 | An Irregular Ode to General Elliott |  |
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IRREGULAR ODE, TO GENERAL ELLIOTT, &c.
[I.]
To higher themes, and loftier lays,Strike, O muse, the sounding lyre;
To sing a mighty Hero's praise,
Rouze thy spirit, rouze thy fire.
Borne by an impulse wild and strong,
I scarcely touch the trembling Shell,
When the bold notes to triumph swell,
And sounds of deep-mouth'd thunder roll along.
Behold aloof, on daring wings,
The Theban swan impetuous rise,
He hurried thro' the deepest skies,
With voice melodious sings.
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To what unknown, unthought-of shore,
Were he to wake the golden chord
To sing the victories of thy Patriot Sword?
When Wreaths of honor'd olive grace,
The Conqueror in the Olympic race;
And Theron, with his foaming steed,
Darts in the rapid car:
Can all the wonderous feats of strength or speed
Compare with Elliott, 'mid the thickest war?
O'er mangled heaps, and purple tides,
Whilst Havock lordly strides,
Whilst with their snake-intwisted hair
The furies madly stare,
And dying groans, and dying sighs,
With curses load the darken'd skies;
Amid the appalling scene,
The god-like Victor smiles serene;
And still upon the prostrate foe,
His country guides his arm, his country speeds the blow.
Thus when on some guilty land
Jove showers his anger down,
And with a wrath-denouncing frown,
Lifts up the avenging hand;
Tho' 'thwart the livid air
The forky light'nings glare,
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The lambent wonder strays,
Tho' thunders roar along the jarring spheres,
Amid the ruin still unmov'd the God appears!
II.
But to what realms of dazzling lightWouldst thou, presumptuous, take thy flight?
From scenes so full of horror, and so dire,
O Muse, avert thy blushing face,
And string the soften'd lyre,
To milder Notes, of harmony and peace.
For see, while ev'ry wave is hush'd to sleep,
And calmness broods upon the tranquil deep,
The Hero reach his native shore,
Amid the applauses of a grateful land,
That gather'd on the groaning strand,
With loud acclaims, their joyful welcomes pour!
His Sovereign views the Chief with pride,
Who had so oft in proud Iberia's blood
His gleaming Falchion dy'd,
And spread abroad the purple flood.
For him each harp is strung,
For him each varied strain is sung.
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Bears the living lyre in hand?
And now she wakes the shell to numbers bland,
While from each neighbouring grove and alley green,
The Dryads, Fauns, and blue-ey'd pleasures,
Frisk lightly to the frolic measures;
And Fancy smiles, enchanted by,
Whilst brighter beams illume her fluid eye.
Is she of those lovely maids,
Who in Pindus festal shades,
Ever dancing in a ring,
To rapture give each trembling string;
Meanwhile their rosy-braided hair,
Waving to the wanton air,
That wafts the vernal spoil along,
And softly swells the harmonious song!
'Tis Clio's self—her sweet majestic mein
Bespeaks the graceful Queen;
E'en she has deign'd in her immortal lays,
To celebrate the Hero's praise;
Amid the stars his name to enroll,
And spread his glorious fame from pole to farthest pole.
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III.
The breathing statue, and the bust,Shall to the mould'ring touch of time decay;
Corinthian brass dissolve away,
And Parian marble turn to dust.
The vast Colossus stood
Triumphal o'er the flood:
While to the gale their streamers flow'd,
Navies beneath the Giant rode,
Who look'd superior down.
Where is the pageant flown?
Alas! his pride exults no more,
Nor e'en one wreck points out the desert shore.
Not so, His happy name,
Whom the Muse, with pow'rful hand,
Consigns to deathless fame,
And bids the shock of hoary age withstand.
She o'er the shades of night
Shall cast her golden light,
And from the Gothic reign,
Preserve her lasting strain,
To bless some new illumin'd world again.
As long, as round his orient way,
The Sun revolving rolls:
As long as with her silver ray,
The Moon gilds o'er the starry poles,
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Britannia's sceptre wield;
So long by George's blest increase
The Imperial Throne be held;
While peace and plenty crown the land,
From strife domestic free,
Rul'd by a Prince's mild command,
And tun'd to softest harmony.
While o'er the seas her name she spreads
Her Name, that every nation dreads,
Exploring either distant zone,
Where many an arid desert lies;
Where dews and mists pollute the skies,
And some brave Elliott leads
The victor armies on.
FINIS.
| An Irregular Ode to General Elliott | |