Awake! arise! to speed the hour of Fate, So shall the course of ages yet to be, "Yes, from the awful gulf of years to come, I hear a voice that prophesies her doom; I see the trophies of her pride decay, And her long line of triumphs pass away, Lost in the depths of time—while sinks the star That led her march of heroes from afar! Lo! from the frozen forests of the north, The sons of slaughter pour in myriads forth! Who shall awake the mighty ?-will thy woe, City of thrones! disturb the realms below? Call on the dead to hear thee! let thy cries Summon their shadowy legions to arise, Array the ghosts of conquerors on thy walls! -Barbarians revel in their ancient halls, And their lost children bend the subject knee, 'Midst the proud tombs and trophies of the free. Bird of the sun! dread eagle! born on high, A creature of the empyreal-Thou, whose eye Was lightning to the earth-whose pinion waved In haughty triumph o'er a world enslaved; Sink from thy Heavens! for glory's noon is o'er, And rushing storms shall bear thee on no more! Closed is thy regal course-thy crest is torn, And thy plume banish'd from the realms of morn. The shaft hath reach'd thee! - rest with chiefs and kings, Who conquer'd in the shadow of thy wings; Calling heroic shades from ages gone, Or bids the nations 'midst her deserts wait "Still sleep'st thou, Roman? rise! Son of Victory, Wake to obey th' avenging Destinies ! Shed by thy mandate, soon thy country's blood Haste! o'er her hills the sword's libation shed, Whose echoes vibrate on the slumberer's ear; He starts, he wakes to woe-before him stands And sovereign in despair, he cried, "Return! SONG. FOUNDED ON AN ARABIAN ANECDOTE. AWAY! though still thy sword is red Though on my heart 'twould fall more blest, I've sought thee 'midst the sons of men, No step that mark'd the burning waste, Thy name hath been a baleful spell, No thought may dream, no words may tell, Hath not my cup for thee been pour'd, What though unknown-yet who shall rest Haste thee! and leave my threshold-floor, Inviolate and pure! Let not thy presence tempt me more, Away! I bear a fetter'd arm, A heart that burns-but must not harm! Begone! outstrip the swift gazelle ! The wind in speed subdue! And hate, like love, in parting pain, To-morrow-and th' avenger's hand, Let blood the monarch's hall profane,- Fly! may the desert's fiery blast Avoid thy secret way! And sternly, till thy steps be past, I would not that thy doom should be |