 | Poems by Bernard Barton |  |
89
TO THE GALLIC EAGLE.
Fame's favourite minion!
The theme of her story;
How quail'd is thy pinion,
How sullied its glory:
The theme of her story;
How quail'd is thy pinion,
How sullied its glory:
Where blood flow'd like water,
Exulting it bore thee!
Destruction and slaughter
Behind and before thee.
Exulting it bore thee!
Destruction and slaughter
Behind and before thee.
Where glory was blushing,
Thy flight was the fleetest;
Where death's sleep was hushing,
Thy slumber was sweetest.
Thy flight was the fleetest;
Where death's sleep was hushing,
Thy slumber was sweetest.
When broad-swords were clashing,
Thy cry was the loudest;
When deep they were gashing,
Thy plume was the proudest.
Thy cry was the loudest;
When deep they were gashing,
Thy plume was the proudest.
But, triumph is over;
No longer victorious,
No more shalt thou hover,
Destructively glorious!
No longer victorious,
No more shalt thou hover,
Destructively glorious!
90
Far from the battle's shock,
Fate hath fast bound thee;
Chain'd to the rugged rock,
Waves warring round thee.
Fate hath fast bound thee;
Chain'd to the rugged rock,
Waves warring round thee.
Instead of the trumpet's sound,
Sea-birds are shrieking;
Hoarse on thy rampart's bound,
Billows are breaking.
Sea-birds are shrieking;
Hoarse on thy rampart's bound,
Billows are breaking.
The standards which led thee
Are trampled and torn now;
The flatteries which fed thee
Are turn'd into scorn now.
Are trampled and torn now;
The flatteries which fed thee
Are turn'd into scorn now.
For ensigns unfurling,
Like sunbeams in brightness;
Are crested waves curling,
Like snow-wreaths in whiteness.
Like sunbeams in brightness;
Are crested waves curling,
Like snow-wreaths in whiteness.
No sycophants mock thee
With dreams of dominion;
But rude tempests rock thee,
And ruffle thy pinion.
With dreams of dominion;
But rude tempests rock thee,
And ruffle thy pinion.
Thy last flight is taken,
Hope leaves thee for ever:
And victory shall waken
Thy proud spirit never!
Hope leaves thee for ever:
And victory shall waken
Thy proud spirit never!
| Poems by Bernard Barton | |