Is man-arrayed for mutual slaughter; Yea, Carnage is thy daughter;
Thou cloth'st the wicked in their dazzling mail, And by thy just permission they prevail; Thine arm from peril guards the coasts Of them who in thy law delight:
Thy presence turns the scale of doubtful fight, Tremendous God of battles, Lord of hosts!
On this appointed day shall thanks ascend, That thou hast brought our warfare to an end; And that we need no further victory! For a brief moment terrible,
But to thy sovereign penetration fair; Before whom all things are, that were, All judgments that have been, or e'er shall be, Links in the chain of thy tranquillity! Along the bosom of this favoured nation, Breathe thou, this day, a vital undulation! Let all who do this land inherit
Be conscious of thy moving spirit! Ob, 'tis a goodly ordinance! the sight,
Though sprung from bleeding war, is one of pure delight; Bless thou the hour, or ere the hour arrive,
When a whole people shall kneel down in prayer,
And, at one moment, in one spirit, strive
With lip and heart to tell their gratitude
For thy protecting care,
Their solemn joy-praising the eternal Lord For tyranny subdued,
And for the sway of equity renewed, For liberty confirmed, and peace restored!
But hark, the summons! Down the placid lake Floats the soft cadence of the church-tower bells, Bright shines the sun, as if his beams might wake The tender insects sleeping in their cells; Bright shines the sun-and not a breeze to shake The drops that point the melting icicles.
"O, enter now his Temple Gate!" Inviting words-perchance already flung (As the crowd press devoutly down the aisle Of some old minster's venerable pile) From voices into zealous passion stung, While the tubed engine feels the inspiring blast, And has begun its clouds of sound to cast Towards the empyreal heaven,
As if the fretted roof were riven.
Us humbler ceremonies now await; But in the bosom with devout respect, The banner of our joy we will erect,
And strength of love our souls shall elevate: For, to a few collected in his name, The heavenly father will incline his ear,
Hallowing himself the service which they frame. Awake! the majesty of God revere!
Go,-and with foreheads meekly bowed, Present your prayer: go,-and rejoice aloud- The Holy One will hear!
And what 'mid silence deep, with faith sincere, Ye, in your low and undisturbed estate, Shall simply feel, and purely meditate
Of warnings-from the unprecedented might, Which, in our time, the impious have disclosed; And of more arduous duties thence imposed Upon the future advocates of right;
Of mysteries revealed,
And judgments unrepealed,- Of earthly revolution,
And final retribution,
To his Omniscience will appear
As offering not unworthy to find place
On this high Day of Thanks, before the throne of grace.
COMPOSED IN JANUARY 1816.
WHEN the soft hand of sleep had closed the latch Of the tired household of corporeal sense, And Fancy, in her airy bower, kept watch, Free to exert some kindly influence;
I saw but little boots it that my verse
A shadowy visitation should rehearse;
For to our shores such glory hath been brought,
That dreams no brighter are than waking thought
I saw, in wondrous perspective displayed,
A landscape richer than the happiest skill
Of pencil ever clothed with light and shade;- An intermingled pomp of vale and hill, Tower, town, and city, and suburban grove, And stately forest where the wild deer rove; And, in a clouded quarter of the sky, Through such a portal as with cheerful eye The traveller greets in time of threatened storm, Issued, to sudden view, a radiant form! Earthward it glided with a swift descent; Saint George himself this visitant may be ; And ere a thought could ask in what intent He sought the regions of humanity, A thrilling voice was heard, that vivified My patriotic heart; aloud it cried: "I, the guardian of this land, Speak not now of toilsome duty--
Well obeyed was that command- Days are come of festive beauty;
Haste, virgins, haste!-the flowers which summer gave, Have perished in the field;
But the green thickets plenteously will yield
Fit garlands for the brave,
That will be welcome, if by you entwined.
Haste, virgins, haste! And you, ye matrons grave, Go forth with rival youthfulness of mind,
And gather what ye find
Of hardy laurel, and wild holly boughs, To deck your stern defenders' modest brows? Such simple gifts prepare,
Though they have gained a worthier meed; And in due time shall share Those palms and amaranthine wreaths Unto their martyred countrymen decreed, In realms where everlasting freshness breathes!"
And lo! with crimson banners proudly streaming, And upright weapons innocently gleaming, Along the surface of the spacious plain, Advance in order the redoubted bands,
And there receive green chaplets from the hands Of a fair female train,
Maids and matrons, dight
In robes of purest white;
While from the crowd bursts forth a rapturous noise,
By the cloud-capped hills retorted,— And a throng of rosy boys
In loose fashion told their joys,—
And grey-haired sires, on staffs supported,
Looked round, and by their smiling seemed to say: "Thus strives a grateful country to display
The mighty debt which nothing can repay.'
Anon, I saw, beneath a dome of state, The feast dealt forth with bounty unconfined, And while the vaulted roof did emulate
The starry heavens through splendour of the show, It rang with music, and methought the wind Scattered the tuneful largess far and near,
That they who asked not might partake the cheer, Who listened not could hear,
Where'er the wild winds were allowed to blow, That work reposing, on the verge
Of busiest exultation hung a dirge,
Breathed from a soft and lonely instrument,
That kindled recollections
Of agonized affections;
And, though some tears the strain attended, The mournful passion ended
In peace of spirit and sublime content!
But garlands wither,-festal shows depart Like dreams themselves; and sweetest sounds, Albeit of effect profound,
Victorious England! bid the silent art Reflect, in glowing hues that shall not fade, Those high achievements,-e'en as she arrayed With second life the deed of Marathon
Upon Athenian walls:
So may she labour for thy civic halls; And be the guardian spaces
Of consecrated places
Graced with such gifts as sculpture can bestow, When inspiration guides her pensive toil; And let imperishable trophies grow
Fixed in the depths of this courageous soil! Expressive records of a glorious strife, And competent to shed a spark divine Into the torpid heart of daily life; Trophies on which the morning sun may shine, As changeful ages flow
With gratulations thoroughly benign!
And ye, Pierian sisters, sprung from Jove, And sage Mnemosyne,-full long debarred From your first mansions, exiled all too long From many a consecrated stream and grove, Dear native regions where ye wont to rove, Chanting for patriot heroes the reward
Now (for though truth descending from above The Olympian summit hath destroyed for aye Your kindred deities, ye live and move, And exercise unblamed a generous sway), Now, on the margin of some spotless fountain, Or top serene of unmolested mountain, Strike audibly the noblest of your lyres, And for a moment meet my soul's desires! That I, or some more favoured bard, may hear What ye, celestial maids, have often sung Of Britain's acts,-may catch it with rapt ear, And give the treasure to our British tongue! So shall the character of that proud page Support their mighty theme from age to age; And, in the desert places of the earth, When they to future empire have given birth, So shall the people gather and believe
The bold report, transferred to every clime; And the whole world, not envious but admiring, And to the last aspiring,
Own that the progeny of that fair Isle Had power as lofty actions to achieve As were performed in man's heroic prime; Nor wanted, when their fortitude had held
Its even tenor and the foe was quelled,
A corresponding virtue, to beguile The hostile purpose of wide-wasting time; That not in vain they labour to secure For their great deeds perpetual memory, And fame, as largely spread as land and sea, -By works of spirit high and passion pure.
INSCRIPTION FOR A NATIONAL MONUMENT IN COMMEMORATION OF THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO.
INTREPID Sons of Albion, not by you
Is life despised! Ah, no!-the spacious earth Ne'er saw a race who held, by right of birth, So many objects to which love is due:
Ye slight not life-to God and Nature true; But death, becoming death, is dearer far, When duty bids you bleed in open war: Hence hath your prowess quelled that impious crew. Heroes! for instant sacrifice prepared,
Yet filled with ardour, and on triumph bent 'Mid direst shocks of mortal accident-
To you who fell, and you whom slaughter spared To guard the fallen, and consummate the event- Your country rears this sacred monument!
OCCASIONED BY THE SAME BATTLE.
THE bard, whose soul is meek as dawning day, Yet trained to judgments righteously severe; Fervent, yet conversant with holy fear,
As recognising one Almighty sway:
He, whose experienced eye can pierce the array Of past events,-to whom, in vision clear,
The aspiring heads of future things appear,
Like mountain-tops whence mists have rolled away; Assoiled from all incumbrance of our time, He only, if such breathe, in strains devout Shall comprehend this victory sublime, And worthily rehearse the hideous rout, Which the blest angels, from their peaceful clime, Beholding, welcomed with a choral shout.
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