Think not, ye knaves, whom meanness styles the Great, Drones of the Church and harpies of the State, — Ye, whose curst sires, for blood and plunder fam'd, Sultans or kings or czars or emp'rors nam'd, Taught the deluded world their claims to own, And raise the crested reptiles to a throne, — Ye, who pretend to your dark host was given The lamp of life, the mystic keys of heaven; Whose impious arts with magic spells began When shades of ign'rance veil'd the race of man; Who change, from age to age, the sly deceit As Science beams, and Virtue learns the cheat; Tyrants of double powers, the soul that blind, To rob, to scourge, and brutalize mankind, Think not I come to croak with omen'd yell The dire damnations of your future hell, To bend a bigot or reform a knave, By op'ning all the scenes beyond the grave. I know your crusted souls: while one defies In sceptic scorn the vengeance of the skies, The other boasts, — “I ken thee, Power divine, “But fear thee not; th' avenging bolt is mine." No! 'tis the present world that prompts the song, The world we see, the world that feels the wrong, The world of men, whose arguments ye know, Of men, long curb'd to servitude and wo, Men, rous'd from sloth, by indignation stung, Their strong hands loos'd, and found their fearless tongue; Whose voice of fire, whose deep-descending steel Shall speak to souls, and teach dull nerves to feel.
American poet, diplomat, politician and businessman (1754–1812)
Joel Barlow (24 March 1754 – 26 December 1812) was an American poet and diplomat.
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In every clime, thy visage greets my eyes, In every tongue thy kindred accents rise; The thought expanding swells my heart with glee, It finds a friend, and loves itself in thee. Say then, fraternal family divine, Whom mutual wants and mutual aids combine, Say from what source the dire delusion rose, That souls like ours were ever made for foes; Why earth's maternal bosom, where we tread, To rear our mansions and receive our bread, Should blush so often for the face she bore, So long be drench'd with floods of filial gore; Why to small realms for ever rest confin'd Our great affections, meant for all mankind. Though climes divide us; shall the stream or sea, That forms a barrier 'twixt my friend and me, Inspire the wish his peaceful state to mar, And meet his falchion in the ranks of war? Not seas, nor climes, nor wild ambition's fire In nations' minds could e'er the wish inspire; Where equal rights each sober voice should guide, No blood would stain them, and no war divide. 'Tis dark deception, 'tis the glare of state, Man sunk in titles, lost in Small and Great; 'Tis Rank, Distinction, all the hell that springs From those prolific monsters, Courts and Kings.
From slavery then your rising realms to save, Regard the master, notice not the slave; Consult alone for freemen, and bestow Your best, your only cares, to keep them so. Tyrants are never free; and, small and great, All masters must be tyrants soon or late; So nature works; and oft the lordling knave Turns out at once a tyrant and a slave, Struts, cringes, bullies, begs, as courtiers must, Makes one a god, another treads in dust, Fears all alike, and filches whom he can, But knows no equal, finds no friend in man. Ah!