And Victory goes before;

Hope, Safety, and Prosperity, and Strength,

Come in her joyful train.

Now let the churches ring
With high thanksgiving songs,
And the full organ pour

Its swelling peals to Heaven,

The while the grateful nation bless in prayer Their Warriors and their Statesmen and their Prince, Whose will, whose mind, whose arm

Have thus with happy end their efforts crown'd.

Prince of the mighty Isle,

Rightly may'st thou rejoice,
When Britain round her spear

The olive-garland twines, by Victory won.

6.

Enjoy thy triumph now,

Prince of the mighty Isle!

Enjoy the rich reward, so rightly due,
When rescued nations, with one heart and voice,
Thy counsels bless and thee.

Thou on thine own Firm Island seest the while,
As if the tales of old Romance
Were but to typify these splendid days,
Princes and Potentates,
And Chiefs renown'd in arms,
From their great enterprize achieved,
In friendship and in joy collected here.

7.

Rejoice, thou mighty Isle !
Queen of the Seas! rejoice;

For ne'er in elder nor in later times
Have such illustrious guests
Honour'd thy silver shores.
No such assemblage shone in Edward's hall,
Nor brighter triumphs graced his glorious reign.
Prince of the mighty Isle,

Proud day for thee and for thy kingdoms this!
Rightly may'st thou rejoice.
When Britain round her spear

The olive-garland twines, by Victory won.

8.

Yet in the pomp of these festivities

One mournful thought will rise within thy mind,
The thought of Him who sits

In mental as in visual darkness lost.
How had his heart been fill'd
With deepest gratitude to Heaven,
Had he beheld this day!

O King of kings, and Lord of lords,
Thou who hast visited thus heavily
The anointed head, . .
Oh! for one little interval,

One precious hour,

Remove the blindness from his soul,

That he may know it all,
And bless thee ere he die.

9.

Thou also should'st have seen This harvest of thy hopes, Thou whom the guilty act Of a proud spirit overthrown,

Sent to thine early grave in evil hour! Forget not him, my country, in thy joy! But let thy grateful hand With laurel garlands hang

The tomb of Perceval.

Virtuous, and firm, and wise,

The Ark of Britain in her darkest day
He steer'd through stormy seas;

And long shall Britain hold his memory dear,
And faithful History give

His meed of lasting praise.

10.

That earthly meed shall his compeers enjoy,
Britain's true counsellors,

Who see with just success their counsels crown'd.
They have their triumph now, to him denied ;
Proud day for them is this!
Prince of the mighty Isle !
Proud day for them and thee,
When Britain round her spear

The olive-garland twines, by Victory won.

ODE

TO HIS IMPERIAL MAJESTY, ALEXANDER THE FIRST, EMPEROR OF ALL THE RUSSIAS.

1.

CONQUEROR, Deliverer, Friend of human-kind! The free, the happy, Island welcomes thee; Thee from thy wasted realms,

So signally revenged;

From Prussia's rescued plains;

From Dresden's field of slaughter, where the ball,
Which struck Moreau's dear life,

Was turn'd from thy more precious head aside;
From Leipsic's dreadful day,
From Eibe, and Rhine, and Seine,
In thy career of conquest overpass'd;
From the proud Capital

Of haughty France subdued,
Then to her rightful line of Kings restored;
Thee, Alexander! thee, the Great, the Good,
The Glorious, the Beneficent, the Just,
Thee to her honour'd shores
The mighty Island welcomes in her joy.

2.

Sixscore full years have pass'd,
Since to these friendly shores

Thy famous ancestor,
Illustrious PETER came.

Wise traveller he, who over Europe went,
Marking the ways of men;

That so to his dear country, which then rose
Among the nations in uncultured strength,
He might bear back the stores
Of elder polity,

Its sciences and arts.

Little did then the industrious German think,. The soft Italian, lapt in luxury,. Helvetia's mountain sons, of freedom proud,.. The patient Hollander,

Prosperous and warlike then, . .

Little thought they that in that farthest North, From PETER's race should the Deliverer spring, Destined by Heaven to save

Art, Learning, Industry,

Beneath the bestial hoof of godless Might
All trampled in the dust.

As little did the French,

Vaunting the power of their Great Monarch then, (His schemes of wide ambition yet uncheck'd,) As little did they think,

That from rude Moscovy the stone should come, To smite their huge Colossus, which bestrode The subject Continent;

And from its feet of clay,

Breaking the iron limbs and front of brass,
Strew the rejoicing Nations with the wreck.

3.

Roused as thou wert with insult and with wrong, Who should have blamed thee if, in high-wrought mood Of vengeance and the sense of injured power, Thou from the flames which laid The City of thy Fathers in the dust, Hadst bid a spark be brought,

And borne it in thy tent,

Religiously by night and day preserved,
Till on Montmartre's height,
When open to thine arms,
Her last defence o'erthrown,
The guilty city lay,

Thou hadst call'd every Russian of thine host
To light his flambeau at the sacred flame,

And sent them through her streets,
And wrapt her roofs and towers,
Temples and palaces,

Her wealth and boasted spoils,
In one wide flood of fire,

Making the hated Nation feel herself
The miseries she had spread.

4.

Who should have blamed the Conqueror for that deed?
Yea, rather would not one exulting cry
Have risen from Elbe to Nile,
How is the Oppressor fallen!
Moscow's re-rising walls
Had rung with glad acclaim;
Thanksgiving hymns had fill'd
Tyrol's rejoicing vales:

How is the Oppressor fallen!

The Germans in their grass-grown marts had met
To celebrate the deed;

Holland's still waters had been starr'd
With festive lights, reflected there
From every house and hut,

From every town and tower;

The Iberian and the Lusian's injured realms,
From all their mountain-holds,
From all their ravaged fields,
From cities sack'd, from violated fanes,
And from the sanctuary of every heart,
Had pour'd that pious strain,
How is the Oppressor fallen !
Righteous art thou, O Lord!
Thou Zaragoza, from thy sepulchres

Hadst join'd the hymn; and from thine ashes thou,
Manresa, faithful still!

The blood that calls for vengeance in thy streets,
Madrid, and Porto thine,

And that which from the beach
Of Tarragona sent its cry to Heaven,
Had rested then appeased.

Orphans had clapt their hands,
And widows would have wept exulting tears,
And childless parents with a bitter joy
Have blest the avenging deed.

5.

But thou hadst seen enough

Of horrors, . . amply hadst avenged mankind.
Witness that dread retreat,
When God and nature smote
The Tyrant in his pride!
No wider ruin overtook
Sennacherib's impious host;
Nor when the frantic Persian led
His veterans to the Lybian sands;
Nor when united Greece

O'er the barbaric power that victory won
Which Europe yet may bless.

A fouler Tyrant cursed the groaning earth, ..
A fearfuller destruction was dispensed.
Victorious armies followed on his flight;
On every side he met

The Cossacks' dreadful spear;

On every side he saw
The injured nation rise,
Invincible in arms.

What myriads, victims of one wicked will,
Spent their last breath in curses on his head,
There where the soldiers' blood
Froze in the festering wound;

And nightly the cold moon

Saw sinking thousands in the snow lie down,
Whom there the morning found
Stiff, as their icy bed.

Oh, grief of griefs, that Germany,
The wise, the virtuous land,
The land of mighty minds,

Should bend beneath the frothy Frenchman's yoke!
Oh, grief of griefs, to think

That she should groan in bonds,

She who had blest all nations with her gifts!
There had the light of Reformation risen,
The light of Knowledge there was burning clear.
Oh, grief, that her unhappy sons
Should toil and bleed and die,
To quench that sacred light,

The wretched agents of a tyrant's will!
How often hath their blood

In his accursed cause

Reek'd on the Spaniard's blade !

Their mangled bodies fed

The wolves and eagles of the Pyrenees ;
Or stiffening in the snows of Moscovy,
Amid the ashes of the watch-fire lay,
Where dragging painfully their frozen limbs,
With life's last effort, in the flames they fell.

5.

Joy, joy for Germany,

For Europe, for the World,
When Prussia rose in arms!
Oh, what a spectacle

For present and for future times was there,
When for the public need
Wives gave their marriage rings,

And mothers, when their sons
The Band of Vengeance join'd,
Bade them return victorious from the field,
Or with their country fall.

6.

Twice o'er the field of death The trembling scales of Fate hung equipoised: For France, obsequious to her Tyrant still, Mighty for evil, put forth all her power; And still beneath his hateful banners driven, Against their father-land

Unwilling Germans bore unnatural arms.
What though the Boaster made his temples ring
With vain thanksgivings for each doubtful day,..
What though with false pretence of peace
His old insidious arts he tried,..
The spell was broken! Austria threw her sword
Into the inclining scale,

And Leipsic saw the wrongs
Of Germany avenged.

7.

Ne'er till that aweful time had Europe seen Such multitudes in arms;

Nor ever had the rising Sun beheld Such mighty interests of mankind at stake; Nor o'er so wide a scene

Of slaughter e'er had Night her curtain closed.
There, on the battle-field,
With one accord the grateful monarchs knelt,
And raised their voice to Heaven;
"The cause was thine, O Lord!
"O Lord thy hand was here!"
What Conquerors e'er deserved
So proud, so pure a joy !

It was a moment when the exalted soul Might almost wish to burst its mortal bounds, Lest all of life to come

Vapid and void should seem
After that high-wrought hour.

8.

But thou hadst yet more toils,
More duties and more triumphs yet in store.
Elbe must not bound thine arms,

Nor on the banks of Rhine
Thine eagles check their flight;
When o'er that barrier stream,
Awakened Germany

Drove her invaders with such rout and wreck
As overtook the impious Gaul of old,
Laden with plunder, and from Delphi driven.

9.

Long had insulting France Boasted her arms invincible,

Her soil inviolate;

At length the hour of retribution comes!
Avenging nations on all sides move on;
In Gascony the flag of England flies,
Triumphant, as of yore,

When sable Edward led his peerless host.
Behold the Spaniard and the Portugal,
For cities burnt, for violated fanes,
For murders. massacres,
All monstrous, all unutterable crimes,
Demanding vengeance with victorious cries,
Pour from the Pyrenees.

The Russian comes, his eye on Paris fix'd, The flames of Moscow present to his heart; The Austrian to efface

Ulm, Austerlitz, and Wagram's later shame; Rejoicing Germany

With all her nations swells the avenging train; And in the field and in the triumph first, Thy banner, Frederick, floats.

10.

Six weeks in daily strife

The veteran Blucher bore the brunt of war. Glorious old man,

The last and greatest of his master's school,
Long may he live to hear

The people bless his name!
Late be it ere the wreath
That crowns his silver hair
Adorn his monument!
Glorious old man,

How oft hath he discomfited

The boasted chiefs of France,

And foil'd her vaunting Tyrant's desperate rage!

Glorious old man,

Who from Silesia's fields,

O'er Elbe, and Rhine, and Seine, From victory to victory marching on, Made his heroic way; till at the gates Of Paris, open'd by his arms, he saw His King triumphant stand.

11.

Bear back the sword of Frederick now! The sword which France amid her spoils display'd, Proud trophy of a day ignobly won. With laurels wreathe the sword; Bear it in triumph back,

Thus gloriously regain'd;

And when thou lay'st it in its honour'd place, O Frederick, well-beloved,

Greatest and best of that illustrious name,

Lay by its side thine own,

A holier relic there!

12.

Frederick, the well-beloved!
Welcome to these free shores,

To England welcome, to the happy Isle !
In glory art thou come,
Thy victory perfect, thy revenge complete.

ODE.

THE BATTLE OF ALGIERS.

1.

ONE day of dreadful occupation more,

Ere England's gallant ships

Shall, of their beauty, pomp, and power disrobed,
Like sea-birds on the sunny main,
Rock idly in the port.

2.

One day of dreadful occupation more! A work of righteousness,

Yea, of sublimest mercy, must be done; England will break the oppressor's chain, And set the captives free.

3.

Red cross of England, which all shores have seen
Triumphantly displayed,

Thou sacred banner of the glorious Isle,
Known wheresoever keel hath cut
The navigable deep;

4.

Ne'er didst thou float more proudly o'er the storm
Of havoc and of death,

Than when, resisting fiercely, but in vain,
Algiers, her moony standard lowered,
And sign'd the conqueror's law.

5.

Oh, if the grave were sentient, as these Moors
In erring credence hold;

And if the victims of captivity
Could in the silent tomb have heard
The thunder of the fight;

6.

Sure their rejoicing dust upon that day
Had heaved the oppressive soil,

And earth been shaken like the mosques and towers,
When England on those guilty walls
Her fiery vengeance sent.

7.

Seldom hath victory given a joy like this,-
When the delivered slave

Revisits once again his own dear home,
And tells of all his sufferings past,
And blesses Exmouth's name.

8.

Far, far and wide along the Italian shores, That holy joy extends; Sardinian mothers pay their vows fulfill'd; And hymns are heard beside thy banks, O Fountain Arethuse!

9.

Churches shall blaze with lights, and ring with praise,
And deeper strains shall rise

From many an overflowing heart to Heaven;
Nor will they in their prayers forget

The hand that set them free.

Keswick.

10.

ODE

ON THE DEATH OF QUEEN CHARLOTTE.

1.

DEATH has gone up into our Palaces!
The light of day once more
Hath visited the last abode

Of mortal royalty,

The dark and silent vault.

2.

But not as when the silence of that vault Was interrupted last

Doth England raise her loud lament,

Like one by sudden grief

Surprised and overcome.

3.

Then with a passionate sorrow we bewail'd

Youth on the untimely bier;

And hopes which seem'd like flower-buds full,

Just opening to the sun,

For ever swept away.

4.

Her left hand knew not of the ample alms
Which her right hand had done;
And therefore in the aweful hour,
The promises were hers

To secret bounty made.

11.

With more than royal honours to the tomb Her bier is borne; with more

Than Pomp can claim, or Power bestow; With blessings and with prayers

From many a grateful heart.

12.

Long, long then shall Queen Charlotte's name be dear; And future Queens to her

As to their best exemplar look ;

Who imitates her best

May best deserve our love.

Keswick, 1818.

ODE

FOR ST. GEORGE'S DAY.

1.

WILD were the tales which fabling monks of old
Devised to swell their hero's holy fame,
When in the noble army they enroll'd
St. George's doubtful name.

Of arrows and of spears they told
Which fell rebated from his mortal mould;
And how the burning fiery furnace blast
To him came tempered like a summer breeze,
When at the hour of evening it hath past
O'er gurgling tanks, and groves of lemon trees:
And how the reverential flame
Condensing like a garb of honour, play'd
In gorgeous folds around his glorious frame;
And how the Heathen in their frantic strife
With water then alike in vain, essay'd
His inextinguishable life.

2.

What marvel if the Christian Knight Thus for his dear Redeemer's sake Defied the purpled Pagan's might? Such boldness well might he partake, For he beside the Libyan lake Silene, with the Infernal King Had coped in actual fight. The old Dragon on terrific wing Assail'd him there with Stygian sting And arrowy tongue, and potent breath Exhaling pestilence and death. Dauntless in faith the Champion stood, Opposed against the rage of Hell The Red-Cross shield, and wielding well His sword, the strife pursued ; First with a wide and rending wound Brought the maim'd monster to the ground, Then pressing with victorious heel Upon his scaly neck subdued, Plunged and replunged the searching steel;