 | A song of triumph |  |
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A SONG OF TRIUMPH.
Break into song, ye nations!—earth rejoice,
Lift unto heav'n the triumph of thy voice!
Lift unto heav'n the triumph of thy voice!
“Is this the vaunting Chief who, drunk with war,
Mid nations chain'd to his triumphal car,
Swept on from realm to realm, while earth around
Reel'd, as her tow'rs and temples smote the ground?
This the proud Chief, sole monarch of the globe,
Who died in blood of Kings th' imperial robe,
And thron'd on wreck of empires round him hurl'd,
Soar'd like a Demon o'er a ruin'd world,
Saw but the sun above his haughty brow,
And his colossal shade on earth below;
Save where stern Freedom in her strength, alone,
Tow'r'd o'er the deep on Albion's Island throne,
At Gaul's gigantic host, her lightning hurl'd,
And held her Ægis o'er a rescued world.”
Mid nations chain'd to his triumphal car,
Swept on from realm to realm, while earth around
Reel'd, as her tow'rs and temples smote the ground?
This the proud Chief, sole monarch of the globe,
Who died in blood of Kings th' imperial robe,
And thron'd on wreck of empires round him hurl'd,
Soar'd like a Demon o'er a ruin'd world,
Saw but the sun above his haughty brow,
And his colossal shade on earth below;
Save where stern Freedom in her strength, alone,
Tow'r'd o'er the deep on Albion's Island throne,
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And held her Ægis o'er a rescued world.”
Witness Vimiera's fight, and ye the slain
Thick pil'd on Talavera's thrice fought plain,
Busaco's crest that flam'd as Gallia fled,
And Salamanca shouting o'er the dead.
Thou chief, Vittoria! thou that viewd'st the Gaul
Prone at the foot of Freedom's champion fall;
Thou that beheld'st the Conqueror's laurell'd hand
Loose the last link that gall'd each captive land,
When the chas'd Eagle on her backward flight
Swept with descending wing Pyrene's height,
When Wellesley spread o'er Gaul his hostile pow'rs,
And “crush'd beneath his foot” her beauteous flow'rs,
But left the lily on her native bed
To twine anew the wreath round Bourbon's head.
Thick pil'd on Talavera's thrice fought plain,
Busaco's crest that flam'd as Gallia fled,
And Salamanca shouting o'er the dead.
Thou chief, Vittoria! thou that viewd'st the Gaul
Prone at the foot of Freedom's champion fall;
Thou that beheld'st the Conqueror's laurell'd hand
Loose the last link that gall'd each captive land,
When the chas'd Eagle on her backward flight
Swept with descending wing Pyrene's height,
When Wellesley spread o'er Gaul his hostile pow'rs,
And “crush'd beneath his foot” her beauteous flow'rs,
But left the lily on her native bed
To twine anew the wreath round Bourbon's head.
Lo! from her neck, earth casts in scorn the yoke;
A beam of glory on the world has broke;
The light that Freedom's sun on Albion sheds
From realm to realm o'er earth new radiance spreads.
A beam of glory on the world has broke;
The light that Freedom's sun on Albion sheds
From realm to realm o'er earth new radiance spreads.
'Twas Freedom stood, at Gallia's fated hour,
On the red crest of Kremlin's burning tower,
And lanc'd with vengeful hand the flames on high
When Moscow's blaze illum'd the northern sky,
Lit the long tracts of ice, and o'er the flight
Of Gaul's lone despot cast funereal light,
When day was slaughter, night without repose,
Save when bleak winds some famish'd legion froze,
When horse and horseman fell without a blow,
And armies vanish'd, sepulchred in snow.
On the red crest of Kremlin's burning tower,
And lanc'd with vengeful hand the flames on high
When Moscow's blaze illum'd the northern sky,
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Of Gaul's lone despot cast funereal light,
When day was slaughter, night without repose,
Save when bleak winds some famish'd legion froze,
When horse and horseman fell without a blow,
And armies vanish'd, sepulchred in snow.
But thou! thou yet art living; yet the tomb
Awaits thee: yet the impenetrable gloom
That rolls its darkness round each mortal eye,
And shrouds the secret of futurity,
Rests on thy brow! Oh Thou that tow'rd'st sublime,
Earth's gaze—earth's curse—earth's mockery—man of crime!
Awaits thee: yet the impenetrable gloom
That rolls its darkness round each mortal eye,
And shrouds the secret of futurity,
Rests on thy brow! Oh Thou that tow'rd'st sublime,
Earth's gaze—earth's curse—earth's mockery—man of crime!
Fool! blind of heart! and didst thou not behold
The hand that o'er thy strength destruction roll'd:
The hand that smote th' Egyptian in his pride,
And clos'd o'er Pharoah's host the refluent tide?
But earth beheld it, when on Leipsic's plain
Death mow'd thy ranks, and gorg'd the grave with slain.
But earth beheld it, when the Calmuc lance
Rang on the iron belt that barrier'd France;
When tribes unknown, and hordes without a name,
Sped the insatiate shaft, and vengeful flame,
And in wing'd clouds of war, the Tartar band
Rush'd like the locust and consum'd the land,
The hand that o'er thy strength destruction roll'd:
The hand that smote th' Egyptian in his pride,
And clos'd o'er Pharoah's host the refluent tide?
But earth beheld it, when on Leipsic's plain
Death mow'd thy ranks, and gorg'd the grave with slain.
But earth beheld it, when the Calmuc lance
Rang on the iron belt that barrier'd France;
When tribes unknown, and hordes without a name,
Sped the insatiate shaft, and vengeful flame,
And in wing'd clouds of war, the Tartar band
Rush'd like the locust and consum'd the land,
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Away! beneath the Cossack's guardian spear
Distain'd with Gallia's blood, with Gallia's tear,
Hide thee from earth's wide rage, a second Cain
Condemn'd to live, to brood on Enghien slain,
And roam o'er Elba's rocks, a pension'd slave,
Till the dark death-worm battens on thy grave.
Distain'd with Gallia's blood, with Gallia's tear,
Hide thee from earth's wide rage, a second Cain
Condemn'd to live, to brood on Enghien slain,
And roam o'er Elba's rocks, a pension'd slave,
Till the dark death-worm battens on thy grave.
Ye realms rejoice! earth rests in peace once more;
Chiefs, crowned with conquest, seek their native shore.
Chiefs, crowned with conquest, seek their native shore.
Oh Thou, who mindful of a nation's groan,
Didst sooth its pang, regardless of thine own;
When, in her beauty, like the morning star,
Went the devoted bride, and clos'd the war;
Thou! whose mail'd strength, ere earth was bath'd in blood,
Lone mid the van of either army stood,
And when on doubtful poise the battle hung,
In Fate's suspended scale the falchion flung,
And turn'd the beam; lo, grac'd with spoils of war
Wreath'd peace o'ershadows thy imperial car,
And waves thy banner high, and wide displays
Thy eagles basking in the solar blaze.
Didst sooth its pang, regardless of thine own;
When, in her beauty, like the morning star,
Went the devoted bride, and clos'd the war;
Thou! whose mail'd strength, ere earth was bath'd in blood,
Lone mid the van of either army stood,
And when on doubtful poise the battle hung,
In Fate's suspended scale the falchion flung,
And turn'd the beam; lo, grac'd with spoils of war
Wreath'd peace o'ershadows thy imperial car,
And waves thy banner high, and wide displays
Thy eagles basking in the solar blaze.
Chief! who in conflict with opposing fate
First felt'st thy strength, in trial truly great,
Who like a pharos, mid the storms of night
Spread'st far and wide a flame of loftier light;
Whose heart beat high, when answering to its call
Thy nation, an arm'd realm, confronted Gaul;
Go, in thy glory, greet thy patriot land,
Go in the strength of Blucher's war-worn hand,
With Fame's bright torch the shades of death illume,
And victory's sword replace on Frederic's tomb.
First felt'st thy strength, in trial truly great,
Who like a pharos, mid the storms of night
Spread'st far and wide a flame of loftier light;
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Thy nation, an arm'd realm, confronted Gaul;
Go, in thy glory, greet thy patriot land,
Go in the strength of Blucher's war-worn hand,
With Fame's bright torch the shades of death illume,
And victory's sword replace on Frederic's tomb.
And thou, who from far Don, and Neva's wave
Bad'st thy arm'd millions forth, thy fce to save,
In vain the voice of eloquence, in vain
The Muse for thee sublimes her loftiest strain,
The word thou spak'st, beyond a Homer's song,
To time eternal shall thy fame prolong.
Bad'st thy arm'd millions forth, thy fce to save,
In vain the voice of eloquence, in vain
The Muse for thee sublimes her loftiest strain,
The word thou spak'st, beyond a Homer's song,
To time eternal shall thy fame prolong.
Imperial Chief, in her disastrous day,
On her bow'd flag when France before thee lay,
When nought between thy sword and vengeance stood,
Save the void boundary mark'd with Gallia's blood,
When, at thy doom, a nation's life and death
Hung on a word and trembled at a breath,
Why gush'd the tear from Conquest's glowing eye?
Does Moscow rush upon thy memory,
Her glories gone, and o'er a nation's pyre
Imperial Kremlin turretted with fire?
Speak—the grim Calmuc hanging o'er his prey
Implores for ravaged earth one vengeful day,
And like a tiger springing from his lair,
Seizes his hoarded torch, and waves in air.
Speak—a breath'd sound enwraps the realm in flame,
Nor leaves of Paris—save an empty name.
Angel of mercy! Thou that view'd'st the tear,
Thou whose stretch'd arm staid death in mid career,
Bear to the throne of heaven the conqueror's word,
“Thou art aveng'd, proud Moscow! sheath the sword.”
On her bow'd flag when France before thee lay,
When nought between thy sword and vengeance stood,
Save the void boundary mark'd with Gallia's blood,
When, at thy doom, a nation's life and death
Hung on a word and trembled at a breath,
Why gush'd the tear from Conquest's glowing eye?
Does Moscow rush upon thy memory,
Her glories gone, and o'er a nation's pyre
Imperial Kremlin turretted with fire?
Speak—the grim Calmuc hanging o'er his prey
Implores for ravaged earth one vengeful day,
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Seizes his hoarded torch, and waves in air.
Speak—a breath'd sound enwraps the realm in flame,
Nor leaves of Paris—save an empty name.
Angel of mercy! Thou that view'd'st the tear,
Thou whose stretch'd arm staid death in mid career,
Bear to the throne of heaven the conqueror's word,
“Thou art aveng'd, proud Moscow! sheath the sword.”
The sword is sheath'd—Peace waves her angel wings,
And heaven's fair light o'er earth and ocean flings.
Britain, exult! and ye, her flower and pride
Who stemm'd the war, and turn'd th' ensanguin'd tide,
Peace steers your prow, the sail to Albion bends,
And Victory's banner o'er her shrine suspends.
And heaven's fair light o'er earth and ocean flings.
Britain, exult! and ye, her flower and pride
Who stemm'd the war, and turn'd th' ensanguin'd tide,
Peace steers your prow, the sail to Albion bends,
And Victory's banner o'er her shrine suspends.
Hail, England's Sons! proud race renown'd of old:
Race of the Lion heart, and manly mold,
Ye like your far-fam'd sires, by victory led,
O'er Gallia's realm your banner'd leopards spread.
'Twas on her field, when host to host oppos'd
Paus'd on the edge of battle ere it clos'd,
When France and England, as in strife of yore
In rivalry of empire, met once more,
Time measur'd back his course, before your sight
Gaul's vaunted oriflamb there wing'd its flight,
Death, with keen aim, before the sable mail
Twang'd the tough yew, and showered the arrowy hail:
So Agincourt's advancing banners flew,
And Crecy's clarion to the battle blew.
Race of the Lion heart, and manly mold,
Ye like your far-fam'd sires, by victory led,
O'er Gallia's realm your banner'd leopards spread.
'Twas on her field, when host to host oppos'd
Paus'd on the edge of battle ere it clos'd,
When France and England, as in strife of yore
In rivalry of empire, met once more,
Time measur'd back his course, before your sight
Gaul's vaunted oriflamb there wing'd its flight,
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Twang'd the tough yew, and showered the arrowy hail:
So Agincourt's advancing banners flew,
And Crecy's clarion to the battle blew.
Hail, Caledonia's strength! Ye plum'd your pride,
And rang'd your tartan robes on England's side.
Sons of the brave! They bade you front the foe,
Yet taught your pulse to keep its temperate flow,
Bade you when flash the war-flames on your sight,
Eye the wide field presageful of the fight,
And when confusion maddens all around,
Pause ere you strike, and meditate the wound.
Mute, motionless, as nature seems to sleep
While broods the tempest o'er th' unbillow'd deep,
Ere from th' incumbent cloud, mid whirlwinds driven,
Flashes the spark commingling earth and heaven;
Thus, from rang'd Scotia's ranks, when Gaul drew near,
Rang the dread clash that fill'd the brave with fear,
When, pois'd to strike, in charge of battle set
Gleam'd red with flame their death-fix'd bayonet.
And rang'd your tartan robes on England's side.
Sons of the brave! They bade you front the foe,
Yet taught your pulse to keep its temperate flow,
Bade you when flash the war-flames on your sight,
Eye the wide field presageful of the fight,
And when confusion maddens all around,
Pause ere you strike, and meditate the wound.
Mute, motionless, as nature seems to sleep
While broods the tempest o'er th' unbillow'd deep,
Ere from th' incumbent cloud, mid whirlwinds driven,
Flashes the spark commingling earth and heaven;
Thus, from rang'd Scotia's ranks, when Gaul drew near,
Rang the dread clash that fill'd the brave with fear,
When, pois'd to strike, in charge of battle set
Gleam'd red with flame their death-fix'd bayonet.
Hail, Erin's gallant race! whose footstep gay
Sprang to the battle as a banquet day:
When, as the banner floated, and from far
The voice of Wellesley preluded the war,
In untam'd hardihood th' Herculean boy
Leapt, challenging the field, and sang for joy.
Sprang to the battle as a banquet day:
When, as the banner floated, and from far
The voice of Wellesley preluded the war,
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Leapt, challenging the field, and sang for joy.
The Hero comes; the festive pomp prepare
With shout and gratulation rend the air!
Hush the deep plaint of woe; awhile restrain
The sigh that inly mourns the warrior slain;
To Britain's high renown be glory giv'n,
And the mute pray'r in secret breath'd to heaven.
With shout and gratulation rend the air!
Hush the deep plaint of woe; awhile restrain
The sigh that inly mourns the warrior slain;
To Britain's high renown be glory giv'n,
And the mute pray'r in secret breath'd to heaven.
Thou! whose bold step, wherever glory led
From realm to realm Britannia's victories spread,
Whether thou wrap'd'st Barrossa's brow in flame,
Or fird'st Sebastians' fort, intrepid Gräme!
Firm Beresford! whose arm had strength to wield
A nation's fate on Lusitania's shield;
Hope! whose brave hand clos'd Moore's fame-fixed eye,
When Conquest's shout had sooth'd his latest sigh,
Then wav'd his banner o'er the Hero dead,
And to fresh fields his conquering legions led;
Cotton! whose squadrons, where thou leds't the way,
Rush'd like a storm, and swept war's firm array;
And Hill! who mid the living and the dead,
When Gaul's fresh ranks the flames of battle fed,
Tow'r'dst, as thy single host their shock withstood,
And purpled Bayonne's border stream with blood;
Fam'd Chiefs! to grace the Hero's state, advance
Mid cow'ring eagles borne from vanquish'd France,
And blazon'd flags that wide in air display'd,
O'er-canopy his brow in floating shade.
Thus with high harmonies, and solemn song,
Thro' arcs of triumph lead his pomp along;
There Britain's Senate, Britain's Champion greet,
Heap war's rich spoils, and plan his proud retreat;
With the bold compass of imperial Rome
Spread its vast seale, and swell its trophied dome;
There on the breathing stone and pictur'd wall
Bid British art the Hero's wars recal,
And, on another Blenheim, soaring Fame
With Marlbrough's spread triumphant Wellesley's name.
From realm to realm Britannia's victories spread,
Whether thou wrap'd'st Barrossa's brow in flame,
Or fird'st Sebastians' fort, intrepid Gräme!
Firm Beresford! whose arm had strength to wield
A nation's fate on Lusitania's shield;
Hope! whose brave hand clos'd Moore's fame-fixed eye,
When Conquest's shout had sooth'd his latest sigh,
Then wav'd his banner o'er the Hero dead,
And to fresh fields his conquering legions led;
Cotton! whose squadrons, where thou leds't the way,
Rush'd like a storm, and swept war's firm array;
And Hill! who mid the living and the dead,
When Gaul's fresh ranks the flames of battle fed,
Tow'r'dst, as thy single host their shock withstood,
And purpled Bayonne's border stream with blood;
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Mid cow'ring eagles borne from vanquish'd France,
And blazon'd flags that wide in air display'd,
O'er-canopy his brow in floating shade.
Thus with high harmonies, and solemn song,
Thro' arcs of triumph lead his pomp along;
There Britain's Senate, Britain's Champion greet,
Heap war's rich spoils, and plan his proud retreat;
With the bold compass of imperial Rome
Spread its vast seale, and swell its trophied dome;
There on the breathing stone and pictur'd wall
Bid British art the Hero's wars recal,
And, on another Blenheim, soaring Fame
With Marlbrough's spread triumphant Wellesley's name.
And thou, thron'd Chief of Britain's generous race,
Thou, whose proud empire rests on Freedom's base,
Whose scepter'd sway, that wide o'er earth extends,
With man's stern justice godlike mercy blends;
Thou! underneath whose Ægis, Afric stands,
And casts the fetter from her blood-stain'd hands,
The while thy warning voice on every wind,
Averts from earth the curse of humankind;
Whose dauntless spirit, in that awful day
When the crush'd earth beneath mail'd Gallia lay,
Prescient of victory ere the field was won,
Girded a nation's strength round Wellington:
Hear! at the voice of Britain's grateful isle
Crown with her gift the Hero's trophied pile.
Unrivall'd work, where British Art has wrought
The vast conceptions of poetic thought,
And to a wondering world display'd once more
The Buckler, such as erst Pelides bore:
A nation's offering to its chosen Chief:
Where war and peace come out in full relief,
And swelling on the sight, in image bold,
Great Homer's genius glows in breathing gold.
Thou, whose proud empire rests on Freedom's base,
Whose scepter'd sway, that wide o'er earth extends,
With man's stern justice godlike mercy blends;
Thou! underneath whose Ægis, Afric stands,
And casts the fetter from her blood-stain'd hands,
The while thy warning voice on every wind,
Averts from earth the curse of humankind;
Whose dauntless spirit, in that awful day
When the crush'd earth beneath mail'd Gallia lay,
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Girded a nation's strength round Wellington:
Hear! at the voice of Britain's grateful isle
Crown with her gift the Hero's trophied pile.
Unrivall'd work, where British Art has wrought
The vast conceptions of poetic thought,
And to a wondering world display'd once more
The Buckler, such as erst Pelides bore:
A nation's offering to its chosen Chief:
Where war and peace come out in full relief,
And swelling on the sight, in image bold,
Great Homer's genius glows in breathing gold.
Round the proud pile the triple realms shall stand,
Race link'd with race by Freedom's guardian band,
Lift the glad voice, the song of triumph raise.
“Thine, Lord of Hosts! to thee alone the praise!”
Race link'd with race by Freedom's guardian band,
Lift the glad voice, the song of triumph raise.
“Thine, Lord of Hosts! to thee alone the praise!”
It will not, I hope, be deemed presumptuous, to suggest in this manner, the proposal of presenting by national subscription, the shield of Achilles wrought in massive gold, as an appropriate trophy, to Britain's unrivalled Hero.
Mr. Flaxman's spirited design for this magnificent work, has long been the admiration of the lovers of art, and the shield, of the diameter of 36 inches, with the figures, in its various compartments, nearly 8 inches in height, will ere long be completed from the model of that eminent sculptor.
| A song of triumph | |