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Where are the mighty thunder-bolts of war?
The Roman Caesars, and the Greecian Chiefs,
The boaſt of ſtory? ——Where the hot-brain'd youth,
Who the Tiara at his pleaſure tore
From Kings of all the then diſcover'd globe;
And cry'd, forſooth, because his arm was hamper'd,
And had not room enough to do its work?
Alas! how ſlim, dishonourably ſlim.
And cram'd into a space we bluſh to name!
Proud Royalty, how alter'd in thy looks!
How blank thy features, and how wan thy hue!
Son of the morning! whither art thou gone?
Where haſt thou bid thy many-ſpangled head,
And the majestic menace of thine eyes
Felt from afar? ——Plaint and powerlſss now,
Like new-born infant wound up in his ſwathes,
Or victim tumbled flat upon its back,
That throbs beneath the ſacrificer's knife.
Mute truſt thou bear the ſtrife of little tongues,
And coward insults of the base-born croud;
That grudge a privilege, thou never hadſt,
But only hop'd for in the peaceful Grave,
Of being unmoleſted and alone.
Arabia's guns and odoriferous drugs,
And honours by the heralds duly paid
In mode and form, ev'n to a very ſcruple:
Oh cruel Irony! theſe come too late,
And only mock, when they were meant to honour.
Surely there's not a dungeon ſlave, that's bury'd
In the high-way, unſhrouded and uncoffin'd,
But lies as ſoft, and ſleeps as ſound as be.
Sorry pre-eminence of high deſcent
Above the vulgar-born, to rot in ſtate!
But ſee! the well-plumb'd Herſe comes nodding on
Stately and ſlow, and properly attended
By the whole ſable tribe, that painful watch
The ſick man's door, and live upon the dead,
