University of Virginia Library

WAR,

A FRAGMENT.

How much abhorr'd should hell-fed Passion be!
How much should man foul Anger's ocean flee!
High on whose surge his giddy bark is toss'd,
His rudder broken, and his anchor lost;
Whilst hidden fires his frantic bosom scorch,
Whilst to his eye the Furies hold their torch;
Adjust each feature with satanic grace,
And dance their orgies round his kindred face.
Oh! Charity, fair daughter of the skies,
How! many a hateful form before Thee flies,
On whose dark brow, and grinning smile, and yell,
Thou might'st, if justice reign'd, for ever dwell!
Yet thou hast mark'd their faults, whilst pity sigh'd,
And to disturb thy peace, their little powers defy'd.
But whilst of happiness we feebly tell,
And praise her worth, and paint her halcyon cell;
Declare of joys that round their parent twine,
And speak of shores where suns perpetual shine;
How many pence-bought engines wield the spear,
Whose slavish breasts this sun must never cheer!
How many myriads of the human race,
On carnage bent, the name of man disgrace!
Some lazy tyrant's hireling tool obey,
And rush like blood-hounds on their unknown prey.
If on the slaughter'd field some mind humane,
Should stop to sooth a gasping Soldier's pain;
Enquire the cause that urg'd him to engage
In war's fell clangor, and infernal rage;
“I know no cause,” his trembling tongue replies,
And with a hollow groan distends his frame, and dies.
Orlando, urg'd by Pity, whisp'ring near,
The victims of a stubborn fight to cheer;
When a fam'd City hail'd the victor band,
And ceas'd to glut with blood th'neighbouring land;
At midnight's solemn hour withdrew to tread
The plain bestrew'd with dying and with dead:
Long had it stood the thundering blast of war,
And long defy'd Britannia's tow'ring car,
Till stalking Famine in her haggard form,
Withstood the longer fight, and hush'd the storm:
Sad o'er the carnage of the finish'd fray,
Cast its red gleams, the sun's departing ray;
The hollow-sounding zephyr floating near,
Wont to convey the shout or clashing spear;
Now bears the trembling accents of despair,
And wafts alone the wounded wretch's prayer.
As the pale moon disclos'd her silver beam,
Orlando pass'd the town's encircling stream,
That on its surface many a carcass bore,
Staining the shatter'd walls with patriot gore.
Pensive, and slow, Orlando bent his way,
Through the wide carnage of the deadly fray;
Thousands of bloodless trunks the ground had stain'd,
Whilst sorely wounded thousands still remain'd;
Wailing in broken groans a soldier's fate,
As on their faded cheeks grim Anguish sate:
Chill'd by the wizard horror's icy dart,
The life blood stagnates in Orlando's heart.
Unnumber'd eyes, just glimm'ring on the verge
Of death's dark precincts, and o'erwhelming surge,
Seem'd to implore his aid, and gently say,
“Oh! wand'ring stranger, hither bend thy way.”
“One moment help a wounded wretch forlorn.”
“Pluck the deep bullet from my bosom torn.”
“Screen from my quiv'ring limbs the nightly dew.”
Or, “bear to some lov'd name, a last adieu.”
Such countless claims on soft compassion's aid,
Such pallid forms in clotted garb array'd,
All panting for a friend to sooth their breath,
Or trembling in the iron grasp of death;
With bleeding pity fill'd the wand'rer's heart:
Unknowing where assistance first to dart,
Awhile he paus'd; till, near a murder'd heap,
Where stones might grieve, or tyrants learn to weep,
He saw a Youth bare to the evening gale,
Silent and sad, and as the snow-drop pale,
Feebly withstanding life's expiring tide,
As lying on the ground, he press'd his wounded side:
One hand, tho' cold, and rudely smear'd with gore,
In the faint grasp a Female's picture bore;
And as his eye-lid seem'd to heave its last,
Dead to the future, heedless of the past,
On the fond maid (as death itself might move),
He fix'd the lingering look of faithful love.
With lightning's speed, Orlando rush'd to save
So fair a victim from the gaping grave;
Upheld his sinking head, and sooth'd his pain,
And sought to bear him from the blood-moist plain.
Call'd from the shore of death's unebbing tide,
With sickly smile the Youth Orlando ey'd,
Wav'd his weak hand, and utter'd with a sigh,
“In peace, oh! gen'rous stranger, let me die;
“Others there are who more require thy aid,
“Mine eyes, low sinking, court the hov'ring shade.”
Orlando cry'd, (whilst dropt the pitying tear),
“Oh! heed a friend, if friendship's voice can cheer
“On the cold confines of the dark-wav'd lake,
“And let mine heart thy rending pangs partake;
“Say, bleeding Youth, what urg'd thee thus to stray
“Far from thy kindred and thy coast away?
“To dare the fight with indignation blind,
“To lift the spear against thy fellow kind?
“Know'st thou the cause for which the crimson tide
“Deserts thine heart, and oozes from thy side?
“Perchance some statesman's pique, some shrine profan'd,
“A flag insulted, or a skiff detain'd;
“These blow the blasts of war; whose noxious breath
“Fills the wide earth with discord, dread, and death.
“Speak; gently speak, that some may mark thy grave,
“And flee from blood, the nurture tyrants crave.”
As tho'a Power endu'd with sov'reign might
Had call'd his spirit from the shades of night,
The dying Youth appear'd; uprose in part,
And tore the tale of anguish from his heart:
‘An English Cot first gave me birth, and fed,
‘Till nineteen summer suns their course had sped,
‘Contented then, my soul no sorrow knew,
‘With heart untainted, and with bosom true,
‘Join'd I the village dance, the circle gay,
‘And jocund pass'd the smiling hours away;
‘(The fond remembrance of my native plain,
‘Darts wilder anguish through my throbbing brain;
‘I see the wolves, that once like lambs did bleat,
‘I see the serpents coiling at my feet,
‘Whose soft persuasive words, and fatal craft,
‘Led me from home to drink this bitter draught:
‘Mark you the cause that laid me bleeding here,
‘And warn mankind to shun the hostile spear;
‘Rais'd but to please some haughty Lordling's pride,
‘Made but to pierce the harmless Peasant's side.)
‘Whilst o'er the stubborn glebe I urg'd my team,
‘Or led my flocks beside the pebbl'd stream,
‘Or with my reeden-pipe, at break of day,
‘Pour'd the rude warblings of a shepherd's lay;
‘Some Soldiers came; clad in a dazzling dress,
‘Laugh'd at my garments, dwelt on my distress;
‘Said, “spurn your plough, and all such grov'ling toys,
“And know the value of a Soldier's joys,
“No little Master do we deign to greet,
“My Lord or Duke directs our playful feet;
“No rustic rags are we compell'd to wear,
“We dress like Princes, and like Princes fare;
“Behold our cloaths, gay as autumnal trees,
“Behold our plumes nod to the passing breeze;
“But what are splendid garbs to deathless fame?
“We sigh for honors of a nobler name;
“We pant for Glory; and aspire to gain,
“Immortal laurels from the blood-red plain,
“Stain'd with the gore of Britain's slaughter'd prey,
“Whilst o'er their heads exulting clarions play.”
‘The shadowy prospect charm'd my foolish heart,
‘Urg'd me with home and happiness to part;
‘To leave my aged Sire, with anguish wild,
‘To leave my Mother, frantic for her child,
‘To leave the Maid I lov'd.
‘Full well my mind retains the fatal day.
‘Which tore me from my Cath'rine's arms away;
“And wilt thou go? all wildly pale, she cry'd,
“And must the wars our faithful loves divide?
“Stay with thy Kate, nor cross the treach'rous sea!
“Let others fight, who are not lov'd like thee.”
‘Oh, Cath'rine! Cath'rine! thou shalt never more
‘Behold thy Henry! weltering in his gore
‘He hears the answering groans of death resound,
‘And marks his blood slow creeping o'er the ground.
‘My heart beats slow. The nightly dews fall cold.
‘Stranger! farewell.’—
He said; and heaving his last labouring breath
Exhausted sunk into the arms of death.
It is no idle dream, when Faith surveys
The glorious dawn, whose renovating raies
Shall show man's genuine interests, and inspire
His glowing breast with Love's exalted fire;
When vanquish'd self shall yield her hateful reign,
And mental light restore our race again.
That time shall come; bless'd be the prospect fair!
When Friendship's cordial shout shall rend the air;
When no dark policy shall discord fan,
But man behold a brother's face in man.
That time shall also come, nor slowly creep,
When Justice, starting from her couch of sleep,
Shall seize her long-neglected sword of fate,
And call to vengeance earth's devouring Great;
Terror shall then the Conqueror's brow o'ercast,
The war-delighting Monarch stand aghast;
Dismay corrode the starting Despot's breast,
When doom'd to meet the Ghosts his chains oppress'd.
Then shall the Chieftains, men so much admir'd,
Display their crowns with gorgon snakes attir'd:
Thy Plunderers, Poland! find beyond the tomb
The Tyrant's portion and the Murderer's doom.
Amid the brave, the gen'rous, and the pure,
Thy name, most-injur'd Patriot! shall endure;
Succeeding ages mourn thy hapless fate,
And load its Author's name with deathless hate.
And, though to gain a people equal laws,
Thy weary'd limb a clanking fetter draws,
Yet, what sustains the good man's suff'ring breast,
Shall, tho' endungeon'd, give thy spirit rest:
Unconquer'd, scorn thy once luxurious ease;
With patience arm'd, defy her pow'r to teize;
Whom neither laws of God or man can bind!
Who wars, as interest serves, on all mankind.
For thee shall sound Compassion's softest dirge,
Thy name descend to Time's remotest verge
With growing honors crown'd; and o'er thy grave
The bay shall bloom, the seerless laurel wave.
What is the far-fam'd hero's boasted claim,
On pure-ey'd reason, and unsullied fame?
The waster's rude of Chili's happy land?
The blood-drunk Conqueror's of Indostan's strand?
And all the train of Warriors', as they rose,
Feasting, from age to age, on human woes?
What the fierce Rival's of Moscovian Czar,
Or His, who tore Darius from his car?
Scourgers of earth, and Heralds of dismay,
Pests of mankind, and whirlwinds of their day;
From whose example blushing History rakes
Her nest of Scorpions, and her brood of Snakes;
Who, plac'd on thrones like these, like these have hurl'd
War's wasting firebrands o'er a suff'ring world.
What countless pangs to such have owed their birth!
What blood and murder stain'd the smiling earth!
To grant these Tyrants unexplor'd domain,
How many a fruitful clime has desert lain!
To please these monsters in their lordly pride,
How many an eye hath wept, and bosom sigh'd!
Shepherds, unskill'd in war's infernal trade,
Torn from their cots to wield the murderer's blade;
Peasants, with hearts revolting at the sight,
Compell'd to sack the town, and dare the fight;
Till War's malignant deeds, and wizard spell,
Transform them, saints of light, to fiends of hell.
Is man on man for ever doom'd to prey?
Shall he for ever passively obey
The voice which Discord thunders from afar?
Exulting wield the infuriate scourge of war?
Shall never Reason whisper in the ear
Of him who lights the torch, or hurls the spear,
‘Know you their crimes on whom you warfare wage?
‘For whom you feel resentment's deadly rage?
‘Has never the obtruding thought arose,
“What is the cause, for which I slay my foes?
“Have they deceiv'd their friends? from justice swerv'd?
“Betray'd their country? and their fates deserv'd?
“Or have they not, mid clashing interest's cry,
“Ventur'd their lives, like me, unknowing why?”
‘If then the lenient ties of human kind
‘Thou dare despise, and be to mercy blind;
‘Pant to survey, in gore, thy brethren drest,
‘And thirst to plunge thy sabre in their breast:
‘Such bitter hopes with none but Demons dwell,
‘Their Sire is Satan, and their home is hell.’
Tales might have once inspir'd compassion's sigh,
Or rous'd resentment, darting from the eye,
Which now no longer melt the pitying breast.
Lost in the lapse of time, with Heav'n they rest!
Of frantic maiden o'er the hostile plain
Seeking her Love amid the high-heap'd slain,
Till in the slaughter'd rank she eyes his face,
And, dying, clasps him in her fond embrace.
Or youth, from peaceful home to battle led,
And, wounded, left to perish with the dead;
Whilst, with faint-glimmering eye and visage pale,
He marks around the screaming Vultures sail,
Lifts one faint arm to turn their beaks away,
Yet strives in vain to scare them from their prey.
Even now some cottage child may starve for bread,
And lisping call upon its father—dead;
At whose approach, when eve her shadows threw,
To meet its Sire the pratling Infant flew.
Saw with delight the Loaf his arm sustain'd,
And shar'd the meal his honest toil had gain'd;
Now in the wars laid low, no longer gay
It pines and sobs its little heart away;
Whilst the rack'd Mother hides her anguish deep,
And, weeping, bids her baby cease to weep.
Would but one child thus early learnt to fare!
Would but one scene of such distress there were.
Methink I hear some frowning Warrior say,
‘With such unmanly thoughts, away! away!
‘Let Women love their timid breasts to goad,
‘And weep o'er Emmets crusht in Glory's road;
‘But Men, the Lords of wide creation's race,
‘Should never let a tear their cheeks disgrace;
‘Nor, when pursuing Fame with ardent eye,
‘Stoop to survey what worms beneath them lie.
‘I love thy clarion'd deeds, victorious war,
‘To hear thy bold atchievements from afar;
‘To see the martial ranks retire, advance,
‘Now view with furious rage the war-horse prance;
‘Now hear rich music charm the troubled air,
‘And now behold the sun-bright falchion's glare;
‘And though unnumber'd heroes gash'd must lie,
‘And Death o'ercast full many a victim's eye;
‘Yet, in that hour, disdaining slavish dread,
‘Shall exultation raise each drooping head;
‘They leave a name, by valour, deathless made,
‘They leave a country grateful for their aid;
‘They dare, with triumphs crown'd, resign their breath,
‘And mid their country's glory smile in death.’