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And Wengeance, bought with blood, and glorious Death the last. Then as my gaze their waving eagles met, And through the night each sparkling bayonet, Still memory told how Austria's evil hour Had felt on Praga’s field a Frederic's power, And Gallia’s vaunting train, and Mosco's horde, Had fleshed the maiden steel of Brunswic's sword. O! yet, I deemed, that Fate, by Justice led, Might wreath once more the veteran’s silver head; That Europe’s ancient pride would yet disdain The cumbrous sceptre of a single reign; That conscious right would tenfold strength af. ford, And heaven assist the patriot’s holy sword, And look in mercy through th’ auspicious sky, To bless the saviour host of Germany. And are they dreams, these bodings, such as shed Their lonely comfort o'er the hermit’s bed And are they dreams ? or can the Eternal Mind Care for a sparrow, yet neglect mankind 2 Why, if the dubious battle own his power, And the red sabre, where he bids, devour, Why then can one the curse of worlds deride,

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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 she of loftier 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
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

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
They fight, they bleed—0, had that blood
been shed
When Charles and valor Austria's armies led,
Had these stood forth the righteous cause to
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.

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.
“Eneugh of vengeance. O'er the ensanguined
I gaze, and seek their numerous host in vain,
Gone like the locust band, when whirlwinds
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
By her whose charms the coldest zeal might
The manliest firmness in the fairest form—
Save, Europe, save the remnant.—Yet remains
One glorious path to free the world from chains.
Why, when your northern band in Eylau's wood

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Retreating struck, and tracked their eourse with
While one firm rock the floods of ruin stayed,
Why, generous Austria, were thy wheels delayed?
And Albion l’—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
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, wing your 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
Whom Earth applauded through her peopled
(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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