Britain ... - Blue-Lite

16 THE ENGLISH SLAVE. [Act I.
Thy barque in triumph rides, and all thy sails
With the pride-soothing
breath of fame are filled,
And green the laurels on thy lofty brow,
Yet, if thou play the tyrant, soon will come
The fearful tempest in its darkness forth :
Then shalt thou perish, and thy storm-rent wreaths
Oblivion on the rushing blast shall hurl.
GONDABERT.
Maid of the north, thy prophecies I fling
All to the winds I was not born to fear.
EVAN DA.
That brow of stern disdain shall yet wax pale.
Proud Thane, there is an arm that o'er thee hangs
I see it in the heavens, 'tis red with vengeance.
Ha ! dost thou quail beneath my searching eye ?
My mother knew the deep thoughts of the heart,
14 And her is
prophetic spirit upon me. ( )
That arm shall smite thee ! Yes, the time draws near,
The hour of awful j udgment is at hand
For some dark, secret crime
GONDABERT.
Sound, sound the warlike trump,
And let the thunder of the full-braced drum,
With harp and pipe, the martial chorus swell :
Then strike the bridal notes of joy, and wide
The portals of my castle fling, to welcome
Our regal guests of Cornwall. Warriors, on !
CHORUS.
Hail, warriors, whose victorious brands
Have routed Denmark's savage bands,
And driven her few remaining slaves
Across the ocean's storm-dashed waves.