To Samuel Bamford, Poem by Samuel Bamford

Bamford, an unknown friend would bring,
The best he can, his offering
Of humble verse to thee;
And sure a tribute is thy due,
From all who ever loved or knew
The Muse and Liberty!

My purpose is not to condole
With thee; I know thy noble soul
Condoling strains would scorn.
A lot like thine I rather deem
Of 'gratulation is a theme,
For Freedom's sake when borne.

'Tis glorious, in a cause like her's,
To rank among the sufferers;
More glorious than to be
A mighty nation's conqueror,
Or the imperious arbiter
Of a world's destiny.

And none who hath a freeman's heart,
Who loves to act a freeman's part,
Would change his dungeon, where
No ray, save innocence, hath shone,
For all the splendours of a throne
Which guilt hath help'd to rear.

The Patriot, torn by tyranny
From every best and dearest tie,
From kindred, child, and wife;
From all the objects of his love,
Whose smiles could make an Eden of
This barren wild of life;

Possesses, in the holy thought,
His country's were the ends he sought,
Support and peace divine;
And feels within an happiness,
Which none, who know not, can express—
And Bamford, these are thine!

And thine to know that in the time
Of freedom's triumphing, sublime,
Thy wrongs will ever prove
The seal of Truth upon thy claim
To that imperishable fame
Which high-soul'd patriots love!

The god of justice grant it may
Be thine to see, to sing that day,
Magnificent and grand,
And thine to write the funeral song
Of the base tyranny which long
Hath cursed our native land!
H.
Manchester, June 5th, 1820.