Page:Poets of John Company.djvu/67

Rh

Yes! he who struck a matchless lyre
 * O'er Flodden's field and Katrine's wave,

With trembling hand now leads the choir
 * That mourns his Leyden's early grave.

As Britannia, elate was triumphantly viewing
 * The deeds of her sons in the bright page of Fame,

And Memory's magic each joy was renewing,
 * As she paus'd on the glories of Wellington's name;

To far distant scenes her proud fancy had stray'd.
 * Where her hero so often victorious had been.

When sudden a Maid, in splendour array'd.
 * Like a vision of rapture illumined the scene:

'Twas the Genius of Asia, fair land of the Sun—
 * "To me," She exclaim'd, "you your Wellington owe:

"'Neath my fostering clime his proud race he begun,
 * "And matur'd was his fame by its cherishing glow:

"In the morn of his life all resplendent he rose,
 * "Like the sun which illumines my region's clear sky:

"Dispers'd are his foes, and victory throws
 * "Unperishing rays o'er the field of Assaye.

"But think not, Britannia! thy children alone
 * "Have my kingdoms subdued, and my subjects laid low;

"By my own turban'd sons the proud deed has been done,
 * "I myself," said the Maid, "have inflicted the blow.

"To anarchy's horrors my realms were a prey,
 * "When first on my shores thou thy banners unfurl'd;

"I welcom'd thy sway—'twas the morn of a day
 * "Bringing freedom, and knowledge, to light a dark world.