ODE. I. "Tis done but yesterday a King! Is this the man of thousand thrones, Who strew'd our Earth with hostile bones, And can he thus survive? Since he miscall'd the Morning Star, Nor man nor fiend hath fallen so far. II. Ill-minded man! why scourge thy kind Who bow'd so low the knee? By gazing on thyself grown blind, Thou taught'st the rest to see. With might unquestion'd,-power to save— To those that worshipp'd thee; III. Thanks for that lesson-it will teach To after-warriors more Than high Philosophy can preach, And vainly preached before. Breaks never to unite again, That led them to adore Those Pagod things of sabre-sway, With fronts of brass, and feet of clay. IV. The triumph, and the vanity, The rapture of the strife* The earthquake voice of Victory, The sword, the sceptre, and that sway Which man seem'd made but to obey, Wherewith renown was rife All quell'd!-Dark Spirit! what must be The madness of thy memory * Certaminis gaudia, the expression of Attila in his harangue to his army, previous to the battle of Chalons, given in Cassiodorus. The Desolator desolate ! V. The Victor overthrown! The Arbiter of others' fate A Suppliant for his own! Is it some yet imperial hope That with such change can calmly cope? Or dread of death alone? To die a prince-or live a slave Thy choice is most ignobly brave! VI. He* who of old would rend the oak, Dreamed not of the rebound; Chained by the trunk he vainly broke- Thou in the sternness of thy strength He fell, the forest-prowlers' prey; VII. The Romant, when his burning heart Was slaked with blood of Rome, Threw down the dagger-dared depart, In savage grandeur, home. He dared depart in utter scorn Of men that such a yoke had borne, Yet left him such a doom! His only glory was that hour Of self-upheld abandon'd power. VIII. The Spaniard, when the lust of sway Had lost its quickening spell, Cast crowns for rosaries away, An empire for a cell; A strict accountant of his beads, His dotage trifled well : Yet better had he neither known A bigot's shrine, nor despot's throne. IX. But thou-from thy reluctant hand The thunderbolt is wrung Too late thou leav'st the high command To which thy weakness clung; All Evil Spirit as thou art, It is enough to grieve the heart, To see thine own unstrung; To think that God's fair world hath been The footstool of a thing so mean; * Charles V. |