6. He (2) who of old would rend the oak, Dream'd not of the rebound; Chain'd by the trunk he vainly broke— Thou in the sternness of thy strength And darker fate hast found: But thou must eat thy heart away! 7. The Roman, (3) when his burning heart Was slaked with blood of Rome, Threw down the dagger-dared depart, In savage grandeur, home.— He dared depart in utter scorn Of men that such a yoke had borne, Yet left him such a doom! His only glory was that hour Of self-upheld abandon'd power. 8. The Spaniard,(4) when the lust of sway Had lost its quickening spell, Cast crowns for rosaries An empire for a cell; away, A strict accountant of his beads, A subtle disputant on creeds, His dotage trifled well : Yet better had he neither known A bigot's shrine, nor despot's throne. 9. But thou-from thy reluctant hand The thunderbolt is wrung Too late thou leav'st the high command To which thy weakness clung; All Evil Spirit as thou art, It is enough to grieve the heart, To see thine own unstrung; To think that God's fair world hath been The footstool of a thing so mean; 10. And Earth hath spilt her blood for him, Who thus can hoard his own! And Monarchs bow'd the trembling limb, Fair Freedom! we may hold thee dear, 11. Thine evil deeds are writ in gore, Thy triumphs tell of fame no more, If thou hadst died as honour dies, But who would soar the solar height, 12. Weigh'd in the balance, hero dust Is vile as vulgar clay; Thy scales, Mortality! are just To all that pass away; But yet methought the living great Some higher sparks should animate, To dazzle and dismay;. Nor deem'd Contempt could thus make mirth Of these, the Conquerors of the earth. 13. And she, proud Austria's mournful flower, How bears her breast the torturing hour? Still clings she to thy side? Must she too bend, must she too share Thy late repentance, long despair, Thou throneless Homicide? If still she loves thee, hoard that gem, 'Tis worth thy vanish'd diadem! 14. Then haste thee to thy sullen Isle, And gaze upon the sea; That element may meet thy smile, Or trace with thine all idle hand In loitering mood upon the sand 15. Thou Timour! in his captive's cage (5) What thoughts will there be thine, While brooding in thy prison'd rage? But one- The world was mine :” Unless, like he of Babylon, All sense is with thy sceptre gone, That spirit pour'd so widely forth So long obey'd—so little worth! |