When to the gates of modern Rome
We see the gallic legions come,
Their triumphs should, in honor, be
To make them men, and make them free.
In these new wars new views we trace,
Not fetters for the human race,
And, France, where'er you dart your rays
Old superstition's reign decays.
But look again!—what myriads join
The vast reform to undermine!
What labor, bribes, and deep-laid schemes
To quench the sun, and reason's beams!
Shall these succeed? and will that sun
Continue, still, his race to run
O'er scenes that he must blush to see
Disorder, chains, and tyranny?
Must systems, still, of monstrous birth,
Enslave mankind, deform this earth?
No!—to the question answers fate,
These efforts come an age too late.
In such a system to combine,
Columbia, can the wish be thine!
Could such a thought assail your heart,
To take that base, ungrateful part.
From Britain's yoke so lately freed
Would she her hosts, her legions lead
To crush that power, which jointly gain'd
And once her sinking cause sustain'd?
From all true hearts be banish'd far
The thought of so profane a war—
A curse would on her arms attend
And all her well-earn'd honors end.
Fortune no more your toils would crown,
Your flag would fall before her frown;
No gallant men the foe would dare,
No Greenes no Washingtons appear;
No chiefs, that check'd the pride of kings
On Monmouth's plains—at Eutaw springs;
But blundering hordes, not brave or warm,
With broken heart, and nerveless arm,