Threw down the dagger- dared depart, In savage grandeur, home. He dared depart in utter scorn Of men that such a yoke had borne, Yet left him such a doom! His only glory was that hour Of self-upheld abandon'd power. The Spaniard, when the lust of sway A strict accountant of his beads, His dotage trifled well: Yet better had he never known A bigot's shrine, nor despot's throne. But thou - from thy reluctant hand The thunderbolt is wrung Too late thou leav'st the high command To which thy weakness clung; All Evil Spirit as thou art, It is enough to grieve the heart To see thine own unstrung; To think that God's fair world hath been The footstool of a thing so mean; And Earth hath spilt her blood for him, Who thus can hoard his own! And Monarchs bow'd the trembling limb, And thank'd him for a throne! Fair Freedom! we may hold thee dear, Thine evil deeds are writ in gore, Nor written thus in vain Thy triumphs tell of fame no more, If thou hadst died as honor dies, But who would soar the solar height, Weigh'd in the balance, hero dust Thy scales, Mortality! are just To all that pass away: But yet methought the living great Some higher sparks should animate, To dazzle and dismay; Nor deem'd Contempt could thus make mirth Of these, the Conquerors of the earth. And she, proud Austria's mournful flower, Thy still imperial bride; How bears her breast the torturing hour? Still clings she to thy side? Must she too bend, must she too share Thou throneless Homicide? If still she loves thee, hoard that gem, 'T is worth thy vanish'd diadem! Then haste thee to thy sullen Isle, That element may meet thy smile — Thou Timour! in his captive's cage Life will not long confine That spirit pour'd so widely forth - Or, like the thief of fire from heaven, Wilt thou withstand the shock? And share with him, the unforgiven, His vulture and his rock! Foredoom'd by God - by man accurst, He in his fall preserved his pride, There was a day-there was an hour, While earth was Gaul's-Gaul thineWhen that immeasurable power Unsated to resign Had been an act of purer fame Than gathers round Marengo's name, Through the long twilight of all time, But thou forsooth must be a king, And don the purple vest, Where may the wearied eye repose Yes one - the first the last the best The Cincinnatus of the West, Whom envy dared not hate, Bequeath'd the name of Washington, ODE ON WATERLOO. We do not curse thee, Waterloo ! As then shall shake the world with wonder Never yet was seen such lightning As o'er heaven shall then be bright'ning! Like the Wormwood Star foretold By the sainted Seer of old, Show'ring down a fiery flood, Turning rivers into blood. The Chief has fallen, but not by you, Vanquishers of Waterloo ! When the soldier citizen Sway'd not o'er his fellow-men Save in deeds that led them on Where Glory smiled on Freedom's son |