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And millions weep a tyrant's single pride?

Thus sadly musing, far my footsteps strayed, Rapt in the visions of the Aonian maid. It was not she, whose lonely voice I hear Fall in soft whispers on my love-lorn ear; My daily guest, who wont my steps to guide Through the green walks of scented even-tide, Or stretched with me in noonday ease along, To list the reaper's chaunt, or throstle's song: But sheoflofiier port, whose grave control Rules the fierce workings of the patriot's soul; She, whose high presence, o'er the midnight oil, With fame's bright promise cheers the student's

toil; That same was she, whose ancient lore refined The sober hardihood of Sidney's mind. Borne on her wing, no more I seemed to rove By Dresden's glittering spires, and linden grove: No more the giant Elbe, all silver bright, Spread his broad bosom to the fair moonlight, While the still margent of his ample flood Bore the dark image of the Saxon wood— (Woods happy once, that heard the carols free Of rustic love, and cheerful industry; Now dull and joyless lie their alleys green, And silence marks the tract where France has been.)

Far other scenes than these my fancy viewed;
Rocks robed in ice, a mountain solitude;
Where on Helvetian hills, in godlike state,
Alone and awful, Europe's angel sate.
Silent and stern he sate; then bending low,
Listened the ascending plaints of human wo,
And waving as in grief his towery head,
'Not yet, not yet the day of rest,' he said;
'It may not be. Destruction's gory wing
Soars o'er the banners of the younger king,
Too rashly brave, who seeks with single sway
To stem the lava on its destined way.
Poor, glittering warriors, only wont to know
The bloodless pageant of a martial show;
Nurselings of peace, for fiercer fights prepare,
And dread the step-dame sway of unaccustomed war.
They fight, they bleed—O, had that blood been shed
When Charles and valor Austria's armies led,
Had these stood forth the righteous cause to

shield,
When victory wavered on Moravia's field,
Then France had mourned her conquests made in vain,
Her backward-beaten ranks, and countless slain,
Then had the strength of Europe's freedom stood,

And still the Rhine had rolled a German flood.'O, nursed in many a wile,and practised long
To spoil the poor, and cringe before the strong,
To swell the victor's state, and hovering near,
Like some base vulture in the battle's rear,
To watch the carnage of the field, and share
Each loathsome alms the prouder eagles spare:
A curse is on thee, Brandenburgh, the sound
Of Poland's wailing drags thee to the ground,
And drunk with guilt, thy harlot lips shall know
The bitter dregs of Austria's cup of wo.'Enough of vengeance. O'er the ensanguined
plain
I gaze, and seek their numerous host in vain,
Gone like the locust band, when whirlwinds

bear
Their flimsy legions through the waste of air.
Enough of vengeance. By the glorious dead,
Who bravely fell where youthful Lewis led,
By Blucher's sword in fiercest danger tried,
And the true heart that burst when Brunswic died,
By her whose charms the coldest zeal might

warm, The manliest firmness in the fairest form— Save, Europe, save the remnant.—Vet remains One glorious path to free the world from chains. Why, when your northern band in Kylau's wood Retreating struck, and tracked their course with

blood, While one firm rock the floods of ruin stayed, Why, generous Austria.were thy wheels delayed? And Albion !'—Darker sorrow veiled his brow— 'Friend of the friendless—Albion,where art thou? Child of the Sea, whose wing-like sails are spread, The covering cherub of the ocean's bed; The storm and tempest render peace to thee, And the wild-roaring waves a stern security. But hope not thou in Heaven's own strength to

ride, Freedom's loved ark, o'er broad oppression's tide, If virtue leave thee, if thy careless eye Glance in contempt on Europe's agony. Alas! where now the bands who wont to pour Their strong deliverance on the Egyptian shore? Wing,wingyour course, a prostrate world to save, Triumphant squadrons of Trafalgar's wave.

'And thou, blest star of Europe's darkest hour, Whose words were wisdom, and whose counsels power, Whom Earth applauded through her peopled

shores,
(Alas! whom Earth too early lost deplores;—)
Young without follies, without rashness bold,
And greatly poor amidst a nation's gold;

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In every veering gale of faction true,
Untarnished Chatham's genuine child, adieu.
Unlike our common suns, whose gradual ray
Expands from twilight to intenser day,
Thy blaze broke forth at once in full meridian

iway.
O, proved in danger, not the fiercest flame
Of Discord's rage thy constant soul could tame;
Not when, far-striding o'er thy palsied land,
Gigantic Treason took his bolder stand;
Not when wild Zeal, by murderous Faction led,
On Wicklow's hills, her grass-green banner spread;Or those stern conquerors of the restless wave
Defied the native soil they wont to save-—
Undaunted patriot, in that dreadful hour,
When pride and genius own a sterner power;
When the dimmed eyeball, and the struggling

breath, And pain, and terror, mark advancing death ;— Still in that breast thy country held her throne, Thy toil, thy fear, thy prayer were hers alone, Thy last faint effort hers, and hers thy parting

groan. Yes, from those lips while fainting nations drew Hope ever strong, and courage ever new ;— Yet, yet, I deemed, by that supporting hand

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