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The Harp of Erin

Containing the Poetical Works of the Late Thomas Dermody. In Two Volumes

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 1. 
FIRST ODE. Where is the British Genius fled?
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expand sectionII. 

FIRST ODE. Where is the British Genius fled?

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:

67

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.

68

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;

69

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.

70

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.

71

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;

72

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.

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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.

74

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,

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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.