XXX. 1811. THE power of Armies is a visible thing, That power, that spirit, whether on the wing Like the strong wind, or sleeping like the wind Within its awful caves. - From year to year Springs this indigenous produce far and near; XXXI. 1811. HERE pause: the Poet claims at least this praise From hope, the paramount duty that Heaven lays, On prosperous Tyrants with a dazzled eye; Forget thy weakness, upon which is built, O wretched Man, the throne of Tyranny! COMPOSED IN RECOLLECTION OF THE EXPEDITION OF THE HUMANITY, delighting to behold Hath painted Winter like a Traveller old, As though his weakness were disturbed by pain;' An undisputed symbol of command, The chosen sceptre is a withered bough, These emblems suit the helpless and forlorn; 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 hugh 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, No pitying voice commands a halt — 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! XXXIII. ON THE SAME OCCASION. YE Storms, resound the praises of your King! And loud and long of Winter's triumph sing! 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 aerial zephyrs as they pass, That old decrepit Winter He hath slain That Host, which rendered all your bounties vain : |