Witness that dread retreat, When God and nature smote The Tyrant in his pride! No wider ruin overtook Nor when united Greece O'er the barbaric power that victory won Which Europe yet may bless. A fouler Tyrant cursed the groaning earth, The Cossack's dreadful spear; The injured nation rise, What myriads, victims of one wicked will, Saw sinking thousands in the snow lie down, 6. Rear high the monument ! In Moscow and in proud Petropolis, The brazen trophy build; Till the huge column overtop your towers! These instruments of death To work your overthrow; He left them in his flight To form the eternal record of his own. Raise, Russia, with thy spoils, A nobler monument Than e'er imperial Rome Built in her plenitude of pride and power! Thy noblest monument 7. Conqueror, Deliverer, Friend of human-kind, The free, the happy Island welcomes thee! Thee, Alexander! thee, the Great, the Good, The Glorious, the Beneficent, the Just! Thee to her honor'd shores The mighty Island welcomes in her joy. ODE TO HIS MAJESTY, FREDERICK WILLIAM THE FOURTH, KING OF PRUSSIA. 1. WELCOME to England, to the happy Isle, Brave Prince of gallant people! Welcome Thou, In adverse as in prosperous fortunes tried, Frederick, the well-beloved! Greatest and best of that illustrious name, Welcome to these free shores! In glory art thou come, Thy victory perfect, thy revenge complete 2. Enough of sorrow hast thou known, Its strength, forsook thee not. Who through the weary night has long'd for day, So Germany to thee Turn'd in her bondage her imploring eyes. 3. Oh, grief of griefs, that Germany, The wise, the virtuous land, The land of mighty minds, Should bend beneath the frothy Frenchman's yoke; Oh, grief of griefs, to think That she should groan in bonds, She who had blest all nations with her gifts! There had the light of Reformation risen, The light of Knowledge there was burning clear, Oh, grief, that her unhappy sons Should toil, and bleed, and die, To quench that sacred light, The wretched agents of a tyrant's will! Their mangled bodies fed The wolves and eagles of the Pyrenees; Or stiffening in the snows of Moscovy, Amid the ashes of the watch-fire lay, Where dragging painfully their frozen limbs, With life's last effort, in the flames they fell. 4. Long, Frederick, did'st thou bear Her sorrows and thine own; Seven miserable years In patience didst thou feed thy heart with hope; Till, when the arm of God Smote the blaspheming Tyrant in his pride, And Alexander, with the voice of power, Raised the glad cry, Deliverance for Mankind, First of the Germans, Prussia broke her chains. 5. Joy, joy for Germany, For Europe, for the World, When Prussia rose in arms! Oh, what a spectacle For present and for future times was there, 6. Twice o'er the field of death The trembling scales of Fate hung equipoised; For France, obsequious to her Tyrant still, Mighty for evil, put forth all her power; And still, beneath his hateful banners driven, Against their father-land, Unwilling Germans bore unnatural arms. What though the Boaster made his temples ring With vain thanksgivings for each doubtful day What though, with false pretence of peace, His old insidious arts he tried, The spell was broken! Austria threw her sword Into the inclining scale, And Leipsic saw the wrongs Of Germany avenged. 7. Ne'er till that awful time had Europe seen Such multitudes in arms; Nor ever had the rising Sun beheld Such mighty interests of mankind at stake; Nor o'er so wide a scene Of slaughter e'er had Night her curtain closed. There, on the battle-field, With one accord the grateful monarchs knelt, And raised their voice to Heaven; "The cause was thine, O Lord! "O Lord! thy hand was here!' What Conquerors e'er deserved So proud, so pure a joy ! It was a moment when the exalted soul Might almost wish to burst its mortal bounds, Lest all of life to come Vapid and void should seem After that high-wrought hour. 8. But thou hadst yet more toils, More duties and more triumphs yet in store. Nor on the banks of Rhine Drove her invaders with such rout and wreck 9. Long had insulting France Boasted her arms invincible, Her soil inviolate; - At length the hour of retribution comes! When sable Edward led his peerless host. All monstrous, all unutterable crimes, Demanding vengeance with victorious cries, Pour from the Pyrenees. The Russian comes, his eye on Paris fix'd, The flames of Moscow present to his heart; The Austrian to efface Ulm, Austerlitz, and Wagram's later shame; Rejoicing Germany, With all her nations, swells the avenging train, And in the field and in the triumph first, Thy banner, Frederick, floats. 10. Six weeks in daily strife The veteran Blucher bore the brunt of war. The last and greatest of his master's school, How oft hath he discomfited And foil'd her vaunting Tyrant's desperate rage! Who, from Silesia's fields, 11. Bear back the sword of Frederick now! The sword which France amid her spoils display'd, Proud trophy of a day ignobly won. With laurels wreath the sword; Bear it in triumph back, Thus gloriously regain'd; And when thou lay'st it in its honor'd place, Greatest and best of that illustrious name, 12. Frederick, the well-beloved! To England welcome, to the happy Isle! Thy victory perfect, thy revenge complete. 8. No cause for sorrow then, but thankfulness; In sure and certain hope! 9. Oh, end to be desired, whene'er, as now, 10. Her left hand knew not of the ample alms 11. With more than royal honors to the tomb Her bier is borne; with more Than Pomp can claim, or Power bestow; With blessings and with prayers From many a grateful heart. 12. Long, long then shall Queen Charlotte's name be dear; And future Queens to her As to their best exemplar look; Who imitates her best May best deserve our love. Keswick, 1818. ODE FOR ST. GEORGE'S DAY. 1. WILD were the tales which fabling monks of old 2. What marvel if the Christian Knight Thus for his dear Redeemer's sake Defied the purpled Pagan's might? Such boldness well might he partake, For he, beside the Libyan lake Had coped in actual fight. And left that form untenanted, 3. Such tales monastic fablers taught; Their kindred strain the minstrels caught. A web of finer texture they Wrought in the rich, romantic lay; Of magic caves and woods they sung, Where Kalyb nursed the boy divine, And how those woods and caverns rung With cries from many a demon tongue, When, breaking from the witch's cell, He bound her in her own strong spell; — And of the bowers of Ormandine, Where, thrall'd by art, St. David lay, Sleeping inglorious years away, Till our St. George, with happier arm Released him, and dissolved the charm. But most the minstrels loved to tell Of that portentous day When Sabra at the stake was bound, Invincible at such a sight, 4. Such legends monks and minstrels feign'd, Full soon his sainted name hath won The Turk and treacherous Greek were dearly taught That all-appalling shout, For them with rage and ruin fraught "Twas in this heavenly Guardian's trusted strength, 5. But thou, O England! to that sainted name Hast given its proudest praise, its loftiest fame. Witness the field of Cressy, on that day, When volleying thunders roll'd unheard on high; For, in that memorable fray, Broken, confused, and scatter'd in dismay, France had ears only for the Conqueror's cry, St. George, St. George for England! St. George and Victory! Bear witness, Poictiers! where again the foe And France, doom'd ever to defeat St. George, St. George for England! St. George That cry, in many a field of Fame, Through glorious ages held its high renown; Nor less hath Britain proved the sacred name Auspicious to her crown. Troubled too oft her course of fortune ran, Till, when the Georges came, Her happiest age began. Beneath their just and liberal sway, Old feuds and factions died away; One feeling through her realms was known, One interest of the Nation and the Throne. Ring, then, ye bells, upon St. George's Day, From every tower in glad accordance ring; And let all instruments, full, strong, or sweet, With touch of modulated string, And soft or swelling breath, and sonorous beat, The happy name repeat, While heart and voice their joyous tribute bring, And speak the People's love for George their King. Keswick, 1820. ODE WRITTEN AFTER THE KING'S VISIT TO IRELAND. 1. How long, O Ireland, from thy guilty ground Shall innocent blood Arraign the inefficient arm of Power? How long shall Murder there, Leading his banded ruffians through the land, Range unrepress'd? How long shall Night Bring to thy harmless dwellers, in the stead Of natural rest, the feverish sleep of fear, Midnight alarms, Horrible dreams, and worse realities? How long shall darkness cover, and the eye Of Morning open, upon deeds of death? 2. In vain art thou, by liberal Nature's dower, Exuberantly blest; The Seasons, in their course, Shed o'er thy hills and vales (Its last and largest boon to social man,) 3. Green Island of the West! Rung far and wide of late, And grateful Dublin first beheld her King, 4. Oh what a joy was there! Of that tumultuous sound of glad acclaim, Till with the still reverberating din The walls and solid pavement seem'd to shake, And every bosom with the tremulous air Inhaled a dizzy joy. 5. Age, that came forth to gaze, That memorable day |