Thou in the sternness of thy strength The Roman, when his burning heart He dared depart in utter scorn His only glory was that hour The Spaniard, when the lust of sway Cast crowns for rosaries away, A strict accountant of his beads, Yet better had he neither known A bigot's shrine, nor despot's throne. But thou-from thy reluctant hand The thunderbolt is wrung Too late thou leav'st the high command To which thy weakness clung; All Evil Spirit as thou art, It is enough to grieve the heart To see thine own unstrung; To think that God's fair world hath been The footstool of a thing so mean; And Earth hath spilt her blood for him, And Monarchs bow'd the trembling limb, Fair Freedom! we may hold thee dear, Thine evil deeds are writ in gore, If thou hadst died as honour dies, Weigh'd in the balance, hero dust To all that pass away : But yet methought the living great Some higher sparks should animate, To dazzle and dismay; Nor deem'd Contempt could thus make mirth Of these, the Conquerors of the earth. And she, proud Austria's mournful flower, Thy still imperial bride; How bears her breast the torturing hour? Still clings she to thy side? Must she too bend, must she too share Thy late repentance, long despair, Thou throneless Homicide? If still she loves thee, hoard that gem, 'Tis worth thy vanish'd diadem ! Then haste thee to thy sullen Isle, That element may meet thy smile- That Corinth's pedagogue hath now Thou Timour! in his captive's cage What thoughts will there be thine, While brooding in thy prison'd rage? "The world was mine!" But one Unless, like he of Babylon, All sense is with thy sceptre gone, Life will not long confine That spirit pour'd so widely forth— Or, like the thief of fire from heaven, Foredoom'd by God-by man accurst, He in his fall preserved his pride, There was a day-there was an hour, While earth was Gaul's-Gaul thineWhen that immeasurable power Unsated to resign Had been an act of purer fame Through the long twilight of all time, But thou forsooth must be a king, Where may the wearied eye repose Yes-one-the first-the last-the best— The Cincinnatus of the West, Whom envy dared not hate, Bequeath'd the name of Washington, To make man blush there was but one! r ODE ON WATERLOO. We do not curse thee, Waterloo ! Rising from each gory trunk, Never yet was heard such thunder As then shall shake the world with wonder Never yet was seen such lightning As o'er heaven shall then be bright'ning! Like the Wormwood Star foretold By the sainted Seer of old, Show'ring down a fiery flood, Turning rivers into blood. The Chief has fallen, but not by you, Vanquishers of Waterloo ! |