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Your grandames' ears with pleasure of your noise !
Clap, infants, clap your hands! Divine must be
That triumph, when the very worst, the pain,
And even the prospect of our brethren slain,
Had something in it which the heart enjoys :-
In glory will they sleep and endless sanctity.
NOVEMBER, 1806. ANOTHER year !-another deadly blow! Another mighty empire overthrown! And we are left, or shall be left, alone; The last that dare to struggle with the foe. "Tis well! from this day forward we shall know That in ourselves our safety must be sought; That by our own right hands it must be wrought, That we must stand unpropped, or be laid low.
dastard whom such foretaste doth not cheer! We shall exult, if they who rule the land Be men who hold its many blessings dear, Wise, upright, valiant; not a servile band, Who are to judge of danger which they fear, And honour which they do not understand.
A CELEBRATED EVENT IN ANCIENT
A ROMAN master stands on Grecian ground,
And to the concourse of the Isthmian games
He by his herald's voice, aloud proclaims
The liberty of Greece !-the words rebound
Until all voices in one voice are drowned;
Glad acclamation by which air was rent!
And birds, high flying in the element,
Dropped to the earth astonished at the sound!
A melancholy echo of that noise
Doth sometimes hang on musing Fancy's ear:
Ah! that a conqueror's word should be so dear;
Ah! that a boon could shed such rapturous joys?
A gift of that which is not to be given
By all the blended powers of earth and heaven.
When, far and wide, swift as the beams of morn
The tidings passed of servitude repealed,
And that of joy which shook the Isthmian field,
The rough Ætolians smiled with bitter scorn.
“'Tis known," cried they, “that he who would adorn
His envied temples with the Isthmian crown,
Must either win, through effort of his own,
The prize, or be content to see it worn
By more deserving brows. Yet so ye prop,
Sons of the brave who fought at Marathon!
Your feeble spirits. Greece her head hath bowed,
As if the wreath of Liberty thereon
Would fix itself as smoothly as a cloud,
Which, at Jove's will, descends on Pelion's top."
TO CLARKSON, ON THE ABOLITION OF
THE SLAVE TRADE. CLARKSON! it was an obstinate hill to climb: How toilsome, nay, how dire it was, by thee Is known--by none, perhaps, so feelingly ; But thou, who, starting in thy fervent prime, Didst first lead forth this pilgrimage sublime, Hast heard the constant voice its charge repeat, Which, out of thy young heart's oracular seat, First roused thee. Oh, true yoke-fellow of Time With unabating effort, see the palm Is won, and by all nations shall be worn!
The bloody writing is for ever torn,
And thou henceforth shalt have a good man's calm,
A great man's happiness; thy zeal shall find
Repose at length, firm friend of human kind !
A PROPHECY. FEBRUARY, 1807.
High deeds, O Germans, are to come from you!
Thus in your books the record shall be found:-
“A watchword was pronounced, a potent sound,
ARMINIUS!--all the people quaked like dew
Stirred by the breeze-they rose a nation, true,
True to herself-the mighty Germany,
She of the Danube and the Northern sea,
She rose, and off at once the yoke she threw.
All power was given her in the dreadful trance;
Those new-born kings she withered like a flame.'
Woe to them all! but heaviest woe and shame
To that Bavarian who did first advance
His banner in accursed league with France,
First open traitor to a sacred name!
TRANQUILLITY. CLOUDS, lingering yet, extend in solid bars Through the gray west; and lo! these waters, steeled By breezeless air to smoothest polish, yield A vivid repetition of the stars; Jove-Venus-and the ruddy crest of Mars, Amid his fellows beauteously revealed At happy distance from earth's groaning field, Where ruthless mortals wage incessant wars. Is it a mirror? or the nether sphere Opening to view the abyss in which it feeds
Its own calm fires ? But list! a voice is near;
Great Pan himself low-whispering through the reeds,
Be thankful, thou; for if unholy deeds
Ravage the world, tranquillity is here!”
Go back to antique ages, if thine eyes
The genuine mien and character would trace
Of the rash spirit that still holds her place,
Prompting the world's audacious vanities !
See, at her call the Tower of Babel rise;
The Pyramid extend its monstrous base,
For some aspirant of our short-lived race,
Anxious an airy name to immortalize.
There, too, ere wiles and politic dispute
Gave specious colouring to aim and act,
See the first mighty hunter leave the brute
To chase mankind, with men in armies packed
For his field-pastime, high and absolute,
While, to dislodge his game, cities are sacked !
THE CONVENTION OF CINTRA, 1808. Not mid the world's vain objects that enslave The free-born soul- that world whose vaunted skill In selfish interest perverts the will, Whose factions lead astray the wise and brave; Not there! but in dark wood and rocky cave, And hollow vale which foaming torrents fill With omnipresent murmur as they rave Down their steep beds, that never shall be still: Here, mighty Nature ! in this school sublime I weigh the hopes and fears of suffering Spain:
For her consult the auguries of time,
And through the human heart explore my way,
And look and listen-gathering, whence I may,
Triumph, and thoughts no bondage can restrain.
I dropped my pen : and listened to the wind
That sang of trees uptorn and vessels tossed;
A midnight harmony, and wholly lost
To the general sense of men by chains confined
Of business, care, or pleasure, or resigned
To timely sleep. Thought I, the impassioned strain,
Which, without aid of numbers, I sustain,
Like acceptation from the world will find.
Yet some with apprehensive ear shall drink
A dirge devoutly breathed o'er sorrows past,
And to the attendant promise will give heed-
The prophecy-like that of this wild blast,
Which, while it makes the heart with sadness shrink,
Tells also of bright calms that shall succeed.
HÖFER. Of mortal parents is the hero born By whom the undaunted Tyrolese are led ? Or is it Tell's great spirit, from the dead Returned to animate an age forlorn? He comes like Phoebus through the gates of morn When dreary darkness is discomfited: Yet mark his modest state! upon his head, That simple crest, a heron's plume is worn. O Liberty! they stagger at the shock; The murderers are aghast; they strive to flee, And half their host is buried: rock on rock Descends: beneath this godlike warrior, see! Hills, torrents, woods, embodied to bemock The tyrant, and confound his cruelty.