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.
O! FOR a kindling touch of that pure flame,
Which taught the offering of song to rise
From thy lone bower beneath the Italian skies,
Great Felicaia! * With celestial aim
It rose thy saintly rapture to proclaim,
Then, when the imperial city stood released
From bondage threatened by the embattled East,
And Christendom respired: from guilt and shame
Redeemed-from miserable fear set free
By one day's feat-one mighty victory.
Chant the deliverer's praise in every tongue!
The cross shall spread, the crescent hath waxed dim!
He conquering as in earth and heaven was sung-
"He conquering through God, and God by him!"
WHILE not a leaf seems faded-while the fields,
With ripening harvests prodigally fair,
In brightest sunshine bask, this nipping air
Sent from some distant clime where Winter wields
His icy scimitar, a foretaste yields
Of bitter change and bids the flowers beware;
And whispers to the silent birds, "Prepare
Against the threatening foe your trustiest shields."
For me, who, under kindlier laws, belong
To Nature's tuneful quire, this rustling dry,
Through the green leaves, and yon crystalline sky,
Announce a season potent to renew,
'Mid frost and snow, the instinctive joys of song-
And nobler cares than listless summer knew.
How clear, how keen, how marvellously bright
The effluence from yon mountain's distant head,
Which, strown with snow as smooth as heaven can shed,
Shines like another sun-on mortal sight
*See Felicaia's canzone, addressed to John Sobieski, King of Poland, upon his raising the siege of Vienna.
Uprisen, as if to check approaching night,
And all her twinkling stars. Who now would tread,
If so he might, yon mountain's glittering head-
Terrestrial-but a surface, by the flight
Of sad mortality's earth-sullying wing,
Unswept, unstained? Nor shall the aërial powers
Dissolve that beauty-destined to endure
White, radiant, spotless, exquisitely pure,
Through all vicissitudes-till genial spring
Have filled the laughing vales with welcome flowers.
HIGH is our calling, friend! creative Art
(Whether the instrument of words she use,
Or pencil pregnant with ethereal hues)
Demands the service of a mind and heart,
Though sensitive, yet, in their weakest part,
Heroically fashioned-to infuse
Faith in the whispers of the lonely muse,
While the whole world seems adverse to desert:-
And, oh! when Nature sinks, as oft she may,
Through long-lived pressure of obscure distress,
Still to be strenuous for the bright reward,
And in the soul admit of no decay,-
Brook no continuance of weak-mindedness:
Great is the glory, for the strife is hard!
COMPOSED IN RECOLLECTION OF THE EXPEDITION OF THE FRENCH INTO RUSSIA. FEBRUARY 1816.
HUMANITY, delighting to behold
A fond reflection of her own decay,
Hath painted Winter like a shrunken, old,
And close-wrapt traveller, through the weary day
Propped on a staff, and limping o'er the plain,
As though his weakness were disturbed by pain;
Or, if a juster fancy should allow
An undisputed symbol of command,
The chosen sceptre in a withered bough,
Infirmly grasped within a palsied hand.
This emblem suits the helpless and forlorn;
But mighty Winter the device shall scorn;
For he it was,-dread Winter!—who beset,
Flinging round van and rear his ghastly net,
That host, when from the regions of the Pole
They shrunk, insane ambition's barren goal,
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