Ode to the Duke of Wellington, and other poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Round the sad spot where, stretch'd on Earth's dark bed,
Sleep the pale ashes of a mighty dead,
Though blazon'd trophies deck'd with martial grace,
Shrine the last relics of a far fam'd race,
Time's icy touch shall mar the sculptur'd bust,
And mould'ring statues feed their native dust;
But when some Chief, who fir'd by Glory's charms,
With ardent bosom seeks the shock of arms
Where martyr'd Freedom lifts her dying call,
Bursts a fell bondage, points a Tyrant's fall;
His deathless fame shall scorn an earthly doom,
And proudly soaring, mock the sculptur'd tomb.
And Thou, whose worth the Lyric God of day
Should stamp immortal with immortal lay,
Whose arm hath shone in deeds of battle tried,
A World's great Bulwark, and thy Country's pride!

xix

If Earth's wide fabric spurns the lapse of time,
And tow'ring Virtue blasts the hopes of Crime;
If Crowns unfading meet the brave above,
In the bright regions of celestial love;
On buoyant wing thy praise shall soar on high,
And smile at Fortune, as it sweeps the sky.
No ruthless Rapine stains thy spotless name,
Nor wanton carnage blots thy flight to fame;
Ambition's self, whose stern and deadly frown
Soils the bright lustre of a Monarch's crown,
Shrinks from thy piercing glance, nor dares to shed
One drop of venom on thy laurell'd head.
E'en that great Chief, who all resistless hurl'd
His blazing thunders o'er a vanquish'd world;
Through farthest Earth his gilded banners bore,
While conquest fann'd them, streaming oe'r the shore;
Mov'd like a God, with Vict'ry in his train,
As Fortune trembled in his tenfold chain;
And, when red slaughter swell'd the tide with blood,
Fix'd fate in bondage at the Granic flood;

Soil'd with black crimes, debas'd a victor's sword,
Till fetter'd kingdoms curs'd their tyrant lord.
But round thy Crown, what heav'nly splendours twine,
What wreaths unfading bind thy brow divine!
See, wond'ring nations lift their just applause,
To bless the Champion of their sinking cause;
Bid Fame's loud trumpet ring through every clime,
And blaze thy Triumphs—deathless, as sublime:
While, more than worlds, a great, an high-thron'd God,
Still guards thy honours with almighty nod;
Whose arm unseen, 'mid battle's raging tide,
Turn'd hostile thunders from his Hero's side;
Bursts the black guile a perjur'd City wove,
When murd'rous hands to glut their vengeance strove;
And, though e'en Hell should spread its blackest night,
Drags yon foil'd Traitor to an hated light.
Then, may His will, to whom all homage raise,
To years of glory lengthen out thy days:

xxi

May peace and virtue crown each happier hour,
And grateful Europe rain the gifted shower:
May thy bright race enhance their Parent's name,
And tread triumphant in his steps to fame.

xxiii

ODE TO THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON.

Arma, virumque, cano —Vir.

Wake, Muse Æolic, wake; inspire
The living strains of Pindar's lyre,
The lofty lay, the poet's fire,
The bold enraptur'd tone:
Strike, strike the strings in swelling notes,
Hark! loud triumphant music floats
In lengthen'd echoes thrown:
From mount, from crag, from rock around,
Each gale returns the varied sound;
The vaulted arch, the dales rebound,
With Wellesley's martial name:
While the proud concave of the sky
Rolls back, in thunder from on high,
The brazen blast of fame.

Hail genial gem! hail radiant star!
Hail beacon light of Britain's war!
Whose crimson'd glories streaming far,
Unsullied, pure, divine,
While in their course the planets run,
While flames the orb of India's sun,
Shall ever dimless shine.
Yes, Hero, yes, through every clime
Thy name, in peerless flight sublime,
Stamp'd on the airy wings of time,
Shall scorn the shafts of Fate;
Rouse each bold breast with patriot ire,
Each warrior's heart with conq'ring fire,
And teach him to be great:
And as the tow'ring bird of Jove
Scorns the dull field, the common grove,
As though he sought in realms above
The thunders of his God;
So Thou, as fresh as dawning day,
Though stars themselves shall pass away,
Though tott'ring spheres shall nod,

High-thron'd in dazzling rays shalt rise
To seek, mid'st nations wond'ring eyes,
With stoopless soar, the vaulted skies,
The wreath of high renown;
Where Glory beams with fairest light,
And Valour waves his pennon bright
Around the warrior's crown.
And while the splendours of thy name,
Thus deathless grace the page of fame,
—Thy country's pride, a tyrant's shame!
And shrine that hallow'd day
When first Thy Mother gave thee birth,
Pledge of Thy future—present worth,
To fire the poet's lay;
Fair virtue's beams around thy head
Their kindred lustre widely spread,
That throne the living and the dead;
And crown'd with spotless bliss,
Grant the freed soul its just reward,
Stamp'd by the hand of Heaven's high Lord,
In happier worlds than this.

Thy mind hath scorn'd the hell-born brood
Of bandit chiefs, who thirst for blood,
Who deeply drink the crimson flood,
The life-stream of the brave;
Who fraught with stern and ruthless rage,
Hurl harrow'd nations ev'ry age
To one wide tearless grave.
The world's great lord (when glory's blast
Proclaim'd him conq'ror as he pass'd,
And bore with laurell'd pride at last
His legion eagles home;
When bugles breath and trumpets throat
High tun'd their triumph's brazen note,
And rang through startled Rome;
While shackled kings behind his car,
And captive chieftains from afar,
(The living spoils of Afric's war)
His chariot wheels around
Dragg'd a sad length of galling chain,
And as it clanked and clanked again,
Half trembled at the sound,

Saw venom'd bane his laurels blight;
And soil with shade of darksome night
The trophies of his proudest fight;
The triumphs of his sword:
Ambition, dyed with deadly hue,
Full on his face her fell smile threw,
And scared the mighty Lord.
'Midst pomp of gorgeous state reclin'd,
Despair and anguish rack'd his mind,
And bade his tortur'd fancy find
Dark images of death:
While Conscience swell'd the trumpet's clang,
And fancied Vengeance loudly rang
His sentence with their breath.

And did Ambition o'er thy soul
Wield her stern rod and dark control,
Deep in thy ear the death peal toll,
And bid the blood stream flow?
Was it Thy wish to hear the moan
Of orphan babes, the filial groan;
To view the mother's woe

Wail her lost pride with madding cries,
Who stabb'd before its parent's eyes,
An hapless victim bleeding lies
In youth's first budding bloom:
And frantic curse the lawless hand
Whose sanguine ruffians blast their land,
And weave the deadly doom?

No! 'twas the noblest, boldest cause,
Unsheath'd the sword that Justice draws,
Which bade Thee shield the sacred laws
Of Heaven, of earth, and man;
Which rous'd in arms thy braver breast,
From tyrant grasp a world to wrest,
And vindicate their plan.
'Twas the sharp pang which nations feel,
When bow'd by stroke of gory steel,
Their social structures, stricken, reel
Beneath the triple yoke,
Which that free name to Rome so dear,
Yet dew'd with Mem'ry's balming tear,
Would ne'er, like thine, have broke.

Yes, 'twas a murder'd people's throes,
Who bath'd in blood, denied repose,
With tongue that gasps, and eye that flows,
Implor'd an outrag'd God
To snatch from fate's wide op'ning grave
The relics of the injur'd brave;
To blast the tyrant's rod:
And, by Thy arm, their life was giv'n,
The spell was broke, the chain was riv'n,
Th' almighty frown of vengeful Heav'n
Will'd that great task to Thee:
To still the pangs of falling Spain,
To burst her adamantine chain,
To set a people free.

O'er fetter'd Europe, widely gor'd
By stern Napoleon's lawless sword,
When at each wound a torrent pour'd,
To join the wid'ning flood;
Fell Discord rear'd her frantic crew,
And deeply dyed in sanguine hue,
Quaff'd the full bowl of blood.

Beneath the Gallic despot's power,
Dark Treason's form was seen to lower,
And midnight Murder wait the hour
Her dagger's thirst to cloy.
Then crested Carnage rear'd her head;
Strode, proudly strode, o'er heaps of dead,
And grimly smil'd with joy:
While round the wreath that bound his brow,
Ambition's self bade nations bow,
Bade prostrate kings kneel humbly low;
And reeking yet with gore,
Exalted sate, to crown the scene,
O'er levell'd thrones that once had been,
But glitter'd then—no more!

Screen'd 'mid the shade of atheist gloom,
The kindred monsters o'er the loom
Swore that dread oath which seal'd the doom;
And bade yon Source of Day,
(Darkling his spell-bound beauties) shroud,
And veil within a circling cloud,
The glories of his ray.

But when Thy star, from glory's throne,
Through that dark mist resplendent shone;
Th' infernal sprites, with startling groan,
All struck with conscious fear,
Sprang wildly back amid the dead,
To plunge in lowest Styx their head,
And shook, lest Valour's spear,
Firm in thy hand, at one dead stroke
(Their Gorgon shield to atoms broke,)
Should turn their savage joy to smoke,
Their triumph to despair;
And arm'd with point of keenest light,
Unfold their haunts unhallow'd night
To day's bright beaming flare.

On Spain's high hills, where Gallia's host
Swore on proud Lisbon's towers to post
Their flesh-fed eagles gilded boast,
Thy arm there bore to fight
Fair Freedom's flag—there first display'd
The wreath to martyr'd patriots paid,
Who fall their land to right.

Thy martial bugle all around
Bade men grow heroes at the sound,
Swell'd every breast with ardent bound,
To spurn inglorious ease.
There rose the streamers floating high,
There wav'd beneath a favouring sky,
The banners with the breeze.
Fir'd by Thy zeal, th' embolden'd throng
With martial ardour pour'd along;
Burst the foul chain, though trebly strong,
Beneath thy piercing glance:
Turn'd the bright beam of Vict'ry's scale;
Made Fortune's self, receding, fail;
And whelm'd the hopes of France.
Lo! where entrench'd like giant rock,
Horse, foot, their steely masses lock;
The new-sprung gallants seek the shock
With flash of kindling eye;
And boldly prodigal of life,
Rush, mid the battle's glorious strife,
To conquer, or to die.

'Ere yet o'er Europe's fetter'd waste
Thy foot the steps of Freedom pac'd,
In Eastern climes bright Vict'ry trac'd
The dawning of thy fame:
On blazon'd annals, brightly told,
Thy triumphs shone in streams of gold,
While Glory stamp'd thy name.
On Assaye's plain thy guardian hand,
Though fearful odds had bade thee stand,
Forc'd the dread scourge of India's land
Defeat and flight to find:
Swept Scindeah's fierce and swarthy host,
Back'd e'en by Frenchmen's empty boast,
Like dust before the wind.

Beneath Thy flag, the flag that flows
The pride of friends, the dread of foes,
Our hallow'd cross resplendent rose,
With pure unsullied light;
That cross where meek-ey'd Mercy knelt;
Where heav'nly Justice wakeful dwelt,
And rul'd the tide of fight.

Wide o'er yon heights, whose cloud-capp'd crown
O'erhangs the glories of its town,
The waving crescents proudly frown,
Fann'd by the gale's soft breath;
While ordnance gaping on the foe
Who rashly seeks the moat below,
Point the dread storm of death.
Hark, clamour rends the troubled sky!
With manly bosom beating high,
“On to the breach!” The British cry,
Their boldest at their head:
Forward they press with boundless force,
Like some vast torrent's swollen course,
Through mountains of the dead:
Both foot to foot, and blade to blade,
The meed is fix'd, the gage is laid,
With life or death the price is paid,
The Bastions stream with gore;
Through every street, and ev'ry gate,
The cannons wing the bolt of fate,
And triumph as they roar!

Fierce was the fray, but Britain! thine,
Thine was the palm where glories twine,
And circling splendours join to shrine
That happy, fame-fraught hour;
When thy bold heroes won the fight,
Fix'd the red banner on yon height,
And scath'd a tyrant's power.
Dauntless though base, though savage brave,
The fiery Sultan dar'd the grave,
And scorn'd by recreant flight to save
A life soon doom'd to fall;
Firm at the gap, he brav'd the blow;
With proud defiance met the foe,
And fiercely fac'd them all.
And as the lion roaring rears
(Press'd by a grove of hemming spears)
His crested mane; undaunted hears
The bullets hiss around;
Breaks through the throng, the steely wood,
Through jav'lins reeking in his blood,
And glories in the wound:

So spurring on his foaming steed,
He meets, the fate by Heaven decreed,
A deadly ball; yet, happy meed,
For him who scorns to fly!
Stretch'd on the earth, with clay cold brow,
Lies that great monarch bleeding now,
Who oft had dar'd to die.

But when Rebellion rais'd her head
O'er kingdoms darken'd with their dead,
And proudly spurn'd with impious tread
Their altars, and their fanes;
When Gallia's blood-stain'd atheist crew
Soil'd monarchs in the dungeon's dew;
To nations threaten'd chains:
Thy gallant chief, their pride to freeze,
Sped his swift flight through foaming seas,
Through billows swelling with the breeze,
And roaring in their rage:
O'er falling Europe spread the shield;
Bade kings the sword of vengeance wield,
All panting to engage.

Led by his arm thy daring bands
Flew, swiftly flew o'er hailing lands,
With kindling hearts and flashing brands,
To conquest, and to Spain:
Check'd the proud course of pouring hosts,
And shouted Freedom through her coasts,
Till Europe rang again.
His gallant zeal to vict'ry's side
Turn'd struggling states, by wrongs allied,
Taught tyrant factions upstart pride
To bend a vanquish'd knee,
Beneath that flag which, wrapt in fire,
Wakes the quick flame of patriot ire,
The flag of Liberty!

Yes, those fierce troops, inured to arms,
To rapine, plunder, and alarms,
Who lur'd by blood, defil'd the charms
Of fair, but martyr'd Peace:
Who hurl'd a monarch's humbled trust
With shiver'd sceptre to the dust;
And bade an Empire cease:

Scar'd by that hand whose manly clasp
Shakes tyrants, trembling in its grasp,
Lifts injur'd monarchs from the gasp
Of death, and dark decay;
Fled, basely fled, with cow'ring heart,
Like wolves beneath the hunter's dart,
Like leopards from the day:
Saw flashing gun, and piercing spear,
Hurl fate and carnage in their rear;
Saw the red bolt of vengeance near,
To right a nation's wrong;
Saw Conquest shrinking from their view,
And sweeping fire with vivid hue
Mow their faint line along;
While glowing thousands all around
Dash'd their foil'd standards to the ground;
While floating 'mid the battle's sound,
'Mid chargers as they prance,
Saint George's banners stream'd on high,
Flash'd back the splendour of the sky,
And swept the soil of France.

First on Vimeira's craggy height,
His risen sun with vict'ry's light
Shone, proudly radiant through the fight,
To cheer a gallant cause;
Spurr'd youthful heroes' ardent breast
To rise at valour's high behest,
And conquer with applause:
Thence, thence was trac'd the burning ray,
Till thron'd in fame's meridian way,
It fram'd intolerable day,
To scare the tyrant's eye;
Which vainly strove with impious look
To pierce Fate's dark and hidden book,
Its secrets to descry,
Till in huge burst the threaten'd flame
With light'nings speed all vengeful came,
Whelm'd the proud boast, th' imperial name,
And forc'd its recreant lord,
Dash'd from his triumph's empty pride,
To kneel to those whom he defied,
And stoop beneath their sword.

Busaco's field shall add a crown,
To stamp the Hero's high renown,
As the wild meads, the woods that frown,
All echo to the lyre,
Which stamps their fight in swelling song,
And boldly raptur'd pours along
In strains of lofty fire.

On Talavera's tow'ring hill,
By golden Teio's rapid rill,
His verdant fame shall flourish, still
The highest of the high:
There his brave hand with valiant stroke
The galling chain of bondage broke,
And bade its minions fly;
Dash'd from the mountains craggy steep
(Like light'ning flashing o'er the deep)
The wakeful foe, who scorning sleep,
Would plant his eagles there;
Whose gilded flight would soar in blood,
And Britain's hopes amid the flood
With iron talon tear.

On Salamanca's blood-dy'd plain,
What peals! what havoc foams again!
'Tis Wellesley's self who dares for Spain
The worst a chief can brave:
His eagle glance, with instant thought,
One fatal error quickly caught,
And that—the Gallic grave.
Strain'd to the stretch, and spurr'd to speed,
Each warrior plies the gallant steed;
O'er piles of dead, o'er heaps that bleed,
With gore-dy'd hoof he flies:
Scar'd at the sight, yon trembling foe
Breaks up the rank to shun the blow,
And charged—encircled—dies.

On bright Vittoria's fertile space,
Soil'd with sad slaughter, blood, disgrace,
The fear-struck Gaul with panic pace,
Flies, cow'ring, 'mid th' alarms,
While horse and foot in heavy clang,
And stab and stroke, all mingling, rang
The deep ton'd din of arms:

Saw the proud pomp which, vainly great,
He brought to deck his mimic state,
Doom'd by the scourging hand of Fate
To grace the Victor's train.
Hurl'd from those joys, he spurs, he speeds,
But press'd by thousands, widely bleeds,
And marks his flight with slain:
Reft of his crown, his peace, and fame;
With haggard look, and heart-wrung shame,
The puppet King from steel and flame
Now spurs his flying horse:
Hark! hostile coursers press behind,
Rush darting on the wings of wind,
And track the Traitor's course:
Their gallant Lords now ride in view:
They see—they spur—they urge anew—
The cow'ring upstart pallid grew—
Hark! 'twas a carbine rung!
Some busy demon turn'd the ball;
Or Spain had triumph'd in his fall,
And seen the viper stung.

But see! yon Band now pours to fight,
Nerv'd by despair, despising flight,
Round the fall'n Chief their ranks unite:
Then speeding to the strife,
Stay the dread bolt of instant death,
Redeem the Traitor's forfeit breath,
And save a bitter'd life.
Yes, torn by guilt's corrosive dart,
Rack'd by remorse, by scorpion smart,
Stampt by the curse that ne'er shall part,
His fame he cannot save:
Oh! it were well if aught, when dead,
Could heap oblivion on his head,
And shroud him in the grave.

Lo! yon proud Mountain's cloud-capp'd line,
Where hoary forests tow'ring twine,
Where gloomy glades with squadrons shine
With armour flashing wide:
England, and Spain, in steep advance,
Tread their bold way to trembling France;
And scale the craggy side,

Till tir'd of flight her columns stand;
Till turn'd by shame each haughty band,
Like tyger press'd by hunter's hand,
Springs forward on the foe:
Gall'd by reproach, they dare to die;
Reckless of life, they scorn to fly,
Or lay their ensigns low.
But Britons, eager to engage,
Unbroke, a deadly conflict wage;
Brave the fierce rush of madding rage;
And, firm as sea-beat rock,
“On! on!” they cry; “the day's our own—
“Each bayonet shall prove it won—
“They cannot stand our shock.”
Oh! still 'twere awful to behold
A sight too wond'rous to be told,
As the gay squadrons trick'd with gold,
Round the steep Mountain rise:
As though, for earthly bounds too great,
They sought a wider space for hate
Amid the boundless skies!

The strife is o'er—the day is won,
Now sets, for aye, the Gallic sun.
See! routed, swept, her columns run;
Run scatter'd o'er the plains,
As Valour's self, to crown the tale,
Gives England's banners to the gale,
And crimson'd Conquest reigns.
And as, convuls'd, in bellowing roar,
Loud Ætna's heights the fire streams pour,
Awhile the flaky torrents soar,
Then thund'ring to the ground,
Sweep the tall wood, the tott'ring town:
Hurl the burst Mountain, blazing, down,
In one wide ruin round:
Earth gapes—the wide abyss below
Yawns, as though smit by Demon's blow;
Yon orb of day, now sinking low
Sets, dy'd with streaks of blood!
While the huge ocean flares, and foams;
Rolls its red waves o'er prostrate domes
Drown'd in the fiery flood:

So Wellesley's Bands, by Wellesley led,
Forth from their height triumphant sped,
Scar'd a strange soil with conqu'ring tread,
And proud in Vict'ry's trust,
Bore Freedom on the wings of Fate,
Whelm'd a base Tyrant's borrow'd state,
And hurl'd him to the dust.

Strike, louder strike the thrilling lyre!
Breathe in each strain a bolder fire:
Let soul-wrapt Fancy dare aspire,
And shrine with deathless praise,
That fight which crown'd our Champion's name,
And stampt upon the page of Fame
An all immortal blaze.
Let the bold Muse, on tow'ring wing,
Through the wide world his glories sing:
Let the far Poles with Pæans ring;
And Fame, to valour true,
Bid the loud blast in triumph rise,
And earth re-echo to the skies,
The Field of Waterloo.

Lo! where, enwrapt by sable night,
The British Bands all pant for fight;
Count the black hours that shroud their might,
And couch'd upon the clay,
With fev'rish minds, and beating breast,
They scorn the thoughts of sluggish rest,
And hail the dawn of day.
Dark was the night: the arrowy hail
Pour'd hurtling on each mount and vale:
And the rude demon of the gale
Wak'd the wild winds to rage:
Loud Boreas, riding on the blast,
With whirlwind's wings swept roaring past,
A kindred strife to wage:
But when the Sun's bright burnish'd car
Through Heav'n's wide portals shone from far,
Flash'd on each casque the flame of war;
Up starting from the ground
They point the gun, they snatch the blade,
While Soignee's dark and woody glade,
Like light'ning beam'd around;

Stride the proud steed who, free from fears,
Champs his bright bit, and snorting rears
Mid the mann'd grove of bristling spears,
All panting for alarms:
With swelling bosom then they cry,
“Friends, we may fall—but never fly.—
“To arms, to arms, to arms—!”

Lo! on yon hill, with haggard face,
The musing Tyrant strides apace,
While all around, his pomp to grace,
The minion Marshals stand;
As erst the fallen angel stood
Encircled by his hell-doom'd brood,
And brav'd th' Almighty's hand!
When starting from his soul-fix'd trance,
A ling'ring look he cast on France,
Then o'er the field, where vict'ry's chance
Hung pendent in the air;
Emblazon'd arms with glancing pride
The god of day's bright beams defied,
And shot a mystic flare.

There Britain's blood-red banner flows,
And frowning death on atheist foes,
The crimson'd Lion rampant rose,
With stern, and vengeful frown:
Elate with pride, with rapine bold,
The Gallic Eagles blaz'd in gold,
And seem'd to grant a crown.
Then bursting forth—“I'll think no more—
“Fate wills it so—let cannon roar—
“Perish yon baffled host—'tis o'er—
“My Fortune gilds the day;—
“Ho! Marshals there! give out the word,
“Charge! sweep yon slaves beneath the sword,
And onward to the fray.”
Fir'd at the speech, both foot and horse
Form the long line—the massy force
Sweeps o'er the plain in rapid course
With hopes, and bosom warm:
But Wellesley's care, and eagle eye,
The rising whirlwind can descry,
And marks the coming storm.

Swift through the ranks with light'ning's speed
He boldly guides his bounding steed;
“Stand Friends, stand firm, nor blush to bleed
“At Europe's sacred call—
“Each to his post—they come, they come,
“Sound the loud trumpet—beat the drum—
“Right nobly face them all!”

Each gallant breast then beating high,
Sworn on their ground to win or die,
They stand resolv'd—and such a cry
Of Wellesley! Wellesley! rose,
That the dread sound, as o'er the plain
Its thund'ring echoes rang again,
Half chill'd the charging foes.

Now ardent France in mad'ning shock
Pours on the foe, whose squadrons lock
Firm, as the front of tow'ring rock,
With hand and heart, and head:
With haughty look the charge they brave,
Turn on the foes the deaths they gave,

And heap their steps with dead:
Foot set to foot, with hostile rage,
And soul-fix'd hate, the strife they wage:
Death pays the fine; but life the gage
That crowns the victor's might;
For well they knew that Europe's fate
On vict'ry's balance pendent sate,
And mark'd the chance of fight.
High on his steeds and blood-dy'd car
Sweeps o'er the plain the god of war:
Shakes his huge lance, and joys afar
In din of clashing arms:
While dread Bellona o'er the field
Rears her red crest, her gorgon shield,
And thunders in alarms.
Charg'd with loud death, and bellowing roar,
Their fiery storm the cannons pour,
Shake the deep line, and wet with gore
Fly, killing with their breath;
Tear the green earth, as though they sought
That curs'd abode where demons fought,
In the black haunts of death.

Stretch'd on bright honour's early bier,
Bedew'd by valour's moist'ning tear,
The hero lies who, scorning fear,
Leaps reckless to the grave;
And life fast ebbing from his heart,
Smiles at grim death, defies his dart,
And falls, amid the brave!

Begirt with flames, which soaring high
In smoky wreaths ascend the sky,
Yon stately pile, where warriors vie,
Now totters to the ground:
While 'mid the gloom, each flitting spark
Illumes the foeman's visage dark,
And lights the fray around.

Here Picton fell!—He boldly bled,
As to the charge his bands he led:
Thrice glorious mark! the bullet sped;
Fate winged it to its aim.
But o'er his tomb shall Mem'ry tell,
How Picton fought—how Picton fell!
And balm the martyr'd name.

But what red glare with sudden stroke
Scares the dark gloom, the sable smoke,
As heav'n's red bolts the night had broke,
Conflicting storms to light—
Or Sol's dread car, when half the world
The madding steeds to ruin hurl'd,
Shone fierce and grimly bright?
Lock'd in gay steel, now trebly tried,
In maily armour flashing wide,
Yon tow'ring bands exulting ride,
With shout, with din, and clang;
Whilst, as their pond'rous squadrons speed,
And foams for fight each bounding steed,
Corslet and cuirass rang.

Next, lur'd by blood, the fiery Pole
Scorns the fell thunders as they roll;
Shakes his bright lance, and nerves his soul
No prostrate foe to spare.
But Britain's chiefs their charge defy,
“Break up the line,” they loudly cry,
“And rally in the square.”

Firm in that square they brave the blow:
A glance of stern defiance throw:
And boldly wait the rushing foe
With levell'd gun and blade:
While fair Albania's martial pride
Now joys to fight by England's side,
And deems her valour paid.
With waving Tartan's graceful fold,
And azure plaid in circles roll'd,
With plumy bonnet, bound with gold,
Wide waving to the wind;
Her gallant Bands in bright array,
Sworn all to fall, or win the day,
Quail'd the fierce Lancer's mind.

Hark! as the foremost squadrons dash,
With spears all pointed for the crash;
Each levell'd gun, each flaring flash
Told a dread day of ire:
Full on the Foes, who spur to die,
Like rapid rain the bullets fly,
Girt with a bellowing fire;

Mad'ning with wounds the startled horse
Hurls from his back the bleeding corse:—
They shrink—but lo!—with sweeping force
The Cuirassiers advance:
“Fall those that may—the day is won—
“Forth on the slaves—rush boldly on—
“And fleece them with the lance!”
Glanc'd from their mail with ringing sound,
The baffl'd balls, now deaden'd, bound
Like hailstones from the frozen ground,
Or shiver'd on a rock:
Fiercely they charge; while bending low,
The vengeful Polack aims the blow;
Anticipates the shock.
And (though She gain the glorious meed
To valour's worth by Fame decreed)
Now Britain's self is doom'd to bleed
Beneath the sweeping sword.
Oh! could the song, the Poet tell
What casques were cleft, what heroes fell,
What gallant hearts were gor'd!

But still, unbroke, her warriors stand:
Pay death by death, turn hand to hand:
While bow'd by stroke of flashing brand
Full many a crest is shorn:
When stabbing spear with musket met,
When sabre clash'd with bayonet,
And many a banner torn!
They fought not here to claim a glove,
Or win a Lady's silken love,
'Twas Europe's fate that bade them prove
Their conquest with their blood.
Here crimson'd Carnage held her reign,
Triumphant strode o'er heaps of slain,
And revell'd in the flood.

But see!—what dusty columns rise,
And seem to shade the cloudless skies,
When flashing death in Gallia's eyes
The Guards now burst to day:
Their jet-black steeds all foam for fight,
And rush, exulting in their might,
With Scotia's gallant Grey;

With nodding plumes, and banners spread,
With blazing crests, and clamour dread,
They shake the earth with thund'ring tread;
The whirlwind rushes by:
And while the coursers scour the plain,
Loud shout—“Revenge for comrades slain,
“We'll triumph, or we'll die!”
Swift at their head bold Uxbridge speeds:
Their ardent Bands to conquests leads,
To valour's prize, and martial deeds,
With manly look and mien:
And, as at once resolv'd he stood
To yield his breath for England's good,
Immortaliz'd the scene.
Full on the foe, now cloy'd with gore,
The stern Battalions fiercely pour:
Then peal'd the fight in deaf'ning roar;
The shouts of battle bray:
In Fortune's balance widely tost,
They fell—they conquer'd—won—or lost,
As ebb'd the eddying fray.

Horse set to Horse, and Man to Man,
From rank to rank grim Slaughter ran:
But who in British hearts can scan
The cow'ring chill of fear?
With brandish'd blade, and vengeful frown,
They strike the cuirass, batter'd down,
And hew the shiver'd spear.
Nor triple steel, nor lance avail,
Where dastard fear the mind can quail;
The sev'nfold shield, the steely mail,
But hides a coward's heart:
In Briton's soul there burns a fire
Which flames in death; outlives his ire;
And shines upon his dart!

Now Conquest, dy'd in crimson hue,
On England's helm triumphant grew;
Her Bands, exulting as they flew,
The sword of vengeance wield:
The prostrate Gauls expire in death,
Rode, trampled down, they yield their breath;
Their thousands strew the field.

There—sons of Erin—gallant train!
Ye well aveng'd your Leader slain:
With deadlier stroke Ye paid again
The blow Ye wept to see:
Ah! noble Chief, as o'er Thy grave
The tear-drop falls, that shrines the brave—
Sleep on—blest Ponsonby!

Where now is Gallia's Lord renown'd?
Has He, amid the raging sound,
The deathless wreath of Valour found?
Dar'd the dark jaws of Fate?
No; on yon shelter'd hill He stands,
And views from far his slaughter'd bands
With look of fellest hate.
Shorn of their pride, their vaunting mind,
His squadrons fleeing on the wind,
Scarce 'scape the Foe who spurs behind,
And havoc in their rear:
His downcast Chiefs imploring aid,—
Vain promised hope—too long delay'd—
Wail the black ruin near.

And like the torrent's swelling course,
Which bursts the mound that stems its force;
With deaf'ning roar and clamour hoarse
Rolls its white waves around;
When some broad dam, or alpine wood
Checks the loud tide, the dashing flood,
And turns it to the ground:
So the foil'd Tyrant's passions swell;
Grant his torn soul a wider Hell;
From his spent tongue the accents fell—
To spend their curse in air;
He stamps—he foams—he strikes his breast—
Cries—“Forward!—Forward!—give me rest,
“Ye Scorpions of Despair!”

Not so—not lurking mid the fray—
The British Hero marks the day:
He scorns from Battle's tide to stay,
While Carnage stalks in gore;
While dying warriors mark the strife;
And martial glory cheapens life,
Fast fleeting in the roar:

Swift o'er the field where madding France
Now fiercely grasps at Vict'ry's chance,
Like light'ning's bolt He speeds the glance:
Then, bounding on his steed
Where Danger rear'd his Gorgon head,
He boldly rush'd where Conquest led,
To triumph or to bleed.
Lo! swept by charge of thund'ring steel,
Yon toil-spent masses fainting reel,
The weaken'd bolt they scarce can deal,
When Wellesley bursts to sight:
“Stand friends, once more—'tis England calls,
“Fame weaves the wreath for him that falls,
“Turn—rally to the fight—”
With fire-new valour fierce they turn;
With freshen'd hope their Bosoms burn;
A living Crown—a glorious urn—
Came flashing in their eyes:
Brac'd every nerve and heart on flame,
The Gallic wolves again to tame,
And hurl them from their prize.

Where ruin rears its black'ning form,
And havoc hovers in the storm,
There, there, He flies, each heart to warm
To dare the deadly die:
Though round Him swells the purple tide;
And Heroes dropping by his side,
Bath'd in their life-blood lie.

Here gallant Gordon, early great,
With patriot valour brav'd his fate:
Shed his bright blood to shield the state;
And sank—a setting sun!
But grateful Glory joins with Fame,
To blend the Hero's hallow'd name
With fallen Cameron!
Though Ossian's harp now sleeps below,
And Celtic strains no more shall flow,
Wake the sad chord that strikes to woe,
And prompt the pitying tear;
Yet Morven's maids shall weep their doom;
In beauty's bosom raise their tomb,
And consecrate their bier.

Hark! on the right, what cheering cries
In spreading notes of Triumph rise,
Pierce Heaven's wide vault—the concave skies
With pealing echoes tear;
What streaming standards sweep along,
What blazing banners shade the throng
That, charging, thunders there?
'Tis Blucher comes—he comes, at last—
Now Gallia's hour of pride is past,
Her sun is set—the die is cast—
The Prussians cleave her crown:
Full on her Flank the cannons roar,
Their fiery deluge fiercely pour,
And mow her squad'rons down.
Their pressing Bands now crowd the field;
Their brandish'd blades aloft they wield;
Spur their proud steeds—the onset pealed—
Earth thunders as they fly;
Loud shout the press—“Come, Comrades, come—
“Sound trumpets—Ligny!—beat the drum—
“REVENGE and VICTORY!”

The fainting Gauls scarce stand the blow:
No more a proud defiance show:
Their broken lines half fly the foe,
Who glories in the fray:
With wings wide hov'ring in the air,
The keen-eyed vultures of Despair
Now mark their carrion prey.

Thrice happy hour! great Wellesley cries,
Now Vict'ry twines the laurel prize!
Then speeds his glance, his gladden'd eyes,
Where Blucher's squadrons shine:
Midst martial notes and cheering sounds,
His foaming charger proudly bounds
Along the British line:
“Now, gallant Friends, for Britain's right,
“One effort more—one stroke of might
“Close your brave toil—and crown the fight—
“Then—forward to the charge—
“Dash the bright spurs in charger's flanks,
“Sweep with loud shock yon trembling ranks,
“Cry, England and Saint George!”

Then rose the shout, the din, and clang;
Then, Vict'ry! Vict'ry! loudly rang;
Till the bold cry with piercing pang
Smote the fell Tyrant's heart:
When o'er his brow such tempests grew,
Like as some fiend of blackest hue
Had stampt him with his dart.
Their meed, their prize now full in view,
One eager look—one glance they threw—
Then o'er the plain resistless flew,
Their Chieftain at their head:
Each gallant heart now throbbing high,
Oh! could they fail to win the die,
By such an Hero led!
The routed Gauls now strew the sand:
They shrink—they fall—they cannot stand:
In one wide mass their fear-struck Band
Flies scatter'd o'er the plain:
But dark Confusion speeds behind;
Pale chilling Panic palls their mind;
And havoc heaps their slain.

Here England halts—her blood that flows—
Her toil—her wounds—all, claim repose.
But Prussia's Bands still track the foes,
Now quicken'd by their fear:
First in their van grim Terror strides;
While blood-smear'd Vengeance sternly rides
With Ruin in their rear:
Though car-borne Phœbus, fiercely bright,
Deep in the ocean sinks to night;
Fair Cynthia sheds her temper'd light,
And beams upon the ground:
Casts the soft ray on each pale corse—
On helm and blade, on man and horse—
To light the slaughter round.

Fresh from the Field's triumphant test,
By Conquest crown'd, by Glory blest;
With conscious pride and raptur'd breast,
The Hero marks their flight:
Sees British valour seek the sky,
And kindred ardour, soaring high,
Track its red course with light.

But when the Slaughter's sanguine hue
O'er his full eye its horrors threw:
When dying warriors met his view,
Yet welt'ring in their gore;
Who fir'd by Fame's inspiring charms,
Bore his bright standards—shar'd his arms—
And now—to share no more!
In melting grief his manly mind
To streaming sorrow joy resign'd;
Pale weeping willows softly twin'd
To shroud the Soldier's grave:
And as he bent to bless their bier,
Dew'd their bright Relics with the tear
Which Friendship, drooping, gave.

Stretch'd on the Earth's dark cold clay bed,
With youth yet circling round his head,
Illustrious Brunswick greatly bled:
Pride of his People's love!
When freedom rouz'd the bugle's breath,
He heard the call—he rush'd to death,
And fell—to shine above.

Weep, Britain, weep, awake to woe:
Hush the loud sounds of triumph low:
Bid the sad strains of sorrow flow:
Bid dirges peal the toll:
Wail the great loss, the spirit gone,
A martyr'd Hero's fallen son,
And strike upon the soul.
Deep o'er his urn let Glory trace
His feats of arms; his noble race;
Let sculptur'd trophies lend their grace
And crown the Hero's name:
'Grave the bright oath that wak'd his doom,
Spurr'd his great Mind to scorn the tomb,
And strung his soul to Fame.

Freed from the danger's theaten'd stroke,
Her galling bond by Wellesley broke,
Now Europe spurns the servile yoke,
On Gallia wreaks her chain;
The meteor light that stream'd in blood,
Sets deeply sinking in the flood,
Sets,—ne'er to rise again.

Yes, Tyrant! Yes, thy thread is spun:
Thy transient course of vict'ry run:
Black ruin blots thy darken'd sun,
And rises in the storm:
While Conscience marks thee for despair;
Knocks at thy heart; and raving there,
High rears her frantic form.
To sting the world thou'st done thy best:
Now scourging Justice mars thy rest;
Thy venom cankers in thy breast
As curses blast thy birth:
And the fell Fiend that rais'd thy Crown,
With scoffing malice tramps thee down,
A reptile on the earth.
Had'st thou but dar'd the shades of night,
And welcom'd Fate amid the fight:
One glist'ning streak of spotless light
Had gloss'd thy name below:
Then in the tomb thy guilt had slept:
Some sinful tear thy fall had wept,
To wrong thy brighter Foe.

But Hist'ry's curse, in every age,
Shall stamp thy crimes—thy guilty stage:
And vengeful annals branding page
Thy coward feats proclaim.
First in the vaunt—but first to flee—
Curst as thou art, still shalt be,
And bold—but in thy shame.
Thinks't thou again to deal thy nod?
To hurl thy frown, and shake thy rod?
No; Heav'n's swift bolts, that right their God,
Shall blast thee with their breath:
And the same pangs thy hand hath dealt,
In that black bosom doubly felt,
Shall stab thee deep as death.
Remorse shall rise 'mid scorpion's smart,
To lift thee, writhing, on its dart:
Freeze thy chill'd blood, and wring thy heart
With barb of rage and fear;
Till thy crack'd mind to madness strung,
Shall shriek for fate to “cool thy tongue,”
And end thy torments here.

The blood that flow'd to cloy thy pride,
When Jaffa swell'd the purple tide,
Shall hem thy steps, and haunt thy side,
In waves of carnage roll'd;
The poison'd victims' closing eye,
Convuls'd in death's last agony,
Shall fix thee dumb and cold.
The sable Chieftain's stalking shroud
Shall wake in midnight's black'ning cloud,
Roll his red eye, and grimly proud
Smile on his murd'rer's pain:
While widow's shriek and orphan's moan,
The strangled captives' struggling groan,
Shall harrow up thy brain.

Could none but those who foremost stood
To seal with life their country's good,
Cloy that insatiate thirst for blood?
No victims but the brave?
Aye—must thou dread with nightly fears,
Tyrolia's curse, Tyrolia's tears,
Around her Hofer's grave.

Though o'er the Hero's ashy breast
The dews of Heav'n serenely rest,
And o'er his cold sod's grassy vest
The choral requiems roll,—
Still in thy ears his death shots ring,
And fancied vollies loudly bring
Hell torments to thy soul.

What pallid spectre rears his head?
With gory bosom haunts thy bed?
His martial mien, and warrior tread,
Now burst his turf-clad tomb:
'Tis weeping Bourbon's slaughter'd Heir!
Think—if thy coward heart can dare—
Oh! think on D'Enghien's doom!
In thunder's voice his accents roll:
Tear thy base mind, and chill thy soul:
Seem, sternly seem, to sound the toll
That knells thy dying day:
“Mark these wide wounds, and think on me!
“Monster! Earth gapes—Hell roars for thee—
“While demons claim their prey.”

Ye, who to sympathy appeal;
For crime and cruelty can feel;
Ye iron tribe, with hearts of steel,
Who wail a tyrant's fall;
Hark at yon shrieks that rend the skies—
'Tis murder'd Palm for freedom dies!
Here weep—at pity's call:
Borne with your Idol o'er the deep,
There, let an ill plac'd sorrow sleep:
His harden'd breast had scorn'd to weep
At bleeding virtue's cry:
But if ye seek a tear to boast,
List to the groans of D'Enghien's Ghost:
And heave one sacred sigh!

Yet cease, ye Nine, a gloomy vein;
Sound the stretch'd strings to bolder strain:
Wake the loud blast of Fame again,
To Triumph's tow'ring swell:
Let fancy wing her buoyant flight,
And swiftly seek, in prouder height,
A prouder theme to tell.

No more a suff'ring world bewail:
Tune ev'ry chord to glory's tale:
Let each light breeze, each passing gale
Now bear the blast of Fame:
Let shouting Freedom fill the note;
And zephyrs, wond'ring as they float,
Re-echo Wellesley's name.

Hark, through the air what accents roll!
What strains of triumph strike the soul!
Such the bright Thund'rer's stern control
Peal'd, sounding from on high,
When that red arm, inflam'd to ire,
Hurl'd Earth's dark Giants, wrapt in fire,
With ruin from the sky.
Lo, 'mid the crash, what golden blaze
Round yon fair forms with splendour plays!
Fame, borne with Vict'ry, blends her rays
In airy circles whirl'd:
Bids her loud clarion swell the note,
To echoes strain its brazen throat,
And rouze a wond'ring world.

Wake Nations, wake! to wonder rise,
'Mid grateful millions' tow'ring cries:
Let martial music pierce the skies—
Yet louder peal again—
Let golden strings now swell the key,
And big with heav'nly symphony,
To valour lift the strain.
Hail the bold Chief who saw your yoke;
High rear'd in air his vengeful stroke;
Your iron fetters bravely broke,
And quell'd your Tyrant's frown;
Tore from his brow with matchless might
An injur'd Monarch's trampled right,
And hurl'd his Eagles down.
'Twas His, to burst your galling chain:
'Twas His, to tear your bonds in twain:
'Twas His, to dare th' embattled plain:
To conquer—or to fall:
'Twas in your cause, his sword he drew:
'Twas in your cause, to fight he flew:
He flew—and righted all.

His, was the pride, alone, to save:
To spread before the sinking brave,
Whom rebel upstarts would enslave,
The shield that baffled Death:
Oh! hath not Heav'n some special crown—
Some wreath eternal—for renown
Unsoil'd by mortal breath!

Wide o'er yon plains where, bath'd in gore
When Murder flew from shore to shore,
Her crimson'd steeds to battle bore
The goddess of the fray;
Where high in air th' Oppressor's ban
Spurn'd the soil'd rights of prostrate man,
And stampt them with his sway:
See golden Peace, with healing art,
Pours blissful balm to ease the dart
Which rankled in each bleeding heart;
And wipes the deadly dew.
See Plenty crowns the gladden'd year,
And stills the voice of famish'd fear,
With smile of angel hue.

In yon fair grove's sequester'd shade,
Where once 'twas blood bedew'd the glade,
And sheath'd in slain the purple blade
Mid Despot, Atheist's nod:
Torn with curs'd steel, like Demon's spell
Fresh from the depths of burning hell,
The Creature from his God!
Lov'd child of Heaven Religion, blest,
Best balm to set our griefs at rest,
Lifts the pure incense of her breast
In notes of heartfelt praise:
While grateful Pæans loudly ring;
And Nations sav'd adore their King
With loud all-hallow'd lays.

Bright Halcyon days! when sorrows cease,
And bloody Factions kneel to peace!
When milder arts with joys encrease!
And Commerce crowds the seas;
Spreads o'or the deep her swelling sails,
As fortune fans the genial gales,
And smiles amid the breeze!

And Britain! Thou, of ev'ry clime,
Where virtue braves the lapse of time,
Where Faith and Arms, and Arts sublime
Their blended lustre spread:
While Mem'ry heaves the grateful sigh
O'er the cold sod where Heroes lie,
And honours deck their bed:
Bid thy fam'd Bards their tears forego,
Whose solemn dirge, sedate and slow,
Wak'd the chill cadence of their woe
To weep thy Charlotte's doom:
Lift Thou their lyres that sadly hung
On weeping willows mute, unstrung,
In sorrows o'er her tomb:
Hail with loud strain these happier days;
Thy Hero's glory claims its praise;
And Fancy fires the swelling lays
Where deeds immortal shine.
So while in air the accents float,
Thy name shall grace the living note,
His triumphs spring from thine.

Bright seat of Mars! Thrice happy State!
In Arts—in Arms—in Virtue, great!
Whose pow'r has burst the book of Fate
Though Nations round thee bled:
Crush'd haughty Gallia's tyrant sway;
Torn her dark Eagles from their prey;
The Laurels from her head:
No foreign foe shall soil thy strand
While freedom lifts her guardian hand;
Nerves the bold hearts that girt thy Land,
And shrines thy martyrs' pain:
While martial valour nobly glows;
Shakes from his lance the death of foes;
And gilds thy George's reign.

Wide o'er the world, with conq'ring gleam
Like crimson Glory's gilded dream,
Thy blood-red banners proudly stream
Unfurling to the gale;
While Vict'ry swells their floating fold,
Nods on thy Sons her crest of gold,
And Wonder writes the tale.

Thy vessels rule the willing seas;
Spread their white sails, and court the breeze;
Breast the loud billows at their ease
O'er ocean's wat'ry plain:
From the dark tubes their thunders roar
In peals of triumph o'er the shore,
Redoubling o'er the main:
And as they skim the wint'ry wave,
Thy hero Nelson's spirit brave,
Freed from yon stone's ignoble grave,
Looks downward from on high:
Marks with blest joy his own lov'd Isle;
Gilds his bright features with a smile
Illumining the sky.

Then stampt on Hist'ry's burnish'd page,
Though bloody bands their factions wage,
Yon Name shall rouze each wond'ring age
To kneel at Valour's shrine:
And the bright wreath of Him, who hurl'd
Its Tyrant from a bleeding world,
With Nelson's name shall twine.

Yes, gallant Chief! No tongue shall tire,
Nor fancy slack her glowing fire;
No hand shall drop the fainting lyre,
When mem'ry cites thy deeds:
When Glory moves the list'ning throng,
To Praise's tabrets joins her song,
And Honour crowns thy meeds.

Bright Prop of Europe's tott'ring power,
When hov'ring ruin seem'd to lower:
The pride, the hope, of every hour!
Thy race of glory won,
All hail! while Albion's joyful cries
In spreading notes of triumph rise;
While Earth proclaims Thee to the Skies,
IMMORTAL WELLINGTON!

THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO;

A POEM: In Latin and English Verse.

BY ROBERT CHARLES DALLAS. Written at the Age of Eleven Years and Five Months. 1816.

ENGLISH VERSION.

Wake, Muses, wake; Oh, sacred Nine, arise,
Ye pow'rs celestial of the starry skies,
Who love to sing the hard contested-fight,
Whom tales of war and martial deeds delight:
Leave, leave Parnasus' double cloud-topt brow,
O ye whom all adore, to whom all bow:
To me your vot'ry proffer heav'nly fire,
Afford your succour, and my mind inspire,
To sing the contest that eternal fame
And lasting honour gave Britannia's name;
Gave her bold Sons the meed of just renown,
A wreath of laurel—an unfading crown!

And Thou, O Phœbus, clement God of day!
Thy aid impart, assist benign my lay;
String Thou my lyre with heav'nly art to tell,
How Gallia's base usurping tyrant fell:

Who girt with war, and fierce in hostile arms,
Affrighted Europe shook with dire alarms:
Who, when ambition prompted to obtain
The fertile realms of far-extending Spain,
Laid waste the fields with grassy verdure fair,
The oxens labour, and the rustics care.
Still seeking slaughter, his inhuman mind,
Scourge of the world! and foe to all mankind!
With human gore defil'd the reeking plain,
The crimson Earth with num'rous heaps of slain:
Who led his daring and ferocious bands,
Too sure of conquest, into distant lands,
Where winter reigns, and where eternal snows
Block up the pass, and e'en an host oppose;
Where never Phœbus darts his sunny rays,
And all his beauties to the world displays,
Who cheers the verdant fields with genial heat,
Fruitful with corn, and rich with plenteous wheat.
But hides in mists his glitt'ring head, and shrouds
His radiant glories in a veil of clouds;

Germania's regions sent to heav'n from far
The clang of arms, the deep-ton'd noise of war:
Reeking with gore, unable to withstand
Th' impetuous force of his all-conqu'ring hand,
Unhappy Austria strove, but strove in vain,
His lawless force with valour to restrain:
The rapid Po with sanguine hue was dy'd,
And rolled its waters in a purple tide:
The swelling Ister foamed with warrior's blood,
And stain'd the Euxine with a crimson flood.
But now resume, kind Muse, thy former song,
No more the tale of distant woes prolong:
Tell thou the contest, fierce with mortal strife,
Which, bought though dearly by so many a life
By the brave victors yet, the Gallic crown
Snatch'd from th' usurper, threw the tyrant down,
Dash'd the bright sceptre from his blood-stain'd hand,
And hurl'd him guilty from his native land.
Far from the toils and labours of the war,
The British host, forgotten every care,

In joyous pleasure passed the festive day,
And sweetly lull'd the tedious hours away:
The skilful minstrels all their art employ,
The circling dance fills every heart with joy,
Whilst well-strung harps resound through spacious halls,
And tuneful clamour fills re-echoing walls.
Alas! how little that gay Troop foresaw,
The dreadful issue of th' approaching war!
Far from the place the prince of battles fled,
Who loads the reeking plain with heaps of dead:
Thy sovereign sway was there, O Bacchus, thine,
Thine, joyful Bacchus, dy'd with ruddy wine.
But why hath mirth to terror given place?
Why sits that paleness upon every face?
The martial trumpet's sound each heart appals,
In deep-ton'd notes, to arms! it loudly calls.

Th' astonish'd bands the reason quickly know;
Th' impending danger, and th' approaching foe:
Napoleon comes! nor comes with tame intent,
On war and slaughter all his thoughts are bent:
And now advancing leads the Gallic powers
To lay in dust the city's cloud-capt towers.
Now every warrior arms without delay,
For danger brooks not e'en the slightest stay;
Eager to rush amidst the battle's rage,
The haughty foes impatient to engage,
With joyful mind the bugle shrill he hears,
The warlike clarion with enraptur'd ears.
Now all depart amidst the sable night,
In haste repairing to the fields of fight;
Whilst the stern voices of the martial crowd
Disturb the air with clamour hoarse and loud;
Whilst clatt'ring steeds the echoing pavement beat,
And various noise resounds through every street.
When first Aurora left her early bed,
Tinging th' horizon with a crimson red,
And yok'd the coursers unto Phœbus' car,
Burnish'd with gold refulgent from afar,

100

The bloody fight, the desperate strife began,
Describ'd by no such feeble wretch as man;
Not if he had ten mouths, or brazen lungs,
A voice of iron, or a thousand tongues;
Not e'en if Phœbus should his verse inspire,
And to his mind should give poetic fire.
Now France and England, both with hostile rage,
Rush to the charge, a dire contention wage:
Fierce was the onset, Oh! could any tell
How many thousands on that instant fell;
Fell, bravely fighting, and with bodies slain,
And mingled carnage, filled the gore-dy'd plain!
Each warrior draws his falchion from the sheath,
Confronts the danger in the jaws of death;
Seeks to acquire a conq'ring hero's name,
Or, nobly falling, gain immortal fame.
The spurs are hidden in the charger's flanks;
He rushes onward to th' embattled ranks,
Breaks through impetuous, though e'en hosts oppose,
The serried phalanx and ten thousand foes;

101

Bears through the deadly fray his urging lord,
Nor fears beholding every lance and sword:
But at the scene his joy appears confest;
With martial ardour pants his noble breast;
Snorting he rears, and with an active bound,
Springs o'er the plain, and paws the trembling ground;
Whilst from his nostrils, fierce with gen'rous ire,
He pours forth clouds of all-terrific fire.
In circles whirl'd, the flashing sabres shone:
The glitt'ring falchions sparkled in the sun:
The clamour loud disturbs th' affrighted air,
The clash of arms, the dreadful din of war:
Whilst sanguine Mars his arms exulting wields,
And pours a deluge o'er the reeking fields.
Nought midst the direful scene of death is heard,
But to their pitch the victors' voices rear'd,
Lamenting shrieks, the bugle's brazen throat,
The martial trumpet's war-denouncing note,
The groans of those who, pass'd neglected by,
With wounds disabled, unassisted lie.
His hideous form here Death gigantic rears,

102

And every horror murder-clad appears:
The fuming plain grows red with crimson dew,
The fields defiling with a purple hue.
Bellona now each chieftain's breast incites:
With double ardour every warrior fights:
Around her hair, in snaky tresses curl'd,
And Gorgon's head, her direful scourge she whirl'd;
Her horrid arms a bloody torrent pour;
Her yet warm jav'lin reeks with human gore.
The vanquish'd dies, who death through shame desires;
The victor's self in vict'ry's arms expires!
The hero falls who danger, death defies;
Nor 'scapes the dastard, who destruction flies;
E'en thousands perish, but with glory crown'd,
In death still honour'd, still in death renown'd.
Mix'd with their lords, who draw their parting breath,
Press'd with the cold the icy hand of death,
The coursers lie; who once, with gen'rous might
Broke the thick legions, and the ranks of fight,

103

Convey'd their riders through the deadly war,
And bore them off triumphant from afar.
As fall the flow'rs with saffron colours gay,
Which smile, adorn'd with all the gifts of May,
When the hard rustic at his lord's command
Lays waste the meadows with unsparing hand,
Arm'd with the scythe, he lays at every blow,
Their blooming beauty, and their fragrance low:
So perish those, whom death in youth's first bloom,
Cut off untimely with an early doom:
Death, which destroys the youths with vigour blest,
And sends the aged to eternal rest.

From danger far, th' usurping wretch descries
The deathful contest with observing eyes:
Sure of success, with joyful mind he stands,
And urges on to fight his drooping bands:
“On, my brave troops, against the British host,
They cannot stand, their chiefs, their leaders, lost:
Spare none, not those who fainting with a wound,
O'erthrown, disabled, bite the bloody ground:

104

Upon them charge: your valour, friends, display,
And win the glorious hard-contested day:
Yon troops o'erwhelm, who have my force withstood,
And drench'd their weapons in my bravests' blood.”
Thus speaks the Tyrant, and with savage joy
The Gauls incites to slaughter, kill, destroy.
Fierce at the word, they rush to desp'rate fight;
And thousands sink to everlasting night.

But hark! what troubled clamour rends the skies?
What distant gleam is that which meets the eyes?
What glittering arms are those, that through the shade
Resplendent shine, what banners those display'd?
Yon hostile flags no friend approaching show,
'Tis Blucher's standard—'tis the coming foe:
That word knells death in every Frenchman's ears,
Napoleon listens, and Napoleon fears.
With sudden fears now stand the Gauls possest,
A thrilling panic strikes their trembling breast,

105

Nor longer can their weak and yielding band
The pressing foe with equal force withstand;
With trembling step their fear-struck host withdrew,
Receding back away their arms they threw.
Then, then, at last, Oh base unseemly sight!
They turn their backs to seek disgraceful flight!
He 'midst the first, to save his wretched life,
Spurr'd swift his courser from the desp'rate strife:
Yes He, who lately thousands could command,
Who rul'd, the sov'reign prince of Gallia's land;
Whose brow adorn'd the crown imperial grac'd,
And in whose hands the sceptre bright was plac'd;
Now from that summit by ambition thrown,
Is, abject, forc'd to sue for life alone.

Thus falls the man, whom fortune's angry frown,
Though favour'd once, now cast rejected down:
Whose streaming standards far resplendent shone,
In gilded conquest o'er Vienna's town:
Who, though by hosts oppos'd, triumphant bore
His conq'ring arms to Scythia's dreary shore,

106

Whilst flaming Moscow, once for wealth renown'd,
Laid one wide ruin on the smoaking ground.
His haughty summons fear-struck Rome obey'd,
Wide op'd her gates, her inmost streets display'd,
When Jove's proud bird's own semblance tow'r'd on high,
And mock'd the splendour of th' effulgent sky:
When his stern hand the Pontiff's self secur'd,
Amidst a dungeon's noisome depths immur'd.
This once was so—his once illustrious name
Emblazon'd glory crown'd with martial fame!
And now—his transient course of vict'ry run,
At length the thread of all his pow'r is spun!
By hostile arms, by adverse fate o'erthrown,
He wretched vents his unavailing moan:
For ever doom'd to quit his native shore,
A fallen captive 'midst th' Atlantic roar:
There pierc'd by conscience's resistless dart,
His crimes abhorring with repentant heart,
There may he curse that dire destructive hand,
Which desolation spread through Europe's land;

107

And bending, prostrate, there be taught to know
'Twas heaven's dire wrath that laid his glory low!
With humbled awe th' Almighty King implore;
With eyes uplifted pray to sin no more;
Avert his anger with repentance late;
And shun the danger of impending fate.

This alludes to the Duke of Wellington receiving at a ball the account of Buonaparte's advance upon Brussels.

109

LATIN LINES TO THE MEMORY OF SIR PETER PARKER, BART.

WITH AN ENGLISH VERSION.

115

LINES TO THE SAME.

Non ille pro caris amicis
Aut patriâ timidus perire
—Hor. Lib. 4. O. 14.

How sleep the brave, who sink to rest,
With all their country's wishes blest.
Collins.

HAIL, hallow'd Grave, within whose sacred mould
Now rest the ashes of the brave, the bold:
O'er thy green sod, and consecrated tomb,
The wreathy laurel shall unfading bloom!
Distracted, kneeling near the awful bust,
Whose sainted image shrines her Husband's dust;
With broken sobs, and eyes which streaming flow,
An hapless Widow vents her madding woe;
While orphan Babes, with soft and lisping breath,
Mourn their fond Father, lock'd in icy death.
Weep, Britain, weep, and o'er brave Parker's bier
Heave the sad sigh, with many a gushing tear!

116

Bid thy bold sons, with grief till yet unknown,
Effuse their sorrows o'er his marbled stone,
And kindly soothe, with fun'ral tribute paid,
And martial honours, his illustrious Shade!
Emblazon'd, streaming o'er the silent grave,
Let the bright Union, low'ring, drooping wave!
Let the low dirge in solemn music toll
Its woeful requiem for his fleeting soul!
Let trailing palls diffuse their mournful gloom,
To match the horrors of the nodding plume!
Bid the dull drum, with hoarse and muffled knell,
A nation's grief, a nation's anguish tell;
While pealing vollies loud resounding roar,
Enwrapt in smoke along the echoing shore!
For, 'midst the ardour of a swelling soul,
His daring spirit nobly spurn'd control:
Bent its sole aim t' enhance his Country's good;
Firm, prompt to seal it with his martyr'd blood.
Fir'd by that wish, e'en 'midst the desperate strife
He laid no value on his gallant life;
Bade his high soul all fearful odds defy,
Seek sole to conquer, or as nobly die:

117

Confronted danger in the jaws of fate;
And dared be valiant, while he dared be great.
E'en when the ball his vital spark had found,
While life's warm tide pour'd gushing from the wound,
Though the chill hand of stern and ruthless death
Was chaining fast the Hero's noble breath;
His cheering voice strove still, in fate's despite,
To urge his foll'wers to the raging fight.
'Midst that dire scene, where shouts and dying cries
With deaf'ning clamour sought the vaulted skies;
'Midst thund'ring peals, 'midst dark and veiling smoke,
Whose sable gloom the flash, bright flaring, broke;
He bade them then, their Country's rights defend,
Be Conqu'rors still—or boldly meet their end!
Till weaken'd, fainting in receiving arms,
His life expiring 'midst the fierce alarms,
The gallant spirit wing'd its parting flight,
To the bright regions of celestial light.

118

Lo! valour, weeping, spurns the glitt'ring brand
With stricken sorrow from his slacken'd hand;
O'er the cold clay, where now his relics lie,
Entranc'd in grief he heaves the pensive sigh;
While the soft murmur of the whisp'ring gale,
His moans re-echoes through the silent vale!
See Beauty, deck'd in weeds of solemn woe,
Tear'd with pearl drops which glisten as they flow,
Weeps her lov'd Idol, who in valour's pride,
And youth fair blooming thus untimely died;
While Vict'ry, wailing, though alas! in vain,
With drooping accents mourns her Hero slain!

Yet cease your grief, for now his spirit brave,
Scorns the dark precincts of an earthly grave;
On soaring wing to happier regions flies,
Thron'd 'midst the dazzling splendour of the skies;
Where, in the choir of Heav'nly Saints enshrin'd,
Its just reward his daring soul shall find:
Where Valour's meed, and Glory's wreath shall twine,
With mutual lustre round his brows divine;

119

Where tuneful seraphs shall, with hallow'd praise,
Sing his bold feats, beyond all earthly lays;
His daring deeds with deathless fame record;
And martyr'd heroes his renown applaud.
Yes, much lov'd Shade! though thus, in rip'ning bloom,
Chill death hath snatch'd thee to an early tomb,
With nobler lustre thy resplendent name
Shall shine, emblazon'd, on the lists of Fame:
Thy matchless feats shall spread through ev'ry clime,
And Glory stamp them on the wings of Time:
The Warrior's breast with noble warmth inspire,
To catch the ardour of thy glowing fire:
The lisping mouths of new born babes shall tell,
How Parker fought—how nobly Parker fell!
So shall thy fame, till time shall be no more,
Undying flourish—and undying soar!
Sooth'd then to peace, sweet Mourner, cease to grieve,
Let Britain's love thy heartfelt woes relieve.
In thy dear Babes resembling beauty trace
The blooming features of thy Peter's face;

120

Whose blessed Spirit, now supremely great,
On tow'ring pinions scorns the bolts of Fate:
Whilst highly thron'd, 'midst happier worlds than this,
His manly virtues meet eternal bliss.

Sir Peter Parker left three infant sons, Peter, Charles, and George.

121

LINES BY R. C. DALLAS,

Aged XI. Years. TO THE MEMORY OF GEORGE PARKER

[_]

Youngest Son of Sir Peter Parker, Bart, and Nephew to the Author, who died of the Croop, on the 13th of November, 1816; and whose Remains were deposited in the same Grave with his Father's on the 4th of December following. Inscribed to Lady Parker.

------ Quem non virtutis egentem
Abstulit atra dies, et funere mersit acerbo.
—Vir.

Near yonder spot, with verdure fair,
Where willows bend their drooping shade,
And sweetly blows the morning air
Along the lone sequester'd glade:

122

Beneath the sod, whose grassy vest
Conceals the world's most lovely flow'r,
A form too frail now lies at rest,
Cut off by death's relentless pow'r.

Vain, vain, alas! was Venus' love,
To soothe the tyrant's ruthless rage;
Nor truth, nor innocence, could move
That iron heart, nor love assuage.

But o'er his tomb with plaintive gale
Shall mournful zephyrs sadly blow;
And infant grace shall, weeping, wail
The fate that laid her fav'rite low.

The little flow'r, with placid eye
That loves to gaze on beauty's grave,
And seems to mourn with fragrant sigh
The charms of him no charms could save,

Beneath the waving cypress gloom
Shall still adorn this sacred spot;
And e'en in death its latest bloom
Shall sweetly breathe—“forget me not.”

123

And though the tempest's raging breath
With furious blasts its blossoms tear,
Like the fair form, which cold beneath,
Enwrapt in death lies buried there:

Yet, while affection's gushing tear
Mourns for the soul which thus has fled,
It still shall flourish o'er his bier,
Or droop, in honour of the dead.

Rest thee, sweet Babe! thy early doom,
Shall bring thee now to realms unknown:
The fate which struck thy budding bloom,
Shall bid thee share thy Father's throne.

Yes, lov'd on earth, enshrin'd on high,
Thy blessed Spirit finds its meed;
And gains, amid an happier sky,
The palm to hearts like thine decreed.

Once more, with joy, thy sainted Sire
Shall clasp thee to his beating breast;
And teach thee strike the living lyre,
Which lulls all sorrow, pain to rest.

124

Farewell, till fate shall name the day,
Which bids my dust unite with thine;
And the same grave which shrouds thy clay,
Again shall ope to cover mine!

Saint Margaret's, Titchfield, Hampshire.

125

ELEGY TO THE MEMORY OF HIS BROTHER GEORGE,

Who mortally wounded himself while crossing a Hedge, in shooting, on the 19th of January, 1816, and died under the agonies of a lock jaw, on the 14th of February following, Ætat. XVIII.

BY R. C. DALLAS. Ætat. XI. Years.

Weep Science, weep! O, Virtue, shed the tear!
With crystal drops bedew thy George's bier:
Let cypress wreaths thy clouded sorrow show:
Sad mournful emblem of dejected woe!
With broken sighs lament the early doom
That snatch'd thy fav'rite to the marbled tomb:
Bid thy sad mem'ry his dear image trace,
His noble feeling, his embellish'd grace;
His fond affection, his exalted mind,
For ever virtuous, and for ever kind!

126

Let weeping willows bend their drooping shade
O'er the sad spot where now his corse is laid;
While streaming eyes, with tears o'erflowing, lave
The death-cold marble of his hallow'd grave.

But though, stern Tyrant! thy unerring dart
With aim too fatal pierc'd his gen'rous heart;
With firm resolve the sharpest pangs to bear,
Thy dread approach he nobly scorn'd to fear:
To Heav'n's great Ruler still devoutly pray'd,
Implor'd his blessing, his celestial aid,
To prop his spirit 'gainst its adverse fate,
Its ills enduring as the truly great.
To bleeding wounds, to racking pain resign'd,
Still was unalter'd, still unbent his mind:
A radiant smile, with sweet celestial grace,
Beam'd through the torture o'er his angel face:
To earthly bliss his youthful soul was dead:
Far from his heart terrestrial hopes had fled:
On Heav'n were centred all his thoughts alone,
His eye was fixed on Heaven's Almighty Throne:

127

Serene he view'd it in the hour of death,
And blest his Maker with his parting breath!
Now, in the happy mansions of the blest,
His gentle spirit meets eternal rest;
From all its troubles, all its suff'rings freed,
To boast Religion's bright and glorious meed:
From all its troubles, all its suff'rings freed,
To boast Religion's bright and glorious meed:
His earthly frame on airy pinions flies,
And soars triumphant to the glad'ning skies;
Where Seraph Hosts, who sing with hallow'd lays
Their mighty King's, their great Jehovah's praise,
Bid their new Brother join the Heavenly choir,
And strike with joy the soft and living lyre;
Where constant faith, where martyr'd virtue know
No racking anguish, or corroding woe;
Where thron'd amid a happier world than this,
The soul receives the boon of endless bliss;
Where sense, where honour, meet their just reward,
Stamp'd by the hand of Heav'n's Almighty Lord;
Where pain, where suff'ring, sorrow, anguish cease,
And, crown'd with blessings, reigns Seraphic Peace!

128

Oh! deign, blest shade! though now enshrin'd on high,
My muse to favour from th' ethereal sky:
Let one kind glance, one heav'nly smile approve
This frail memorial of a Brother's love;
Whose numbers, weak, in mournful cadence flow,
To soothe the anguish of Parental woe;
To dry the drops that dim a Father's eyes,
And hush a Mother's deep bewailing sighs;
To ease the pang that rends thy Brother's heart,
From whence, till death, thy image ne'er shall part;
To shrine thy mem'ry with his early lays,
And stamp thy virtue deathless as thy praise!

133

LATIN ODE ON AMBITION,

BY R. C. D. WITH AN ENGLISH VERSION.

135

ENGLISH VERSION.

Deep in the jaws of darkest Hell,
Where Death's grim monarch deals his nod;
Where Stygian furies love to dwell,
And spectres own the scowling God:

Where dark Avernus rolls in blood
Its noisome waves with sullen roar,
And echo answers o'er the flood
Wild shrieks that ring along the shore.

Where dragg'd behind the sounding wheel,
Ixion rues the wrath of Jove;
And Earth's curs'd giants tortur'd feel
The pangs they dar'd to brave above:

Unscath'd by Time's destroying doom,
A palace rears its stately head,
Whose rugged towers outvie the gloom
That reigns among the silent dead;

136

Where near the portal's iron gate,
With furies leagu'd, begirt with care,
Ambition reigns in sceptred state,
And wildly shakes her snaky hair.

Lo, from her ebon throne she speeds:
Mounts, at a bound, her whirling car;
To courage bends her sable steeds;
A Fury borne by Rage and War.

While all around her frantic crew,
Foul midnight horrors widely stand,
And smiling fraud in fairest hue;
While Carnage lifts her gory brand.

Yet, as she wings her baneful flight,
On high she rears the golden prize;
And thron'd in clouds of fairest light,
With jewell'd sceptre lures the eyes.

Fierce as the whirlwind's rapid rage,
She bursts the busy miser's rest;
Yet deigns to seek the needy stage,
And wakes to arms a poorer breast.

137

Yon high-born chief, whose glorious name
Has stopp'd the course of hostile arms;
Led by her hand, deserting fame,
With guilty bosom courts alarms.

Fir'd at his call, the gath'ring throng,
In flashing steel and dread array,
With blazing banners sweep along,
Mid trumpet's clang and charger's neigh.

Not e'en a suff'ring nation's tears—
Big drops that forc'd by anguish start!
Not orphan's shrieks, or maiden's fears,
To pity turn that flinty heart.

Lo, mid the battle's closing shock,
Where foot to foot, and knee to knee,
In mortal grapple fiercely lock,
With not a thought—save Victory—

Though pressing squadrons round him close,
And each bar'd brand now aims at life;
Reckless he meets ten thousand foes:
Ambition spurs his soul to strife.

138

Known by his dazzling crest and eye,
Where danger calls at pressing need,
O'er heaps of slaughter see him fly,
Fast bounding on his mettled steed.

The Thracian God who dyes the plain,
In thunder rears the Slogan's yell:
While wanton carnage heaps the slain,
Fresh, reeking from the depths of Hell.

Bellona bears his banner bright,
Wide streaming to the winds unfurl'd,
As each bright flash reflects its light
In mock'ry o'er a vanquish'd world.

Vain pomp of pride! what kingly name
Can lengthen life's restricted span?
Can despot's pow'r—can victor's fame,
Turn Death's chill stroke from thoughtless man?

Say, can Ambition's brazen call
Burst Fate's dark thraldom o'r the grave?
Say, can she ward her heroes fall?—
Who lures them on, forgets to save!

139

E'en Philip's son, whose daring mind
Scorn'd the dull bounds of farthest earth,
And wept when not a world could find
One sword to stop his Glory's birth;

Though round his car a captive train
With tearful eye of sorrow trod;
While, as it dragg'd the clanking chain,
He, on his chariot, seem'd a God:

Long, long has slept!—a foreign clay
Shrouds the great Victor's ashy breast,
While not a trace can point, to day,
Where Grecia's glory sank to rest!

He, who on murder builds his fame,
Who proudly claims a victor's lot,
And thinks to raise a glorious name
By deeds, whose best, were best forgot;

Sleeps not in death a tranquil sleep:
No pitying tear shall dew his head:
Though deep his grave, a curse as deep
Shall brand with shame his marble bed.

140

Ye who, at Glory's martial call,
Would proudly yield your noblest breath;
Ye who, to ward a foreign thrall,
Fly foremost in the ranks of death;

Let Fame's loud blast, through ev'ry age,
To list'ning nations cite your deeds;
While Glory's hand on Hist'ry's page,
In blazing tablets stamps your meeds:

But, if Ambition's lurid gaze
Should dare to fix on Glory's crown,
Shrink from her touch—Oh! spurn her praise;
One smile from her would blast renown.

Think on the traitor's woeful fate
Who rashly stole celestial fire;
And madly thinking to be great,
Scorn'd Heav'n's own Thund'rer's boiling ire!

Think on the youth whose daring pride
Rouz'd the dread wrath of Gods above;
And, when with heav'nly pow'r he vied,
Sought, vainly sought, the halls of Jove!

141

His winged courser swept the sky,
When Heav'n's high Lord his thunder hurl'd:
The blinded boaster fell from high,
Dash'd headlong, to a wond'ring world!

142

VERSES ON SPRING.

By R. C. D.—Æt. 13.

------ Zephyris et hirundine primâ.

144

ENGLISH VERSION. By. R. C. D.

Hush'd is the storm, no more great Jove on high
Hurls the white flakes in torrents from the sky:
No sullen clouds, fast gath'ring to the gale,
On earth's torn vineyards pour their hurtling hail:
Each silver stream now owns the God of day,
As icy mountains thaw beneath his ray:
No more rude Boreas sweeps the wat'ry plain,
And fraught with vengeance tears the roaring main:
Soft blows the gale; the raging billows cease;
And toil-spent seamen reach their port in peace:
Sweet soothing zephyrs gently kiss the trees;
And flow'ry Spring comes smiling in the breeze.

145

All Nature smiles—rekindling beauties rise,
As leaf-crown'd forests seem to scale the skies.
Each grassy plain bedeck'd with silv'ry dew,
Bids the bright sun reflect its sparkling hue:
While each white branch proclaims the plenty near,
And budding blossoms glad the dawning year.
Perch'd on some bough, 'mid night's encircling shade,
Sweet Philomela, warbling through the glade,
Tunes her sad strain to Pity's plaintive tale,
While list'ning zephyrs hover in the gale.
Hark! from each rock, each cave, and woody dell,
Yon buzzing swarms now quit their lonely cell:
Wide through the air on flutt'ring wing they fly;
Their burnish'd squadrons glitter from on high:
At morning's dawn, mid day's meridian glare,
At twilight gloom they court the genial air:
From fragrant blossoms sip the yellow spoil;
All share the booty, and all share the toil;

146

Till each wide cell with festive blessings stor'd,
Bids peace and plenty crown the gladden'd hoard
See rose-clad Flora wakes her joyous train:
Her blushing beauties deck th' enamell'd plain:
While smiling visions seek the genial ground,
And airy Graces twine their mazy round.
Now rosy maidens rise at early dawn,
When each light gale spreads perfume on the morn:
Where the bright bud of Beauty's Goddess blows,
With snow-white hand they clip the mossy rose:
Next fragrant parsley blends its leaves between,
To deck their garland with a chequer'd green:
And the fair flow'ret clad in blushing blue
Rears her soft head with smiles of varied hue:
While pale Narcissus lends its beauteous bloom,
Sad, sweet, memorial of an Hero's doom!
Elate with beauty see the playful lamb
Now sports exulting round his bleating dam;
High leaps in air, and seeks the verdant ground
Where all his fleecy playmates graze around;

147

Or, where the brook with purling murmurs shows
Its silver waves meand'ring as it flows,
In sportive plunges laves his snowy side,
The Maiden's fav'rite, and the Shepherd's pride.

149

AMATORY TRIFLES.

151

LINES TO A YOUNG LADY

ON HER SENDING A LOCK OF HER HAIR TO THE AUTHOR.

As the sun-show'rs of April, so flagrantly flowing,
Refresh the green meads on a bright vernal day;
As the soft plaintive zephyrs, so tunefully blowing,
Exhale their sweet perfume on flow'rets of May;

So the Ringlet of Beauty, which once I saw floating,
With heart-stealing grace on the neck of the fair,
Is the balm of the heart which now views it with doating,
For Cupid had kiss'd it, I safely may swear.

How I envy the lock which thus wantonly flying,
Hath curled with delight on the bosom of bliss,
And has lain on the lip for which lovers are sighing!
O, say, where on earth is a pleasure like this?

152

Lovely Ringlet! O ever while Time is fast fleeting,
Thy sight the blest feelings of joy shall impart!
And while life's daily pulse to love's music is beating,
Her image shall rise in each throb of my heart.

153

TO ANOTHER YOUNG LADY,

ON A SIMILAR OCCASION.

Ah! why should our Poets, neglectfully dreaming,
Attune their soft lays to the Graces of yore?
The bright eye of Beauty o'er Britain is beaming,
And love-laughing Cupid hath arrows in store.

For erst though the fables of Fancy have doated
On Goddess-like visions so gay and so bright;
O'er Helen's proud bosom no ringlet hath floated,
So lovely as this, that I kiss with delight!

When first I beheld it refulgently shining,
It wav'd on the lily white neck of the fair:
Ye Gods! with what transport I view'd it reclining;
The starlight of Glory that gleam'd on despair!

154

And now that my hand in Love's fever is pressing
This token of bliss to my joy swollen heart;
I vow—that may life prove a bane, or a blessing,
'Till throbs my last pulse, it shall never depart.

155

ON A LADY'S GLOVE.

Soft, soft, is yon moonbeam that plays o'er the water,
And soft is the spirit that's riding the air:
The heart of the warrior is resting from slaughter;
The breast of the lover is waking to care.

Full oft, while with tear drops bedewing his pillow,
He sighs for his fair one, far, far o'er the wave;
And dreams, half unconscious, though tost on the billow,
Of that, parting, look that his Caroline gave.

Oh! yet though the beacon of Glory be blazing,
His fond heart to wean from the home of his love;
On some cherish'd token he still must be gazing,
And that precious relict—his Caroline's glove.

156

With lover-like transport, now clasping the treasure,
That swells the full tide of his high throbbing heart;
Illusive the dream! but how soothing the pleasure!
He vows from his bosom it ne'er shall depart.

Yet though all around him war's tumults be closing,
He sighs o'er the tear-blister'd emblem a prayer:
The lily it veiled, on his bosom reposing,
With sun beams of fancy may light off despair.!

And erst as in chivalry's chronicled story,
That glove o'er his helmet shall beam through the fray;
And love strung to fame, and all panting for glory,
'Gainst fortune and fate turn the tide of the day.

But ah! while with hope his proud bosom is beating,
Should some blasting ball stop the course of his breath;
The tumult of life all around him be fleeting;
His fire flashing orbits be fading in death;

157

“Oh! tell Her,” (he cries, while his heart's blood is gushing
In torrents of crimson that flow from his side,)
“The last stream of life from this bosom is rushing:
I breath'd for Her, living: and constant I died.”

158

EPITHALAMIUM

On the Marriage of a Young Officer (a near Relation,) who served under the Duke of Wellington during nearly the whole of the Peninsula War, and was severely wounded in one of the last Actions with Marshal Soult.

Hark; amid yon festive board,
Hymen lifts his gladd'ning strain:
Love with blessings richly stor'd,
Smiling holds his happy reign.

Beauty's Queen with rosy hand,
Round the God who lifts the spear,
Gently throws her golden hand;
Airy Graces hover near.

Lull'd amid Idalian roses,
Scatt'ring round his darts in glee,
Lov'ly Cupid soft reposes;
Lov'lier Bride—he smiles on thee!

159

Ruddy Bacchus lifts the bowl,
Sparkling with nectarean red.
Heav'nly music charms the soul,
Myrtle wreaths adorn the head.

Minstrels! wake the gladd'ning song,
Sweep the sounding chords along,
Strain the key with tow'ring swell,
Tuned to Fancy's silver spell.
Phœbus strings your Golden Lyre,
Venus fans your glowing fire;
Hail the hour, the nuptial day,
Hail yon pair with bridal lay:
Then louder swell the note,
Till list'ning zephyrs all around
With transport bear the hallow'd sound,
On fragrant wing to fairy ground,
And revel as they float.

Hush'd be all the streams of sorrow:
Think of grief, at least to-morrow,
Joy shall have this happy hour,
Bliss shall wake in Beauty's bower:

160

Valour quits the tented plain,
Glories glist'ning in his train;
Crown'd with fame, he drops his arms,
Raptur'd views yon kindling charms,
Like visions of the air;
Warrior, yes, the bold, the brave,
Who scorn'd to fill a coward's grave,
Who nobly fight a world to save,
Alone deserve the fair.

Yes, fond pair! with hearts united,
May ye never learn to mourn,
Like some rose unsoil'd, unblighted,
May your bliss by nought be torn:
Bands, which nought but death can sever,
Mystic Bands, that Heav'n hath wove,
Firm around ye cling for ever,
Join'd by Fate, and link'd by Love.
Thus though Fortune's boisterous billow
Toss the minds it cannot part;
Nights of care that haunt the pillow,
Closer link a lover's heart.

161

Then away with frowns and sadness,
Conquest crowns the Hero's name:
Sorrow yields her throne to Gladness;
Bliss and Beauty follow Fame.

163

SPECIMENS OF DRAMATIC COMPOSITION.

THE TYRANT OF SALUZZO; OR USURPATION PUNISHED.

A TRAGEDY IN THREE ACTS, Written at the Age of Eleven Years and a Half.

164

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

MEN.

The Count Olesko—Legitimate Marquis of Saluzzo.
Don Alonzo—his Friend.
Don Cæsario—The Usurper of Saluzzo.
Sebastian—His Favourite and Minister.
Rodrigo, Gusman, &c.—Guards of Cæsario.

WOMEN.

Agatha—Abbess of the Convent of Valtiera.
Isabella—Daughter of Alonzo, betrothed to Olesko, taking refuge in a Convent.
Mona—A lay Sister, acting as Portress.

The Scene lies in Saluzzo, an Italian Duchy.

165

ACT I.

Scene I.—

An Apartment in Cæsario's Palace. Cæario seated alone in deep thought.
Cæsario,
[rising]
How vain is wealth! how vain is glitt'ring pomp,
And all the gilded Majesty of Kings,
To stem the torrent of a troubled soul,
And calm the anguish of a tortur'd breast!
Alas! though deck'd with all the pageant state
Of mighty Princes—though at my command
Obedient vassals humbly prostrate bend,
And trembling wait the mandates of their lord;
Still, still for ever will my conscience wake
Such frightful images, such hideous forms,
That hell itself, to tear the world let loose
With all its terrors and chaotic shapes,
Could scarcely raise a more terrific crowd!

166

The Ghost of Bertram, (Oh, much injur'd Count!)
Freezes my soul to horror with its frown—
See! see! his eye-balls glare with livid fire,
His matted locks distain'd with clotted blood
Like meteors stream; and from that ghastly wound
(My guilty deed!) there flows a stream of blood—
'Tis all a vision—Fancy's idle dream,
Imagination!—Oh! 'tis he himself!
See how he points, as if to bid the fiends,
Like hungry vultures, seize their trembling prey!
Oh save me, save me, from that horrid frown,
That threat'ning look, which stabs my beating heart.
Off, Phantom, off! It beckons me to come,
And justly meet the punishment of guilt!
Proceed, infernal spectre! I'm prepared
(Though thou shouldst lead me to the gates of hell)
To follow—courage from despair I gain—
Nought can abash me—I'm myself again.
He's gone! once more—and once more, silence guilt;

167

When thou art absent, nought Cæsario fears:
At men to tremble never was he doom'd—
But far be absent scenes of death and strife,
A milder theme now occupies my mind;
Deceitful Cupid has his entrance found
Within my breast, and Isabella's charms
Have quickly kindled in this aching heart
An eager, ardent, never dying flame:
But, see, my friend the Count Sebastian comes:
His crafty genius may my plans effect.

Enter Sebastian.
Seb.—
Hail, my thrice honor'd liege, Cæsario hail;
May heav'n be kind, and prosper all thy days!
But why, my lord, that gloom upon thy brow?
Why speak thy looks such sharp and pensive care?
What inward anguish preys upon thy soul,
And makes thee deaf to ev'ry soothing friend?
If aught thou wilt, Sebastian can perform:
His hand—his heart—his services command—
In me a firm and faithful friend you'll find,
Able of hand, and vigorous of mind.

168

Cæ.—
Then list Sebastian—a most ardent flame
Rages within me, and my peace destroys:
Nor ever truly happy can I be
Until my love's fair object I possess.
Alonzo's daughter surely thou hast seen,
And seen the secret cause of all my woes.
When first I saw her, lost in stupid gaze,
Amaz'd I stood; and as by magic spell
Fix'd to the earth, I rivetted remain'd.
So bright her eyes, that not a gem exists
Of fairer lustre in Golconda's mines;
Her cheeks like roses in their morning pride,
Array'd with blushing beauty fairly shone;
Her lov'ly ringlets with celestial grace,
That softly wav'd on her majestic neck,
Pure as Arabian silk, and bright as gold,
E'en Eve might envy, and her own despise:
Her slender form that Venus' self might grace,
Could move the flinty breast, and sooth a heart
Hard as the stone, or adamantine rock,
And melt the savage who delights in blood:
Her whiter breast outvies the Alpine snow:

169

How fair the tint of her vermilion lip!
Her balmy breath more sweet than zephyr's breeze,
Exceeds the fragrance of the southern gale:
In short—obtain her—be it how it may—
I must—I will. A convent's gloom contains
This lov'ly treasure, this perfection's pride.
So now, as twilight spreads its dusky gloom
O'er all the earth, and night's o'ershad'wing veil
Will soon envelope all, do thou prepare
Two sable cloaks, which will our forms disguise:
Then bid a chosen gallant band ascend
The outer ramparts, while we hold a parle
With the proud Abbess: and the signal giv'n,
Break through the portal, seize the trembling maid,
And bear her off in triumph—haste—despatch!

Seb.—
I will, my lord, your high behest obey;
On me depend—I will effect the deed.

[Exit Sebastian.

170

ACT III.

Scene III.—

Cæsario's Dying Speech.
Enter Cæsario, in haste.
Cæ.—
Fight! fight, my men! one gallant effort more! [Exit and Returns.

All! all is lost! now, human aid is vain
My lost, my vanquish'd fortunes to retrieve!
The die is cast—the fatal hour is come,
When the dread-fierce Cæsario's self must sink,
Wrapt in the cold, the icy grasp of death!
'Tis true I've fall'n—but still, despising odds,
E'en fortune's self I dar'd, untam'd, oppose:
Strove spite of fate to stem the torrent's tide;
And dar'd be valiant, while I dar'd be free!
'Tis all in vain! 'tis the decree of Heav'n,
The threaten'd vengeance of my former crimes!
Yet, though 'tis so—no trampling foe shall lay
With pompous boast my honours in the dust.
Mine own rough arm shall close my bright career,
Myself exulting, as myself I slay!
Yes, though each pow'r to crush me now combine,

171

I'll fall, the glory of my honor'd line:
In death itself my noble birth will prove,
A splendid victim of ambition—love:
Destruction's verge, and dark abyss defy,
And once a conq'ror, still unconquer'd die!
Yes, my bright course of radiant glory run,
I'll face my end like India's tropic sun;
Give one bright blaze of fierce and bloody light,
Then sink, wide flaming, in eternal night.
And though thus conscious of approaching fate,
I now must perish, yet will perish great:
And future ages shall through time admire,
This last bright flashing of heroic fire!

[Stabs himself, and falls.
Alarum.
Hark! hark! the rout's began! Oh, for my strength!
My wonted strength!—one hour of vigour—No!—
The gushing blood denies it!—still once more

172

My sword I'll wield—stand friends—fight—'tis in vain!—
Thus sink my fortunes!—Off, base weakness!—oh!

[Dies.

173

RICHARD CŒUR DE LION

A TRAGEDY, IN FIVE ACTS.

Written at the Age of Twelve Years and a half.

174

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

MEN.

Saracens.

Saladine—Sultan of Egypt.
Imaun—His Minister and General.
Alcanzor—Chieftain of the Black Standard.
Zared—other Chief.
Kerim—other Chief.
Haroun—Brother of Saladine.
Assad—Brother of Saladine.
Saracen Knights, Soldiers, &c. &c. &c.

Croissés.

Richard Cœur de Lion.—King of England.
Leopold—Duke of Austria.
Rollo—A creature of Leopold.
Conrad—Marquis of Montserrat.
Hubert de Burgh—Seneschal of Poitou.
Arthur—Earl of Hereford, and Brother to Elfrida.
James—Duke of Norfolk. Lord High Constable of England.
Alan—Duke of Bretagne.
Egbert—Jailor.
Christian Knights, Soldiers, &c. &c. &c.

WOMEN.

Eleanor—Queen Dowager of England.
Elfrida—Daughter of Hubert De Burgh.
Constantia—Her Confidante.
Female Attendants on Queen Eleanor.

[The Scene lies in Palestine.]

175

ACT I.

Scene I.—

A large Divan.—Saladine and his Emirs in Council.—Saladine is seated under an Eastern Canopy.—Soldiers attending.
Sala.—
Emirs, well met: ye have not thus been summon'd
To the deep council of this full divan,
To give attendance on a paltry rumour,
Or force your patience to a vain debate;
But weighty matters, and alarming truths,
Charged with high import, now must wake your prudence,
And timely warn you of impending danger.
Ye know, a restless and detested race
Have, for these some years past, with impious arms
O'er-ran, laid waste our lands. These blooming vales,

176

Which once array'd in beauty's glist'ning garb
Breath'd all th' enchanting fragrance of the East,
Have late too often witness'd the destruction,
The ruthless ravage which these base invaders
Trail in their rear—the shock of charging hosts
Hath struck our mother earth to her foundations;
And made men tremble, lest the yawning grave
Yield up again their dead. But hold—my rage
Transports my fancy where it should not wander.
These self-same Christians, (misbelieving crew!)
Spite of our Prophet and his holy law,
Despite of fate, and our once dreaded arms,
Again have thrown their armies on our coasts,
Which, trembling, rock beneath the measur'd tread
Of harness'd thousands; seized on Acre's tow'rs,
Where now the crescent bends beneath the cross,
And further leading their victorious host,
With cursed engines shake the tott'ring walls
Of lofty Ascalon. It rests with us
To drive them back, and send them home disgrac'd,

177

Lacking their fancied booty—'Tis not treaty,
Nor the base utt'rance of a few cant words,
Which will effect our purpose.—No, by Heav'ns!
But arms are now requir'd. By our good scymeters
We gain'd these regions; by the same we'll keep
Our fair possessions.—Arms I say and force
Must now repel them—And as the fell serpent,
Whom the unwary trav'ller with his tread
Hath rous'd to rage, so shall we sting the villains!
So shall we—Yes! while Saladine hath power
To wield a sabre! his bold example
Shall rouze our Saracens to feats of valour,
And gallant daring. Once more then we'll shine
In blazing armour, and we'll give them battle
E'en in their teeth.—Rise, Imaun, now, and speak
What thy mind prompts thee.—Well I know thee brave,
Dauntless in danger, and thy noble zeal
Against the proud usurpers of our right:
Proceed—

Imaun.—
All puissant Prince, whose sov'reign pow'r

178

Sways the vast regions of the eastern clime,
If ever my poor stock of scanty wisdom
Hath found approof in thy most princely mind,
Oh! deign to hear a soldier's timely counsel,
And lend attention to the voice of reason.
Again I wish to warn Thee of the danger
Which round thy head in threat'ning ruin gathers;
And if I dare presume to speak thus freely,
My voice is not for fight—its doubtful chance
Hangs on the smile, the fickle smile of fortune;
Whilst on her wings sits high-thron'd Victory,
And from her car displays the wav'ring palm;
Who then can call it his? no human foresight
Can say, Mine is the chance, my arm shall gain it;
For the dread bolt of swift and clouded fate,
Whilst the presuming wretch yet falsely triumphs,
Dashes the fancied glory from his grasp,
And, in his sight, presents it to another!
'Tis true, I hate—yes, with my utmost soul
Abhor these Christians! their deluded faith
Provokes my anger, and hath fully roused it:
But yet, their strength I dread; with cautious step

179

Let us proceed—their stern fanatic zeal
Sweeps all before it, and their num'rous legions
Pour like a torrent on us—let's avoid them:
And if we now decline the doubtful battle,
Their hungry thousands in an hostile country,
Beset with foes, all fresh supplies cut off,
Harass'd and weary'd, with internal broils
And private quarrels rent, will turn their edge
Against themselves.—Then with these growing factions
And fierce dissentions torn, while sickly famine
Hangs on their rear, and with its vengeful sword
Thins their close serried ranks, they soon will sink,
And yield an easy conquest to our arms.

Haroun.—
(rising impatiently.)
Hold coward, hold! I can no longer brook
Thy tame, reflecting, and insidious words:
Hereto I've stifled, but with swelling heart,
The flame which burns within me; but its rage
Now bursts restraint—my choler shall find vent.
Shame on thee!—fear directs thy fluent tongue:

180

And while the smoother garb of caution veils it,
'Tis terror prompts thy cold deceitful language.
And would ye thus persuade my royal Brother,
With canting terms, yet deem'd most sage advice,
To yield his country, e'en without a blow,
To a curs'd crew of mean and dastard slaves,
Who would profane with our fast streaming gore
Our holy temples; trample under foot
Our sacred altars; then with stern derision
Rush o'er our corses, stain'd with Christian tread,
To seek the loth embraces of our consorts,
Seize our poor harmless infants in their grasp,
Dash their smear'd brains against the flinty pavement;
And—oh! tis too much—where is the man
Who would not rush to meet approaching death,
With glowing breast, and leap into destruction,
Rather than hear his torn and bleeding country,
Gall'd by the yoke of slavish tyranny,
Lament the loss of her last patriot champion?
And, whilst her tears bewail his hapless fall,

181

Groan with sad echo, to the clank of fetters!
Hear, holy Prophet, hear my patriot vow,
Which thus I swear to sanction with the blood
Of fallen Christians! If none else will follow,
If dastard fear hath chill'd each noble spark
Of your once haughty spirits, I alone,
Midst the huge wreck of Saracens untainted,
Will rush to meet the hoarse Battalia's thunder
Frowning with death; this keen and well-tried weapon
Shall, when all other friends thus basely shrink,
Ope wide a passage through yon dread array:
So, if I seize by valour vict'ry's chance,
I'll shine conspicuous in emblazon'd annals:
And if I fall, I fall in glory's cause,
There to receive a crown—a wreath immortal!
Yes, Mah'met, yes! from thy all-radiant throne
Look down indignant, and with thunder's bolt
Blast the accursed wretch whose coward heart,
Chilled by the icy hand of trembling fear,

182

Would sell his wretched country to a Christian!

Assad.—
And so say I.—While Heav'n permits me life,
Ne'er will I cease to rouse our native bands,
To march with zealous ardour, in the cause
Of our most holy and much injur'd Prophet,
Against a race of fawning hypocrites,
Who can assume a smile, a viper smile,
A flatt'ring aspect, flatt'ring to betray,
E'en when their minds conceive the hellish plan
To wrest our fair possessions from their masters.
I've often warn'd You of the lurking danger
Which doth attend these num'rous caravans
Of canting pilgrims, half-starv'd, whining hermits,
And the whole crew of such deceiving varlets:
And now behold their false and fangled speeches
Have rous'd an army in their hateful quarrels,
Whose num'rous hordes o'er-run our desart fields,
Like a vast swarm of all-destructive locusts:
Whose very armour, with terrific clang,
Hath made our coasts prolong the varied echo,

183

'Till men have started, lest th' avenging angel
Rise up in arms to blast the race of sin;
And widely fraught with terror and destruction,
Hurl the wide fabric of the world to ruin!
Fight then, I say, for Mahomet, or Death!
Strike, now, for Allah! and amid the shock
Cry, with the words of my indignant brother,
Whose noble soul revolts at dastard fear—
A glorious vict'ry! or immortal end!

Alcanzor.—
Believe me, Prince, thy two most royal brothers,
Haroun and Assad, have most nobly spoken;
I'm for the field! the field of instant battle!
Where vict'ry waits us with triumphant smiles;
And each brave Mussulman, in such a cause,
Will feel his proud heart beat with conscious joy,
When the shrill bugle wakes his soul to arms;
And the loud neighing of impatient steeds
Thrills through his ears in martial symphony:
Whilst his high mind anticipates success,
And routs yon Christians scatter'd o'er the plains.

184

Zared.—
It is the voice of holy Mahomet
That spurs our hearts.—I give my voice for fight.

Kerim.—
And I, and all, most great and sov'reign Prince,
Entreat Thee here to spurn all timid counsel,
And quickly lead us to the field of fight.

Sala.—
Well, be it so.—I'll lead ye forth to battle;
Where 'midst the fierce alarums of the plain,
Shall ye behold Me, with undaunted heart,
Brave the dire storm of wing'd and feather'd death,
Which the base dastards, from their crooked bows,
Pour fast upon us—they have no avail
Against the Faithful.—Ye shall see them bound,
(As I confide in our great Prophet's aid,)
From my tough target and emblazon'd mail,
Like shiv'ring hailstones from a granite rock.
I'll lead the charge, and with one cheering shout,
We'll spur our Arab coursers to the stretch;
With vengeful sabres cut the string in twain;
Break the long shafts—aye tame their quiv'red pride,

185

While their proud archers strew the blood-dy'd ground.—
How now Imaun? thy looks speak discontent.

Imaun.—
Alas! dread Prince; I must confess my soul
Swells with resentment, when I see Thee led
By such weak counsels and seductive words,
To shame, defeat—yes, e'en decoy'd to death!
I see th' abyss, with dark unfathom'd jaws,
Ope to receive Thee; while the depth below
Yawns, as thy feet betray th' expecting victim.
Thy noble soul, I know, brooks not restraint,
Thy lofty nature spurns at all controul:
But yet, consider the distracting woes
Which, if Thou fall'st, thy friends, alas! must suffer,
Thy much lov'd wives—thy sweet endearing babes,
Stabb'd by the hand of some polluting slave!
Thy virgin daughters, with heart-rending cries,
Imploring mercy, vainly, from a ruffian,
The hapless victims of a conqu'ror's lust!
And well I know their vast and steely squadrons,
Whose marshall'd ranks condense in firm array,

186

Would not, without an hard contested struggle,
Yield up the vict'ry to an hated foe,
In numbers mighty, yet in skill inferior.
Think too—and tremble at the dreadful sound!
Think on their Leader!—Richard Cœur de Lion!
'Tis He who leads them! He whose lion heart
Hath rous'd the world with these terrific storms;
Whose nervous arm hath bound in iron chains
Th' all-dreaded bolt of universal fate;
Made Fortune's self attendant on his frown,
And wedded Vict'ry with the Ring of Fame!

Sald.—
Imaun, no more;—my swelling mind revolts
At these untimely and unfit objections;
Name not to Me the boasted strength of Europe—
Her leagu'd usurpers, and infernal zeal!
Think'st thou that I, the chief of Othman's race,
Will basely shrink before an host of foes?
No! though full twice their number fill the plain
With marshall'd ranks, and all in arms of proof,
Would I rush on to seek their steely points,
And shew the miscreants how to tempt despair!

187

Think'st thou the name of their audacious Chief
Shall make Me tremble? What has He to boast
More than Myself?—does Richard sound more great,
With loftier tone, than Saladine, or Othman?
Nay—though that boasted title, Cœur de Lion,
Inspire his army with presumptuous pride;
None shall, with justice say, that I, abashed,
Shrunk from the phantom of an empty sound!
And [with irony]
if we find this great all-puissant Champion
As brave as fame's high swelling note reports,
I'll seek Him singly through yon Christian ranks;
On Him alone I'll pour my boiling wrath;
And, in the face of our insulted Prophet,
Teach all to conquer, or at least to die!
Now then, ye chiefs, come near;—behold this scroll,
Whereon I've sketch'd an advantageous plan,
And drawn minutely your allotted posts.
Imaun and Haroun, our right wing shall march
Beneath your guidance and consummate care;

188

So shall I temper fiery youth with prudence.
To thee, Alcanzor, I resign the charge
Of the Black Standard—thou deserv'st my trust;
And on the left command our troops—the chiefs
Zared and Kerim, there will also march.
Myself will lead the centre, where the warriors
Shall, when they see their Sultan at their head,
Speed with redoubled ardour 'gainst the foe.
Assad, do thou amidst the mountain gloom,
Arrange the firm and trusty bands of Mecca,
And form the wile of predatory war,
An ambuscade; then, when their hindmost troops
Have pass'd beyond thee, sally on their rear:
So shall we scatter them, and thus ensure
The laurell'd wreath which vict'ry grants the brave!
And now, ye knights and soldiers, mark me!—Thus
I cast away this badge of high distinction;
And as the meanest soldier of our camp,
Prepare to meet the hardships of the day.

189

Draw forth your sabres! let the glitt'ring flash
Shine o'er the fields, 'till yon resplendent sun,
High through the air, reflect the dazzling blaze!
Fear not the weapons of your adverse foes,
For those that fall have greater gifts in store
Than the short pleasures of this transient world:
Think on the raptures of that blissful Paradise,
Which our great Prophet gives unto the slain!
Methinks I see it full within my view,
Its milky rivers, and its trees of gold!
Whilst Heav'nly Houris, (Oh! enchanting fair!)
Await your coming with extended arms!
E'en Mah'met's self now fights upon your side,
And fiercely grasps the sabre of destruction:
Then, to the charge!—advance our glitt'ring banners!
Bury the rowels in your panting steeds!
Pour, like a whirlwind, on the trembling foe!
To fight!—to vict'ry!—forward!—and away!

[Exeunt.

End of Scene the First.

Pointing to Heaven.

To Saladine.

Throwing his sceptre from him, and drawing his sword.