Malvern Hills with Minor Poems, and Essays. By Joseph Cottle. Fourth Edition |
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WAR, A FRAGMENT. |
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 | Malvern Hills |  |
135
WAR, A FRAGMENT.
IF the whole tract of WAR dense ills afford,
What are your crimes, ye guardians of the sword!
At whose dread summons countless scabbards fly,
While murders fill the earth, and shrieks, the sky!
What are your crimes, ye lords of wealth and power!
Who loose your “war-dogs” in Ambition's hour,
And, heedless, view your subjects bleed and groan
To add some bauble to a burden'd throne!
The searching hour shall come, nor slowly creep,
When Justice, starting from her couch of sleep,
Shall seize the long-neglected sword of fate,
And call to vengeance earth's mistitled Great!
What are your crimes, ye guardians of the sword!
At whose dread summons countless scabbards fly,
While murders fill the earth, and shrieks, the sky!
What are your crimes, ye lords of wealth and power!
Who loose your “war-dogs” in Ambition's hour,
And, heedless, view your subjects bleed and groan
To add some bauble to a burden'd throne!
The searching hour shall come, nor slowly creep,
When Justice, starting from her couch of sleep,
Shall seize the long-neglected sword of fate,
And call to vengeance earth's mistitled Great!
Amid the brave, the generous, and the pure,
Thy name, O Kosciusko! shall endure:
And, though to gain a people equal laws,
Thy weary limb a clanking fetter draws,
Yet, what sustains the good man's suffering breast,
Shall, though endungeon'd, give thy spirits rest.
Still smile, undaunted smile, though tempests lour;
Still, in thy greatness, scorn her boasted power,
Whom neither laws of God or man can bind!
Who wars, as interest serves, on all mankind.
For thee shall sound Compassion's softest dirge,
Thy name descend to Time's remotest verge
With growing honours crown'd; and o'er thy grave
The bay shall bloom, the verdant laurel, wave.
Thy name, O Kosciusko! shall endure:
And, though to gain a people equal laws,
Thy weary limb a clanking fetter draws,
Yet, what sustains the good man's suffering breast,
Shall, though endungeon'd, give thy spirits rest.
Still smile, undaunted smile, though tempests lour;
Still, in thy greatness, scorn her boasted power,
136
Who wars, as interest serves, on all mankind.
For thee shall sound Compassion's softest dirge,
Thy name descend to Time's remotest verge
With growing honours crown'd; and o'er thy grave
The bay shall bloom, the verdant laurel, wave.
Why in our annals shines the hero's name?
What are his claims to greatness and to fame?—
The wasters' rude of Chili's happy land—
The blood-drunk conquerors of Indostan's strand—
And all the train of warriors, as they rose,
Feasting, from age to age, on human woes?
What the fierce rival's of Moscovian Czar?
Or His, who tore Darius from his car?—
Scourgers of earth! and heralds of dismay!
Pests of mankind! and whirlwinds of their day!
From whose example blushing History rakes
Her nest of scorpions, and her brood of snakes!
What are his claims to greatness and to fame?—
The wasters' rude of Chili's happy land—
The blood-drunk conquerors of Indostan's strand—
And all the train of warriors, as they rose,
Feasting, from age to age, on human woes?
What the fierce rival's of Moscovian Czar?
Or His, who tore Darius from his car?—
Scourgers of earth! and heralds of dismay!
Pests of mankind! and whirlwinds of their day!
From whose example blushing History rakes
Her nest of scorpions, and her brood of snakes!
What countless pangs to such have owed their birth!
What blood, and sweeping rapine, fill'd our earth!
To grant these tyrants unexplored domain,
How many a fruitful clime has desert lain!
And to delight these monsters' lordly pride,
How many an eye hath wept, and bosom sigh'd!
What blood, and sweeping rapine, fill'd our earth!
To grant these tyrants unexplored domain,
How many a fruitful clime has desert lain!
And to delight these monsters' lordly pride,
How many an eye hath wept, and bosom sigh'd!
The hostile chief, in conquest's honours drest,
Sporting the trophy'd car, and nodding crest,
But little thinks, or, thinking, little cares
How hard the inmate of the cottage fares;
How many widows mourn, with sorrow vain;
How many orphans weep their fathers slain:
He heeds not that, where slaughter'd thousands lie,
Each left a friend sincere to heave the sigh;
That each, while crush'd by Ruin's ponderous car,
Cast a fond glance on relatives afar,
And, as he dropp'd the tear for those behind,
Curst, in his pangs, the murderers of mankind!—
E'en while his limbs look ghastly in their wounds,
And victory's shout, from hill to hill, resounds,
He faintly hears a daughter's frantic cry!
A son's pale image swims before his eye!
Ah, fond delusion! these shall live to tell
The far-off country where their father fell;—
What blazon'd warrior led him to his doom,
To gain, he knew not what, to fight, he knew not whom!
Sporting the trophy'd car, and nodding crest,
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How hard the inmate of the cottage fares;
How many widows mourn, with sorrow vain;
How many orphans weep their fathers slain:
He heeds not that, where slaughter'd thousands lie,
Each left a friend sincere to heave the sigh;
That each, while crush'd by Ruin's ponderous car,
Cast a fond glance on relatives afar,
And, as he dropp'd the tear for those behind,
Curst, in his pangs, the murderers of mankind!—
E'en while his limbs look ghastly in their wounds,
And victory's shout, from hill to hill, resounds,
He faintly hears a daughter's frantic cry!
A son's pale image swims before his eye!
Ah, fond delusion! these shall live to tell
The far-off country where their father fell;—
What blazon'd warrior led him to his doom,
To gain, he knew not what, to fight, he knew not whom!
Amid the scenes, we hear, but to abhor,
Which follow still the gory heels of War,
Who shall recount the tales that once inspired
The heart with pity, or the bosom fired
With indignation? Many a Winter's snow
And many a lengthen'd Summer's sultry glow
Have pass'd between! No more they move the breast,
Lost in the lapse of time, with Heaven they rest!—
Which follow still the gory heels of War,
Who shall recount the tales that once inspired
The heart with pity, or the bosom fired
With indignation? Many a Winter's snow
And many a lengthen'd Summer's sultry glow
Have pass'd between! No more they move the breast,
Lost in the lapse of time, with Heaven they rest!—
Perchance, of maiden o'er the hostile plain,
Seeking her lover, mid the ghastly slain,
Till, in the slaughter'd heap, she views his face,
And, dying, clasps him in her last embrace.
Or, of the youth, from peaceful home who stray'd
To learn in evil hour the warrior's trade.—
Stretch'd, wounded, on the field, behold him there!—
Heaving, in agony, the fervent prayer,
Whilst, with faint-glimmering eye, and visage pale,
He marks the screaming vulture round him sail.
Or, of the cottage-child that pines for bread,
And lisping calls upon his father—dead!
At whose approach, when eve her shadows threw,
To meet his sire he oft with gladness flew;
Saw with delight the loaf his arm sustain'd,
And shared the meal his honest toil had gain'd;
Now, in the wars laid low, mid hunger's pain
He sobs to see his father's face again,
Whilst the rack'd mother hides her anguish deep,
And, weeping, bids her baby cease to weep.
Seeking her lover, mid the ghastly slain,
Till, in the slaughter'd heap, she views his face,
And, dying, clasps him in her last embrace.
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To learn in evil hour the warrior's trade.—
Stretch'd, wounded, on the field, behold him there!—
Heaving, in agony, the fervent prayer,
Whilst, with faint-glimmering eye, and visage pale,
He marks the screaming vulture round him sail.
Or, of the cottage-child that pines for bread,
And lisping calls upon his father—dead!
At whose approach, when eve her shadows threw,
To meet his sire he oft with gladness flew;
Saw with delight the loaf his arm sustain'd,
And shared the meal his honest toil had gain'd;
Now, in the wars laid low, mid hunger's pain
He sobs to see his father's face again,
Whilst the rack'd mother hides her anguish deep,
And, weeping, bids her baby cease to weep.
Methinks I hear some frowning Warrior cry,
‘We live inglorious, or we nobly die.
‘Let Women thus their timid spirits goad,
‘And weep o'er Emmets crush'd in Glory's road;
‘Men love the sound of arms; the tale of war;
‘To hear its bold achievements from afar;
‘To see the martial ranks retire, advance;
‘Now view with furious rage the charger prance;
‘Now hear rich music fill the ambient air,
‘And now behold the sun-bright falchion's glare;
‘And though, mid conflict dire, by fate decreed,
‘All cannot triumph, some must bravely bleed,
‘Yet, in their parting hour, disdaining dread,
‘The hero's pride shall raise their drooping head;
‘They leave a name, by valour, deathless made;
‘They leave a nation grateful for their aid;
‘They dare, with triumphs crown'd, resign their breath,
‘And, mid their country's glory, smile in death.’
‘We live inglorious, or we nobly die.
‘Let Women thus their timid spirits goad,
‘And weep o'er Emmets crush'd in Glory's road;
‘Men love the sound of arms; the tale of war;
‘To hear its bold achievements from afar;
‘To see the martial ranks retire, advance;
‘Now view with furious rage the charger prance;
‘Now hear rich music fill the ambient air,
‘And now behold the sun-bright falchion's glare;
‘And though, mid conflict dire, by fate decreed,
‘All cannot triumph, some must bravely bleed,
‘Yet, in their parting hour, disdaining dread,
‘The hero's pride shall raise their drooping head;
‘They leave a name, by valour, deathless made;
‘They leave a nation grateful for their aid;
139
‘And, mid their country's glory, smile in death.’
140
These senseless words, as baits, to folly thrown,
May charm the multitude, to thought unknown;
Yet, with indignant spirit, Truth disdains
To crouch in silence, bound by Falsehood's chains;
The poet, in such numbers as he may,
The spoils of war, unshrinking, dares display.
Where are the thousands, and ten thousands slain?
How, in fame's annals, do they live again,
Who, following some proud captain to the chase
Of man and murder, closed their mortal race?
The victors perish with the ranks o'erthrown!
The slayer and the slain are both unknown!
May charm the multitude, to thought unknown;
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To crouch in silence, bound by Falsehood's chains;
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The spoils of war, unshrinking, dares display.
Where are the thousands, and ten thousands slain?
How, in fame's annals, do they live again,
Who, following some proud captain to the chase
Of man and murder, closed their mortal race?
The victors perish with the ranks o'erthrown!
The slayer and the slain are both unknown!
143
The peaceful peasant, lured by War away,
Weeps through the night, and sorrows through the day.
He little dreams, whilst number'd with the brave,
What dangers lurk to sink him to the grave!
He little knows what fierce opponents wait
To hand the chalice at the hour of fate!
Few are the favour'd breasts who sudden feel
The gun's swift ruin, or the murderous steel;
Too often, wounds, the sinking frame, oppress,
Torpid and pale, with hopeless wretchedness:
Or, if from wounds protected he remain,
Distemper's venom swells his burning vein:
A foe's damp prison bounds his feeble view,
Whilst on his brow sits Death's untimely dew:
Or, in the bark that bore him to the fight,
He breathes the air of pestilence and night;
Upon his scanty hammock, rests his arm,
And, sighing, asks for War's seductive charm,
For which he left a father's house, alone,
To pine unnoticed, and to die unknown;
Whilst, thick around, expiring veterans lie;
His sad participants in misery!
These are no scenes, in Fancy's clothing, drest,
Framed with strange cares to pierce the feeling breast;
But true, too true, for, ere they bade farewell,
Thus, oh, ye mothers! thus your children fell!
Weeps through the night, and sorrows through the day.
He little dreams, whilst number'd with the brave,
What dangers lurk to sink him to the grave!
He little knows what fierce opponents wait
To hand the chalice at the hour of fate!
Few are the favour'd breasts who sudden feel
The gun's swift ruin, or the murderous steel;
Too often, wounds, the sinking frame, oppress,
Torpid and pale, with hopeless wretchedness:
Or, if from wounds protected he remain,
Distemper's venom swells his burning vein:
A foe's damp prison bounds his feeble view,
Whilst on his brow sits Death's untimely dew:
Or, in the bark that bore him to the fight,
He breathes the air of pestilence and night;
Upon his scanty hammock, rests his arm,
And, sighing, asks for War's seductive charm,
For which he left a father's house, alone,
To pine unnoticed, and to die unknown;
Whilst, thick around, expiring veterans lie;
His sad participants in misery!
These are no scenes, in Fancy's clothing, drest,
Framed with strange cares to pierce the feeling breast;
But true, too true, for, ere they bade farewell,
Thus, oh, ye mothers! thus your children fell!
On foreign soil, while conflict raged around,
These ears have heard the martial clangor's sound;
These eyes have witness'd Briton's sons deform'd,
From field ensanguined, or from fortress storm'd;
Beheld the villagers, with pallid cheek,
Wait for the news, their hearts too full to speak;
The mother, clasp her baby to her breast,
Crying, “Ere long, we both in peace shall rest.”
These feet have strayed, some office kind to pay,
Where the brave soldier on his pallet lay;
Explored War's Hospitals, by pity led,
Where the maim'd veteran lean'd his aching head!
No spirit loved, to hear his parting vow!
No friend, to wipe the dew-drop from his brow!
Cold, damp, and dark the place, dismember'd, mean,
And the long range, the same funereal scene!
Where silence reign'd, companion of despair,
Save, when some groan disturb'd the sleeping air!
The vacant glance, proclaiming woe supreme,
The haggard look, still haunts my midnight dream:
Still, some I see, with supplicating eye,
Implore compassion from the passer-by;
While e'en Humanity, to love awake,
Stood doubtful where her earliest choice to make!
These ears have heard the martial clangor's sound;
These eyes have witness'd Briton's sons deform'd,
From field ensanguined, or from fortress storm'd;
Beheld the villagers, with pallid cheek,
Wait for the news, their hearts too full to speak;
144
Crying, “Ere long, we both in peace shall rest.”
These feet have strayed, some office kind to pay,
Where the brave soldier on his pallet lay;
Explored War's Hospitals, by pity led,
Where the maim'd veteran lean'd his aching head!
No spirit loved, to hear his parting vow!
No friend, to wipe the dew-drop from his brow!
Cold, damp, and dark the place, dismember'd, mean,
And the long range, the same funereal scene!
Where silence reign'd, companion of despair,
Save, when some groan disturb'd the sleeping air!
The vacant glance, proclaiming woe supreme,
The haggard look, still haunts my midnight dream:
Still, some I see, with supplicating eye,
Implore compassion from the passer-by;
While e'en Humanity, to love awake,
Stood doubtful where her earliest choice to make!
| Malvern Hills | |