Ode

SUNG AT THE DINNER GIVEN BY THE GENTLEMEN FROM INDIA TO FIELD-MARSHAL THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON, K.G. MONDAY, JULY 11, 1814.

I.

Victor of Assaye’s orient plain;-- Victor of all the fields of Spain;-- Victor of France’s despot reign;-- Thy task of glory done! Welcome!--from dangers greatly dared; From triumphs, with the vanquish’d shared; From nations saved, and nations spared; Unconquer’d Wellington!--

II.

Unconquer’d! yet thy honours claim A nobler, than a Conqueror’s, name;-- At the red wreaths of guilty fame Thy generous soul had blush’d: The blood--the tears the world has shed-- The throngs of mourners--piles of dead-- The grief--the guilt--are on his head, The Tyrant thou hast crush’d.

III.

Thine was the sword which Justice draws; Thine was the pure and generous cause, Of holy rites and human laws The impious thrall to burst; And thou wast destin’d for thy part! The noblest mind, the firmest heart, Artless--but in the warrior’s art-- And in that art, the first.

IV.

And WE, who in the eastern skies Beheld thy Sun of glory rise, Still follow, with exulting eyes, His proud Meridian height. Late,--on thy grateful country’s breast, Late, may that Sun descend to rest, Beaming through all the glowing West The memory of his light.

WAR SONG.

1803.

Wave, wave, the banners of the fight; Be every breast in armour dight, And every soul on fire! To trembling Europe’s frighted eyes, Red let the sun of battle rise; And bloody be the morning skies That bring the day of ire!

Whose impious voice, from his dark cave Wakes the destroyer of the brave? What hand prepares their tomb? ’Tis He, Ambition’s perjured sprite, ’Tis He, that waves the flags of fight, ’Tis He, in clouds of deadliest night, Who weaves the warrior’s doom.

Weep, weep, ye gentle dames of France, Ye, whose devoted sons advance To Britain’s fatal shore: O! kiss their lips before ye part, O! press them to your bursting heart-- Save in a dream’s convulsive start-- Ye ne’er shall clasp them more.

Arouse, arouse, ye British dames, With words of fire, the patriot flames That burn for glorious deed. For him that lives, the raptur’d eye Of love shall dance! for those who die, Their ladies’ tears, their country’s sigh, Shall be the sacred meed!