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] |
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The SPIRIT of FRAZER, TO GENERAL BURGOYNE,
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 | The spirit of Frazer, to General Burgoyne |  |
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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.
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“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.
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“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;
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“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!
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“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!
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“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.
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