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Or France, like vigorous Sampson, when of yore,
Rent from their hinges, Gaza's gates he bore.
With nought but Bourbon's glory Paris rung,
Till Rome's uprivall’d Patriots Corneille sung,
Recall’d his audience to a pristine age,
And rous'd with loftier sentiments the stage :
In after-days Voltaire his steps pursued;
Gay Courtiers first avenging Brutus view'd,
Then hail'd the march of that victorious Dame
Fair Liberty, as down Morat she came *,
And proudly stalk'd o'er slaughter'd Charles the Brave,
Stain'd with the gore of many an Austrian slave.
But ah! he sunk into the silent tomb,
While unexplor'd Futurity's deep gloom
Yet o'er his country hung. What Muse of fire
Shall catch his manile, with auspicious lyre
Those names recording to whom millions owe
Their rescue from th' o'erwhelming tides of woe?
Loud rvar'd the blast, convulsions shook the sky, Amazement saw no guardian Angel nigh,
When the huge Danube (whose ferocious tribes,
Inur'd to havoc, thirsting after bribes,
Peace and her train of social Arts detest,)
In noon-tide glare display'd his haughty crest,
And, masking vile designs with feigu'd alarms,
Rais'd his hoarse voice, and call'd the World to arms,
But its own bulk dissolves th' unwieldy mass ;
Mephitic clouds exhale their stores, and pass :
Let Europe's sons, scarce rescued from dismay,
Welcome these oinens of a happier day.
May pure Religion o'er the soul diffuse
Her healing balm, and point to nobler views,
Wrest from the Hypocrite Power's scorpion rod,
Assert the prostituted name of God,
And to that “ Holy Mount*," where Aspics change
Their nature, where innoxious Lions range,
Greatest and best of miracles, convey
Reluctant Man more cruel far than they.
To Tyrants, or pretended Saints, too long Have nations pour'd the tributary song, While bloated malice, leagu'd with childish zeal, Is titled ardor for the public weal: Too long have wild Crusades, yon Statesman's dreams, Fields drench'd in blood, and eonquest's distant gleams, Of many a venal Bard employ'd the pen: 'Tis time to rouse, think, speak, and act, like men, For those whom Folly hurries to the snare No more let Fame her blasted wreaths prepare, But weave unfading garlands, tribute due To that sage Chief t, whom grateful Senates view, Beyond th’ Atlantic ocean, in an age So deeply tinctur’d with Ambition's rage,
Quitting the helm, while at his mandate close
The gates of Janus, and the tribes repose :
Or to posterity transmit cach deed
Of those who dar'd in Freedom's cause to bleed ;
Him * who in Olmutz' cursed dungeons lay,
By Despots long secluded from the day,
Ere Austria’s Eagle, of her plumage shorn,
Left ether's heights, and to the ground was borne.
Or brave Kosciusko, in an evil hour
To Poland lost, while, with gigantic power,
The North's foul Harpy seiz'd her struggling prey :
Carnage awhile then dimm’d the solar ray,
Till Death, that great avenger, on her Throne
His banner fix’d, and claim'd her for his own.
This print, in Europe's general history bound,
With all its Monarchs scepter'd, rob'd, and crown'd,
(Wrought in the graver's broadest, blackest tone,)
Is Catharine, despot of the frozen zone.
But could the pencil mental features trace,
And give as well her spirit as her face,
This plate would stride o'er portraits, books, and maps,
And swallow all my library perhaps.
BY THE LATE REV. W. B. STEVENS.
ADVERTISEMENT. T11E Scenery of the following Odes is supposed to lie in the meist wild and unenlightened Parts of India. The Names of the two adverse Countries, Hindvar and Oglu. are fictitious. Rutren, or as he is called, Ishuren, or Ruddiren, is one of the three chiet Divinities among the Indians: his Office is that of Destruction, and he is the favourite Deity of the Malabars. The Goddess Chaday, is believed by that Nation to be the Mother of the Dirumurtigol, under which general denomination the three Divinities are included.
'Twas at the sad and and solemn hour,
When Midnight wrapp'd the regions round,
And wayward Hags of secret Pow'r
Charm'd the air with angry sound;
From Indian fires, a dying flame
Gleain'd with faint lustre through the cypress-shade,
Which to the fevered eye of Fear became
A thousand Giant-Forms, in fancied hues array’d.
While hungry panthers urg'd their furious way,
Yell'd to the glooms, and mock'd their shrieking prey;
While, waken'd by the sound, the lordly snake
Rais'd his crown'd head in horror from the brake,
Say, Muse, what spectres darted through the glade?
Where moan'd her fate the visionary maid?
And where the warriour-spirit stalk'd along,
And wav'd his airy bow, and howld his hìdeous song?
First the Sons of Rutren came,
Fierce in arms of fiery show;
Leaders once of mighty name,
All that bare and bent the bow.
Strong to slay and swift to fly,
All that fought, and all that died;
Fearless of the battle-cry,
Hindvar's terror, Oglu's pride.
Rutren led the warrior-crew
O’er the dews of Oglu's field ;
Well the valiant
By the bow and by the shield.
Red with lightnings glane'd his spear,
Martial as he moy'd along;
Death-birds scream'd in frighted air;
Clashing javelins join'd their song.
Virgins all that died for Love,
Who embalm’d the crimson'd youth ;
Shedding in the cypress grove
Tears of Woe, and Tears of Truth:
Warriour-daughters join'd the train:
All who pour'd their patriot-lives
Freely on the empurpled plain:
All who climb’d the funeral pyre,
(Such the purest offerings come)
Who, enshrin'd in bow'rs of fire,
Sought, spontaneous, Chaday's dome,