At that dread season when th’ indignant North
Pour’d to vain wars her tardy numbers forth,
When Frederic bent his ear to Europe’s cry,
And fann’d, too late, the flame of liberty ;
By feverish hope oppress’d and anxious thought,
In Dresden’s grove the dewy cool I sought.
Through tangled boughs the broken moonshine play’d,
And Elbe slept soft beneath his linden shade ;
Yet slept not at all ;– I heard the ceaseless jar,
The rattling waggons, and the wheels of war ;
The sounding lash, the march’s mingled hum,
And, lost and heard by fits, the languid drum ;
O’er the near bridge the thundering hoofs that trode,
And the far-distant fife that trill’d along the road.
Yes, sweet it seems across some watery dell
To catch the music of the pealing bell ;
And sweet to list, as on the beach we stray,
The ship-boy’s carol in the wealthy bay :–
But sweet no less, when justice points the spear,
Of martial wrath the glorious din to hear,–
To catch the war-note on the quivering gale,
And bid the blood-red paths of conquest hail.
Oh! song of hope, too long delusive strain!
And hear we now thy flattering voice again?
But late, alas! I left thee cold and still,
Stunn’d by the wrath of Heaven, on Pratzen’s hill.
Oh! on that hill may no kind month renew
The fertile rain, the sparkling summer dew!
Accursed of God, may those bleak summits tell
The field of anger where the mighty fell.
There youthful faith and highborn courage rest,
And, red with slaughter, freedom’s humbled crest ;
There Europe soil’d with blood her tresses gray,
And ancient honour’s shield, — all vilely thrown away.
Thus mused my soul, as in succession drear
Rose each grim shape of wrath and doubt and fear ;
Defeat and shame in grisly vision past,
And vengeance bought with blood, and glorious death the last.
Then, as my gaze their waving eagles met,
And through the night each sparkling bayonet,
Still memory told how Austria’s evil hour
Had felt on Praga’s field a Frederic’s power.
And Gallia’s vaunting train, and Moscow’s horde,
Had flesh’d the maiden steel of Brunswick’s sword.
Oh! yet I deem’d that fate, by justice led,
Might wreathe once more the veteran’s silver head ;
That Europe’s ancient pride would yet disdain
The cumbrous sceptre of a single reign ;
That conscious right would tenfold strength afford,
And Heaven assist the patriot’s holy sword,
And look in mercy through the auspicious sky,
To bless the saviour host of Germany!
And are they dreams, these bodings, such as shed
Their lonely comfort o’er the hermit’s bed?
And are they dreams? or can the Eternal Mind
Care for a sparrow, yet neglect mankind?
Why, if the dubious battle own His power,
And the red sabre where He bids devour,
Why then can one the curse of worlds deride,
And millions weep a tyrant’s single pride?
Thus sadly musing, far my footsteps stray’d,
Rapt in the visions of the Aonian maid.
It was not she, whose lonely voice I hear
Fall in soft whispers on my love-lorn ear ;
My daily guest, who wont my steps to guide
Through the green walks of scented eventide,
Or stretch’d with me in noonday ease along,
To list the reaper’s chant or throstle’s song :–
But she of loftier port ; whose grave control
Rules the fierce workings of the patriot’s soul ;
She whose high presence, o’er the midnight oil,
With fame’s bright promise cheers the student’s toil ;
That same was she, whose ancient lore refined
The sober hardihood of Sydney’s mind.
Borne on her wing, no more I seem’d to rove
By Dresden’s glittering spires and linden grove ;
No more the giant Elbe, all silver bright,
Spread his broad bosom to the fair moonlight,
While the still margent of his ample flood
Bore the dark image of the Saxon wood.
(Woods happy once, that heard the carols free
Of rustic love and cheerful industry ;
Now dull and joyless lie their alleys green,
And silence marks the track where France has been.)
Far other scenes than these my fancy view’d :
Rocks robed in ice, a mountain solitude ;
Where, on Helvetian hills, in godlike state,
Alone and awful, Europe’s Angel sate :
Silent and stern he sate ; then, bending low,
Listen’d the ascending plaints of human woe.
And waving as in grief his towery head,
“Not yet, not yet, the day of rest,” he said ;
“It may not be. Destruction’s gory wing
Soars o’er the banners of the younger king,
Too rashly brave, who seeks with single sway
To stem the lava on its destined way.
Poor glittering warriors, only wont to know
The bloodless pageant of a martial show ;
Nurslings of peace for fiercer fights prepare,
And dread the step-dame sway of unaccustom’d war!
They fight, they bleed! — Oh! had that blood been shed
When Charles and valour Austria’s armies led ;
Had these stood forth the righteous cause to shield,
When victory waver’d on Moravia’s field ;
Then France had mourn’d her conquests made in vain,
Her backward beaten ranks and countless slain ;–
Then had the strength of Europe’s freedom stood,
And still the Rhine had roll’d a German flood!
“Oh! nursed in many a wile, and practised long,
To spoil the poor and cringe before the strong ;
To swell the victor’s state, and hovering near,
Like some base vulture in the battle’s rear,
To watch the carnage of the field, and share
Each loathsome alms the prouder eagles spare :
A curse is on thee, Brandenburgh! the sound
Of Poland’s wailing drags the to the ground ;
And, drunk with guilt, thy harlot lips shall know
The bitter dregs of Australia’s cup of woe.
“Enough of vengeance! O’er th’ ensanguined plain
I gaze, and seek their numerous host in vain ;
Gone like the locust band, when whirlwinds bear
Their flimsy legions through the waste of air.
Enough of vengeance! — By the glorious dead,
Who bravely fell where youthful Lewis led ;
By Blucher’s sword in fiercest danger tried,
And the true heart that burst when Brunswick died ;
By her whose charms the coldest zeal might warm,
The manliest firmness in the fairest form —
Save, Europe, save the remnant! — Yet remains
One glorious path to free the world from chains.
Why, when yon northern band in Eylau’s wood
Retreating struck, and track’d their course with blood,
While one firm rock the floods of ruin stay’d,
Why, generous Austria, were thy wheels delay’d?
And Albion!” — Darker sorrow veil’d his brow–
“Friend of the friendless — Albion! where art thou?
Child of the Sea, whose wing-like sails are spread,
The covering cherub of the ocean’s bed!
The storm and tempest render peace to thee,
And the wild-roaring waves a stern security.
But hope not thou in Heaven’s own strength to ride,
Freedom’s loved ark, o’er broad oppression’s tide ;
If cirtue leave thee, if thy careless eye
Glance in contempt on Europe’s agony.
Alas! where now the bands who wont to pour
Their strong deliverance on th’ Egyptian shore?
Wing, wing your course, a prostrate world to save,
Triumphant squadrons of Trafalgar’s wave.
“And thou, blest star of Europe’s darkest hour,
Whose words were wisdom and whose counsels power,
Whom Earth applauded through her peopled shores!
(Alas! whom Earth too early lost deplores :–)
Young without follies, without rashness bold,
And greatly poor amidst a nation’s gold ;
In every veering gale of faction true,
Untarnish’d Chatham’s genuine child, adieu!
Unlike our common suns, whose gradual ray
Expands from twilight to intenser day,
Thy blaze broke forth at once in full meridian sway.
O, proved in danger! not the fiercest flame
Of discord’s rage thy constant soul could tame ;
Not when, far striding o’er thy palsied land,
Gigantic Treason took his bolder stand ;
Not when wild Zeal, by murderous faction led,
On Wicklow’s hills her grass-green banner spread ;
Or those stern conquerors of the restless wave
Defied the native soil they wont to save.
Undaunted patriot! in that dreadful hour,
When pride and genius own a sterner power ;
When the dimm’d eyeball, and the struggling breath,
And pain, and terror, mark advancing death ;–
Still in that breast thy country held her throne,
Thy toil, thy fear, thy prayer, were hers alone,
Thy last faint effort hers, and hers thy parting groan.
“Yes, from those lips, while fainting nations drew
Hope ever strong and courage ever new ;–
Yet, yet, I deem’d by that supporting hand
Propp’d in her fall might Freedom’s ruin stand ;
And purged by fire, and stronger from the storm,
Degraded Justice rear her reverend form.
Now, hope, adieu! — adieu! the generous care
To shield the weak, and tame the proud in war!
The golden chain of realms, when equal awe
Poised the strong balance of impartial law ;
When rival states as federate sisters shone,
Alike, yet various, and though many, one ;
And, bright and numerous as the spangled sky,
Beam’d each fair star of Europe’s galaxy–
All, all are gone, and after time shall trace
One boundless rule, one distinguish’d race ;
Twilight of worth, where nought remains to move
The patriot’s ardour or the subject’s love.
“Behold, e’en now, while every manly lore
And every muse forsakes my yielding shore ;
Faint, vapid fruits of slavery’s sickly clime,
Each tinsel art succeeds, and harlot rhyme!
To gild the vase, to bid the purple spread
In sightly foldings o’er the Grecian bed,
Their mimic guard where sculptured gryphons keep,
And Memphian idols watch o’er beauty’s sleep ;
To rouse the slumbering sparks of faint desire
With the base tinkling of the Teian lyre ;
While youth’s enervate glance and gloating age
Hang o’er the mazy waltz or pageant stage ;
Each wayward wish of sickly taste to please,
The mighty revel and the noontide ease–
These, Europe, are thy toils, thy trophies these!
“So, when wide-wasting hail, or whelming rain,
Have strew’d the bearded hope of golden grain,
From the wet furrow, struggling to the skies,
The tall, rank weeds in barren splendour rise ;
And strong, and towering o’er the mildew’d ear,
Uncomely flowers and baneful herbs appear ;
The swain’s rich toils to useless poppies yield,
And Famine stalks along the purple field.
“And thou, the poet’s theme, the patriot’s prayer!
Where, France, thy hopes, thy gilded promise where?
When o’er Montpelier’s vines and Jura’s snows,
All goodly bright, young Freedom’s planet rose?
What boots it now (to our destruction brave,)
How strong thine arm in war? a valiant slave!
What boots it now that wide thine eagles sail,
Fann’d by the flattering breath of conquest’s gale?
What, that, high-piled within yon ample dome,
The blood-bought treasures rest of Greece and Rome?
Scourge of the Highest, bolt in vengeance hurl’d
By Heaven’s dread justice on a shrinking world!
Go, vanquish’d victor, bend thy proud helm down
Before thy sullen tyrant’s steely crown,
For him, in Afric’s sands and Poland’s snows,
Rear’d by thy toil the shadowy laurel grows ;
And rank in German fields the harvest springs
Of pageant councils and obseqious kings.
Such purple slaves, of glittering fetters vain,
Link’d the wide circuit of the Latian chain ;
And slaves like these shall every tyrant find,
To gild oppression and debase mankind.
“Oh! live there yet whose hardy souls and high,
Peace bought with shame, and tranquil bonds defy?
Who, driven from every shore, and lords in vain
Of the wide prison, of the lonely main,
Cling to their country’s rights with freeborn zeal,
More strong from every stroke, and patient of the steel!
Guiltless of chains, to them has Heaven consign’d
Th’ entrusted cause of Europe and mankind!
Or hope we yet in Sweden’s martial snows
That Freedom’s weary foot may find repose?
No ;– from yon hermit shade, yon cypress dell,
Where faintly peals the distant matin-bell ;
Where bigot kings and tyrant priests had shed
Their sleepy venom o’er his dreadful head ;
He wakes, th’ avenger — hark! the hills around,
Untamed Asturia bids her clarion sound ;
And many an ancient rock, and fleecy plain,
And many a valiant heart returns the strain :
Heard by that shore, where Calpe’s armed steep
Flings its long shadow, o’er th’ Herculean deep,
And Lusian glades, whose hoary poplars wave
In soft sad murmurs over Inez’ grave.
They bless the call who dared the first withstand
The Moslem wasters of their bleeding land,
When firm in faith, and red with slaughter’d foes,
Thy spear-encircled crown, Asturia, rose.
Nor these alone ; as loud the war-notes swell
La Mancha’s shepherd quits his cork-built cell :
Alhama’s strength is there, and those who till
(A hardy race!) Morena’s scorched hill ;
And in rude arms through wide Gallicia’s reign,
The swarthy vintage pours her vigorous train.
“Saw ye those tribes? not theirs the plum
(Reginald Heber)
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