TARN, how delightful wind thy willow'd waves,
But ah! they fructify a land of slaves!
In vain thy bare-foot, sun-burnt peasants hide
With luscious grapes yon' hill's romantic side;
No cups nectareous shall their toils repay,
The priest's, the soldier's, and the fermier's prey:
Vain glows this sun in cloudless glory drest,
That strikes fresh vigour thro' the pining breast;
Give me, beneath a colder, changeful sky,
My soul's best, only pleasure, LIBERTY!
What millions perish'd near thy mournful flood
When the red papal tyrant cry'd out — "Blood!
Less fierce the Saracen, and quiver'd Moor,
That dash'd thy infants 'gainst the stones of yore.
Be warn'd ye nations round; and trembling see
Dire superstition quench humanity!
By all the chiefs in Freedom's battles lost;
By wise and virtuous ALFRED'S aweful ghost;
By old GALGACUS' scythed, iron car,
That swiftly whirling thro' the walks of war,
Dash'd Roman blood, and crush'd the foreign throngs:
By holy Druids' courage-breathing songs;
By fierce BONDUCA'S shield, and foaming steeds;
By the bold peers that met on Thames's meads;
By the fifth HENRY'S helm, and lightning spear,
O LIBERTY, my warm petition hear;
Be ALBION still thy joy! with her remain,
Long as the surge shall lash her oak-crown'd plain!