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"Tis done but yesterday a King!
Is this the man of thousand thrones,
Since he, miscall'd the Morning Star,
Ill-minded man! why scourge thy kind
With might unquestion'd,-power to save-
To those that worshipp'd thee; Nor till thy fall could mortals guess Ambition's less than littleness!
Thanks for that lesson-it will teach
To after-warriors more
Than high Philosophy can preach,
That led them to adore
Those Pagod things of sabre-sway,
The triumph, and the vanity,
All quell'd!-Dark Spirit! what must be
The Desolator desolate !
The Victor overthrown!
The Arbiter of others' fate
A Suppliant for his own!
Is it some yet imperial hope
That with such change can calmly cope?
Or dread of death alone?
To die a prince-or live a slave-
He (2) who of old would rend the oak,
Chain'd by the trunk he vainly broke-
Thou in the sternness of thy strength
The Roman, (3) when his burning heart Was slaked with blood of Rome, Threw down the dagger dared depart, In savage grandeur, home.
He dared depart in utter scorn
Of men that such a yoke had borne,
Yet left him such a doom!
His only glory was that hour
Of self-upheld abandon'd power,
The Spaniard, (4) 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
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, Who thus can hoard his own!
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
Is vile as vulgar clay;
Thy scales, Mortality! are just
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,