Daniel Defoe: Political Writings (Including The True-Born Englishman, An Essay upon Projects, The Complete English Tradesman & The Biography of the Author). Даниэль Дефо

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       From nature’s universal Parliament:

       The voice of nations, and the course of things,

       Allow that laws superior are to kings;

       None but delinquents would have justice cease,

       Knaves rail at laws, as soldiers rail at peace:

       For justice is the end of government,

       As reason is the test of argument:

       No man was ever yet so void of sense,

       As to debate the right of self-defence;

       A principle so grafted in the mind,

       With nature born, and does like nature bind;

       Twisted with reason, and with nature too,

       As neither one nor t’other can undo.

      Nor can this right be less when national,

       Reason which governs one should govern all;

       Whate’er the dialect of courts may tell,

       He that his right demands can ne’er rebel;

       Which right, if ’tis by governors denied,

       May be procured by force or foreign aid;

       For tyranny’s a nation’s term of grief,

       As folks cry fire to hasten in relief;

       And when the hated word is heard about,

       All men should come to help the people out.

      Thus England groan’d, Britannia’s voice was heard,

       And great Nassau to rescue her appear’d:

       Call’d by the universal voice of fate,

       God and the people’s legal magistrate:

       Ye heavens regard! Almighty Jove look down,

       And view thy injured monarch on the throne;

       On their ungrateful heads due vengeance take

       Who sought his aid, and then his part forsake:

       Witness, ye powers! it was our call alone,

       Which now our pride makes us ashamed to own;

       Britannia’s troubles fetch’d him from afar,

       To court the dreadful casualties of war;

       But where requital never can be made,

       Acknowledgment’s a tribute seldom paid.

      He dwelt in bright Maria’s circling arms,

       Defended by the magic of her charms,

       From foreign fears and from domestic harms;

       Ambition found no fuel for her fire,

       He had what God could give or man desire,

       Till pity roused him from his soft repose,

       His life to unseen hazards to expose;

       Till pity moved him in our cause to appear,

       Pity! that word which now we hate to hear;

       But English gratitude is always such,

       To hate the hand that does oblige too much.

      Britannia’s cries gave birth to his intent,

       And hardly gain’d his unforeseen assent;

       His boding thoughts foretold him he should find

       The people fickle, selfish, and unkind;

       Which thought did to his royal heart appear

       More dreadful than the dangers of the war;

       For nothing grates a generous mind so soon,

       As base returns for hearty service done.

      Satire, be silent! awfully prepare

       Britannia’s song, and William’s praise to hear;

       Stand by, and let her cheerfully rehearse

       Her grateful vows in her immortal verse.

       Loud fame’s eternal trumpet let her sound,

       Listen, ye distant poles, and endless round,

       May the strong blast the welcome news convey,

       As far as sound can reach or spirit fly!

       To neighb’ring worlds, if such there be, relate

       Our heroes fame for theirs to imitate;

       To distant worlds of spirits let her rehearse,

       For spirits without the helps of voice converse:

       May angels hear the gladsome news on high,

       Mix’d with their everlasting symphony;

       And hell itself stand in surprise to know,

       Whether it be the fatal blast or no.

      Britannia.

      The fame of virtue ’tis for which I sound,

       And heroes with immortal triumphs crown’d;

       Fame built on solid virtue swifter flies,

       Than morning light can spread the eastern skies:

       The gath’ring air returns the doubling sound;

       And loud repeating thunders force it round;

       Echoes return from caverns of the deep,

       Old Chaos dreams on’t in eternal sleep:

       Time hands it forward to its latest urn,

       From whence it never, never shall return:

       Nothing is heard so far, or lasts so long,

       ’Tis heard by ev’ry ear, and spoke by every tongue.

      My hero, with the sails of honour furl’d,

       Rises like the great genius of the world;

       By fate and fame wisely prepared to be

       The soul of war and life of victory;

       He spreads the wings СКАЧАТЬ