7 O ye good powers who look on human kind, Instruct the mighty moments as they roll; And watch the fleeting shapes in Curio's mind, And steer his passions steady to the goal. O Alfred, father of the English name, O valiant Edward, first in civil fame, O William, height of public virtue pure, Bend from your radiant seats a joyful eye, Behold the sum of all your labours nigh, Your plans of law complete, your ends of rule secure.
8 'Twas then--O shame! O soul from faith estranged! O Albion, oft to flattering vows a prey! 'Twas then--Thy thought what sudden frenzy changed? What rushing palsy took thy strength away? Is this the man in Freedom's cause approved-- The man so great, so honour'd, so beloved-- Whom the dead envied and the living bless'd-- This patient slave by tinsel bonds allured-- This wretched suitor for a boon abjured-- Whom those that fear'd him scorn; that trusted him, detest?
9 O lost alike to action and repose! With all that habit of familiar fame, Sold to the mockery of relentless foes, And doom'd to exhaust the dregs of life in shame, To act with burning brow and throbbing heart A poor deserter's dull exploded part, To slight the favour thou canst hope no more, Renounce the giddy crowd, the vulgar wind, Charge thy own lightness on thy country's mind, And from her voice appeal to each tame foreign shore.
10 But England's sons, to purchase thence applause, Shall ne'er the loyalty of slaves pretend, By courtly passions try the public cause; Nor to the forms of rule betray the end. O race erect! by manliest passions moved, The labours which to Virtue stand approved, Prompt with a lover's fondness to survey; Yet, where Injustice works her wilful claim, Fierce as the flight of Jove's destroying flame, Impatient to confront, and dreadful to repay.
11 These thy heart owns no longer. In their room See the grave queen of pageants, Honour, dwell Couch'd in thy bosom's deep tempestuous gloom, Like some grim idol in a sorcerer's cell. Before her rites thy sickening reason flew, Divine Persuasion from thy tongue withdrew, While Laughter mock'd, or Pity stole a sigh: Can Wit her tender movements rightly frame Where the prime function of the soul is lame? Can Fancy's feeble springs the force of Truth supply?