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And, as it onward rolling rose,
Of the eagle's burning crest-
Who could then her wing arrest
Victory beaming from her breast ?)
Fell, or fed along the plain;
There he ne'er shall charge again!
O’er glories gone the invaders march,
Her Safety sits not on a throne,
But the heart and the mind,
When once more her hosts assemble,
[FROM THE FRENCH.]
“ 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?
Maddening o'er that long adieu ?
Dear as both have been to me-
With a soldier's faith for thee?
Idol of the soldier's soul!
First in fight, but mightiest now:
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 ?