II.

But times were changed; the torch of terror came, To light the summits with the beacon's flame; The streams ran crimson, the tall mountain pines Rose a new forest o'er embattled lines;

The bloodless sickle lent the warrior's steel, The harvest bowed beneath his chariot wheel; Where late the wood-dove sheltered her repose The raven waited for the conflict's close;

The cuirassed sentry walked his sleepless round Where Daphne smiled or Amaryllis frowned; Where timid minstrels sung their blushing charms, Some wild Tyrtaeus called aloud, “To arms!”

When Glory wakes, when fiery spirits leap, Roused by her accents from their tranquil sleep, The ray that flashes from the soldier's crest Lights, as it glances, in the poet's breast;—

Not in pale dreamers, whose fantastic lay Toys with smooth trifles like a child at play, But men, who act the passions they inspire, Who wave the sabre as they sweep the lyre!

Ye mild enthusiasts, whose pacific frowns Are lost like dew-drops caught in burning towns, Pluck as ye will the radiant plumes of fame, Break Caesar's bust to make yourselves a name;

But if your country bares the avenger's blade For wrongs unpunished or for debts unpaid, When the roused nation bids her armies form, And screams her eagle through the gathering storm,

When from your ports the bannered frigate rides, Her black bows scowling to the crested tides, Your hour has past; in vain your feeble cry As the babe's wailings to the thundering sky!

Scourge of mankind! with all the dread array That wraps in wrath thy desolating way, As the wild tempest wakes the slumbering sea, Thou only teachest all that man can be.

Alike thy tocsin has the power to charm The toil-knit sinews of the rustic's arm, Or swell the pulses in the poet's veins, And bid the nations tremble at his strains.

The city slept beneath the moonbeam's glance, Her white walls gleaming through the vines of France, And all was hushed, save where the footsteps fell, On some high tower, of midnight sentinel.

But one still watched; no self-encircled woes Chased from his lids the angel of repose; He watched, he wept, for thoughts of bitter years Bowed his dark lashes, wet with burning tears

His country's sufferings and her children's shame Streamed o'er his memory like a forest's flame; Each treasured insult, each remembered wrong, Rolled through his heart and kindled into song.

His taper faded; and the morning gales Swept through the world the war-song of Marseilles! Now, while around the smiles of Peace expand, And Plenty's wreaths festoon the laughing land;

While France ships outward her reluctant ore, And half our navy basks upon the shore; From ruder themes our meek-eyed Muses turn To crown with roses their enamelled urn.

If e'er again return those awful days Whose clouds were crimsoned with the beacon's blaze, Whose grass was trampled by the soldier's heel, Whose tides were reddened round the rushing keel,

God grant some lyre may wake a nobler strain To rend the silence of our tented plain! When Gallia's flag its triple fold displays, Her marshalled legions peal the Marseillaise;

When round the German close the war-clouds dim, Far through their shadows floats his battle-hymn; When, crowned with joy, the camps’ of England ring, A thousand voices shout, “God save the King!”

When victory follows with our eagle's glance, Our nation's anthem pipes a country dance! Some prouder Muse, when comes the hour at last, May shake our hillsides with her bugle-blast;

Not ours the task; but since the lyric dress Relieves the statelier with its sprightliness, Hear an old song, which some, perchance, have seen In stale gazette or cobwebbed magazine.

There was an hour when patriots dared profane The mast that Britain strove to bow in vain; And one, who listened to the tale of shame, Whose heart still answered to that sacred name,

Whose eye still followed o'er his country's tides Thy glorious flag, our brave Old Ironsides From yon lone attic, on a smiling morn, Thus mocked the spoilers with his school-boy scorn.