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HENRY MEREDITH PARKER.


Ha! one plumed warrior plunges in the stream,
His horse paws up a cloud of glittering spray,
His broad short sword is flashing like a beam
Of sunshine on a cataract—the array
Wheel round him in a blazing curve—'tis he!
Olympia's son—the Lord of Victory!

Glory and gore—a dazzling ghastly mist
Forming the fiery halo round his name.
His banners never but by triumph kissed,
The empires, that were counters in his game.
Make the bright bloody jumble which we ponder
In musing o'er the life of Alexander.

Yes, there he stands, who to his golden car
Chained fortune,—scanning with his eagle glances
The iron files of Macedonia's war,
Veterans as tough and fearless as their lances.
And ready right or wrong to have a fling
At good King Porus, here called Bulwunt Sing,

Doubtless, oh Adjutant! thou sawest this,
And also Genghiz Khan and Timoor Beg,
And the stern Lord of Ghuzni; he whose bliss
Was breaking Shiva's head, or Indra's leg;
But turn to greater heroes—chief of which is
A paunchy looking man with crimson breeches;

As Zoffany has painted—by his side
Stands Jaffier Ally Cawn; to whom you know
The British warrior, with a modest pride.
Is lending half a sovereignty or so.
Jaffier looks blandly, with a smile paternal.
But nathless wishes Satan had the Colonel.

The Colonel!—a Napoleon in his sphere,
Grasping as brave, unscrupulous as wise;
A kind of legal, regal buccaneer.
Who treated empires like a Spanish prize;
Took, spoiled, broke into fragments; but alive
Or dead, few mate with that same Colonel Clive.