To catch the music of the pealing bell;
And sweet to list, as on the beach we stray,
The ship-boy's carol in the wealthy bay:
But sweet no less,when Justice points the spear,
Of martial wrath the glorious din to hear,
To catch the war-note on the quivering gale,
And bid the blood red paths of conquest hail.
O, song of hope, too long delusive strain.
And hear we now thy flattering voice again?
But late, alas, I left thee cold and still,
Stunned by the wrath of Heaven, on Pratzen’s
O, on that hill may no kind month renew
The fertile rain, the sparkling summer dew.
Accursed of God, may those bleak summits tell
The field of anger where the mighty fell.
There youthful Faith and high born Courage rest,
And, red with slaughter, Freedom's humbled
There Europe,soiled with blood her tresses gray,
And ancient Honor's shield—all vilely thrown
Thus mused my soul, as in succession drear
Rose each grim shape of Wrath and Doubt and
Defeat and shame in grizzly vision passed,