The Poetical Works of Robert Montgomery Collected and Revised by the Author |
 |
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
|
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
| 6. |
| 7. |
| 8. |
|
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
|
| XXI. |
| XXII. |
| XXIII. |
| XXIV. |
| XXV. |
| XXVI. |
| XXVII. |
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
|
| I. |
| II. |
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
|
|
| I. |
INTRODUCTION. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXI. |
| XXII. |
|
 | The Poetical Works of Robert Montgomery |  |
INTRODUCTION.
Through England's capital no rest tonight!
Where sleepless myriads watch for morning light,
Whose hearts concentre in one vast regret
To feel the fullness of that awful debt
A shielded Empire to her saviour owes,
When grey-hair'd Glory finds its last repose
Under the crypt, where storied banners wave
Their drooping pageant o'er some public grave.
Where sleepless myriads watch for morning light,
Whose hearts concentre in one vast regret
To feel the fullness of that awful debt
A shielded Empire to her saviour owes,
When grey-hair'd Glory finds its last repose
Under the crypt, where storied banners wave
Their drooping pageant o'er some public grave.
With a fev'rish awe opprest,
And a something in the breast
Neither tones nor tears explain,
Like a mute and mighty pain,
Or a pulse of voiceless grief
Too august for word-relief,
Millions now are slumberless;
And in thinking loneliness
Are brooding o'er the unbreath'd thought,—
To-morrow down to dust is brought
That hoary Chief, whose high career
Will range half Europe round his bier;
Who fifteen battles fought and won
Nor left nor lost a British gun,
But took three thousand cannon from the foe
The thunder of his charge had laid in battle low!
And a something in the breast
Neither tones nor tears explain,
Like a mute and mighty pain,
Or a pulse of voiceless grief
Too august for word-relief,
Millions now are slumberless;
And in thinking loneliness
Are brooding o'er the unbreath'd thought,—
To-morrow down to dust is brought
That hoary Chief, whose high career
Will range half Europe round his bier;
Who fifteen battles fought and won
Nor left nor lost a British gun,
But took three thousand cannon from the foe
The thunder of his charge had laid in battle low!
| The Poetical Works of Robert Montgomery | |