4.

But Evil was his Good,

For all too long in blood had he been nurst, And ne'er was earth with verier tyrant curst. Bold man and bad,

Remorseless, godless, full of fraud and lies, And black with murders and with perjuries, Himself in Hell's whole panoply he clad; No law but his own headstrong will he knew,

No counsellor but his own wicked heart.
From evil thus portentous strength he drew,
And trampled under foot all human ties,
All holy laws, all natural charities.

5.

O France! beneath this fierce Barbarian's sway Disgraced thou art to all succeeding times; Rapine, and blood, and fire have mark'd thy way, All loathsome, all unutterable crimes.

A curse is on thee, France! from far and wide It hath gone up to Heaven; all lands have cried For vengeance upon thy detested head;

All nations curse thee, France! for wheresoe'er In peace or war thy banner hath been spread, All forms of human woe have follow'd there: The Living and the Dead

Cry out alike against thee! They who bear, Crouching beneath its weight, thine iron yoke,

Join in the bitterness of secret prayer The voice of that innumerable throng Whose slaughtered spirits day and night invoke The everlasting Judge of right and wrong, How long, O Lord! Holy and Just, how long!

6.

A merciless oppressor hast thou been, Thyself remorselessly oppress'd meantime; Greedy of war, when all that thou couldst gain Was but to dye thy soul with deeper crime, And rivet faster round thyself the chain.

O blind to honour, and to interest blind,
When thus in abject servitude resign'd
To this barbarian upstart, thou couldst brave
God's justice, and the heart of humankind!
Madly thou thoughtest to enslave the world,

Thyself the while a miserable slave; Behold the flag of vengeance is unfurl'd! The dreadful armies of the North advance ; While England, Portugal, and Spain combined Give their triumphant banners to the wind, And stand victorious in the fields of France.

7.

One man hath been for ten long wretched years The cause of all this blood and all these tears;

One man in this most aweful point of time Draws on thy danger, as he caused thy crime. Wait not too long the event,

For now whole Europe comes against thee bent; His wiles and their own strength the nations know; Wise from past wrongs, on future peace intent,

The People and the Princes, with one mind,
From all parts move against the general foe:

One act of justice, one atoning blow,
One execrable head laid low,

Even yet, O France! averts thy punishment: Open thine eyes! too long hast thou been blind; Take vengeance for thyself, and for mankind!

8.

France! if thou lov'st thine ancient fame,

Revenge thy sufferings and thy shame!
By the bones that bleach on Jaffa's beach;
By the blood which on Domingo's shore
Hath clogg'd the carrion-birds with gore;
By the flesh that gorged the wolves of Spain,
Or stiffen'd on the snowy plain

of frozen Muscovy;

By the bodies that lie all open to the sky,
Tracking from Elbe to Rhine the Tyrant's flight;
By the widow's and the orphan's cry,
By the childless parent's misery,

By the lives which he hath shed,
By the ruin he hath spread,

By the prayers that rise for curses on his head,
Redeem, O France! thine ancient fame,
Revenge thy sufferings and thy shame;
Open thine eyes!.. too long hast thou been blind;
Take vengeance for thyself, and for mankind!

9.

By those horrors which the night
Witness'd, when the torches' light
To the assembled murderers show'd
Where the blood of Condé flow'd;
By thy murder'd Pichegru's fame;
By murder'd Wright,, . an English name;
By murder'd Palm's atrocious doom;
By murder'd Hofer's martyrdom;
Oh! by the virtuous blood thus vilely spilt,
The Villain's own peculiar private guilt,

Open thine eyes! too long hast thou been blind!
Take vengeance for thyself and for mankind!

FUNERAL ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE

In its summer pride array'd,

Low our Tree of Hope is laid!
Low it lies: . . in evil hour,
Visiting the bridal bower,

Death hath levell'd root and flower.
Windsor, in thy sacred shade,
(This the end of pomp and power!)
Have the rites of death been paid:
Windsor, in thy sacred shade
Is the Flower of Brunswick laid!

VOL. IV.

Ye whose relics rest around,
Tenants of this funeral ground!
Know ye, Spirits, who is come,
By immitigable doom

Summon'd to the untimely tomb?
Late with youth and splendour crown'd,

Late in beauty's vernal bloom,
Late with love and joyaunce blest;
Never more lamented guest
Was in Windsor laid to rest.

Henry, thou of saintly worth,
Thou, to whom thy Windsor gave
Nativity and name, and grave;
Thou art in this hallowed earth
Cradled for the immortal birth!
Heavily upon his head

Ancestral crimes were visited:
He, in spirit like a child,

Meek of heart and undefiled,

Patiently his crown resign'd,

And fix'd on heaven his heavenly mind,
Blessing, while he kiss'd the rod,
His Redeemer and his God.
Now may he in realms of bliss
Greet a soul as pure as his.

Passive as that humble spirit,
Lies his bold dethroner too;
A dreadful debt did he inherit
To his injured lineage due;
Ill-starr'd prince, whose martial merit
His own England long might rue!
Mournful was that Edward's fame,
Won in fields contested well,
While he sought his rightful claim:
Witness Aire's unhappy water,
Where the ruthless Clifford fell;

And when Wharfe ran red with slaughter,

N

On the day of Towton's field,
Gathering, in its guilty flood,
The carnage and the ill-spilt blood
That forty thousand lives could yield.
Cressy was to this but sport,-
Poictiers but a pageant vain;
And the victory of Spain
Seem'd a strife for pastime meant,
And the work of Agincourt

Only like a tournament;

Half the blood which there was spent
Had sufficed again to gain
Anjou and ill-yielded Maine,
Normandy and Aquitaine ;
And Our Lady's ancient towers,
Maugre all the Valois' powers,
Had a second time been ours.-
A gentle daughter of thy line,
Edward, lays her dust with thine.

Thou, Elizabeth, art here;

Thou to whom all griefs were known;
Who wert placed upon the bier
In happier hour than on the throne.
Fatal daughter, fatal mother,
Raised to that ill-omen'd station,
Father, uncle, sons, and brother,
Mourn'd in blood her elevation!
Woodville, in the realms of bliss,
To thine offspring thou may'st say,
Early death is happiness;

And favour'd in their lot are they
Who are not left to learn below
That length of life is length of woe.
Lightly let this ground be prest;
A broken heart is here at rest.

But thou, Seymour, with a greeting, Such as sisters use at meeting, Joy, and sympathy, and love, Wilt hail her in the seats above.