Page:Hemans Miscellaneous Poetry 2.pdf/12

 On the red fields they won; whose wild flowers wave Now in luxuriant beauty o'er their grave.

'Twas then the captives of Britannia's war Here for their lovely southern climes afar In bondage pined; the spell-deluded throng Dragg'd at ambition's chariot-wheels so long To die—because a despot could not clasp A sceptre fitted to his boundless grasp!

Yes! they whose march had rock'd the ancient thrones And temples of the world—the deepening tones Of whose advancing trumpet from repose Had startled nations, wakening to their woes— Were prisoners here. And there were some whose dreams Were of sweet homes, by chainless mountain-streams, And of the vine-clad hills, and many a strain And festal melody of Loire or Seine; And of those mothers who had watch'd and wept, When on the field the unshelter'd conscript slept, Bathed with the midnight dews. And some were there Of sterner spirits, harden'd by despair; Who, in their dark imaginings, again Fired the rich palace and the stately fane, Drank in their victim's shriek, as music's breath, And lived o'er scenes, the festivals of death!

And there was mirth, too!—strange and savage mirth, More fearful far than all the woes of earth! The laughter of cold hearts, and scoffs that spring From minds for which there is no sacred thing; And transient bursts of fierce, exulting glee— The lightning's flash upon its blasted tree!

But still, howe'er the soul's disguise were worn, If from wild revelry, or haughty scorn, Or buoyant hope, it won an outward show, Slight was the mask, and all beneath it—woe.

Yet, was this all! Amidst the dungeon-gloom, The void, the stillness of the captive's doom, Were there no deeper thoughts? And that dark power To whom guilt owes one late but dreadful hour, The mighty debt through years of crime delay'd, But, is the grave's, inevitably paid;