And we march that the foot-prints of Mahomet's slaves May be wash'd out in blood from our forefathers' graves Their spirits are hovering o'er us, And the sword shall to glory restore us. Ah! what though no succor advances, Nor Christendom's chivalrous lances Are stretch'd in our aid-be the combat our own! Or that, dying, our deaths shall be glorious. A breath of submission we breathe not; The sword that we've drawn we will sheath not! If they rule, it shall be o'er our ashes and graves; And new triumphs on land are before us, To the charge!-Heaven's banner is o'er us. This day shall ye blush for its story, Or brighten your lives with its glory. Our women, oh, say, shall they shriek in despair, Or embrace us from conquest with wreaths in their hair! Accursed may his memory blacken, If a coward there be that would slacken Till we've trampled the turban, and shown ourselves worth Being sprung from and named for the godlike of earth Strike home, and the world shall revere us As heroes descended from heroes. Old Greece lightens up with emotion Her inlands, her isles of the Ocean; Fanes rebuilt and fair towns shall with jubilee ring, And the Nine shall new-hallow their Helicon's spring: Our hearths shall be kindled in gladness, That were cold and extinguish'd in sadness; Whilst our maidens shall dance with their white-waving arms, Singing joy to the brave that deliver'd their charms, ODE TO WINTER. WHEN first the fiery-mantled sun His children four the Seasons flew. First, in green apparel dancing, The young Spring smiled with angel grace; Rosy Summer next advancing, Rush'd into her sire's embrace : Her bright-hair'd sire, who bade her keep Forever nearest to his smiles, On Calpe's olive-shaded steep, On India's citron-cover'd isles: More remote and buxom-brown, The Queen of vintage bow'd before his throne; A rich pomegranate gemm'd her crown, A ripe sheaf bound her zone. But howling Winter fled afar, 6* And loves on deer-borne car to ride Whirls to death the roaring whale, Howls his war-song to the gale; Save when adown the ravaged globe IIe travels on his native storm, Deflowering Nature's grassy robe, And trampling on her faded form : Till light's returning lord assume The shaft that drives him to his polar field, Of power to pierce his raven plume And crystal-cover'd shield. Oh, sire of storms! whose savage ear Fast descending as thou art, Say, hath mortal invocation Spells to touch thy stony heart? Of innocence descend. But chiefly spare, O king of clouds ! The sailor on his airy shrouds ; When wrecks and beacons strew the steep, And spectres walk along the deep. Milder yet thy snowy breezes Pour on yonder tented shores, Where the Rhine's broad billow freezes, Or the dark-brown Danube roars. Or start, ye demons of the midnight air, At shrieks and thunders louder than your own. Alas! ev'n your unhallow'd breath May spare the victim fallen low; But man will ask no truce to death,- LINES SPOKEN BY MRS. BARTLEY AT DRURY-LANE THEATRE, ON THE FIRST OPENING OF THE HOUSE AFTER THE DEATH OF THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE, 1817. BRITONS! although our task is but to show * This ode was written in Germany, at the close of 1800, be fore the conclusion of hostilities. Which but return sad accents for her now, Perhaps had witness'd her benignant brow, But, Britain! now thy chief, thy people mourn, And loftiest principles of England's breast! |