An Ode, Poem by Anne MacVicar Grant

WHAT voice awakes the soul-afflicting theme
That oft with anguish fill'd my youthful breast,
When by the Mohawk's wild sequester'd stream
Indignant grief my labouring heart oppress'd?
Yes! there those generous tribes I saw,
Who, sway'd alone by Nature's law,
Th' unerring paths of rectitude pursue:
Who cherish friendship's holy flame,
And valour's greenest laurel claim,
Of rigid faith inexorably true:
Saw them reluctant yield their poplar groves,
And flow'ry vales in wild luxuriance gay;
Forsake their fame, their friendship, and their loves,
When sunk beneath the European sway;
While peace and joy, with all their smiling train,
Recede before th' insatiate lust of gain.
Though there no lofty rocks aspire,
Whose caves with ductile silver glow;
Nor avarice bids those streams retire
That wont o'er golden sands to flow;
Nor pearly banks enrich the seas,
Nor costly incense load the breeze;
Yet though no glittering ore allure
To these deep glooms the Christian race,
Where the brown native urg'd secure
Through pathless woods the headlong chase;
See lucre covet even the furry spoil
That wont to deck his limbs and crown his toil!
Ye sons of trade! whose fatal guile
Dishonours Britain's far-fam'd isle,
Who pour th' intoxicating draught
With dire disease and madness fraught,
With rage and all the furies in her train,
Ah! wherefore vainly talk of pow'rs above,
Yet blemish by your crimes the laws of truth and love
Yet what are these? your lesser guilt,--
Your towns, by fraud insidious built,
Your forts, that, proudly lowring round,
O'erlook those tracks of fruitful ground
Which guileful arts have made your home?
'Ah! what are these to proud Iberia's crimes,
Which blot the records of enlighten'd times?
Each southern breeze seem'd warm with sighs,
From sad Potosi's injur'd race;
Where nations fallen, no more to rise,
The annals of our kind disgrace;
Where still the fierce insatiate love of gain
Shuts up the rigid heart of unrelenting Spain .
Behold their pow'r's proud fabric rise,
Whose tow'ring front insults the skies;
Two mighty columns bear the lofty roof,
Avarice and Cruelty the names
Which each conspicuous pillar claims;
Immoveable they seem, to heaven's dread thunder proof.
Where were ye then, ye sacred band?
Ordain'd in every distant land
To spread salvation's joyful sound;
To chase the shades of night away,
And the bright throne of peace display,
Where Truth and Mercy sit, with olive crown'd?
Alas! deep sunk in superstition's gloom,
They bow beneath the tyranny of Rome .
But see! where Mercy's beams divine
Round bless'd CHIAPA'S mitre shine,
And with peculiar lustre grace
The champion of the suffering race;
Who, arm'd with sanctity and pray'rs,
With holy tears and zealous cries,
Like faithful ABDIEL kept the field alone,
And through th' oppressive Papal mist,
With saintly valour could persist
To chase the demon Guilt even to his burning throne.
Where are your lyres, ye sons of song?
Bring all your symphonies along,
And consecrate to this bless'd theme your lays:
What! has no lyre divine been strung?
And has no energetic tongue
Charm'd Virtue's ear with good LAS CASA'S praise?
In that mild region of the sky,
Where dove-eyed Pity dwells on high,
From golden harps his praise melodious flows;
Will none of all the tuneful throng
Responsive catch the heavenly song,
Of power to soothe even slavery's bitter woes?
Yes! from thy banks, dear native Clyde ,
I hear with pleasure and with pride,
A classic lyre resound the hallow'd strain,
While shades of feather'd Inca's near,
In mournful fix'd attention hear,
Nor think they wept and bled in vain;
Since RICHARDSON records in lasting lays
Their matchless woes, and bless'd CHIAPA'S praise!