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poet claims at least this praise, That virtuous Liberty hath been the scope Of his pure song which did not shrink from hope In the worst moment of these evil days; From hope, the paramount duty that Heaven lays, For its own honour, on man's suffering heart. Never may from our souls one truth depart, That an accursed thing it is to gaze On prosperous tyrants with a dazzled eye; Nor, touched with due abhorrence of their guilt For whose dire ends tears flow, and blood is spilt, And justice labours in extremity, Forget thy weakness, upon which is built, O wretched
the throne of tyranny !
THE FRENCH ARMY IN RUSSIA. 1812-13-
For he it was-dread Winter! who beset,
That host, as huge and strong as e'er defied
Fleet the Tartar's reinless steed,
And to the battle ride.
Ye storms, resound the praises of your king!
ye mild seasons-in a sunny clime, Midway on some high hill, while father Time Looks on delighted-meet in festal ring, And loud and long of Winter's triumph sing ! Sing ye, with blossoms crowned, and fruits, and flowers, Of Winter's breath surcharged with sleety showers, And the dire flapping of his hoary wing ! Knit the blithe dance upon the soft green grass ; With feet, hands, eyes, looks, lips, report your gain; Whisper it to the billows of the main, And to the aërial zephyrs as they pass,
That old decrepit Winter-He hath slain,
By Moscow self-devoted to a blaze
THE GERMANS ON THE HEIGHTS OF
ABRUPTLY paused the strife ;—the field throughout
NOVEMBER, 1813. Now that all hearts are glad, all faces bright, Our aged sovereign sits—to the ebb and flow Of states and kingdoms, to their joy or woe, Insensible-he sits deprived of sight, And lamentably wrapt in twofold night, Whom no weak hopes deceived; whose mind ensued, Through perilous war, with regal fortitude, Peace that should claim respect from lawless might. Dread King of kings, vouchsafe a ray divine To his forlorn condition ! let thy grace Upon his inner soul in mercy shine; Permit his heart to kindle, and embrace (Though were it only for a moment's space) The triumphs of this hour; for they are Thine!
THE DISINTERMENT OF THE REMAINS
OF THE DUKE D'ENGHIEN. Dear relics! from a pit of vilest mould Uprisen-to lodge among ancestral kings; And to inflict shame's salutary stings On the remorseless hearts of men grown old In a blind worship; men perversely bold Even to this hour; yet at this hour they quake; And some their monstrous idol shall forsake, If, to the living, truth was ever told By aught surrendered from the hollow grave: O murdered prince ! meek, loyal, pious, brave ! The power of retribution once was given ; But 'tis a rueful thought that willow-bands So often tie the thunder-wielding hands Of justice, sent to earth from highest heaven!
THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO. INTREPID Sons of Albion ! not by you Is life despised ; ah, no, the spacious earth Ne'er saw a race who held, by right of birth, So many objects to which love is due. Ye slight not life-to God and nature true; But death, becoming death, is dearer far, When duty bids you bleed in open war: Hence hath your prowess quelled that impious crew. “Heroes ! for instant sacrifice prepared, Yet filled with ardour, and on triumph bent, Mid direst shocks of mortal accident, To you who fell, and you whom slaughter spared, To guard the fallen, and consummate the event, Your country rears this sacred monument !"
FEBRUARY, 1816. Oh! for a kindling touch of that pure flame Which taught the offering of song to rise From thy lone bower, beneath Italian skies, Great Filicaia! With celestial aim It rose-thy saintly rapture to proclaim, Then, when the imperial city stood released From bondage threatened by the embattled East, And Christendom respired; from guilt and shame Redeemed, from miserable fear set free By one day's feat, one mighty victory. Chant the deliverer's praise in every tongue ! The cross shall spread, the crescent hath waxed dim, He conquering-as in earth and heaven was sungHE CONQUERING THROUGH GOD, AND GOD BY HIM.