Ode to the Duke of Wellington, and other poems by Robert Charles Dallas ... Written between the ages of eleven and thirteen years |
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LATIN VERSES PRESENTED TO THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON,
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 | Ode to the Duke of Wellington, and other poems |  |
xv
LATIN VERSES PRESENTED TO THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON,
WITH AN ENGLISH VERSION
------ Deliis
Ornatum foliis ducem.
Hor.
Ornatum foliis ducem.
Hor.
xviii
ENGLISH VERSION.
Round the sad spot where, stretch'd on Earth's dark bed,
Sleep the pale ashes of a mighty dead,
Though blazon'd trophies deck'd with martial grace,
Shrine the last relics of a far fam'd race,
Time's icy touch shall mar the sculptur'd bust,
And mould'ring statues feed their native dust;
But when some Chief, who fir'd by Glory's charms,
With ardent bosom seeks the shock of arms
Where martyr'd Freedom lifts her dying call,
Bursts a fell bondage, points a Tyrant's fall;
His deathless fame shall scorn an earthly doom,
And proudly soaring, mock the sculptur'd tomb.
And Thou, whose worth the Lyric God of day
Should stamp immortal with immortal lay,
Whose arm hath shone in deeds of battle tried,
A World's great Bulwark, and thy Country's pride!
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And tow'ring Virtue blasts the hopes of Crime;
If Crowns unfading meet the brave above,
In the bright regions of celestial love;
On buoyant wing thy praise shall soar on high,
And smile at Fortune, as it sweeps the sky.
No ruthless Rapine stains thy spotless name,
Nor wanton carnage blots thy flight to fame;
Ambition's self, whose stern and deadly frown
Soils the bright lustre of a Monarch's crown,
Shrinks from thy piercing glance, nor dares to shed
One drop of venom on thy laurell'd head.
E'en that great Chief, who all resistless hurl'd
His blazing thunders o'er a vanquish'd world;
Through farthest Earth his gilded banners bore,
While conquest fann'd them, streaming oe'r the shore;
Mov'd like a God, with Vict'ry in his train,
As Fortune trembled in his tenfold chain;
And, when red slaughter swell'd the tide with blood,
Fix'd fate in bondage at the Granic flood;
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Till fetter'd kingdoms curs'd their tyrant lord.
But round thy Crown, what heav'nly splendours twine,
What wreaths unfading bind thy brow divine!
See, wond'ring nations lift their just applause,
To bless the Champion of their sinking cause;
Bid Fame's loud trumpet ring through every clime,
And blaze thy Triumphs—deathless, as sublime:
While, more than worlds, a great, an high-thron'd God,
Still guards thy honours with almighty nod;
Whose arm unseen, 'mid battle's raging tide,
Turn'd hostile thunders from his Hero's side;
Bursts the black guile a perjur'd City wove,
When murd'rous hands to glut their vengeance strove;
And, though e'en Hell should spread its blackest night,
Drags yon foil'd Traitor to an hated light.
Then, may His will, to whom all homage raise,
To years of glory lengthen out thy days:
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And grateful Europe rain the gifted shower:
May thy bright race enhance their Parent's name,
And tread triumphant in his steps to fame.
| Ode to the Duke of Wellington, and other poems | |