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At that dread season when th’ indignant north
trode, And the far-distant fife that thrilled along the
road. Yes, sweet it seems across some watery dell
To catch the music of the pealing bell;
0, song of hope, too long delusive strain.
hill. 0, on that hill may no kind month renew The fertile rain, the sparkling summer dew. Accursed of God, may those bleak sunimits tell The field of anger where the mighty fell. There youthful Faith and high born Courage rest, And, red with slaughter, Freedom's humbled
crest, There Europe,soiled with blood her tresses gray, And ancient Honor's shield -- all vilely thrown
away. Thus mused my soul, as in succession drear Rose each grim shape of Wrath and Doubt and
And Vengeance, bought with blood, and glori
ous Death the last. Then as my gaze their waving eagles met, And through the night each sparkling bayonet, Still memory told how Austria's evil hour Had felt on Praga’s field a Frederic's power, And Gallia's vaunting train, and Mosco's horde, Had fleshed the maiden steel of Brunswic's
sword. 0! yet, I deemed, that Fate, by Justice led, Might wreath once more the veteran's silver
That Europe's ancient pride would yet disdain
shed Their lonely comfort o'er the hermit's bed ? And are they dreams ? or can the Eternal Mind Care for a sparrow, yet neglect mankind ? Why, if the dubious battle own his power, And the red sabre, where he bids, devour, Why then can one the curse of worlds deride,
And millions weep a tyrant's single pride ?
Thus sadly musing, far my footsteps strayed, Rapt in the visions of the Aonian maid. It was not she, whose lonely voice I hear Fall in soft whispers on my love-lorn ear; My daily guest, who wont my steps to guide Through the green walks of scented even-tide, Or stretched with me in noonday ease along, To list the reaper's chaunt, or throstle's song: But she of loftier port, whose grave control Rules the fierce workings of the patriot's soul; She, whose high presence, o'er the midnight oil, With fame's bright promise cheers the student's
That same was she, whose ancient lore refined
To stem the lava on its destined way.
The bloodless pageant of a martial show;
war. * They fight, they bleed—0, had that blood
been shed When Charles and valor Austria's armies led, Had these stood forth the righteous cause to
shield, When victory wavered on Moravia's field, Then France had mourned her conquests made
in vain, Her backward-beaten ranks, and countless slain, Then had the strength of Europe's freedom