20
PRIZE POEMS.
Fling from their rapid wheels the crimson spray
As Death and Fate in vain might stop their way,
And like some meteor red that shoots afar,
Across the gloom of elemental war,
Deep purpled o'er from head to heel with blood
They dart and vanish in yon blacken'd wood.
Unheard thy seraph notes, O Pity, rise
Where War's stern clamour raves along the skies;
In vain would sex, would youth demand thy aid
To stay the Victor's slaughter-blunted blade.
With tiger port along the carnaged ground,
Glad triumph stalks, and rolls his eyes around;
And Freedom lingering ere she onward sweeps
To Caledonia's wilds and rugged steeps
Sheds o'er her sons and daughters there who fell
A mournful tear, and breathes a sad farewell.
But deep within that wood, where branches throw
A vaulted, monumental gloom below,
So still that all the battle's distant scream
The tumult of another world might seem,
Lo! where its leafless arms yon blasted tree
Waves o'er the form of fallen Majesty.
Grasp'd in her hand that empty chalice tells,
Why on her forehead death's damp chillness dwells,
Why at her feet her children pale are seen,
Lovely in death with marble looks serene.
It seems as on her brow the changeful strife
Would soon for ever close of Death and Life;
It seems as Life but linger'd there to cast
One mother's look before she look'd her last.
And near a Druid's sacred brow is rear'd,
White on his harp is toss'd his silver beard,
While sad and wild amid the waving trees
The death-song floats upon the sighing breeze,
And seems in tones of sadden'd praise to shed
A grateful influence round her dying head.
As Death and Fate in vain might stop their way,
And like some meteor red that shoots afar,
Across the gloom of elemental war,
Deep purpled o'er from head to heel with blood
They dart and vanish in yon blacken'd wood.
Unheard thy seraph notes, O Pity, rise
Where War's stern clamour raves along the skies;
In vain would sex, would youth demand thy aid
To stay the Victor's slaughter-blunted blade.
With tiger port along the carnaged ground,
Glad triumph stalks, and rolls his eyes around;
And Freedom lingering ere she onward sweeps
To Caledonia's wilds and rugged steeps
Sheds o'er her sons and daughters there who fell
A mournful tear, and breathes a sad farewell.
But deep within that wood, where branches throw
A vaulted, monumental gloom below,
So still that all the battle's distant scream
The tumult of another world might seem,
Lo! where its leafless arms yon blasted tree
Waves o'er the form of fallen Majesty.
Grasp'd in her hand that empty chalice tells,
Why on her forehead death's damp chillness dwells,
Why at her feet her children pale are seen,
Lovely in death with marble looks serene.
It seems as on her brow the changeful strife
Would soon for ever close of Death and Life;
It seems as Life but linger'd there to cast
One mother's look before she look'd her last.
And near a Druid's sacred brow is rear'd,
White on his harp is toss'd his silver beard,
While sad and wild amid the waving trees
The death-song floats upon the sighing breeze,
And seems in tones of sadden'd praise to shed
A grateful influence round her dying head.
