Ode, To The Duke Of Wellington

    This, this is inspiration's hour!
    Poetic Genius, rushing on my soul,
    Rouses her every sense, her every power,
    And with a force too mighty to controul
    Inspires the warm, enthusiastic song:
    Now will I sing, O Wellington! of thee;
    To thee my plausive strains, of right, belong;
For thee my lyre shall pour its choicest harmony.
    Long have I fondly mused the theme sublime;
    And from my grateful heart of patriot flame
    In secret, offer'd incense to thy name;
    But dared not with unhallow'd rhyme
        Profane the British Hero's fame.
        Thrice welcome this propitious time!
Now, joining with my Country's minstrel-band,
Thy deeds, O Wellington! will I rehearse
        In lofty never-dying verse,
To which Britannia's self shall deign
        To lend a listening ear,
While in thy military, swift career
Triumphantly she leads thee by the hand,
And proudly thrones thee high in glory's fane.


        In yonder eastern climes afar
What dawning light attracts the Muse's eye?
She feels the influence of her ruling star,
And with an eagle's gaze, an eagle's wings,
As to Apollo's self, transported, springs
'Tis Wellington in Victory's brilliant car,
Who his triumphal progress has begun;
        Around him honour's sun
        Shoots forth its orient ray:
        In wondering India's sky
        He rises like the God of day.
Greet him, O England! greet thy conquering Son!
        O! could'st thou but foresee
        The events of dark futurity,
How would'st thou, then, adore the name of Wellington!
        Know! he shall soon thy thunders wield
        In many a European field,
Confound thy haughty foes with dread amaze,
And fill the dazzled world with his meridian blaze.

        To Europe's frighten'd eyes
        What scenes of horror rise!
See, from the darkness of the infernal world,
Where with the rebel demons he was hurl'd,
See, Revolution rears his hydra-head!
Ill-fated Gallia is his destined prey.
Thither the Monster makes his furious way;
        And with a loud, ferocious yell,
        That strikes the earth with dread,
        And spreads delight through hell,
        He summons all his hideous train,
        To strengthen and support his reign.
        Broke are the bonds of social life,
        All kindred, all domestic ties;
Mid scenes of anarchy and civil strife,
Mid plots, cabals, and murderous rivalries,
Eager for prey, with licence unconfined
Range the fierce Passions of the human mind,
Ambition, Avarice, Anger, Vengeance, Hate:
With frantic men rejoicing devils howl,
And all hell's ravenous blood-hounds barking prowl.
O could oblivion veil that direst page of fate!
        The revolutionary storm subsides.
Lo! now, proud Gallia's Genius towers on high;
        O'er half Europa he already strides,
And glorying in his might threats earth and sky;
The neighbouring nations, vanquish'd to his sway,
Like abject slaves his tyrant power obey.
What conqueror leads the Gallic armies on?
Fortune's loved child, Ambition's darling son,
'Tis the French Emperor, great Napoleon:
And subject to his high imperial will,
His warlike marshals his commands fulfil.
What can resist their overwhelming force?
Has Liberty no succour? no resource?
She has! she has! O save her, Wellington!
Ere yet unhappy Spain be forced to yield,
Fly with Britannic forces to the field,
And pluck the noblest palm thou yet hast won.

The memory of Talavera's day
Still strikes our foes with wonder and dismay;
There did the Briton soldier boldly claim
The honour due to his illustrious name.

                        On Torres-Vedras' height,
Like Jove upon the Olympian steep,
When he defied the Giant-race to fight,
        Thy station calmly didst thou keep,
Despite the vengeful threats of boasting France.
How didst thou long to see her powers advance!
But no: the veteran Chief, Massena, fled.
Swiftly thy ardent troops his flight pursue;
His soldiers fall in crowds; Confusion, Fear,
And Slaughter dog them in the rear;
Famine and Desolation meet their van.
Spaniard with Portuguese in vengeance vies;
New toils they still encounter, dangers new,
Thus Fortune's Favourite, this unconquer'd man
        Accomplishes his haughty boast:
Home he returns with less than half his host;
His baggage, ordnance, thine, brave Wellington!
And all his wreaths in former warfare won.

So Albion, throned upon her rocky seat,
Sees the proud-swelling billows idly beat;
Resistance needs not their assaults to foil;
Shrinking into themselves, they straight recoil,
Leaving foam, dirt, and sea-weed at her feet.

                        On Douro's banks
Methinks I view the hostile, threatening ranks;
        The Lord of war to battle calls:
        Hark! through the affrighted sky
            Bursts the dread cannons' roar;
        While thousand slaughterous balls
            In vollies whizzing fly.
        See, see, the Gallic Captain falls!
        His bold achievements now are o'er.
The Britons shout, and rush into the field;
            The French dishearten'd yield:
            What heaps of wounded, slain,
            O'er all the encumber'd plain!
            They now resist no more.
                Hail Wellington!
                The battle's won!
The voices of Renown the tidings spread:
Exulting England echoes thy applause;
Ambitious Gallia hears thy name with dread;
While European Freedom lifts her head,
And hails the great Defender of her cause.
Hero of England, with admiring eyes
We trace in thee the noble qualities
            That constitute the Chief complete:
            In others, oft, they singly shine;
            In thee they all united meet,
And in one galaxy their rays combine.

Nature has given thee an intrepid heart,
That ever glows with patriotic flame,
And with the impassion'd love of martial fame.
        And gifted, too, thou art
        With a strong, hardy frame,
    Patient of toils and hardships. In thy mind
    Deep judgment with sagacity we find;
    Coolness and firmness in rare union join'd.
    In tactics versed, in all the rules of art,
By long experience taught, thou play'st the Chieftain's part.

        Lo, now! in vision rapt, I view
        The far-famed plains of Waterloo.
As slowly, dimly dawns the morning-light,
Around the battle-field I cast my sight;
Thrill'd with delight severe, with awe opprest,
My labouring heart throbs wildly in my breast.
Hail fellow-countrymen! I trust in you,
And in your great Commander too;
Hail valiant Britons! hail brave Wellington!
Full many a conquest have ye gain'd;
O! may another, now, be soon obtain'd!
But yonder see the great Napoleon!
Secure of victory he proudly stands,
Surrounded by his choicest veteran bands,
Who welcome with loud shouts their long-loved Chief,
From Elba's isle return'd, from exile brief;
They idolize him as the warrior-God,
And burn with zeal to obey his voice, his nod.
The opponent armies on each other gaze,
And look defiance though the view dismays.

Sudden the French artillery rends the skies;
And the Britannic instantly replies;
Hundreds of brazen throats shoot forth afar
Their iron globes, those thunderbolts of war;
Hundreds of soldiers fall upon the plain;
Some shot, expire; more, wounded, writhe in pain.
The cavalries to combat fiercely dash,
And like two comets 'gainst each other clash;
Horses and men roll mingled on the ground,
Confusion, slaughter, horror all around.
Regiments of infantry form quick the square,
And the fierce-charging horsemen firmly dare;
In vain to break them every means they try,
The troops well-disciplined, the attempts defy.
Long time in dread suspense the strife remains,
While heaps of dead and wounded load the plains.

Angel of Britain! guard our Hero's life!
On that, on that depends the upshot of the fight.
How does Napoleon's soul indignant burn!
Resolving, now, his last resource to try,
And urge his desperate way to victory,
He straight commands a vast, o'erpowering force
Of infantry, artillery, and horse,
The centre of his stubborn foe to turn.
Ah! now tremendous grows the strife,
On either side they war as Furies now;
What deluges of blood! what waste of life!
How will the mighty struggle finish? how?
Thank heaven! 'tis o'er, the French, driven back, retire;
Again I breathe more freely I respire.
Lo! Bulow with the Prussian force appears!
The British Chief with joy his cannon hears,
And, flush'd with confidence, exulting cries,
We'll conquer yet; advance, my friends, advance!
Shouting they spring upon their enemies;
See, Wellington! the great Napoleon flies!
Britannia, yet again, has triumph'd over France!