Him, uninspir'd, my soul beheld, I mark'd him from his splendour flung, And when a thousand harps were strung, My voice the chorus never swell'd; By servile flatt'ry ne'er disgrac❜d, By coward insult undebas'd. But now, o'er such a planet's last eclipse, She wakes, and haply not in vain, From unpolluted lips, Pours o'er the funeral urn a long-surviving strain. From Alpine heights to Egypt's shore, From Rhine to Tagus, far around Was heard his thunder's vengeful roar; And Death was in the sound! His red-wing'd lightning flash'd from Scylla's rock; The frozen North re-echo'd to the shock. Was this true glory? let succeeding Time That arduous question ask; 30 Ours be the simpler task Before the mighty Maker's throne to bow, Who in that tow'ring genius deign'd to show Of His Creator Spirit an image, how sublime! The stormy, tremulous delight Of some exalted plan; The fever of the haughty soul Of more than mortal scope: Scarce curb'd to serve, with eager scan Still fix'd on Empire as its goal; And reaching such a dizzy height "Twere madness to have dar'd to hope All this he knew; he too had known The blaze of glory, brighter from defeat ; The flight—the victory—the throne— The Exile's lone retreat; Twice in the dust; and twice, in sterner pride, A god, by countless myriads deified. He comes: two centuries are seen |