ABSTRACT
But fairest flowers expand but to decay; The worm is in thy core, thy glories pass away; Arts, arms and wealth destroy the fruits they bring; Commerce, like beauty, knows no second spring. Crime walks thy streets, Fraud earns her unblest bread, O’er want and woe thy gorgeous robe is spread, And angel charities in vain oppose: With grandeur’s growth the mass of misery grows. For see,—to other climes the Genius soars, He turns from Europe’s desolated shores; And lo, even now, midst mountains wrapt in storm, On Andes’ heights he shrouds his awful form; On Chimborazo’s summits 55 treads sublime, Measuring in lofty thought the march of Time; Sudden he calls:—‘’Tis now the hour!’ he cries, 128Spreads his broad hand, and bids the nations rise. La Plata 56 hears amidst her torrents’ roar; Potosi 57 hears it, as she digs the ore: Ardent, the Genius fans the noble strife, And pours through feeble souls a higher life, Shouts to the mingled tribes from sea to sea, And swears—Thy world, Columbus, shall be free. 129 Detail from ‘The Prince of Whales’ (1812) https://s3-euw1-ap-pe-df-pch-content-public-p.s3.eu-west-1.amazonaws.com/9780429348143/49c33773-622a-4f40-ae25-12c9d98688d9/content/fig_8.tif"/> Source: The Scourge, III, May 1812, p. 345.
