 | Lyrical and other poems |  |
38
MAJOR ANDRE.
The visions of glory have bade him
The garb of the warrior assume;
And the hand of his true-love array'd him
With the faulchion, the helmet and plume.
Young Fancy in light is arraying,
The glories that round him are straying;
And Love with a promise assures him,
With the joys of the future allures him,
But they marshal him on to his doom.
The garb of the warrior assume;
And the hand of his true-love array'd him
With the faulchion, the helmet and plume.
Young Fancy in light is arraying,
The glories that round him are straying;
And Love with a promise assures him,
With the joys of the future allures him,
But they marshal him on to his doom.
With the mighty and brave he is steering,
From the home of his infancy now,
Whilst the past and the future is cheering,
Alternate, the pride of his brow.
In the past shall young memory elate him,
In the future shall glory await him,
Old Time on his journey shall linger,
Whilst Hope with his ruby-tipt-finger,
Illumines his heart with its glow.
From the home of his infancy now,
Whilst the past and the future is cheering,
Alternate, the pride of his brow.
In the past shall young memory elate him,
In the future shall glory await him,
Old Time on his journey shall linger,
Whilst Hope with his ruby-tipt-finger,
Illumines his heart with its glow.
Will glory, thou child of ambition,
Repay thee the bliss thou hast fled.....
For the shame of that foul coalition,
Which shall haunt even thy memory when dead?
Will the grief of thy country restore thee
The lightness of heart, that hung o'er thee?
Will her bosom that could not believe thee,
The guilty—O! can it retrieve thee
One glory to circle thy head?
Repay thee the bliss thou hast fled.....
For the shame of that foul coalition,
Which shall haunt even thy memory when dead?
Will the grief of thy country restore thee
The lightness of heart, that hung o'er thee?
Will her bosom that could not believe thee,
39
One glory to circle thy head?
We blame thee—that worthy of glory,
Thou forsook'st its fair shrine for a shade!
We weep thee—that born but for story,
From its niche thy proud statue must fade;
Or, if seen 'midst the many we cherish,
Thy name were far fitter to perish;
Or if parent of one kind emotion,
It is, that such gallant devotion,
On so lowly an altar was laid.
Thou forsook'st its fair shrine for a shade!
We weep thee—that born but for story,
From its niche thy proud statue must fade;
Or, if seen 'midst the many we cherish,
Thy name were far fitter to perish;
Or if parent of one kind emotion,
It is, that such gallant devotion,
On so lowly an altar was laid.
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