Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 1.djvu/355

Rh Without the glory such a strain can give,

As even in ruin bids the language live.

Not so with us, though minor Bards, content,

On one great work a life of labour spent:

With eagle pinion soaring to the skies,

Behold the Ballad-monger rise!

To him let, , yield,

Whose annual strains, like armies, take the field.

First in the ranks see Joan of Arc advance,

The scourge of England and the boast of France!

Though burnt by wicked for a witch,

Behold her statue placed in Glory's niche;

Her fetters burst, and just released from prison,

A virgin Phœnix from her ashes risen.

Next see tremendous Thalaba come on,

Arabia's monstrous, wild, and wond'rous son;

Domdaniel's dread destroyer, who o'erthrew

More mad magicians than the world e'er knew.

Immortal Hero! all thy foes o'ercome,

For ever reign—the rival of Tom Thumb!