VICTORIOUS Weapon in the fields of Fame!
To which the Briton's sinewy arm applied,
Sped the long shaft, with never-failing aim,
And the white wing in hostile crimson dyed!

How oft (when martial glory urg'd the soul)
Our Richards, Henrys, Edwards, prov'd thy force;
Whose race, resistless, to Ambition's goal,
Outwing'd thy glowing arrow's fatal course.

Even now, (as distant scenes, and visions old,
The magic powers of Fancy, pleas'd, renew)
Rank urg'd on rank, victorious, I behold

The gallant bands their scatter'd foes pursue.

Here bold Croisaders, urg'd by holy zeal,
Spread swift destruction thro the impious band.
The string resounds; and gasping myriads, feel
The distant vigour of the archer's hand.

See Coeur De Lion, o'er the slaughtering field,
Like Mars himself, directs the shafts of fate :
Whole nations shout: the gall'd battalions yield,
And hovering Ruin threats the Pagan state.

Full in the van of Conquest's bold career
Britannia thunders, and her sons pursue:

All Europe throngs tumultuous in their rear,
To share their triumphs, and their labours view.

'Twas thus our bowmen, in the days of yore,

In Glory's fatal strife unequall'd stood;
O'er Asia's fields, their conquering banners bore,
While the pale Crescent sunk in seas of blood.

But where, my Muse, on mad Ambition's wing, Where speeds thy flight? to what disastrous clime? The flattering incense of thy praise to fling

On War's fell altar, stain'd with every crime!

What is this Glory, nurs'd in deeds of death?

The scourge, at once, and idol of the world!

Who breathes-and plagues and famine wait her breath:

Who speaks-and round are blasting thunders

hurl'd.

Ah! would to heaven, that wisdom's awful voice
Might 'mid the clamours of her train be heard!
That Reason's dictates might direct our choice,
And Truth and Virtue be alone rever'd!

How might the toil-the genius oft employ'd
To ravage realms and thin the human race,
Have made whole desarts smile in useful pridė,

And deck'd even barren rocks with Culture's grace!

How might that wealth, which War's inhuman trade Has oft abus'd, to aggravate distress,

Have chac'd the gloom from Misery's friendless shade, And taught Despair the liberal hand to bless.

Yes, Glory, yes-had it thy triumph been

To heal-not wound; to cherish-not destroy; Thro many a wasted realm, how chang'd a scene Had met the sage's meditative eye!

Then had we seen,-instead of burning towns,

Of fields laid waste, and horrid piles of slain, And all that History shudders while she owns,Fair smiling Peace, and Plenty's sylvan reign.

Then, as thy chariot roll'd sublime along,

No Orphan's curses, nor no Widow's tears Should mix, discordant, with the shouting throng, And pour their anguish in thy wounded ears.

Instead of these, to strew thy peaceful way

With flowers and fruits and leaves of holy palm, The village youth before thy steeds should play, And love and music breathe the mingled charm?

There, too, should Commerce pour her busy train To hail thee passing;-and each artist band, And all who pant the laurel wreath to gain

Of liberal Science, laud thy high command.

But chief the Muse, sweet soother of my care!

Her grateful voice should lift with fond acclaim; With honest pride thy splendid triumphs share,

And swell the chorus of thy guiltless fame?

ODE IX.

TO DESPAIR.

SUGGESTED ON A DANGEROUS PRECIPICE.

STROPHE.

O GIANT fiend! whose haggard eye,
Blasting each hope of future joy,

In wildering terror restless roves:

Intent, with savage pride, to seize
Whate'er the frantic purpose moves,
Whate'er may Reason's current freeze,
And Resolution's guardian pow'r
Pervert, in Sorrow's languid hour,
(While keen Regret aloof attends)
To fell Destruction's baneful ends!