Where flew the Eagle in its wide domain, There was he ever foremost in the fight, Leading his band of heroes, strong in might, To conquest still,--In Switzerland and Spain, And where the Rhine, majestic to the main, Through many fertile lands, doth proudly flow, His prowess won applause, even from the foe, Midst blood and carnage on each battle plain.
High rose his genius with the tide of war, His country's annals of his valour tell, Impetuous as the torrent, when the swell Of waters fierce pours onward from afar, And sweeps before it every stop and bar: Where'er his sword flashed, with its sunlike ray, There victory followed closely on the way, And danger's track was marked by many a scar.
Rednitz and Neuwied well his courage knew, When yet his early deeds foretold the fame That soon would throw a halo round his name; Manheim and Hohenlinden felt it too, And Elchingen and Jena found him true, Eylau and Friedland, names of high renown, Moscow and its retreat, his glory crown, Which paled not even at bloody Waterloo!
Immortal warrior, could France reward Thy mighty deeds but with a traitor's death? The shame is hers, not thine; thy latest breath Was for thy country, and as one prepared Thou met'st thy fate, as soldier should on guard: And still shall time, with every rolling year The more thy memory to France endear, And mourned thy fate shall be by patriot and bard.
Thy death has left a blot upon the fame Of Wellington and England, ne'er to be Removed or justified,--alas! that he, Who with a word thy safety could proclaim, With callous heart refused to speak the same. The deed, like that which stained, with blackest ray, Great Nelson's honour in Palermo's bay, Our history records "with sorrow and with shame." (10)
_Written at Two-Waters, Herts, 11th January 1840, for a Lady's Album._
COME! we will wander to the lone hill-side, And, awe-struck, view the winter in its pride;-- Crispy the grass and scant; The little flowers have vanished, not a trace Is left of blossom on pale Nature's face:-- Restraint lies mighty on the stream--it sings No more--dead, dead now,--like all other things; The trees, as spectres gaunt, Or churchyard monuments, all scattered stand, As if they mourned the bareness of the land,-- Meagre as pallid want. Where be the fairies now, the little fays, That dance in buttercups in summer days, Though only Poets view Their gambols in the flowers and in the rays Of noonday, which the common sight gainsays, To Fancy ever new!