University of Virginia Library

Awake, Voltaire! with warmth, with rapture raise
Th' applauding Pœan, and the song of praise:
Again thy Fred'ric mounts the victor's car,
Again he thunders in the front of war;
Back to the desart flies the routed Gaul,
And proud Vienna shakes from wall to wall.

He hears me not—thy genius, France! prevails;
The poet feels but for his own Versailles;
With secret curses eyes the hero's sword,
And hates that virtue which he once ador'd.

And shall a king whose triumphs far exceed,
The boasted glories of the Greek, and Swede,
Who more than Cæsar, with a brighter ray
Ascends, and shines imperial Rome away,—
Shall he thro' ages spread his mighty name
Without a verse to wait upon his fame?
Has Britain lost her spirit, soul, and fire?
Has she no patriot who dare touch the lyre?
Yes—while I live, thy virtues, prince! shall be
For ever sacred to the muse, and me.
What tho' I herd but with the vulgar throng,
The last, the lowest of the sons of song,
Thy bold exploits shall give my soul to glow,
My pulse to kindle, and my vein to flow;
Exalt my spirit, animate my line,
And lend my numbers all the strength of thine.

Now had pale fury drove her iron car
From fields of slaughter, and from wastes of war;
Returning peace led on the vernal year,
Sheath'd the keen sword, and broke the lifted spear,
Wide o'er the world her olive branch display'd,
And call'd the nations to its hallow'd shade.
And now the arts, inflam'd with gen'rous strife,
Rose in the softness of domestic life,
Exulting labour tam'd the stubborn plain,
The sail of commerce took up all the main,
With bolder wings th' immortal muses flew,
And science trimm'd her faded wreath anew.

Ambition sigh'd—for now she heard no more
The war's loud thunder break from shore to shore;
No more beheld proud monarchs, meanly vain,
Rank'd in her files, or number'd in her train;
Lost to the glare of life she lay unblest
In the lone cell of solitary rest,
Where spleen's pale visions round her slumbers throw
Eternal sadness, and a pomp of woe.
In vain kind nature pours upon her eye
A softer sunshine, and a richer sky,
Spreads the wild forest, heaves the cloud-topt hill,
Waves in the wood, and flows along the rill:
Woods, wilds, and waters to her sense decay,
The warblers languish on the vocal spray,
Unclouded suns in heav'ns clear azure fade,
And night's black horrors wear a deeper shade.

At length arous'd she feels her wonted flame,
Revives, and opens to the voice of fame:
She sees new triumphs rising to her view,
And, wing'd by rapture, to Vienna flew.
'Twas night—lull'd softly by the western breeze
Fair Austria slumber'd on the couch of ease,
When, as of old the first infernal pow'r
Stole on the sweets of Eden's nuptial bow'r,
And skill'd alike to flatter and deceive,
Crept in a reptile to the ear of Eve;
So now ambition, with a nobler mien,
Approach'd, and whisper'd thus the sleeping queen.

“Canst thou, O princess! thou, whose glory springs
From heav'n-born heroes, and a race of kings,
Resign'd, and cool, to yonder Prussian yield
Silesia's sceptre, and her fruitful field?
Rise to thy wrongs, assert thy injur'd reign,
And bid the sword of vengeance rage again:
Tear from his hand the empire he has won,
This moment crush him, or thou art undone.
Secret, and strong, beneath his native fires,
The haughty genius of his soul aspires;
His realms enlarge, his sails begin to fly
O'er ev'ry ocean of the Polar sky.
Rich harvests rise upon his barren waste,
His crowded cities are the seats of taste;
Another year's autumnal sun shall see
His broad dominions stretch from sea to sea,
Perhaps shall see him on th' imperial throne,
Europe enslav'd, and half the world his own.”

Thus spoke the fiend, and, with delusive art,
Breath'd her black spirit through Teresa's heart:
Rapt into future scenes she minds no more
The faith she plighted, and the oath she swore;
Strong, and more strong, the vision lives imprest,
Conquest's dread genius takes up all her breast,
Paints on her soul, in luxury of thought,
Th' ideal glories of a war unfought,
The laurel-wreath, the military show,
The car of triumph, and the captive foe.
And now the queen, unfeeling, false, and vain,
Plans the wide ruin of a bold campaign,
Thro' all the North with all her spirit raves,
And wakes the nations in their huts, and caves,
With wild barbarians crouds her wanton war,
The savage croat, and the fierce hussar;
Fires the proud Saxon's sanguinary vein,
And rouzes all the dæmon of the Seine,
Leagues kings with kings, fills Europe with alarms,
Shakes heav'n and earth, and sets the world in arms.

O curst ambition! to each vice allied,
Begot by mischief in the womb of pride,
What ills, dread fury! from thy genius flow!
What awful scenes of unimagin'd woe!
Before thy footsteps, wrapp'd in flames of fire,
Sinks the tall column, and majestic spire.
Close at thy side her sword fell slaughter waves,
Midst bleeding piles, and ever-op'ning graves:
The plague behind thee, with her tainted breath,
Sweeps thro' the nations on the wing of death;
Neglected genius in his cell expires,
To other worlds fair liberty retires,
The patriot muse forgets her voice divine,
Religion leaves her violated shrine,
And ev'ry meek-ey'd virtue pines and mourns,
Midst falling temples, and sepulchral urns.

The Prussian saw at one keen glance from far
The gath'ring tempest, and impending war:
He saw, and instant bids his armies form,
Heads the bold march, and bears upon the storm.
In vain the forest big with death extends,
The rampart thunders, and the flood descends;
In vain the foe each open field declines,
Hides in the trench, or lurks within his lines:
He storms the rampart, fords the rapid flood,
Leaps the broad trench, and clears th' enambush'd wood;
Now presses on, now reins his dread career,
Pours on the van, or steals upon the rear,
Marks ev'ry crisis, shines in ev'ry scene,
And is at once a Marlbro', and Eugene.
At length, in all the pomp of war, advance
Th' imperial eagles with the arms of France,
A mighty host, whose awful files contain
The vet'ran warriors of the Marne and Maine.
And will he yet, when nations round him close,
And his thin ranks scarce number half his foes,
Will he, ye heav'ns! th' unequal conflict try,
And brave his fate when glory bids him fly?
Ah! ought avails it that immortal fame
Fill'd her fond Clarion with her Fred'ric's name?
Avails it ought that justice learnt to awe
Misguided nature from his code of law?
That warm'd, and foster'd by his genial eye,
Transplanted science own'd the Polar sky?
That Greece and Taste upon the Baltic smil'd,
And new Lyceums open'd in the wild?
Alas! one moment—the bright scene is o'er:
He falls—he dies—and Prussia is no more.

Yet shall not France, in this her blissful hour,
Her dream of empire, and her pride of pow'r,
An easy, cheap, unbleeding conquest know,
Or rear her trophies o'er a flying foe:
For now the monarch, e'er he gives the sign,
Serenely dreadful moves along the line:
The legions, far as each keen glance can fly,
Mark his firm step, and hang upon his eye;
That eye whose lightning terror round him flings,
That step which seems to tread on thrones, and kings.
At every look thro' all th' embattled van
The pulse of glory beats from man to man:
The soldier kindling at his prince aspires,
Swells with his hopes, and burns with all his fires;
Yet, 'midst his ardors, owns a softer flame,
And feels for Fred'ric while he feels for fame.

And now the sun, whose orb shall set in blood,
Faints on the umbrage of the western wood;
The distant hills in each horizon fade,
And night comes on in all her gloom and shade:
And now the trumpet's animating sound
Peals on the ear, and shakes the field around,
When, as the whirlwind tears its rapid way,
Roots up the rock, and sweeps the plain away;
Fierce on his foe th' intrepid Prussian springs,
Drives thro' his van, and breaks into his wings,
Wraps his whole war in one tremendous fire,
And sees the prowess of his host expire.
Th' imperial chiefs no more the shock sustain,
Their fainting battle bleeds in ev'ry vein;
France flies impetuous on the wings of fear,
And hungry slaughter feeds upon his rear.

Yet stay thee, prince! all conqueror as thou art,
Indulge the milder virtues of thy heart,
Restrain fierce vengeance in her rage of ire,
And let us love the monarch we admire.
All that on earth proud conquest gives to shine,
All the dread glories of the sword are thine:
The victor-wreath applauding states decree,
The sacred Pœan only swells for thee.
Another toil remains e'er yet thy name
Bears the full splendor of unclouded fame.
Enjoy that nobler fame—bid discord cease,
And lay pale Europe in the lap of peace:
Then shall the muse, who now thy triumph sings
O'er routed nations, and repenting kings,
With rapture wait thee to thy sylvan bow'r,
And watch the glories of thy softer hour,
When Rome's fine arts beneath thy shield shall win
A fairer laurel in thy own Berlin.
There fix the school of beauty, and adorn
Worlds unexplor'd, and empires yet unborn.