XXXII. 1811. THE power of Armies is a visible thing, That power, that spirit, whether on the wing 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, XXXIV. THE FRENCH ARMY IN RUSSIA. 1812-13. HUMANITY, delighting to behold A fond reflection of her own decay, Hath painted Winter like a Traveller — old, Propped on a staff — and, through the sullen day, In hooded mantle, limping o'er the Plain, As though his weakness were disturbed by pain: Or, if a juster fancy should allow An undisputed symbol of command, The chosen sceptre is a withered bough, 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 ; 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, 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, XXXV. ON THE SAME OCCASION. YE Storms, resound the praises of your King! And loud and long of Winter's triumph sing! Knit the blithe dance upon the soft green grass; And to the aerial zephyrs as they pass, That old decrepit Winter- He hath slain, That Host, which rendered all your bounties vain! |