The poetical works of Robert Stephen Hawker Edited from the original manuscripts and annotated copies together with a prefatory notice and bibliography by Alfred Wallis |
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“THE AXE IS LAID AT THE ROOT OF THE TREE.” |
 | The poetical works of Robert Stephen Hawker |  |
“THE AXE IS LAID AT THE ROOT OF THE TREE.”
The Chieftain is fallen! and in anguish of spirit,
The vial of vengeance is poured on his head;
Let his fate then atone for the wrath he may merit,
And pity a tear to his memory shed.
Though freedom rejoice, and her children may glory
In the valour that laid the proud enemy low,
Yet it shall not be read in the page of her story,
That England could smile at the death of a foe.
The vial of vengeance is poured on his head;
Let his fate then atone for the wrath he may merit,
And pity a tear to his memory shed.
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In the valour that laid the proud enemy low,
Yet it shall not be read in the page of her story,
That England could smile at the death of a foe.
When the pride of the forest is blighted and perished,
We mourn for the whirlwind that breathed on its bud,
But the garlands of conquest, the laurels he cherished,
Were planted in slaughter and watered with blood.
And soon were they withered and laid in the furrow,
O'er liberty's birthplace to bloom not again,
And the arm of her children soon plucked them in sorrow
From the brow of the warrior, who wreathed them in vain.
We mourn for the whirlwind that breathed on its bud,
But the garlands of conquest, the laurels he cherished,
Were planted in slaughter and watered with blood.
And soon were they withered and laid in the furrow,
O'er liberty's birthplace to bloom not again,
And the arm of her children soon plucked them in sorrow
From the brow of the warrior, who wreathed them in vain.
Yet, though dark his proud soul with the lust of ambition,
Though banish'd his name from the lips of the brave,
Let us hope that his solitude cherished contrition,
Let the voice of his crimes be unheard from the grave!
It behoves not the mighty to crush the defeated,
Nor to trample the brow which is laid in the dust,
And the measure of woe that for him hath been meted,
Claims from mercy a sigh in the hearts of the just.
Though banish'd his name from the lips of the brave,
Let us hope that his solitude cherished contrition,
Let the voice of his crimes be unheard from the grave!
It behoves not the mighty to crush the defeated,
Nor to trample the brow which is laid in the dust,
And the measure of woe that for him hath been meted,
Claims from mercy a sigh in the hearts of the just.
The warrior is fallen—and low lies the proud-hearted,
And the sigh of oblivion is passed from the brave,
The warrior is fallen—and his pride is departed,
To mingle with earth and to reign in the grave.
And Conquest shall mourn for the victim she nourish'd,
And weep for the soul that was breathed at her feet,
For his laurels but bloom'd and their glory but flourish'd
To render the pride of the victor more sweet.
And the sigh of oblivion is passed from the brave,
The warrior is fallen—and his pride is departed,
To mingle with earth and to reign in the grave.
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And weep for the soul that was breathed at her feet,
For his laurels but bloom'd and their glory but flourish'd
To render the pride of the victor more sweet.
| The poetical works of Robert Stephen Hawker | |