Lines, Addressed To H ———, Poem by Samuel Bamford

What bard unknown hath deign'd to bring
To such as me an offering
Of verse, which might not shame
The sweetest lyre, the proudest lay,
That ever wak'd its minstrelsy
To liberty or fame?

Stranger, whoe'er thou art, I know
Thy soul hath felt that holy glow
Of patriotic fire,
Which, burning ever bright and pure,
Shall to the end of time endure,
When all things shall expire.

Ah, why till now hath not been heard
Expression of thy kindly word?
How glad should I have been
To stray with thee o'er field and flower,
To moorland high, or to the bower
Of shady woodland green!

Or where the breezes softly rise
In whispers and in gentle sighs,
Beside that streamlet clear;
Where in the twilight I have known
The lovelorn beauty steal alone,
To meet her youth full dear.

We could have pluck'd each flower that grows,
The violet and the bonny rose
Which blossoms on the brier;
And I had listened whilst thou sung—
For my hoarse pipe had tuneless hung
If thou hadst touched thy lyre.

But time and tide rolled swift away,
And they will usher in a day
When I may sure be free
To rest me at my long lost home,
Where, if thou condescend to come,
Most welcome shalt thou be.

Thou sayest right, 'tis not for me
To mourn beneath the tyranny
Which holds me in a chain;
No! though awhile its power I brook,
Mine heart can feel, mine eye can look,
Defiance and disdain!

I would not change my iron bed
For all the downy couches spread
Around corruption's throne;
Nor would I give my prison fare
For all the delicacies rare
Which pampered wealth doth own.

And why indeed, should I repine?
The crown as well as cross is mine;
And if the crown I claim,
It must not be when comes the day
Which dealeth out adversity,
That I should shun the same.

Nor do I feel of aught the want
That conscious innocence can grant;
For she is ever nigh,
With healing in her lily wing,
Dispelling care and sorrowing,
And giving peace and joy.

There was an eye that pour'd the tear,
And every drop was doubly dear;
And there was one beside,
The little nestling of my heart,
It clung to me and would not part,
Nor yet be pacified.

I heard it cry, I saw them weep,
Oh, how did I my full heart keep,
Amid the agony!
I gave them to that God on high,
Who feeds the ravens when they cry,
And to my country.

And though, perhaps, their tears are dried,
Yet they have deeply ratified
My wrongs and injuries;
For which I know there is in store,
Vengeance a hundred-fold or more,
Upon mine enemies.

Oh, let them in their darkness sleep,
Whilst hell doth from her ambush creep
To snatch her mighty prize—
The pimp of power, the venal slave,
The trickster-playing fool and knave,
And all their host of spies.

Then, bloated pride shall bite the dust;
Oppression, cruelty, and lust,
Shall rule the land no more!
And they who slew may look about,
For there perhaps may be a rout
To pay for one before!