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'I thank thee, I thank thee, Hodeirah's son!
And cast it in the fire,
The prize is won,
The work is done,
For I have made captive Hodeirah's Son.'
O force of faith! O strength of virtuous will! Behold him in his endless martyrdom, Triumphant still!
The Curse still burning in his heart and brain, And yet doth he remain
Patient the while, and tranquil, and content!
Such strength the will reveal'd had given
They brought the peace of Heaven. Yea, all around was hallow'd! Danger, Fear,
Nor thought of evil ever enter'd here. A charm was on the Leopard when he came Within the circle of that mystic glade; Submiss he crouch'd before the heavenly maid,
And offer'd to her touch his speckled side; Or with arch'd back erect, and bending head, And eyes half-closed for pleasure, would he stand Courting the pressure of her gentle hand.
Trampling his path through wood and brake, And canes which crackling fall before his way, And tassel-grass, whose silvery feathers play O'ertopping the young trees,
On comes the Elephant, to slake
Of yonder plane, with wavey motion slow,
He moves it to and fro.
But when that form of beauty meets his sight, The trunk its undulating motion stops, From his forgetful hold the plane-branch drops, Reverent he kneels, and lifts his rational eyes To her as if in prayer;
And when she pours her angel voice in song Entranced he listens to the thrilling notes, Till his strong temples, bathed with sudden dews, Their fragrance of delight and love diffuse.
Lo! as the voice melodious floats around,
The Tigress leaves her toothless cubs to hear;
By that enchanting song;
The antic Monkeys, whose wild gambols late, When not a breeze waved the tall jungle grass, Shook the whole wood, are hush'd, and silently Hang on the cluster'd tree.
All things in wonder and delight are still;
A mighty songster, with the Maid to vie; She only bore her part in powerful sympathy.
Well might they thus adore that heavenly Maid!
Musk-spot, nor sandal-streak, nor scarlet stain,
A daughter of the years of innocence.
And therefore all things loved her. When she stood
Beside the glassy pool, the fish, that flies
Quick as an arrow from all other eyes,
Sought not to tempt her from her secret nest,
ODE, WRITTEN DURING THE NEGOCIATIONS WITH BUONAPARTE, IN JANUARY, 1814.
Who counsels peace at this momentous hour, When God hath given deliverance to the oppress'd, And to the injured power? Who counsels peace, when Vengeance like a flood Rolls on, no longer now to be repress'd;
When innocent blood
From the four corners of the world cries out
Woe, woe to England! woe and endless shame,
False to her feelings and unspotted fame,
For by what names shall Right and Wrong be known, .
And France, who yearns even now to break her chain,
No! by the innumerable dead
Whose blood hath for his lust of power been shed,
For sooner shall the Ethiop change his skin, Or from the Leopard shall her spots depart, Than this man change his old flagitious heart. Have ye not seen him in the balance weighed, And there found wanting ?-On the stage of blood Foremost the resolute adventurer stood;
And when, by many a battle won,
Fair name might he have handed down,
Fool! should he cast away that bright renown!
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.
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!
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.