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When will the world shake off such yokes? oh, when
Will that redeeming day shine out on men,
That shall behold them rise, erect and free
As Heaven and Nature meant mankind should be!
When Reason shall no longer blindly bow
To the vile pagod things, that o’er her brow,
Like him of Jaghernaut, drive trampling now;
Nor Conquest dare to desolate God’s earth;
Nor drunken Victory, with a NERO’S mirth,
Strike her lewd harp amidst a people’s groans;–
But, built on love, the world’s exalted thrones
Shall to the virtuous and the wise be given–
Those bright, those sole Legitimates of Heaven!

When will this be?–or, oh! is it, in truth,
But one of those sweet, day-break dreams of youth,
In which the Soul, as round her morning springs,
‘Twixt sleep and waking, see such dazzling things!
And must the hope, as vain as it is bright,
Be all resigned?–and are they only right,
Who say this world of thinking souls was made
To be by Kings partitioned, truckt and weighed
In scales that, ever since the world begun,
Have counted millions but as dust to one?
Are they the only wise, who laugh to scorn
The rights, the freedom to which man was born?
Who . . . . .
. . . . .
Who, proud to kiss each separate rod of power,
Bless, while he reigns, the minion of the hour;
Worship each would-be god, that o’er them moves,
And take the thundering of his brass for JOVE’S!
If this be wisdom, then farewell, my books,
Farewell, ye shrines of old, ye classic brooks.
Which fed my soul with currents, pure and fair,
Of living Truth that now must stagnate there!–
Instead of themes that touch the lyre with light,
Instead of Greece and her immortal fight
For Liberty which once awaked my strings,
Welcome the Grand Conspiracy of Kings,
The High Legitimates, the Holy Band,
Who, bolder’ even than He of Sparta’s land,
Against whole millions, panting to be free,
Would guard the pass of right line tyranny.
Instead of him, the Athenian bard whose blade
Had stood the onset which his pen portrayed,
Welcome . . . .
. . . . .
And, ‘stead of ARISTIDES–woe the day
Such names should mingle!–welcome Castlereagh!

Here break we off, at this unhallowed name.[3]
Like priests of old, when words ill-omened came.
My next shall tell thee, bitterly shall tell.
Thoughts that . . . .
. . . . .
Thoughts that–could patience hold–’twere wiser far
To leave still hid and burning where they are.