of your eventide
Shall share the glory which your morning saw;
The patriot's heart shall gladden at your name,
Ye shall be blessed with, and not ‘damned to fame’!
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