ODE VIII. ON THE FATE OF TYRANNY.
I. 1.
Oppression dies: the tyrant falls:
The golden city bows her walls!
Jehovah breaks the avenger's rod.
The Son of Wrath, whose ruthless hand
Hurl'd desolation o'er the land,
Has run his raging race, has closed the scene of blood.
Chiefs arm'd around behold their vanquish'd lord;
Nor spread the guardian shield, nor lift the loyal sword.
I. 2.
He falls; and earth again is free.
Hark! at the call of Liberty,
All Nature lifts the choral song.
The fir-trees, on the mountain's head,
Rejoice through all their pomp of shade;
The lordly cedars nod on sacred Lebanon:
Tyrant! they cry, since thy fell force is broke,
Our proud heads pierce the skies, nor fear the woodman's stroke.
I. 3.
Hell, from her gulf profound,
Rouses at thine approach; and, all around,
Her dreadful notes of preparation sound.
See, at the awful call,
Her shadowy heroes all,
Even mighty kings, the heirs of empire wide,
Rising, with solemn state, and slow,
From their sable thrones below,
Meet, and insult thy pride.
What, dost thou join our ghostly train,
A flitting shadow light, and vain?
Where is thy pomp, thy festive throng,
Thy revel dance, and wanton song?
Proud king! Corruption fastens on thy breast;
And calls her crawling brood, and bids them share the feast.
II. 1.
Oh Lucifer! thou radiant star;
Son of the Morn; whose rosy car
Flamed foremost in the van of day:
How art thou fall'n, thou King of Light!
How fall'n from thy meridian height!
Who said'st the distant poles shall hear me, and obey.
High, o'er the stars, my sapphire throne shall glow,
And, as Jehovah's self, my voice the heav'ns shall bow.
II 2.
He spake, he died. Distain'd with gore,
Beside yon yawning cavern hoar,
See, where his livid corse is laid.
The aged pilgrim passing by,
Surveys him long with dubious eye;
And muses on his fate, and shakes his reverend head.
Just heavens! is thus thy pride imperial gone?
Is this poor heap of dust the King of Babylon?
II. 3.
Is this the man, whose nod
Made the earth tremble: whose terrific rod
Levell'd her loftiest cities? Where he trod,
Famine pursued, and frown'd;
'Till Nature groaning round,
Saw her rich realms transform'd to deserts dry;
While at his crowded prison's gate,
Grasping the keys of fate,
Stood stern Captivity.
Vain man! behold thy righteous doom;
Behold each neighb'ring monarch's tomb;
The trophied arch, the breathing bust,
The laurel shades their sacred dust:
While thou, vile out-cast, on this hostile plain,
Moulder'st a vulgar corse, among the vulgar slain.
III. 1.
No trophied arch, no breathing bust,
Shall dignify thy trampled dust:
No laurel flourish o'er thy grave.
For why, proud king, thy ruthless hand
Hurl'd desolation o'er the land,
And crush'd the subject race, whom kings are born to save:
Eternal infamy shall blast thy name,
And all thy sons shall share their impious father's shame.
III. 2.
Rise, purple slaughter! furious rise;
Unfold the terror of thine eyes;
Dart thy vindictive shafts around:
Let no strange land a shade afford,
No conquer'd nations call them lord;
Nor let their cities rise to curse the goodly ground.
For thus Jehovah swears; no name, no son,
No remnant shall remain of haughty Babylon.
III. 3.
Thus saith the righteous Lord:
My vengeance shall unsheath the flaming sword;
O'er all thy realms my fury shall be pour'd.
Where yon proud city stood,
I'll spread the stagnant flood;
And there the bittern in the sedge shall lurk,
Moaning with sullen strain:
While, sweeping o'er the plain,
Destruction ends her work.
Yes, on mine holy mountain's brow,
I'll crush this proud Assyrian foe.
The irrevocable word is spoke.
From Judah's neck the galling yoke
Spontaneous falls, she shines with wonted state;
Thus by myself I swear, and what I swear is fate.
