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Then Trent shall flow no more, and blossoms fail
On Sherwood's plains to scent the springtide gale;
When the lark's lay shall lack its thrilling charm,
And Song forget the Briton's soul to warm;
When love o'er youthful hearts hath lost its sway,
Thy fame, O Bard ! will pass-but not till then away.
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For there my sire first told me I was free,
And bade me love my Country and my God;
And taught that paths of kind humanity
Should by the mingling sons of men he trod;
And early wish'd my soul to hate Oppression's rod
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This page last modified on Friday, May 16, 2008
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