The Harp of Erin :: :: University of Virginia Library

Where is the British Genius fled?
Why starts not the poetic tear
That erst embalm'd the mighty dead,
Soft streaming o'er the warrior's bier?
Her languid lid too long is dry;
Fell grief has froze her beamless eye;
Or sure ere this that lucid drop should flow
To wail her favour'd son, and swell the general woe.

Waked from her melancholy trance,
'Tis she! the fair aerial form
I see with solemn step advance,
Bright as the bow that girds the storm:

Yet sorrow dims the sickly grace
Faint-smiling on her faded face;
While, as she braids the ever-during wreath,
Pauseful she heaves a sigh o'er conquest dash'd with death.

The song begin! my bosom glows:
Her dawning influence I feel:
The sweet elixir she bestows,
A nation's recent wound shall heal.
For, oh! methinks each gen'rous heart
Throbb'd with participated smart,
When Vengeance taught the murd'rous ball to fly,
And Vict'ry dubious mark'd the veteran's bleeding thigh.

Lo! on yon column's peak sublime
She sits, and folds her purple wing;
While, nook'd beneath, malignant Time
Aloof his scythe is forc'd to fling:
Now, half a native of the skies,
Where her undaunted hero dies,
Whilere luxurious Antony repos'd,
And in a harlot's arms long scenes of glory clos'd.

But who is he of sterner brow,
Emerg'd from central caves of night,
Whose ghostly features seem to glow,
And kindle at the furious fight?
His dull eye darts a transient gleam;
Scarce rous'd from his elysian dream,
The well-known British bands he views, dismay'd,
'Tis Julius ! 'tis himself, the great dictator's shade.

Not so, illustrious chief, they fought
When erst thou trod'st their savage shore;
And thou didst wave, in boundless thought,
Thine eagle-flag whole nations o'er.
Say, could thy Roman cohort face
Yon fearless band of Scotia's race?
Could brazen buckler, or protended spear,
Sustain the missile fire, and bayonet's shock severe?

Soon would the temper'd faulchion shear
The gorgeous plumage of thy crest,
And soon the horseman's dread career
Pierce thy firm phalanx' shielded breast;

Not even the prudence once that bore
Thee safe from Alexandria's shore,
When learning shrunk amid the impious blaze,
Could aught avail thee now, in Britain's brighter days.

For him, this day who glorious fell,
Yon boastful catacombs were vain,
Within whose each sepulchral cell
Proud Egypt's meaner lords remain.
Nought to his consecrated dust
Can sculptur'd pile, or pompous bust,
Or even the huge mausoleum, lend of fame:
A nobler homage waits to signalize his name.

The mistress of the world behold,
Whose thunders awe the vassal deep,
With fervour clasp his hallow'd mold,
And press it to her trembling lip.

Can fragile granite, heap'd with care,
High-tow'ring in the sultry air,
Or almost-animated marble, give
So long his gallant deeds and genuine worth to live?

Britannia, eminently blest,
Whose alabaster rocks repel
Each ruder surge that wooes thy breast,
Enamour'd with insidious swell;
Though One to honour has been paid,
Let no dull care thy peace invade;
Be not that front's majestic menace lost,
Ev'n now whose fateful bend should scare yon envious coast.

Thine is a Hutchinson, whose mind
Each amiable classic grace,
Each gentler art, each sense refin'd,
And martial skill, well pleas'd embrace.
Nor deem that Wisdom's serious school
But tends the soldier's warmth to cool:
Hers to correct rash youth's impetuous pow'r;
Lo! Scipio's helmet bent beneath the muse's bow'r.

His bosom to each danger bare;
A manly spirit unsubdu'd,
Before whose path the fiend Despair
Flies far with her funereal brood;
In battles nurs'd, whose infant age
Was rock'd by the rough tempest's rage;
Prompt to suggest and act each bold design,
Old ocean's richest gem, a dauntless Smith is thine.

Superior as thou art, disdain
Each fruitless vaunt of foreign hate,
O'er the illimitable main
Fix'd by the sov'reign voice of Fate.
How fare the desp'rate foes who ween
To interrupt thy naval reign,
How far thy sailor-sons the world excel,
Yet writhing from her wounds let Scandinavia tell.

Meseems, where stretch'd in proud repose
Tall Greenwich overlooks the tide;
Fond its broad beauties to disclose,
And view them with reflected pride;

I hear the hardy seaman's tale,
That turns his simple audience pale;
He points each scar, and with a conscious smile
Thanks his kind stars he saw the hero of the Nile.

So, to his long-lost hut return'd,
Cheer'd by his offspring's lisping voice,
Whom long as dead they hopeless mourn'd,
The war-worn soldier shall rejoice;
And as his faithful breast he shews
Sore-gash'd by unrelenting foes,
Think on his many younger comrades slain,
Uplift th' expressive eye, and quite forget his pain.

Then will he ev'ry scene retrace
Where panting Slaughter led the fray,
His fir'd soul flushing o'er his face
With thoughts of that important day.
O consul! rapt in visions wild,
In vain and falsely hast thou styl'd
Invincible the standard which they bear:
Thy chosen host perceive gaunt Ruin in their rear.

Hence learn, 'tis not the prowess'd might
Of man, the contest can decide;
Severely walking 'mid the fight,
A heav'nly champion mocks thy pride.
He withers the presumptuous arm;
He nerves the weak with powerful charm;
Then, striding the fell cannon's sulph'rous flame,
Directs the wasteful shot, and triumphs in thy shame.

“Here Moore th' intrepid legion led,”
The kindling invalid will cry,
Here Oakes and daring Paget bled,
Determin'd honour in each eye;
“Here Hope, regardless of his maim,
Pursn'd the sanguine step of fame;
And here, slow life long-welling from his wound,
Unalterably brave was Abercrombie found.”

Nor mortal anguish could o'ercast,
Nor languor stoop, his stately mien;
'Till the victorious charge was past,
Still mounted, dreadfully serene.
Then, as the last explosion fir'd,
The last drop from his heart retir'd;
And, Sense forsaking her accustom'd seat,
Well satisfied he own'd the glorious work complete.

While Malta, 'mid her knights renown'd,
Receives one nobler stranger more,
With less untainted laurels crown'd
Than e'er her best defender bore;
Say, will his grateful country raise
No public tribute to his praise?
No lasting monument for years to come;
Such as old Athens gave, or more exalted Rome?

Oh, yes! where to the warrior-saint
Yon temple's shapely pillars rise,
In chisel'd flint, or breathing paint,
His martial front shall glad our eyes.
Though Superstition's frown austere
May gloom to mark a soldier there,
Religion will adopt with purer grace
One memorable chief than all the monkish race.

Nor here his bounded honours end:—
See royal Fred'rick's downcast eye
Confess the tutor and the friend,
Such loss unable to supply.
Copartner in each dire campaign
That ravag'd Flandria's fatal plain,

One gen'rous tear he drops, to merit due:
So wept Ulysses' son when Mentor's form withdrew.

His learned youth divinely fed
With honey from the Attie hive,
See princely Moira droop the head,
To every finer pang alive;
In camp or court alike decreed
By wit or valour to succeed,
Yet still from courtly adulation free,
Unbiass'd by applause, a second Sydney he.

When the last echo of the song
Decays on Time's impassive ear,
(As some lone abbey's vaults among,
We oft th' imperfect whisper hear,)
Ev'n then will virtue's self descend,
The dusty veil of darkness rend;
And where thy mutilated statue lies,
Direct congenial minds,—the brave, the good, the wise.

Called by some historians the column of Severus.

Julius Cesar.

The 42d regiment of foot, always conspicuous for bravery and resolution.

Cesar having fired the arsenal of Alexandria, a great part of the Ptolomean library was consumed by the flames. By a wonderful presence of mind, being forced to retreat, he effected his escape in safety; for instead of stopping at his own ship, which sunk soon after with the multitude of fugitives (being next the port), he with difficulty swam to the vessel furthest off at sea, and thereby preserved his life.

Adjoining to the suburbs of the ancient city of Necropolis.

France, then idly meditating an invasion.

Sir Sidney Smith.

Alluding to the then last famous sea-engagement, off Copenhagen.

Buonaparte.

St. Paul.

The Duke of York.

Sir Philip Sydney, the patron of Spenser.

SECOND ODE. Let no unmanly plaint presume

Let no unmanly plaint presume
To vex the manes of the brave,
No fond tear taint the laureat bloom
That waves upon the warrior's grave.
The softness of a sighing verse
May breathe o'er some inglorious hearse
Plum'd with the idle pomp of pride;
But Fame herself anneals in blood
The records of the great and good
Who boldly for a nation died.

Hush'd be each weaker voice of woe;
The hoarse drum's military sound;
The solemn ordnance, pealing slow.—
The martial horse, with trophies crown'd,
And marching in sad state along,
With downcast look the soldier-throng,
Shall more the hero's worth declare
Than aught the weeping muse could bring;
Though Rapture, soothing cold Despair,
Should smite the animated string.

Oh! as the mourning car triumphant moves
To lodge thy chieftain with the mighty dead,
Britannia, whom th' unwilling world approves,
Yet, yet sublimer lift thine aweful head.
Let no dim cloud obscure thy radiant brow:
For still unnumber'd godlike sons remain,
To bid each foreign host before thee bow,
And scatter to the winds their tinsel train;
To sweep the envious spoiler far away
From thy imperial breast, and vindicate thy sway.

Blest isle! the forest oak is thine,
And thine the iron-hearted steed:
Still foremost in th' embattled line,
Thy dauntless offspring dare to bleed;
Of hardy frame, and generous soul,
Whom no degrading fears control,
Nor less for milder graces known;
The liberal thought, the melting mind,
By sweet humanity refin'd,
And beauteous arts, are all thy own.
While at the helm an Addington presides,
Protects thy commerce, and to glory guides.

When fiercest the hot contest glows,
What alien courage shall oppose

The bulwark of a British breast?
The steady fires that flash around,
And yon deep groan's expiring sound,
Its genuine fortitude attest.
Behold th' intrepid column charge the foe!
Hark the harsh closure of the strident steel!
Exanimate they fly the furious blow;
Before its ruthless shock their forces reel;
'Till from thick mists emerging to the sight,
Gigantic Slaughter glares, then faints amid the fight.

O thou for whom the song I raise,
Ambitious to bestow my praise!
What ardours warm'd thy vet'ran-frame,
Though pierc'd with many a wound severe,
When, cloth'd in wide-consuming flame,
Thy little wond'rous band pursued
The gallic vultures by their track of blood,
And thunder'd desolation on their rear!

Then far was every selfish thought
Of life with loss of honour bought;
Then every tie that holds the heart,
For ever doom'd from home to part,
Was lost to thy collected breast,
By patriot-zeal alone possest.

Caution, determinately cool,
Maintain'd her calm unalter'd rule,
And taught the conflict where to rage;
While bright Victoria, hov'ring nigh,
Her keen glance fix'd upon thy bleeding thigh,
Scarce more admir'd the soldier than the sage.

Though now, ev'n now, illustrious shade,
Yet recent from the memorable fray,
In blissful bow'rs, unconscious of decay,
Thy wearied limbs at length are laid;
And thronging round, an airy swarm,
Heroic spectres eye thy form;
Proud names, of history the splendid boast,
Solicitous who shall applaud thee most;
Oh! see the gallant youth thy genius led
O'er Flandria's well disputed plain,
See princely Frederick droop the head
With all a pupil's tender pain;
Oh! yet, great soul, deliberately wise,
Temper his daring heat, and fit him for the skies.

Meanwhile, each meed thy country can bestow,
Dissolv'd in universal woe,
Shall flourish o'er thy sacred dust;
The pile sepulchral, and the votive bust:

But most a pious monarch's grateful tear
Proclaim thy fortunate rememb'rance dear,
Dear to himself and to his people too;
For ev'ry pompous rite of rev'rence past,
That tribute to long faithful service due,
In other chiefs thy virtue shall renew,
And still in emulous succession last.

So the poetic branch, renown'd of old
For glitt'ring leaves, and balls of blooming gold,
Though torn, appear'd before the Trojan's eyes
Still fresh with shining foliage to arise;
Unchang'd the value of its precious frame,
Its radiant hue unchang'd, another and the same.

Uno avulso non deficit alter.

Virgil.