Volume Iii Part 25 (2/2)
From rank to rank your volleyed thunder flew:-- Oh, bloodiest picture in the book of Time, Sarmatia fell, unwept, without a crime; Found not a generous friend, a pitying foe, Strength in her arms, nor mercy in her woe.
Dropped from her nerveless grasp the shattered spear, Closed her bright eye, and curbed her high career;-- Hope, for a season, bade the world farewell, And Freedom shrieked--as Kosciusko fell.
The sun went down, nor ceased the carnage there, Tumultuous murder shook the midnight air-- On Prague's proud arch the fires of ruin glow, His blood-dyed waters murmuring far below; The storm prevails, the rampart yields a way, Bursts the wild cry of horror and dismay.
Hark, as the smoldering piles with thunder fall, A thousand shrieks for hopeless mercy call!
Earth shook--red meteors flashed along the sky, And conscious Nature shuddered at the cry!
O righteous Heaven! ere Freedom found a grave, Why slept the sword, omnipotent to save?
Where was thine arm, O Vengeance! where thy rod, That smote the foes of Zion and of G.o.d; That crushed proud Ammon, when his iron car Was yoked in wrath, and thundered from afar?
Where was the storm that slumbered till the host Of blood-stained Pharaoh left their trembling coast; Then bade the deep in wild commotion flow, And heaved an ocean on their march below?
Departed spirits of the mighty dead!
Ye that at Marathon and Leuctra bled!
Friends of the world! restore your swords to man, Fight in his sacred cause, and lead the van!
Yet for Sarmatia's tears of blood atone, And make her arm puissant as your own!
Oh! once again to Freedom's cause return The patriot Tell--the Bruce of Bannockburn!
Yes, thy proud lords, unpitied land, shall see That man hath yet a soul--and dare be free.
A little while, along thy saddening plains, The starless night of desolation reigns; Truth shall restore the light by Nature given, And, like Prometheus, bring the fire of Heaven.
p.r.o.ne to the dust Oppression shall be hurled, Her name, her nature, withered from the world.
THOMAS CAMPBELL.
_From ”The Pleasures of Hope.”_
THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA'S HALLS.
The harp that once through Tara's halls The soul of music shed, Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls As if that soul were fled.
So sleeps the pride of former days, So glory's thrill is o'er, And hearts that once beat high for praise Now feel that pulse no more.
No more to chiefs and ladies bright, The harp of Tara swells: The chord alone, that breaks at night, Its tale of ruin tells.
Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes, The only throb she gives, Is when some heart indignant breaks, To show that still she lives.
THOMAS MOORE.
[Ill.u.s.tration: STOKE POGIS CHURCH.
(_The Scene of Gray's Elegy._)]
ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD.
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The plowman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
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