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For he it was dread Winter! who beset,
Flinging round van and rear his ghastly net,
That host,-when from the regions of the Pole
They shrunk, insane ambition's barren goal,
That Host, as huge and strong as e'er defied
Their God, and placed their trust in human pride!
As fathers persecute rebellious sons,

He smote the blossoms of their warrior youth;

He called on Frost's inexorable tooth

Life to consume in manhood's firmest hold;

Nor spared the reverend blood that feebly runs ;
For why, unless for liberty enrolled

And sacred home, ah! why should hoary Age be bold?

Fleet the Tartar's reinless steed,

But fleeter far the pinions of the Wind,

Which from Siberian caves the Monarch freed,
And sent him forth, with squadrons of his kind,
And bade the Snow their ample backs bestride,
And to the battle ride.

No pitying voice commands a halt,
No courage can repel the dire assault;
Distracted, spiritless, benumbed, and blind,

Whole legions sink — and, in one instant, find
Burial and death: look for them— and descry,
When morn returns, beneath the clear blue sky,
A soundless waste, a trackless vacancy!


YE Storms, resound the praises of your King!
And ye mild Seasons in a sunny clime,
Midway on some high hill, while Father Time
Looks on delighted - meet in festal ring,
And loud and long of Winter's triumph sing!
Sing ye, with blossoms crowned, and fruits, and flowers,
Of Winter's breath surcharged with sleety showers,
And the dire flapping of his hoary wing!

Knit the blithe dance upon the soft green grass;
With feet, hands, eyes, looks, lips, report your gain;
Whisper it to the billows of the main,
And to the aërial zephyrs as they pass,

That old decrepit Winter He hath slain

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That Host, which rendered all your bounties vain!


By Moscow self-devoted to a blaze
Of dreadful sacrifice; by Russian blood
Lavished in fight with desperate hardihood;
The unfeeling Elements no claim shall raise
To rob our Human-nature of just praise
For what she did and suffered. Pledges sure
Of a deliverance absolute and pure

She gave, if Faith might tread the beaten ways
Of Providence. But now did the Most High
Exalt his still small Voice; to quell that Host

Gathered his Power, a manifest Ally;

He whose heaped waves confounded the proud boast Of Pharaoh, said to Famine, Snow, and Frost, Finish the strife by deadliest Victory!



the field throughout

ABRUPTLY paused the Strife;
Resting upon his arms each Warrior stood,
Checked in the very act and deed of blood,
With breath suspended, like a listening Scout.
O Silence! thou wert Mother of a shout
That through the texture of yon azure dome
Cleaves its glad way, a cry of harvest home
Uttered to Heaven in ecstasy devout!

The barrier Rhine hath flashed, through battle-smoke,
On men who gaze heart-smitten by the view,
As if all Germany had felt the shock!

Fly, wretched Gauls! ere they the charge renew
Who have seen (themselves delivered from the yoke)
The unconquerable Stream his course pursue.

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Now that all hearts are glad, all faces bright,
Our aged Sovereign sits; to the ebb and flow
Of states and kingdoms, to their joy or woe,
Insensible; he sits deprived of sight,

And lamentably wrapt in twofold night,

Whom no weak hopes deceived; whose mind ensued,
Through perilous war, with regal fortitude,

Peace that should claim respect from lawless Might.
Dread King of Kings, vouchsafe a ray divine
To his forlorn condition! let thy grace

Upon his inner soul in mercy shine;
Permit his heart to kindle, and embrace
(Though it were only for a moment's space)
The triumphs of this hour; for they are THINE!




DEAR Reliques! from a pit of vilest mould
Uprisen to lodge among ancestral kings;
And to inflict shame's salutary stings

On the remorseless hearts of men grown old
In a blind worship; men perversely bold
Even to this hour; yet at this hour they quake;
And some their monstrous Idol shall forsake,
If, to the living, truth was ever told

By aught surrendered from the hollow grave:
O murdered Prince! meek, loyal, pious, brave!
The power of retribution once was given:
But 'tis a rueful thought that willow-bands
So often tie the thunder-wielding hands
Of Justice sent to earth from highest Heaven!


OCCASIONED BY THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO. (The last six lines intended for an Inscription.)


INTREPID Sons of Albion! not by you
Is life despised; ah no, the spacious earth
Ne'er saw a race who held, by right of birth,
So many objects to which love is due:

Ye slight not life

to God and Nature true;

But death, becoming death, is dearer far,
When duty bids you bleed in open war:

Hence hath your prowess quelled that impious crew.
Heroes! for instant sacrifice prepared,

Yet filled with ardour and on triumph bent

'Mid direst shocks of mortal accident,

To you who fell, and you whom slaughter spared,
To guard the fallen, and consummate the event,
Your Country rears this sacred Monument !

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O, FOR a kindling touch of that pure flame
Which taught the offering of song to rise
From thy lone bower, beneath Italian skies,
Great FILICAIA! With celestial aim

It rose

thy saintly rapture to proclaim,

Then, when the imperial City stood released
From bondage threatened by the embattled East,
And Christendom respired; from guilt and shame
Redeemed, from miserable fear set free

By one day's feat, one mighty victory.

Chant the Deliverer's praise in every tongue! The cross shall spread, the crescent hath waxed dim, He conquering, as in Earth and Heaven was sung, HE CONQUERING THROUGH God, and GOD BY HIM.




THE Bard, whose soul is meek as dawning day,
Yet trained to judgments righteously severe;
Fervid, yet conversànt with holy fear,

As recognising one Almighty sway:

He whose experienced eye can pierce the array
Of past events,
to whom, in vision clear,

The aspiring heads of future things appear,

Like mountain-tops whose mists have rolled away :
Assoiled from all encumbrance of our time*,

He only, if such breathe, in strains devout
Shall comprehend this victory sublime;
And worthily rehearse the hideous rout,
Which the blest Angels, from their peaceful clime
Beholding, welcomed with a choral shout

* "From all this world's encumbrance did himself assoil"- Spenser. VOL. II.

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