Yet mark his modest state !-upon his head, That simple crest-a heron's plume-is worn. O Liberty! they stagger at the shock;
The murd'rers are aghast; they strive to flee, And half their host is buried :-rock on rock Descends beneath this godlike warrior, see! Hills, torrents, woods, embodied to bemock The tyrant, and confound his cruelty.
ADVANCE! come forth from thy Tyrolean ground, Dear Liberty!-stern nymph of soul untamed, Sweet nymph, oh ! rightly of the mountains named! Through the long chain of Alps, from mound to mound, And o'er th' eternal snows, like Echo, bound,— Like Echo, when the hunter-train at dawn Have roused her from her sleep; and forest lawn, Cliffs, woods, and caves her viewless steps resound, And babble of her pastime! On, dread power, With such invisible motion speed thy flight, Through hanging clouds, from craggy height to height, Through the green vales and through the herdsman's bower, That all the Alps may gladden in thy might, Here, there, and in all places at one hour.
FEELINGS OF THE TYROLESE.
THE land we from our fathers had in trust, And to our children will transmit, or die,— This is our maxim, this our piety,
And God and Nature say that it is just.
That which we would perform in arms-we must! We read the dictate in the infant's eye, In the wife's smile, and in the placid sky, And at our feet, amid the silent dust Of them that were before us. Sing aloud Old songs, the precious music of the heart! Give, herds and flocks, your voices to the wind! While we go forth, a self-devoted crowd, With weapons in the fearless hand, to assert Our virtue, and to vindicate mankind.
ALAS! what boots the long, laborious quest Of moral prudence, sought through good and ill,
Or pains abstruse, to elevate the will, And lead us on to that transcendent rest Where every passion shall the sway attest Of Reason, seated on her sovereign hill. What is it but a vain and curious skill, If sapient Germany must lie depressed Beneath the brutal sword? Her haughty schools Shall blush; and may not we with sorrow say, A few strong instincts and a few plain rules Among the herdsmen of the Alps have wrought More for Mankind, at this unhappy day, Than all the pride of intellect and thought.
AND is it among rude untutored dales, There, and there only, that the heart is true? And, rising to repel or to subdue,
Is it by rocks and woods that man prevails? Ah, no! though Nature's dread protection fails, There is a bulwark in the soul. This knew
Iberian burghers when the sword they drew In Zaragoza, naked to the gales Of fiercely-breathing war.
The truth was felt By Palafox, and many a brave compeer, Like him, of noble birth and noble mind; By ladies, meek-eyed women without fear; And wanderers of the street, to whom is dealt The bread which, without industry, they find.
O'ER the wide earth, on mountain and on plain, Dwells in the affections and the soul of man
A godhead, like the universal Pan, But more exalted, with a brighter train. And shall his bounty be dispensed in vain, Showered equally on city and on field, And neither hope nor steadfast promise yield In these usurping times of fear and pain? Such doom awaits us. Nay, forbid it, Heaven! We know the arduous strife, the eternal laws To which the triumph of all good is given, High sacrifice, and labour without pause, Even to the death: else wherefore should the eye Of man converse with immortality?
ON THE FINAL SUBMISSION OF THE TYROLESE.
Ir was a moral end for which they fought; Else how, when mighty thrones were put to shame, Could they, poor shepherds, have preserved an aim, A resolution, or enlivening thought?
Nor hath that moral good been vainly sought; For in their magnanimity and fame
Powers have they left-an impulse-and a claim Which neither can be overturned nor bought. Sleep, warriors, sleep! among your hills repose! We know that ye, beneath the stern control Of awful prudence, keep the unvanquished soul; And when, impatient of her guilt and woes, Europe breaks forth, then, shepherds, shall For perfect triumph o'er your enemies.
HAIL, Zaragoza ! if with unwet eye We can approach, thy sorrow to behold, Yet is the heart not pitiless nor cold; Such spectacle demands not tear or sigh. These desolate remains are trophies high Of more than martial courage in the breast Of peaceful civic virtue: they attest Thy matchless worth to all posterity. Blood flowed before thy sight without remorse; Disease consumed thy vitals; war upheaved The ground beneath thee with volcanic force; Dread trials! yet encountered and sustained, Till not a wreck of help or hope remained, And law was from necessity received.
SAY, what is Honour? 'Tis the finest sense Of justice which the human mind can frame, Intent each lurking frailty to disclaim, And guard the way of life from all offence Suffered or done. When lawless violence A kingdom doth assault, and in the scale Of perilous war her weightiest armies fail, Honour is hopeful elevation-whence Glory-and Triumph. Yet with politic skill Endangered states may yield to terms unjust, Stoop their proud heads-but not unto the dust, A foe's most favourite purpose to fulfill
Happy occasions oft by self-mistrust Are ferfeited; but infamy doth kill.
THE martial courage of a day is vain- An empty noise of death the battle's roar— If vital hope be wanting to restore, Or fortitude be wanting to sustain,
Armies or kingdoms. We have heard a strain Of triumph, how the labouring Danube bore A weight of hostile corses: drenched with gore Were the wide fields, the hamlets heaped with slain. Yet see, the mighty tumult overpast,
Austria a daughter of her throne hath sold! And her Tyrolean champion we behold Murdered like one ashore by shipwreck cast, Murdered without relief. Oh! blind as bold, To think that such assurance can stand fast!
BRAVE Schill! by death delivered, take thy flight From Prussia's timid region. Go, and rest With heroes 'mid the Islands of the Blest, Or in the fields of empyrean light.
A meteor wert thou in a darksome night; Yet shall thy name, conspicuous and sublime, Stand in the spacious firmament of time, Fixed as a star: such glory is thy right. Alas! it may not be for earthly fame Is fortune's frail dependant; yet there lives A judge, who, as man, claims by merit, gives; To whose all-pondering mind a noble aim, Faithfully kept, is as a noble deed;
In whose pure sight all virtue doth succeed.
CALL not the royal Swede unfortunate, Who never did to fortune bend the knee; Who slighted fear,-rejected steadfastly Temptation; and whose kingly name and state
Have "perished by his choice, and not his fate!" Hence lives he, to his inner self endeared;
And hence, wherever virtue is revered,
He sits a more exalted potentate, Throned in the hearts of men.
That this great servant of a righteous cause
Must still have sad or vexing thoughts t' endure, Yet many a sympathizing spirit pause,
Admonished by these truths, and quench all pain In thankful joy and gratulation pure.
LOOK now on that Adventurer* who hath paid His vows to fortune; who, in cruel slight Of virtuous hope, of liberty, and right, Hath followed wheresoe'er a way was made By the blind goddess-ruthless, undismayed; And so hath gained at length a prosperous height, Round which the elements of worldly might Beneath his haughty feet, like clouds, are laid. O joyless power that stands by lawless force! Curses are his dire portion, scorn and hate, Internal darkness and unquiet breath; And, if old judgments keep their sacred course, Him from that height shall Heaven precipitate By violent and ignominious death.
Is there a power that can sustain and cheer The captive Chieftain-by a tyrant's doom Forced to descend alive into his tomb,
A dungeon dark !-where he must waste the year, And lie cut off from all his heart holds dear; What time his injured country is a stage Whereon deliberate valour and the rage Of righteous vengeance side by side appear,- Filling from morn to night the heroic scene With deeds of hope and everlasting praise: Say can he think of this with mind serene And silent fetters? Yes, if visions bright Shine on his soul, reflected from the days When he himself was tried in open light.
AH! where is Palafox? Nor tongue nor pen Reports of him, his dwelling or his grave! Does yet the unheard-of vessel ride the wave? Or is she swallowed up-remote from ken
*The fall of Buonaparte predicted.
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