Address To Albion.

A poem by Thomas Gent

To thee, O Albion! be the tribute paid
Which sympathy demands, the patriot tear;
While echo'd forth to thy remotest shade,
Rebellion's menace sounds in every ear.

Though Gallia's vaunts should fill the trembling skies,
'Till nature's undiscover'd regions start
At the rude clamor; yet, shouldst thou despise,
While thy brave subjects own a common heart.

But lo! fresh streaming from the Hibernian[1] height
Her own red torrent wild-eyed faction pours;
While, 'mid her falling ranks, ignobly great,
Loud vengeance raves, and desperation scours.

Denouncing murderous strife, the rebel train
Wave their red ensigns of inhuman hate
O'er every hamlet, every peaceful plain;
Rejecting reason, and despising fate.

Oh! that again our raptur'd eyes could see
Their ripening crops bloom yellow o'er the land;
Their happy shepherds, like their pasture, free
No more a factious race, a ruffian band.

That albion, once again with concord blest,
May still support that great, that glorious name,
Which ardent glows in every patriot's breast,
And crowns her hoary cliffs with matchless fame.

Then, then, might foreign foes, around our shores,
Pour the big tempest of their arms in vain;
Then, might they learn that freedom still is ours,
That Britons still control the subject main.

Oh! all ye kindred pow'rs, awake, arise!
On boundless glory's giant pinions soar;
Let Gallia tremble! while the sounding skies
Proclaim us free 'till time shall be no more!

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