MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS, 1842

VII

          MEN of the Western World! in Fate's dark book
          Whence these opprobrious leaves of dire portent?
          Think ye your British Ancestors forsook
          Their native Land, for outrage provident;
          From unsubmissive necks the bridle shook
          To give, in their Descendants, freer vent
          And wider range to passions turbulent,
          To mutual tyranny a deadlier look?
          Nay, said a voice, soft as the south wind's breath,
          Dive through the stormy surface of the flood                10
          To the great current flowing underneath;
          Explore the countless springs of silent good;
          So shall the truth be better understood,
          And thy grieved Spirit brighten strong in faith.