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How few could feel for what he had to bear! He wants not this; but France shall feel Vain his complaint,—my Lord presents his

bill,

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How must he smile, and turn to yon lone grave,

The proudest sea-mark that o'ertops the wave!

What though his jailor, duteous to the last, Scarce deem'd the coffin's lead could keep him fast,

the want

Of this last consolation, though so scant;
Her honour, fame, and faith, demand his
bones,

To rear above a pyramid of thrones;
Or, carried onward, in the battle's van
To form, like Guesclin's dust, her talisman.
But be it as it is, the time may come
His name shall beat the alarm like Ziska's
drum.

Oh, Heaven! of which he was in power
a feature;

Oh, Earth! of which he was a noble creature;
Thou Isle! to be remember'd long and well,
That sawst the unfledged eaglet chip his
shell!

Ye Alps, which view'd him in his dawning
flights

Hover, the victor of an hundred fights!
Thou Rome, who sawst thy Cæsar's deeds
outdone!

Alas! why pass'd he too the Rubicon?
The Rubicon of man's awaken'd rights,
To herd with vulgar kings and parasites?
Egypt! from whose all dateless tombs arose
Forgotten Pharaohs from their long repose,
And shook within their pyramids to hear
A new Cambyses thundering in their ear;
While the dark shades of forty ages stood
Like startled giants by Nile's famous flood;
Or from the pyramid's tall pinnacle
Beheld the desert peopled, as from hell,
With clashing hosts, who strew'd the
barren sand

To re-manure the uncultivated land! Spain! which, a moment mindless of the Cid, Beheld his banner flouting thy Madrid! Austria! which saw thy twice-ta'en capital Twice spared, to be the traitress of his fall! Ye race of Frederic!-Frederics but in name And falsehood - heirs to all except his fame; Refusing one poor line along the lid Who, crush'd at Jena, crouch'd at Berlin, fell To date the birth and death of all it hid,|First, and but rose to follow; ye who dwell That name shall hallow the ignoble shore, A talisman to all save him who bore: The fleets that sweep before the eastern blast Shall hear their sea-boys hail it from the

mast:

When Victory's Gallic column shall but rise,
Like Pompey's pillar, in a desert's skies,
The rocky isle that holds or held his dust
Shall crown the Atlantic like the hero's bust,
And mighty Nature o'er his obsequies
Do more than niggard Envy still denies.
But what are these to him? Can glory's lust
Touch the free'd spirit or the fetter'd dust?
Small care hath he of what his tomb consists,
Nought if he sleeps-nor more if he exists:
Alike the better-seeing Shade will smile
On the rude cavern of the rocky isle,
As if his ashes found their latest home
In Rome's Pantheon, or Gaul's mimic dome.

Where Kosciusko dwelt, remembering yet
The unpaid amount of Catherine's bloody

debt!

Poland! o'er which the avenging angel
pass'd,

But left thee as he found thee, still a waste;
Forgetting all thy still enduring claim,
Thy lotted people and extinguish'd name;
Thy sigh for freedom, thy long-flowing tear,
That sound that crashes in the tyrant's ear;
Kosciusko! on- on-on-the thirst of war
Gasps for the gore of serfs and of their Czar;
The half-barbaric Moscow's minarets
Gleam in the sun, but 'tis a sun that sets!
Moscow! thou limit of his long career,
For which rude Charles had wept his fro-
zen tear

To see in vain-he saw thee-how? with
spire

And palace fuel to one common fire.
To this the soldier lent his kindling match,
To this the peasant gave his cottage-thatch,
To this the merchant flung his hoarded store,
The prince his hall--and, Moscow was no
'more!

Sublimest of volcanoes! Etna's flame
Pales before thine, and quenchless Hecla's

tame;

Vesuvius shows his blaze, an usual sight For gaping tourists, from his hackney'd height:

Thou standst alone unrivall'd till the fire To come, in which all empires shall expire. Thou other element! as strong and stern To teach a lesson conquerors will not learn, Whose icy wing flapp'd o'er the faltering foe, Till fell a hero with each flake of snow; How did thy numbing beak and silent fang Pierce, till hosts perish'd with a single pang!

In vain shall Seine look up along his banks
For the gay thousands of his dashing ranks;
In vain shall France recal beneath her vines
Her youth-their blood flows faster than
her wines,

Or stagnant in their human ice remains
In frozen mummies on the Polar plains.
In vain will Italy's broad sun awaken
Her offspring chill'd; its beams are now
forsaken.

Of all the trophies gather'd from the war, What shall return? The conqueror's broken car!

The conqueror's yet unbroken heart! Again The horn of Roland sounds, and not in vain. Lutzen, where fell the Swede of victory, Beholds him conquer, but, alas! not die: Dresden surveys three despots fly once more Before their sovereign,-sovereign,as before; But there exhausted Fortune quits the field, And Leipsic's treason bids the unvanquish'd yield;

The Saxon Jackal leaves the Lion's side To turn the Bear's, and Wolf's, and Fox's guide;

And backward to the den of his despair The forest-monarch shrinks, but finds no lair! Oh ye! and each, and all! Oh, France! who found Thy long fair fields plough'd up as hostile ground, Disputed foot by foot, till treason, still His only victor, from Montmartre's hill Look'd down o'er trampled Paris; and thou, isle,

Which seest Etruria from thy ramparts smile,

Thou momentary shelter of his pride, Till woo'd by danger, his yet weeping bride;

Oh, France! retaken by a single march, Whose path was through one long triumphal arch!

Oh, bloody and most bootless Waterloo,

Which proves how fools may have their fortune too,

Won, half by blunder, half by treachery;
Oh, dull Saint-Helen! with thy jailor nigh-
Hear! hear! Prometheus from his rock
appeal

To earth, air, ocean, all that felt or feel
His power and glory, all who yet shall hear
A name eternal as the rolling year;
He teaches them the lesson taught so long,
So oft, so vainly-learn to do no wrong!
A single step into the right had made
This man the Washington of worlds be-
tray'd;

A single step into the wrong has given
His name a doubt to all the winds of Heaven;
The reed of Fortune and of thrones the rod,
Of Fame the Moloch or the demi-god ;
His country's Cæsar, Europe's Hannibal,
Without their decent dignity of fall.
Yet Vanity herself had better taught
A surer path even to the fame he songht,
By pointing out on history's fruitless page
Ten thousand conquerors for a single sage.
While Franklin's quiet memory climbs ta
heaven.

Calming the lightning which he thence hath riven,

Or drawing from the no less kindled earth Freedom and peace to that which boasts his birth:

While Washington's a watch-word, such
as ne'er
Shall sink while there's an echo left to air.
While even the Spaniard's thirst of gold
and war

Forgets Pizarro to shout Bolivar!
Alas! why must the same Atlantic wave
Which wafted freedom gird a tyrant's
grave-

The king of kings, and yet of slaves the slave,

Who burst the chains of millions to renew The very fetters which his arm broke through,

And crush'd the rights of Europe and his own To flit between a dungeon and a throne?

But 'twill not be, the spark's awaken'd, lo! The swarthy Spaniard feels his former glow; The same high spirit which beat back the Moor

Through eight long ages of alternate gore Revives-and where? in that avenging clime Where Spain was once synonymous with crime,

Where Cortes' and Pizarro's banner flew; The infant-world redeems her name of "New."

'Tis the old aspiration breathed afresh, To kindle souls within degraded flesh, Such as repulsed the Persian from the shore Where Greece was- No! she still is Greece once more.

One common cause makes myriads of one | Holds back the invader from her soil again.

breast,

Slaves of the East, or Helots of the West;
On Andes' and on Athos' peaks unfurl'd,
The self-same standard streams o'er either
world;

The Athenian wears again Harmodius'
sword;

The Chili-chief abjures his foreign lord ;
The Spartan knows himself once more a
Greek;

Young Freedom plumes the crest of each
Cacique;
Debating despots, hemm'd on either shore,
Shrink vainly from the roused Atlantic's

roar;

Through Calpe's strait the rolling tides
advance,

Sweep slightly by the half-tamed land of
France,

Dash o'er the old Spaniard's cradle,
would fain

and

Unite Ausonia to the mighty main:
But driven from thence awhile, yet not
for aye,
Break o'er th' Ægean, mindful of the day
Of Salamis—there, there, the waves arise,
Not to be lull'd by tyrant-victories.
Lone, lost, abandon'd in their utmost need
By Christians unto whom they gave their
creed,

The desolated lands, the ravaged isle,
The foster'd feud encouraged to beguile,
The aid evaded, and the cold delay,
Prolong'd but in the hope to make a prey;-
These, these shall tell the tale, and Greece
can show

The false friend worse than the infuriate foe.
But this is well: Greeks only should free
Greece,

Not the barbarian, with his mask of peace.
How should the Autocrat of Bondage be
The king of serfs, and set the nations free?
Better still serve the haughty Mussulman,
Than swell the Cossaque's prowling caravan;
Better still toil for masters, than await,
The slave of slaves, before a Russian gate,
Number'd by hordes, a human capital,
A live estate, existing but for thrall,
Lotted by thousands, as a meet reward
For the first courtier in the Czar's regard;
While their immediate owner never tastes
His sleep, sans dreaming of Siberia's wastes;
Better succumb even to their own despair,
And drive the camel than purvey the bear.

But not alone within the hoariest clime,
Where Freedom dates her birth with that
of Time;
And not alone where, plunged in night, a
crowd

Of Incas darken to a dubious cloud,
The dawn revives: renown'd, romantic
Spain

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Not now the Roman tribe nor Punic horde
Demand her fields as lists to prove the sword;
Not now the Vandal or the Visigoth
Pollute the plains alike abhorring both;
Nor old Pelayo on his mountain rears
The warlike fathers of a thousand years.
That seed is sown and reap`d, as oft the Moor
Sighs to remember on his dusky shore.
Long in the peasant's song or poet's page
Has dwelt the memory of Abencerage,
The Zegri, and the captive victors, flung
Back to the barbarous realm from whence
they sprung.

But these are gone their faith, their swords,
their sway,

Yet left more anti-christian foes than they:
The bigot monarch and the butcher priest,
The Inquisition, with her burning feast,
The Faith's red "auto," fed with human fuel,
While sat the Catholic Moloch,calmly cruel,
Enjoying, with inexorable eye,
That fiery festival of agony!

The stern or feeble sovereign, one or both
By turns; the haughtiness whose pride was
sloth;

The long degenerate noble; the debased
Hidalgo, and the peasant less disgraced
But more degraded; the unpeopled realm;
The once proud navy which forgot the helm;
The once impervious phalanx disarray'd;
The idle forge that form'd Toledo's blade;
The foreign wealth that flow'd on every
shore,

Save hers who earn'd it with the natives'
gore;

The very language, which might vie with
Rome's,

And once was known to nations like their
home's,
Neglected or forgotten:-such was Spain;
But such she is not, nor shall be again.
These worst, these home invaders, felt and feel
The new Numantine soul of old Castile.
Up! up again! undaunted Tauridor!
The bull of Phalaris renews his roar;
Mount, chivalrous Hidalgo! not in vain
Revive the cry--"Iago! and close Spain!"
Yes, close her with your armed bosoms
round,

And form the barrier which Napoleon
found, -

The exterminating war; the desert plain;
The streets without a tenant, save the slain;
The wild Sierra, with its wilder troop
Of vulture-plumed Guerillas, on the stoop
For their incessant prey; the desperate wall
Of Saragossa, mightiest in her fall;
The man nerved to a spirit, and the maid
Waving her more than Amazonian blade;
The knife of Arragon, Toledo's steel;
The famous lance of chivalrous Castile;
The unerring rifle of the Catalan ;
The Andalusian courser in the van;
The torch to make a Moscow of Madrid;

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From climes of Washington and Bolivar; Henry, the forest-born Demosthenes, Whose thunder shook the Philip of the seas;

And stoic Franklin's energetic shade, Robed in the lightnings which his hand allay'd;

And Washington, the tyrant-tamer, wake, To bid us blush for these old chains, or break.

But Who compose this Senate of the few
That should redeem the many? Who renew
This consecrated name, till now assign'd
To councils held to benefit mankind?
Who now assemble at the holy call ?-
The bless'dAlliance,which says three are all!
An earthly Trinity, which wears the shape
Of Heaven's, as man is mimick'd by the ape.
A pious unity! in purpose one-
To melt three fools to a Napoleon.
Why, Egypt's gods were rational to these;
Their dogs and oxen knew their own degrees,
And, quiet in their kennel or their shed,
Cared little, so that they were duly fed;
But these, more hungry, must have some-
thing more
The power to bark and bite, to toss and gore.
Ah, how much happier were good Æsop's
frogs

Than we! for ours are animated logs,
With ponderous malice swaying to and fro,
And crushing nations with a stupid blow,
All dully anxious to leave little work
Unto the revolutionary stork.

Thrice bless'd Verona! since the holy three

With their imperial presence shine on thee; Honour'd by them, thy treacherous site forgets

The vaunted tomb of "all the Capulets;" Thy Scaligers-for what was "Dog the Great,"

“Can' Grande” (which I venture to translate) To these sublimer pugs? Thy poet too, Catullus, whose old laurels yield to new; Thine amphitheatre, where Romans sate; And Dante's exile, shelter'd by thy gate;

Thy good old man, whose world was all
within
Thy wall, nor knew the country held him in:
Would that the royal guests it girds about
Were so far like, as never to get out!
Ay, shout! inscribe! rear monuments of
shame,

To tell Oppression that the world is tame!
Crowd to the theatre with loyal rage-
The comedy is not upon the stage;"
The show is rich in ribbonry and stars-
Then gaze upon it through thy dungeon-
bars;

Clap thy permitted palms, kind Italy, For thus much still thy fetter'd hands are free!

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knows,

By having Muscovites for friends or foes. Proceed, thou namesake of Great Philip's son! La Harpe, thine Aristotle, beckons on; And that which Scythia was to him of yore, Find with thy Scythians on Iberia's shore. Yet think upon, thou somewhat aged youth, Thy predecessor on the banks of Pruth; Thou hast to aid thee, should his lot be thine,

Many an old woman, but no Catherine. Spain too hath rocks, and rivers, and defiles The bear may rush into the lion's toils. Fatal to Goths are Xeres' sunny fields; Thinkst thou to thee Napoleon's victor yields?

Better reclaim thy deserts, turn thy swords To ploughshares, shave and wash thy Bash

kir hordes,

Redeem thy realms from slavery and the

knout, Than follow headlong in the fatal route,

To infest the clime, whose skies and laws | And love much rather to be scourged than are pure, school'd? With thy foul legions. Spain wants no Ah! thine was not the temper or the taste For thrones-the table sees thee better placed :

manure;

Her soil is fertile, but she feeds no foe; Her vultures, too, were gorged not long ago; And wouldst thou furnish them with fresher prey?

Alas! thou wilt not conquer, but purvey. Ham Diogenes, though Russ and Hun Stand between mine and many a myriad's

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A mild Epicurean, form'd, at best,
To be a kind host and as good a guest,
To talk of letters, and to know by heart
One half the poet's, all the gourmand's art;
A scholar always, now and then a wit,
And gentle when digestion may permit -
But not to govern lands enslaved or free;
The gout was martyrdom enough for thee!

Shall noble Albion pass without a phrase From a bold Briton in her wonted praise? "Arts-arms-and George-and glory and the isles

And happy, Britain-wealth and freedom's smiles

White cliffs, that held invasion far aloofContented subjects, all alike tax-proof – Proud Wellington, with eagle-beak so curl'd, That nose, the hook where he suspends the world!

And Waterloo—and trade-and--(hush! not yet

A syllable of imposts or of debt)--
And ne'er (enough) lamented Castlereagh,
Whose pen-knife slit a goose-quill t'other
day-

And pilots who have weather'd every

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To unleaven'd prose thine own poetic flame;
Our last, our best, our only orator,
Even I can praise thee - Tories do no more,
Nay, not so much;-they hate thee, man,
because

Thy spirit less upholds them than it awes,— The hounds will gather to their huntsman's hollo,

And, where he leads, the duteous pack will follow;

But not for love mistake their yelling cry, Their yelp for game is not an eulogy; Less faithful far than the four-footed pack, A dubious scent would lure the bipeds back, Thy saddle-girths are not yet quite secure

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