Page:Hemans in Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine 11 1822.pdf/4

 A savage grandeur; while the starry skies Rung with the peal of mystic harmonies, As the loud harp its deep-ton'd hymns sent forth To the storm-ruling Powers, the War-Gods of the North.



ages roll'd away; and England stood With her proud banner streaming o'er the flood, And with a lofty calmness in her eye, And regal in collected Majesty, To breast the storm of battle. Every breeze Bore sounds of triumph o'er her own blue seas: And other lands, redeem'd and joyous, drank The life-blood of her heroes, as they sank 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 pin'd: 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 th' unshelter'd conscript slept, Bath'd with the midnight dews. And some were there, Of sterner spirits, harden'd by despair, Who, in their dark imaginings, again Fir'd the rich palace and the stately fane, Drank in the victim's shriek as music's breath, And liv'd o'er scenes, the festivals of Death!