The spirit of Frazer, to General Burgoyne An ode. To which is added, The death of Hilda; an American tale. Inscribed to Mrs. Macaulay [by Richard Polwhele] |
 |
 | The spirit of Frazer, to General Burgoyne |  |
5
The SPIRIT of FRAZER, TO GENERAL BURGOYNE,
The Night before his Capitulation with GATES, the General of the Continental Army.
Silence held the midnight gloom,
In dread suspense the Warrior lay!
Wild Fancy strong pourtray'd the doom
She shudder'd to display!
Sudden wav'd a gleaming blade,
A sad groan shook the sullen shade:
A death-pale Hero rais'd his helmed head:
While thus the troubled Chief express'd
The thoughts revolving in his breast,
His dim eye mourn'd the dead.
In dread suspense the Warrior lay!
Wild Fancy strong pourtray'd the doom
She shudder'd to display!
Sudden wav'd a gleaming blade,
A sad groan shook the sullen shade:
A death-pale Hero rais'd his helmed head:
While thus the troubled Chief express'd
The thoughts revolving in his breast,
His dim eye mourn'd the dead.
6
“Hail, thou Son of Valour, hail!—
“What wings thee to the fields of war?
“What bids thee, cloath'd in blood-stain'd mail,
“Yet roll the thunder of the car?
“Dare not amidst the unnumber'd host
“Thy bolts of fancied Vengeance boast!
“Oh! to thy Frazer's friendly voice attend!
“By his last pangs and parting breath,
“By these wide wounds—the wounds of Death—
“That mark him Britain's friend!
“What wings thee to the fields of war?
“What bids thee, cloath'd in blood-stain'd mail,
“Yet roll the thunder of the car?
“Dare not amidst the unnumber'd host
“Thy bolts of fancied Vengeance boast!
“Oh! to thy Frazer's friendly voice attend!
“By his last pangs and parting breath,
“By these wide wounds—the wounds of Death—
“That mark him Britain's friend!
“I know that martial heat inspires—
“A thirst for glory animates thy soul:
“But oh! repress these dangerous fires—
“Let Reason's sober aid thy Rage controul.
“Think not thy hand is doom'd to load
“The heath with hills of slain, and seas of blood;
“Think not, alas! 'tis thine to raise
“The blazing trophies of immortal praise,—
“To hear thy country swell the loud acclaim,—
“To gain the victor's wreath, and Henry's deathless fame.
“A thirst for glory animates thy soul:
“But oh! repress these dangerous fires—
“Let Reason's sober aid thy Rage controul.
“Think not thy hand is doom'd to load
“The heath with hills of slain, and seas of blood;
“Think not, alas! 'tis thine to raise
“The blazing trophies of immortal praise,—
“To hear thy country swell the loud acclaim,—
“To gain the victor's wreath, and Henry's deathless fame.
7
“Reason's voice commands thee, yield:
“Ev'n Frenzy's self would scarce oppose!
“Tempt not the horrors of the field,
“Nor brave surrounding foes!
“Nor Slavery's dungeon be thy meed!
“For Honour would disclaim the deed!
“Yet stamps the Roll that bids the battle cease!
“No more with fruitless fury burn!
“'Tis His to bid thy steps return
To Britain's realms in peace.
“Ev'n Frenzy's self would scarce oppose!
“Tempt not the horrors of the field,
“Nor brave surrounding foes!
“Nor Slavery's dungeon be thy meed!
“For Honour would disclaim the deed!
“Yet stamps the Roll that bids the battle cease!
“No more with fruitless fury burn!
“'Tis His to bid thy steps return
To Britain's realms in peace.
“'Midst the glooms of yonder dale,
“Behold prophetic visions rise!
“What tho' the Sons of Valour fail,
“Tho' I hear their generous sighs;
“Yet no wild triumph, shouting near,
“Shakes with dread arm the insulting spear;
“Or raging burns to deal the avenging blow;—
“For Freedom feels a sacred flame,
“Which never dash'd the heart with shame,
“Where heav'n-born virtues glow!
“Behold prophetic visions rise!
“What tho' the Sons of Valour fail,
“Tho' I hear their generous sighs;
“Yet no wild triumph, shouting near,
“Shakes with dread arm the insulting spear;
8
“For Freedom feels a sacred flame,
“Which never dash'd the heart with shame,
“Where heav'n-born virtues glow!
“Mourn not thy destiny: prepare
“To leave the dazzling glories of the fight!
“Be thine the lustre of a star,
“Wish not to triumph in a blaze of light!
“What tho' thy ear could never love
“To listen to the minstrels of the grove—
“Pant not to imitate the mountain bird,
“Whose voice in Snowdon's cloud-capt heights is heard.
“That darts infuriate on the trembling prey,
“High soars on rapid wing, and drinks the golden day.
“To leave the dazzling glories of the fight!
“Be thine the lustre of a star,
“Wish not to triumph in a blaze of light!
“What tho' thy ear could never love
“To listen to the minstrels of the grove—
“Pant not to imitate the mountain bird,
“Whose voice in Snowdon's cloud-capt heights is heard.
“That darts infuriate on the trembling prey,
“High soars on rapid wing, and drinks the golden day.
“Fear not now Britannia's frown,
“For Virtue still her bosom warms!
“What tho' unearn'd the Laurel Crown,
“She hails thee to her arms!
“Reclin'd upon the rocky shore,
“Haply the waves, that round her roar,
“Drown the faint murmurs of the boding sigh—
“While Demons, hovering o'er the coast,
“Proclaim the Sons of Albion lost,
“She lifts her startled eye!
“For Virtue still her bosom warms!
“What tho' unearn'd the Laurel Crown,
“She hails thee to her arms!
9
“Haply the waves, that round her roar,
“Drown the faint murmurs of the boding sigh—
“While Demons, hovering o'er the coast,
“Proclaim the Sons of Albion lost,
“She lifts her startled eye!
“Go! and bid her spread no more
“Her thunders o'er the Atlantic wave,
“While glooms destruction's threatning power,
“Pointing to the yawning grave!
“No more let War his flaming brand
“Wide wave o'er Freedom's ravag'd land,
“Where soon a glorious Empire shall arise!
“Ye Sons of falling Albion, dread
“The storm that lours around your head,
“Nor madly tempt the skies.
“Her thunders o'er the Atlantic wave,
“While glooms destruction's threatning power,
“Pointing to the yawning grave!
“No more let War his flaming brand
“Wide wave o'er Freedom's ravag'd land,
“Where soon a glorious Empire shall arise!
“Ye Sons of falling Albion, dread
“The storm that lours around your head,
“Nor madly tempt the skies.
“Ye Gods! what dauntless Chiefs have bled—
“Pour'd their last groans in Britain's cause in vain!
“What thousands join the unburied dead!
“How many a victim still may drench the plain!
“Britannia! drop thy blood-stain'd sword;
“Let Peace with dove-like pinions be restor'd!
“Behold! thy Chatham, still sincere,
“Lifts his faint voice—and pours the fruitless tear.—
“When Chatham erst thy conquering sails unfurl'd,
“Applausive nations hail'd thee Mistress of the World.”
“Pour'd their last groans in Britain's cause in vain!
10
“How many a victim still may drench the plain!
“Britannia! drop thy blood-stain'd sword;
“Let Peace with dove-like pinions be restor'd!
“Behold! thy Chatham, still sincere,
“Lifts his faint voice—and pours the fruitless tear.—
“When Chatham erst thy conquering sails unfurl'd,
“Applausive nations hail'd thee Mistress of the World.”
Henry the Fifth, who at the battle of Agincourt, with only nine thousand men, gained a complete victory over the French army, amounting to one hundred and fifty thousand.
Alluding to the affecting scene when Burgoyne's army piled their arms. It is said, that scarcely a soldier could refrain from tears at the distressing period.
11
The DEATH of HILDA;
AN AMERICAN TALE.
Why sadly glooms the waving shade,
With sighs o'er Cathmar's golden vale?
Why droops the Lily's purpled head?
Why looks the bloomless Rose so pale?
With sighs o'er Cathmar's golden vale?
Why droops the Lily's purpled head?
Why looks the bloomless Rose so pale?
Ah! glooming o'er a breathless maid—
(On Cathmar's golden vale she lies)
With mournful rustlings waves the shade,
And hides her from the conscious skies.
(On Cathmar's golden vale she lies)
With mournful rustlings waves the shade,
And hides her from the conscious skies.
12
'Tis fairest Hilda's blood imbrues
The weeping Lily's languid head:
To view the Lily's purple hues,
All the pale Rose's bloom is fled.
The weeping Lily's languid head:
To view the Lily's purple hues,
All the pale Rose's bloom is fled.
Oh! why, ye Violets, now no more
Pour thro' the dale your fragrant breath?
Its sweetness can the Violet pour?
Cold lies the Virgin—cold in death.
Pour thro' the dale your fragrant breath?
Its sweetness can the Violet pour?
Cold lies the Virgin—cold in death.
'With smiles the nymph of Cathmar's grove
Full many a summer's sun survey'd—
'Twas her's the purest joys to prove,
In Virtue's loveliest robe array'd.
Full many a summer's sun survey'd—
'Twas her's the purest joys to prove,
In Virtue's loveliest robe array'd.
Ah! few can heave the tender sigh
With all the Sense of Meekness—blest!
The melting Softness of her eye
Spoke the soft feelings of her breast.
With all the Sense of Meekness—blest!
The melting Softness of her eye
Spoke the soft feelings of her breast.
13
Retir'd from life's tumultuous scene,
Around her breath'd the tranquil breeze!
But oh! not long—not long serene!
For transient are the hours of ease!
Around her breath'd the tranquil breeze!
But oh! not long—not long serene!
For transient are the hours of ease!
What means the mingling clang of arms,
Loud echoing down the distant dell?
Hark! Horror spreads the pale alarms!
And bursts from many a moanful swell!
Loud echoing down the distant dell?
Hark! Horror spreads the pale alarms!
And bursts from many a moanful swell!
But see! a youth of graceful air,
Whose high helm gleams on Hilda's sight!
A youth well-known!—the blushing Fair
Beholds her Belmont with delight!
Whose high helm gleams on Hilda's sight!
A youth well-known!—the blushing Fair
Beholds her Belmont with delight!
“Sweet Hilda! fly the hostile train!
“Wild fury shakes the sacred wood;
“And desolation loads the plain!—
“The vulture's beak is dy'd in blood!
“Wild fury shakes the sacred wood;
“And desolation loads the plain!—
“The vulture's beak is dy'd in blood!
14
“Hither the sons of rage repair:—
“Fly, my fair Maid, the threat'ning doom;
“And seek, if safety linger there,
“The deep recess of yonder gloom.”
“Fly, my fair Maid, the threat'ning doom;
“And seek, if safety linger there,
“The deep recess of yonder gloom.”
He said: all pale her features grew,—
The sight faint languish'd in her eye!
With Belmont to the gloom she flew,—
While heav'd her breast the boding sigh!
The sight faint languish'd in her eye!
With Belmont to the gloom she flew,—
While heav'd her breast the boding sigh!
And now in Hilda's varying face,
Confus'd, the transient blushes rose!
And now, in each disorder'd grace,
The vivid fire of beauty glows!
Confus'd, the transient blushes rose!
And now, in each disorder'd grace,
The vivid fire of beauty glows!
With all the tenderness of love,
Long Belmont lov'd the beauteous Maid!
To him,—for Hilda's smiles approve,—
How sweet—how social every shade!
Long Belmont lov'd the beauteous Maid!
To him,—for Hilda's smiles approve,—
How sweet—how social every shade!
15
Of haughty heart, unmeet for love,
For her Lysander sigh'd in vain;—
That breast can pure sensations move,
Where all the fury passions reign?
For her Lysander sigh'd in vain;—
That breast can pure sensations move,
Where all the fury passions reign?
His breast the fury passions swell'd,
He could not brook the fair one's scorn:
His rival's raptures he beheld
With the dark rage of envy torn.
He could not brook the fair one's scorn:
His rival's raptures he beheld
With the dark rage of envy torn.
In anguish to the moaning gale,
While others gave the plaintive strain;
View'd with cold eye the painted vale,
And wild luxuriance of the plain;—
While others gave the plaintive strain;
View'd with cold eye the painted vale,
And wild luxuriance of the plain;—
Blest Belmont rov'd o'er meads of gold,—
In transport trac'd the green-wood streams;—
'Twas his—drear deserts to behold
Illum'd by pleasure's bright'ning beams!
In transport trac'd the green-wood streams;—
'Twas his—drear deserts to behold
Illum'd by pleasure's bright'ning beams!
16
While the pale queen of shades prevail'd,—
He, Fancy's airy flights pursued,—
The Genius of the dim rocks hail'd,
That hung romantic o'er the flood!
He, Fancy's airy flights pursued,—
The Genius of the dim rocks hail'd,
That hung romantic o'er the flood!
Ah! now no more, 'tis thine to rove
Where Fancy's fairy visions glow,—
But Fate's severest frowns to prove,
And sink beneath the tide of woe!
Where Fancy's fairy visions glow,—
But Fate's severest frowns to prove,
And sink beneath the tide of woe!
Alas! how flattering human joys!
Delusion gilds the fleeting hour;
Ah! soon—the charm—the sunshine flies—
And clouds of darkness round us lour!
Delusion gilds the fleeting hour;
Ah! soon—the charm—the sunshine flies—
And clouds of darkness round us lour!
Can'st thou the eye of death endure?
Oh! Belmont,—oh! the deadly dart!
Thy heart is innocent—is pure—
But vice inflames full many a heart.
Oh! Belmont,—oh! the deadly dart!
Thy heart is innocent—is pure—
But vice inflames full many a heart.
17
Fair Hilda! whither dost thou bend,
Sweet fluttering Maid, thy devious way?
There danger lurks—a haggard fiend!
And grimly waits his helpless prey.
Sweet fluttering Maid, thy devious way?
There danger lurks—a haggard fiend!
And grimly waits his helpless prey.
Thro' the thick gloom Lysander stray'd—
Her well-known beauties caught his gaze;
He stopp'd—and Belmont's form survey'd—
And his eye glanc'd indignant rays:
Her well-known beauties caught his gaze;
He stopp'd—and Belmont's form survey'd—
And his eye glanc'd indignant rays:
And frowning thus: “Soft Belmont!—know
“Thy heart a short-liv'd rapture warms!
“For this shall quench thy rapt'rous glow,
“And give thee death for Hilda's charms!”
“Thy heart a short-liv'd rapture warms!
“For this shall quench thy rapt'rous glow,
“And give thee death for Hilda's charms!”
He spoke—and swift a javelin threw:
Hiss'd the dark shaft with erring speed!—
But oh! with death's cold sting it flew—
And bade poor Hilda's bosom bleed!
Hiss'd the dark shaft with erring speed!—
But oh! with death's cold sting it flew—
And bade poor Hilda's bosom bleed!
18
'There softly—there, meek Spirit, sleep
Beneath the waving of the shade—
Pity shall love to sit and weep
Near the green turf where thou art laid.
Beneath the waving of the shade—
Pity shall love to sit and weep
Near the green turf where thou art laid.
Around—unswept by storms—shall blow
Each Flower, that decks the breathing Spring;
And there the Primrose pale shall grow—
And thy pale cheeks to memory bring.
Each Flower, that decks the breathing Spring;
And there the Primrose pale shall grow—
And thy pale cheeks to memory bring.
The Red-breast—when she flies abroad
From the fring'd brook to gather moss—
O'er thee shall drop its little load—
And, sadly warbling, mourn thy loss.
From the fring'd brook to gather moss—
O'er thee shall drop its little load—
And, sadly warbling, mourn thy loss.
There rest, meek Spirit, far from woe—
Beneath the waving of the shade—
As long as Pity's tears shall flow,
Shall Pity mourn her sweetest Maid!
Beneath the waving of the shade—
As long as Pity's tears shall flow,
Shall Pity mourn her sweetest Maid!
THE END.
| The spirit of Frazer, to General Burgoyne | |