The English Dance of Death from the designs of Thomas Rowlandson, with metrical illustrations, by the author of "Doctor Syntax" [i.e. William Combe] |
 | I. |
The Battle.
|
| II. |
 | The English Dance of Death |  |
264
The Battle.
LIFE's frail and perishable hour
Has oft been liken'd to a flower,
Which first a verdant leaf displays
Amid the show'rs of vernal days,
And Summer opens to the Sun;
But Autumn sees its beauty gone:
Chill'd by Winter cold it lies,
To be renew'd 'neath milder skies.
Such is the whole progressive span
That marks the longest life of Man:
But, by experience, we are taught
The various means that make it short.
Disease, with its destructive Train,
And all the Family of Pain;
These are the Ministers that wait
Upon the dread commands of Fate.
—Fever's fierce and burning heat
Which makes each pulse with fury beat;
Pallid Ague that, by turns,
Shakes with tremors cold, or burns
With parching pain;—the Stone,
That parent of the heaving groan;
The Gout, and all its racking pains,
Or Frenzy, writhing in its chains,
And many an ill of doubtful name
That harrasses the human frame.
Nor these alone: Heart-breaking Care;
With pining Love, and fell despair;
Or Passion's unreflecting rage,
Which Reason trembles to assuage;—
They, in their various natures, pave
Man's passage to the gloomy grave,
His mortal destiny: but these
Waste mankind by slow degrees,
While Nature's all-prolific power
Supplies such losses every hour.
—No, 'tis the vast, ensanguin'd plain
Cover'd with thousands of the slain,
Where the fell Deity of War
Drives onward in his fatal Car:
'Tis there th'affrighted eye can trace
The power that thins the human race.
Has oft been liken'd to a flower,
Which first a verdant leaf displays
Amid the show'rs of vernal days,
And Summer opens to the Sun;
But Autumn sees its beauty gone:
Chill'd by Winter cold it lies,
To be renew'd 'neath milder skies.
Such is the whole progressive span
That marks the longest life of Man:
But, by experience, we are taught
The various means that make it short.
Disease, with its destructive Train,
And all the Family of Pain;
These are the Ministers that wait
Upon the dread commands of Fate.
265
Which makes each pulse with fury beat;
Pallid Ague that, by turns,
Shakes with tremors cold, or burns
With parching pain;—the Stone,
That parent of the heaving groan;
The Gout, and all its racking pains,
Or Frenzy, writhing in its chains,
And many an ill of doubtful name
That harrasses the human frame.
Nor these alone: Heart-breaking Care;
With pining Love, and fell despair;
Or Passion's unreflecting rage,
Which Reason trembles to assuage;—
They, in their various natures, pave
Man's passage to the gloomy grave,
His mortal destiny: but these
Waste mankind by slow degrees,
While Nature's all-prolific power
Supplies such losses every hour.
266
Cover'd with thousands of the slain,
Where the fell Deity of War
Drives onward in his fatal Car:
'Tis there th'affrighted eye can trace
The power that thins the human race.
The Sun his early beams displays
And tips the hills with golden rays;
Then glitters on the martial show,
That covers all the vale below;
Where the embattel'd armies wait,
Impatient for the word of Fate;
While Death expects, in dire array,
The victims of the bloody day.
Thousands who saw the Sun arise,
And with its bright beams streak the skies,
E'er his orb sinks into the main,
In ghastly shapes will strew the plain.
E'er his allotted Circuit's run,
What glory will be lost and won,
Glory, the dearly purchas'd prize
Of widow's tears, of orphans' cries;
Of matrons—shrieking wild with woe;
Of cities, and their walls laid low;
Of chrystal streams bestain'd with gore;
Of the rich vallies, that no more
Their plenty to the sickle yields;
While Blood's the Harvest of the fields.
And tips the hills with golden rays;
Then glitters on the martial show,
That covers all the vale below;
Where the embattel'd armies wait,
Impatient for the word of Fate;
While Death expects, in dire array,
The victims of the bloody day.
Thousands who saw the Sun arise,
And with its bright beams streak the skies,
E'er his orb sinks into the main,
In ghastly shapes will strew the plain.
E'er his allotted Circuit's run,
What glory will be lost and won,
267
Of widow's tears, of orphans' cries;
Of matrons—shrieking wild with woe;
Of cities, and their walls laid low;
Of chrystal streams bestain'd with gore;
Of the rich vallies, that no more
Their plenty to the sickle yields;
While Blood's the Harvest of the fields.
Man could not be by Nature made
For War's destructive, cruel trade;
To change the joys of social Life,
For savage deeds of martial Strife.
He who is born to weep with those
Who feel the weight of human woes;
He, whose first joy is to relieve
The aching hearts of those who grieve;
He, whose happier passions move,
Faithful to Friendship and to Love:
Is He by Nature form'd to wield
The sabre in the tented field?
What though he may the battle try,
Summon'd by stern Necessity;
What, though his country's wrongs may charm
The patriot citizen to arm,
And join the cohorts to oppose
The darings of his country's foes,—
He, born with Love to be endued,
And Charity, Life's real good,
Was never form'd to deal in blood.
It cannot with his virtues suit,
For the stern trump to change the lute;
Or quit, without a deep-drawn sigh,
The scene of peace and harmony.
For War's destructive, cruel trade;
To change the joys of social Life,
For savage deeds of martial Strife.
He who is born to weep with those
Who feel the weight of human woes;
He, whose first joy is to relieve
The aching hearts of those who grieve;
He, whose happier passions move,
Faithful to Friendship and to Love:
Is He by Nature form'd to wield
The sabre in the tented field?
268
Summon'd by stern Necessity;
What, though his country's wrongs may charm
The patriot citizen to arm,
And join the cohorts to oppose
The darings of his country's foes,—
He, born with Love to be endued,
And Charity, Life's real good,
Was never form'd to deal in blood.
It cannot with his virtues suit,
For the stern trump to change the lute;
Or quit, without a deep-drawn sigh,
The scene of peace and harmony.
The mother, when she lulls to rest
Th'unconscious infant on her breast;
When, as she views the Babe, her eye
Glances with tender extasy:
She offers up the secret prayer
To Heaven, for its protecting care;
To guard him from the ills that wait
Upon his weak and helpless state.
Give him strength, and grant him health;
Give him Virtue, crown'd with wealth;—
That thus her Infant may be blest,
Is the maternal, fond request.
She thinks not of the woe that springs
From the ambitious pride of kings;
Nor looks, with premature alarms,
To hostile feats and deeds of arms;
Nor are her wishes e'er beguil'd,
To see a Hero in her child.
With the pale lily and the rose,
She decks the smiling Urchin's brows;
Nor does Affection's hand prepare
To place the verdant Laurel there,
Emblem of Honour gain'd in war.
Virtue, she knows, may find its meed,
Where daring warriors never bleed;
And Honour may enjoy renown
Without the Victor's laureate crown.
For added evils wherefore roam,
All find enough of ill at home;
If ill it should be call'd that proves
The noble Heart which Virtue loves.
Th'unconscious infant on her breast;
When, as she views the Babe, her eye
Glances with tender extasy:
She offers up the secret prayer
To Heaven, for its protecting care;
To guard him from the ills that wait
Upon his weak and helpless state.
269
Give him Virtue, crown'd with wealth;—
That thus her Infant may be blest,
Is the maternal, fond request.
She thinks not of the woe that springs
From the ambitious pride of kings;
Nor looks, with premature alarms,
To hostile feats and deeds of arms;
Nor are her wishes e'er beguil'd,
To see a Hero in her child.
With the pale lily and the rose,
She decks the smiling Urchin's brows;
Nor does Affection's hand prepare
To place the verdant Laurel there,
Emblem of Honour gain'd in war.
Virtue, she knows, may find its meed,
Where daring warriors never bleed;
And Honour may enjoy renown
Without the Victor's laureate crown.
For added evils wherefore roam,
All find enough of ill at home;
270
The noble Heart which Virtue loves.
War's the Disease of nations, sent
By Heaven, as awful punishment,
At once to chasten, and chastise
Mankind's combin'd enormities;
And when its standard is unfurl'd,
What woes assail the trembling world.
Murder, and Massacre and Spoil,
Pursued with unremitting toil
In ev'ry clime, on ev'ry soil.
Amid the Battle's bloody hour,
Death brandishes his utmost power;
And thousands in a moment fall,
Beneath that Strength which conquers all.
When He his potent arm uprears,
In ev'ry shape his dart appears,
Which the fell arts of War employ
With deadly genius to destroy.
When the sword strikes the struggling foe,
'Tis Death directs the fatal blow:
When the shaft makes the bosom bleed,
'Tis Death directs the fatal speed:
When the loud cannon breathes, its breath
Is the destructive fume of Death.
Where'er he waves his torch on high,
The victors and the vanquish'd die;
And Fame's too oft the only meed
Or of the living, or the dead.
—O blest be that benignant hour,
When chast'ning Justice calms its power:
Bids all the warring contests cease,
And gives the humbled Nations peace.
By Heaven, as awful punishment,
At once to chasten, and chastise
Mankind's combin'd enormities;
And when its standard is unfurl'd,
What woes assail the trembling world.
Murder, and Massacre and Spoil,
Pursued with unremitting toil
In ev'ry clime, on ev'ry soil.
Amid the Battle's bloody hour,
Death brandishes his utmost power;
And thousands in a moment fall,
Beneath that Strength which conquers all.
When He his potent arm uprears,
In ev'ry shape his dart appears,
Which the fell arts of War employ
With deadly genius to destroy.
When the sword strikes the struggling foe,
'Tis Death directs the fatal blow:
271
'Tis Death directs the fatal speed:
When the loud cannon breathes, its breath
Is the destructive fume of Death.
Where'er he waves his torch on high,
The victors and the vanquish'd die;
And Fame's too oft the only meed
Or of the living, or the dead.
—O blest be that benignant hour,
When chast'ning Justice calms its power:
Bids all the warring contests cease,
And gives the humbled Nations peace.
| The English Dance of Death | |