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There then we saw, with surest feet,
The ghastly forms of Fate to meet,
Death stride his horrid sweep along;
And there we heard the sadd’ning cry
Of those that fell, and fear'd to fly,

Yet shall their names for ever live,
(Such the reward that deeds of glory give)
Embalmed in the dews of sacred song.

"Tis o'er-but hark! the lingering cry
Pierces still yon troublous sky,
Of those, whom Fate refus’d to lead
And number ’mongst the mighty dead;
To each, with coward-hand she gave

Chains, and stamp'd the name of Slave;
Still shall we hear, and not our arms assail
To stop the captive-cry, that rends the neighb’ring vale?

And now we see, and now we hear, (To purer eyes and cars alone 'tis giv'n, Warriors, and Priests, and bards belov'd of Heav'n)

The unembody'd forms of War,
And the thin notes that float upon the air.

The trembling shades of Hope are fled;
Amazement wild, and Desolation drear

Rush forth, and strike with thrilling dread
The savage hosts, to Fame no longer dear;

And stern Reproach, with angry cry,
Mocks, in her airy call, the hostile sky;
And Death, in all his Indian Terrors drest,
Sends forth his Spirits strong, who gladly go,

Laughing at ev'ry mournful sound,

To deal the destinies around From the long Jav'lin, and the bounding bow, While Shame pursues them close, and waves her bloody vest.

* See the Song of Defeat and Captivity. VOL. VI,

сс

Such are the forms that fleet before mine eyes;
Visions of Fame that wake the bold emprize,

While from each airy car

They beckon to the war,
And lead our hero-troop where Freedom lies:
And still the sounds remurmur thro' the land,
Heard only by a few, a chosen band,

Triumphant sounds of Fate,

That 'round our warriors wait,
And swell the beating heart, and arm the desperate hand.

“ Heroes! ye who lately trod,
(Your feet bedew'd in kindred blood)
“ The adverse fields of Hindvar's plain,
The spirits of your fathers slain

“ Call aloud, in solemn sound,
“ Revenge; revenge the hoarser echos 'round

“ Redouble quick in martial mood.
Arise! where once your fathers stood,
“ And from many a warrior-row
Flung the

spear,

and bent the bow.
Arise ! 'tis yours, my sons, to lead
“ The souls of War and Vengeance to the meed

“ That Rutren, with a generous hand,
Prepares for those, a favourite band,
" Who bravely for their country fight,

“ Bravely fight and nobly die, " Such shall escape the shadowy realms of Night, “ Shall live in Rutren's Hall, and breathe a better sky. “ But you, to whom your

fate shall give
Again to fight, again to live,
“ Shall deeply drink your Country's praise ;
And ev'ry sainted Bramin 'round,

“ In words of more than mortal sound, “ Shall deck cach honour'd name with hallow'd lays.

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“ Wake then to War! for such the meeds “That crown, by Rutren drest, the youth that bleeds, “ And such the sacred wreaths that glory gives

“The patriot-youth that fights and lives :

Wake then to war! your fathers' spirits cry, “ Your Country's Genius calls to triumph or to die.”

The magic works--the pow'rful strain

Thrills in every breathing vein.
I see, I see the life-blood, mantling high,

Glow in each cheek, and revel warın
In ev'ry heart-I know the master-charm

That bids your bloody banners fly

Unfolded to the ambient sky,
With eager force that fires th’ enthusiast band,
And * maddens ev'ry spear in ev'ry martial hand.

'Tis Liberty that leads you on,
Around her sovereign form await,
Attendant on her awful throne

The arbiters of Fate.
Revenge of talon fell, of haughty name
Courage, and lusty Force, and Glory's sacred flame.

THE SONG OF VICTORY.

ODE V.
YŁ Spirits of our fathers slain!
Who lately breath'd your thrilling words around;

Thou Genius of the Indian plain!
That hauntest still thy Oglu's favour'd ground;

And thou, stern + God of mightiest power!
For lately, at the deathful hour,

* Δορυ μαινέθαι εν παλαμησι.-HOM. + Rutren.

When with her troubled eyes, and streaming hair,
Fury, the fiend, stalk' o'er the bloody field,
Thou, thou didst send our warrior-chief, Despair,

Who, rushing with our legions mad
That scorn'd to lift the saviour-shield,

With haughty arm and hasty tread,
To Victory soon and purple Glory led :

If such your gifts, to you by right belong
The Warrior's votive spear, the Poet's sacred song.

Weep not, ye virgins, tho' around
The Lover's blood embathe your native ground !
Now let no private and no partial tear
Unseemly steal adown the matron's cheek!
The murder'd husband, or young hero dear

Shall in some future hour bespeak
Tl'embalming dew which Love and Pity shed:

But now let Hindvar's widow'd plain

Lament the fouł inglorious stain
That marks her abject sons, whom haggard fear
Led from the wrath and spirit of the spear:

Now let her count her heroes dead,
Then veil in Sorrow's vest her head,

Haughty no more! her tow'ring pride
And giant strength are gone, for ever gone.
Hear it thou Genius of our native plains,
With pleasure hear! her pride no more remains,
Her strength is lost hear her coward moan!
On her torn bosom now no more abide
The souls of war. Now shall she view around,

While recent memory feeds her anguish'd sight,
And the keen pow'r of shame re-animates her fright,
Where sad Defeat and Death have mark'd her hostile

ground.

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Now let her weep-a better task
Ye matrons hour, and virgins fair shall ask

Your prompted pow'rs—The Warrior's praise
Demands your noblest and

your

sweetest lays; Your country's triumph calls the answering strain, O let the sounds of Joy re-echo to the plain!

Hark! in accents loud and clear,
Stealing on th' entranced ear,
Thrills around the rapt'rous strain;
Now on Love and Pleasure dwelling,
Now with joy and triumph swelling,
“ We have fought and we have slain.”
The

song shall sooth the Warrior's mind,
On th' inverted spear reclin’d,
To all the inilder thoughts that move,
And melt the purer soul to love;
But mark, while martial notes around
Lap the soul in magic sound,
The Warrior's eye, by Fancy led,
Views the field with foes bespread;
His ear imbibes, with horror, nigh
The dying shriek, the conquering cry;
His hand, again alarm’d by Fear,
Bends the bow, and grasps

the

spear : But ah! the while there breathes a solemn air, The captive croud stand mute, the statues of despair.

O let them drink the sullen sound !
With many a fatal garland bound;
And let the holy Bramins come,
And lead them to the deadly dome
Where Rutren's sacred altar stands ;
And there, when 'round the captive bands
With curses climb the funeral fire,
And while their victim souls expire,

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