Mighty Victor, mighty Lord!
Low on his funeral couch he lies!
   No pitying heart, no eye, afford
A tear to grace his obsequies.
Is the sable warrior fled?
Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead.
The swarm that in thy noon-tide beam were born?
Gone to salute the rising morn.
Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr blows,
While proudly riding o’er the azure realm
In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes;
   Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm;
Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind’s sway,
That, hush’d in grim repose, expects his evening prey.

   Fill high the sparkling bowl,
The rich repast prepare;
   Reft of a crown, he yet may
share the feast: Close by the regal chair
   Fell Thirst and Famine scowl
   A baleful smile upon their baffled guest.
Heard ye the din of battle bray,
   Lance to lance, and horse to horse?
   Long years of havoc urge their destined course,
And thro’ the kindred squadrons mow their way.
   Ye Towers of Julius, London’s lasting shame,
With many a foul and midnight murder fed,
   Revere his consort’s faith, his father’s fame,
And spare the meek usurper’s holy head.

Above, below, the rose of snow,
   Twined with her blushing foe, we spread:
The bristled boar in infant-gore
   Wallows beneath the thorny shade.
Now, brothers, bending o’er th’ accursàd loom
Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom.

   Edward, lo! to sudden Fate
(Weave we the woof. The thread is spun)
   Half of thy heart we consecrate.
(The web is wove. The work is done.)

467   The Progress of Poesy

A PINDARIC ODE

   AWAKE, Æolian lyre, awake,
And give to rapture all thy trembling strings.
From Helicon’s harmonious springs
   A thousand rills their mazy progress take:
The laughing flowers, that round them blow,
Drink like and fragrance as they flow.
Now the rich stream of music winds along
Deep, majestic, smooth and strong,
Thro’ verdant vales, and Ceres’ golden reign:
Now rolling down the steep amain,
Headlong, impetuous see it pour;
The rocks and nodding groves rebellow to the roar.

   O Sovereign of the willing soul,
Parent of sweet and solemn-breathing airs,
Enchanting shell! the sullen Cares
   And frantic Passions hear thy soft controul.
On Thracia’s hills the Lord of War
Has curb’d the fury of his car,
And dropp’d his thirsty lance at thy command.
Perching on the sceptred hand
Of Jove, thy magic lulls the feather’d king
With ruffled plumes and flagging wing:
Quench’d in dark clouds of slumber lie
The terror of his beak, and lightnings of his eye.

Thee the voice, the dance, obey,
Temper’d to thy warbled lay.
   O’er Idalia’s velvet-green
   The rosy-crownàd Loves are seen
On Cytherea’s day
   With antic Sports, and blue-eyed Pleasures,
   Frisking light in frolic measures;
Now pursuing, now retreating,
   Now in circling troops they meet:
To brisk notes in cadence beating,
   Glance their many-twinkling feet.
Slow melting strains their Queen’s approach declare:
   Where’er she turns the Graces homage pay.
With arms sublime, that float upon the air,
   In gliding state she wins her easy way:
O’er her warm cheek and rising bosom move
The bloom of young Desire and purple light of Love.

   Man’s feeble race what ills await,
Labour, and Penury, the racks of Pain,
Disease, and Sorrow’s weeping train,
   And Death, sad refuge from the storms of fate!
The fond complaint, my song, disprove,
And justify the laws of Jove.
Say, has he giv’n in vain the heav’nly Muse?
Night, and all her sickly dews,
Her spectres wan, and birds of boding cry,
He gives to range the dreary sky:
Till down the eastern cliffs afar
Hyperion’s march they spy, and glitt’ring shafts of war.

   In climes beyond the solar road,
Where shaggy forms o’er ice-built mountains roam,
The Muse has broke the twilight gloom
   To cheer the shiv’ring native’s dull abode.
And oft, beneath the od’rous shade
Of Chili’s boundless forests laid,
She deigns to hear the savage youth repeat
In loose numbers wildly sweet
Their