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What time each Column, at the Rocket's * blaze With rapid wheel the lengthening Line displays !
Now doubt and confidence, and hope and fear, By turns proclaim defeat, or conquest, near, And Fate, 'twixt both suspends her awful screen, And in mysterious grandeur clouds the scene! Is there, that solemn pause who cannot feel? O envy not the wretch his heart of steel ; Sure one fond thought of all he left behind, Might, for that moment, melt the sternest mind!
But-Charge! that fear and doubt-dispelling word, That sound to British Heroes dear, is heard ! Eager, as Coursers from the goal, their Foes They seek, and soon with weapons crossed, they
close. Earth feels the sudden shock, while shouts resound, And
groans, half heard, in din of battle drowned. Steedsanswering Steeds, with smoking breath, from
far, Swell the rough concert, and provoke the war.
See now the broken line of battle reel, See front to front opposed, and steel to steel; As when the blast drives Euxine's maddened wave, The Danube's t strength, by Torrents swollen, to
* In modern warfare I am informed it is usual to come up in coluinns, and at the firing of a Rocker, or some other sig. nal, to deploy or to wheel instantaneously into line.
† This is far from being an unequal conflict. The Danube
Now Discord plays the direful Game of Kings, And roused by Trumpet, flaps her vulture wings; Here with convulsi ve grasp, the Youth, * retains Though fallen! the standard that his life-blood
stains, While Veterans mark their favourite's dying groan, And to revenge his wounds, forget their own.
There, swift as Hurricanes, with flowing rein, And crimson spur, the Squadrons f sweep the plain, Through smouldering clouds they meet, with thun
dering crash, While Sabres dart the lightying's fatal flash! Fierce, plunging into death, the wounded Horse Drags through the routed ranks,the trampled Corse;
is fed by sixty navigable Rivers, and one hundre:) ond twenty smaller streams, and it discharges itself with such rapidity into the Euxine, that the current of its waters is sensibly observed for several miles. Speaking of the Rhine, and the Danube, Gibbon observes, “ The latter of those mighty streams, which rises at the distance of only thirty miles from the former, flows above thirteen hundred miles, for the most part to the South. east, collects the tribute of sixty navigable rivers, and is at length through six mouths received into the Euxine, which appears scarcely equal to such an accession of Waters.”
* Can it be necessary to mention here the name of Walsh ?
+ Notwithstanding the superior euphony and power of the greek language, yet I have often thought that even Homer, when he has indulged in an attempt to make the sound an echo to the sense, has never surpassed that line of Virgil's “Quadrupedante putrem sovitu quatit Ungula Campum."
Crushed 'neath his hoof, both spear and scymitar
And close behind--the Phantom Glory treads, And o'er the fallen her flimsy mantle spreads ; Ah! can her tinselled Vestment, wove by Pride, That hideous wreck, her dismal triumph, hide ?
* Milton attributes the invention of Gunpowder to the Devils. Have the commentators found no allegory here? When Milton informs us that Sin was born in heaven, we are instructed to admire the address and sagacity of the Poet, who takes this method of reminding us that every Vice is the excess of some Virtue! But what shall we say of Falshood, Cruelty, Ingratitude, Brutality, Blasphemy, et cæt? These are cer. tainly Vices, but I am at a loss to know of what Virtues they are the excess.
Ah! can her smile, and unavailing praise,
Thou Sun! that didst this Morning's pompsurvey,
* Nunc levior cippus non imprimit ossa,
Nascuntur Violæ !” an Irishman, on being asked what was meant by Posthumous Works, replied, “ Posthumous Works I take to be the Works a man writes after he is dead.” Now if it be true of Fame, that “just what we hear we have;" and this was the observation of no common mind, then it follows that we can give no better account of posthumous fame, than the Irishman gave of posthumous works; namely, that posthumous fame is that fame which a man hears after he is dead !
Ah! when will Kings, grown honest, cease to dress In gorgeous garb Destruction and Distress? When Subjects, rendered wise, deny to war Its pride, its pomp,
Ne'er doth Hypocrisy so foul appear,
* From all the preambles, and perorations to any procla, mation of War, one would be led to suppose that Kings and Emperors were universally the most peace-loving, inoffensive, forgiving, and yet injured and insulted Beings under Heaven, But their neighbours have never so much cause to tremble for their safety, as when Kings announce to them, that their own is in danger. The late Emperor of Russia was mad; but madmen sometimes start a good idea. He proposed a plan for making wars less bloody, shorter, and less frequent. It was simple, and if adopted, would prove efficacious. He re. commended that the Potentates of Europe should meet and settle their respective differences by single combat ! The most notorious piece of Hypocrisy, “de la Guerre," on record, is to be found in the conduct of the Emperor Charlės the Vth, when he sacked Rome, and took the Pope prisoner. This royal Juggler beat his Infallible Antagonist, even at his own weapons; for he pretended to feel most extreme sorrow for the victory; he forbad the ringing of bells ; he even went into