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And, as it onward rolling rose,
So moved his heart upon our foes.
There, where death's brief pang was quickest,
And the battle's wreck lay thickest,
Strew'd beneath the advancing banner

Of the eagle's burning crest-
(There with thunder-clouds to fan her,

Who could then her wing arrest

Victory beaming from her breast ?)
While the broken line enlarging

Fell, or fed along the plain;
There be sure was Murat charging !

There he ne'er shall charge again!


O’er glories gone the invaders march,
Weeps Triumph o'er each levell’d arch-
But let Freedom rejoice,
With her heart in her voice;
But, her hand on her sword,
Doubly shall she be adored ;
France hath twice too well been taught
The “moral lesson” dearly bought-

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Her Safety sits not on a throne,
But in equal rights and laws,
Hearts and hands in one great cause
Freedom, such as God hath given
Unto all beneath his heaven,
With their breath, and from their birth,
Though Guilt would sweep it from the earth;
With a fierce and lavish hand
Scattering nations wealth like sand;
Pouring nations' blood like water,
In imperial seas of slaughter !


But the heart and the mind,
And the voice of mankind,
Shall arise in communion-
And who shall resist that proud union ?
The time is past when swords subdued
Man may die—the soul's renew'd:
Even in this low world of care
Freedom ne'er shall want an heir;
Millions breathe but to inherit
Her for ever bounding spirit-

When once more her hosts assemble,
Tyrants shall believe and tremble-
Smile they at this idle threat ?
Crimson tears will follow yet.




All wept, but particularly Savary, and a Polish officer who had been

exalted from the ranks by Bonaparte. He clung to his master's knees; wrote a letter to Lord Keith, entreating permission to accompany him, even in the most menial capacity, which could not be admitted.”


Must thou go, my glorious Chief,

Sever'd from thy faithful few?
Who can tell thy warrior's grief,

Maddening o'er that long adieu ?
Woman's love, and friendship’s zeal,

Dear as both have been to me-
What are they to all I feel,

With a soldier's faith for thee?


Idol of the soldier's soul!

First in fight, but mightiest now:
Many could a world control;

Thee alone no doom can bow.

By thy side for years I dared

Death; and envied those who fell, When their dying shout was heard,

Blessing him they served so well. (8)


Would that I were cold with those,

Since this hour I live to see;

When the doubts of coward foes

Scarce dare trust a man with thee, Dreading each should set thee free.

Oh! although in dungeons pent, All their chains were light to me,

Gazing on thy soul unbent.


Would the sycophants of him

Now so deaf to duty's prayer, Were his borrow'd glories dim,

In his native darkness share ? Were that world this hour his own,

All thou calmly dost resign, Could he purchase with that throne

Hearts like those which still are thine ?

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