Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

I would not value, or transmit the fame
Of him, whose brightest worth in swiftness lies;
Nor would I chaunt his poor unwarlike name
Who wins no chaplet but the wrestler's prize.

165

In vain, for me, the Cyclops' giant might
Blends with the beauties of Tithonus' form;
In vain the racer's agile powers unite,
Fleet as the whirlwind of the Thracian storm.

In vain, for me, the riches round him glow
A Midas or a Cinyras possess'd;
Sweet as Adrastus' tongue his accents flow,
Or Pelops' sceptre seems to stamp him blest.

Vain all the dastard honours he may boast,
If his soul thirst not for the martial field;
Meet not the fury of the rushing host,
Nor bear o'er hills of slain the untrembling shield.

166

This—this is virtue: This—the noblest meed
That can adorn our youth with fadeless rays;
While all the perils of the adventurous deed,
The new-strung vigour of the state repays.

Amid the foremost of the embattled train,
Lo the young hero hails the glowing fight;
And, tho' fall'n troops around him press the plain,
Still fronts the foe, nor brooks inglorious flight.

His life—his fervid soul oppos'd to death,
He dares the terrours of the field defy;
Kindles each spirit with his panting breath,
And bids his comrade-warriours nobly die!

See, see, dismay'd, the phalanx of the foe
Turns round, and hurries o'er the plain afar;
While doubling, as afresh, the deadly blow,
He rules, intrepid chief, the waves of war.

167

Now fall'n, the noblest of the van, he dies,
His city by the beauteous death renown'd;
His low-bent father marking, where he lies,
The shield, the breast-plate hackt by many a wound.

168

The young, the aged, alike mingling tears—
His country's heavy grief bedews the grave;
And all his race in verdant lustre wears
Fame's richest wreath, transmitted from the brave.

Tho' mixt with earth the perishable clay,
His name shall live, while glory loves to tell,
‘True to his country how he won the day,
‘How firm the hero stood, how calm he fell!’

But if he 'scape the doom of death (the doom
To long—long dreary slumbers) he returns,
While trophies flash, and victor-laurels bloom,
And all the splendour of the triumph burns.

The old—the young—caress him, and adore;
And with the city's love, thro' life, repay'd,

169

He sees each comfort, that endears, in store,
Till, the last hour, he sinks to Pluto's shade.

Old as he droops, the citizens, o'eraw'd,
(Ev'n veterans) to his mellow glories yield;
Nor would in thought dishonour or defraud
The hoary soldier of the well-fought field.

Be your's to reach such eminence of fame;
To gain such heights of virtue nobly dare,
My youths! and, 'mid the fervour of acclaim,
Press, press to glory; nor remit the war!

170

ELEGY THE SECOND.

Rouse, rouse, my youths! the chain of torpour break;
Spurn idle rest, and couch the glittering lance!
What! Does not shame with blushes stain your cheek
Quick-mantling, as ye catch the warriour's glance?

Ignoble youths! Say, when shall valour's flame
Burn in each breast? Here, here, while hosts invade,
And war's wild clangours all your courage claim,
Ye sit, as if still peace embower'd the shade.

But, sure, fair honour crowns the auspicious deed,
When patriot love impels us to the field;
When, to defend a trembling wife, we bleed,
And when our shelter'd offspring bless the shield.

171

What time the fates ordain, pale death appears:
Then, with firm step and sword high drawn, depart;

172

And, marching thro' the first thick shower of spears,
Beneath thy buckler guard the intrepid heart.

173

Each mortal, tho' he boast celestial sires,
Slave to the sovereign destiny of death,
Or mid the carnage of the plain expires,
Or yields unwept at home his coward breath.

Yet sympathy attends the brave man's bier;
Sees on each wound the balmy grief bestow'd;
And, as in death the universal tear,
Thro' life inspires the homage of a god.

For like a turret his proud glories rise,
And stand, above the rival's reach, alone;
While millions hail, with fond adoring eyes,
The deeds of many a hero meet in one!

174

ELEGY THE THIRD.

Yet are ye Hercules' unconquer'd race—
Remand, heroic tribe, your spirit lost!
Not yet all-seeing Jove averts his face;
Then meet without a fear the thronging host.

175

Each to the foe his steady shield oppose,
Accoutred to resign his hateful breath:
The friendly sun a mild effulgence throws
On valour's grave, tho' dark the frown of death.

Yes! ye have known the ruthless work of war!
Yes! ye have known its tears—its heavy woe;
When, scattering in pale flight, ye rush'd afar,
Or chas'd the routed squadrons of the foe.

176

Of those who dare, a strong compacted band,
Firm for the fight their warriour-spirits link,
And grapple with the foeman, hand to hand,
How few, thro' deadly wounds expiring, sink.

They, foremost in the ranks of battle, guard
The inglorious multitude that march behind;
While shrinking fears the coward's step retard,
And dies each virtue in the feeble mind.

But 'tis not in the force of words to paint
What varied ills attend the ignoble troop,
Who trembling on the scene of glory faint,
Or wound the fugitives that breathless droop.

Basely the soldier stabs, with hurried thrust,
The unresisting wretch, that shieldless flies!
At his last gasp dishonour'd in the dust
(His back transfix'd with spears) the dastard lies!

177

Thus then, bold youth, the rules of valour learn:
Stand firm, and fix on earth thy rooted feet;
Bite with thy teeth thy eager lips; and stern
In conscious strength, the rushing onset meet:

And shelter with thy broad and bossy shield
Thy thighs and shins, thy shoulders and thy breast;
The long spear ponderous in thy right-hand wield,
And on thy head high nod the dreadful crest.

Mark well the lessons of the warlike art,
That teach thee, if the shield with ample round
Protect thy bosom, to approach the dart,
Nor chuse with timid care the distant ground.

But, for close combat with the fronting foe,
Elate in valorous attitude draw near;
And aiming, hand to hand, the fateful blow,
Brandish thy temper'd blade or massy spear.

178

Yes! for the rage of stubborn grapple steel'd,
Grasp the sword's hilt, and couch the long-beat lance;
Foot to the foeman's foot, and shield to shield,
Crest ev'n to crest, and helm to helm, advance.

But ye light-arm'd, who, trembling in the rear,
Bear smaller targets, at a distance, throw
The hissing stone, or hurl the polisht spear,
(Plac'd nigh your panoply) to mar the foe.

179

ELEGY THE FOURTH.

If, fighting for his dear paternal soil,
The soldier in the front of battle fall;
'Tis not in fickle fortune to despoil
His store of fame, that shines the charge of all.

But if, opprest by penury, he rove
Far from his native town and fertile plain;
And lead the sharer of his fondest love
Is youth too tender, with her infant train;

180

And if his aged mother—his shrunk sire
Join the sad groupe; see many a bitter ill
Against the houseless family conspire,
And all the measure of the wretched fill.

Pale shivering want, companion of his way,
He meets the lustre of no pitying eye,
To hunger and dire infamy a prey:
Dark hatred scowls, and scorn quick passes by.

Alas! no traits of beauty or of birth—
No blush now lingers in his sunken face!
Dies every feeling (as he roams o'er earth)
Of shame transmitted to a wandering race.

But be it ours to guard this hallow'd spot,
To shield the tender offspring and the wife;
Here steadily await our destin'd lot,
And, for their sakes, resign the gift of life.

181

The valorous youths, in squadrons close combin'd,
Rush, with a noble impulse, to the fight!
Let not a thought of life glance o'er your mind,
And not a momentary dream of flight.

[illeg.] your hoar seniors bent by feeble age,
Whose weak knees fail, tho' strong their ardour glows;
[illeg.] leave such warriours to the battle's rage,
But round their awful spirits firmly close.

Base—base the sight, if, foremost on the plain,
In dust and carnage the fall'n veteran roll;
And ah! while youths shrink back, unshielded, stain
His silver temples, and breathe out his soul!