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The Spaniard, 4 when the lust of sway
Had lost its quickening spell,
An empire for a cell;
His dotage trifled well :
But thou-from thy reluctant hand
The thunderbolt is wrung-
To which thy weakness clung;
To see thine own unstrung;
And Earth bath spilt her blood for him,
Who thus can hoard his own! And Monarchs bowed the trembling limb,
And thanked him for a throne !
Fair Freedom! we may hold thee dear,
In humblest guise have shown.
Thine evil deeds are writ in gore,
Nor written thus in vain
Thy triumphs tell of fame no more,
Or deepen every stain.
To shame the world again-
Is vile as vulgar clay;
To all that pass away;
But yet methought, the living great
To dazzle and dismay;
And she, proud Austria's mournful flower,
Thy still imperial bride;
Still clings she to thy side?
Thou throneless Homicide?
Then haste thee to thy sullen Isle,
And gaze upon the sea;
It ne'er was ruled by thee!
That Earth is now as free!
XV. Thou Timour! in his captive's cage
What thoughts will there be thine, While brooding in thy prisoned rage?
But one-" The world was mine?” Unless, like he of Babylon, All sense is with thy sceptre gone,
Life will not long confine That spirit poured so widely forthSo long obeyed---80 little worth !
Or like the thief of fire from heaven,
Wilt thou withstand the shock? And share with him, the unforgiven,
His vulture and his rock!
Foredoomed by God-by man accurst, And that last act, though not thy worst, The
very Fiend's arch mock ; ? He in his fall preserved his pride, And, if a mortal, had as proudly died !