FROWN you? Frown on; your hour is past! The signal wafted in that blast Speaks Britain's awful Senate met; beware Lest in her scale (the womb of right!) With all your arms, you're found too light, Till smiles increase that weight your frowns impair. For, mark the scene of deep debate, Where Britons sit on Europe's fate; What loom'd exploit adorns it and inspires? The walls, the very walls advise, Each mean, degenerate thought chastise, And rouse the sons with all their fathers' fires; Teach them the style they used of old. Would Britain have her anger told? Oh, never let a meaner language sound Than that which through black ether rolls, Than that which prostrates human souls, And rocks pale realms, when angry gods have frown'd! Gods, and their noblest offspring here, Soft terms refused, impose severe: Ye nations know! know, all ye sceptred powers! In sulphurous night, and massy balls, And floods of flame, the tempest falls, When Pride presumes, and Britain's Senate lours. A brighter era is begun; Our fame advances with the sun; A virgin Senate blooms: her bosom heaves With something great, with something new; Something our god-like sires may view, And not abash'd shrink back into their graves. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...HAUNTED HOUSES by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW MOTHER HEART by NELLIE COOLEY ALDER |