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O blind to honour, and to interest blind,
When thus in abject servitude resign'd
Thyself the while a miserable slave; Behold the flag of vengeance is unfurld! The dreadful armies of the North advance ; While England, Portugal, and Spain combined
Give their triumphant banners to the wind,
7. One man hath been for ten long wretched years The cause of all this blood and all these tears ;
One man in this most aweful point of time Draws on thy danger, as he caused thy crime.
Wait not too long the event,
The People and the Princes, with one mind,
One execrable head laid low,
Revenge thy sufferings and thy shame!
By the blood which on Domingo's shore
Hath clogg'd the carrion-birds with gore ;
Of frozen Muscovy;
By the bodies that lie all open to the sky,
By the widow's and the orphan's cry,
By the childless parent's misery,
By the ruin he hath spread,
Redeem, O France! thine ancient fame,
Revenge thy sufferings and thy shame;
Take vengeance for thyself, and for mankind !
By thy murder'd Pichegru's fame ;
By murder'd Hofer's martyrdom ;
The Villain's own peculiar private guilt,
Take vengeance for thyself and for mankind !
FUNERAL ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE
In its summer pride array'd,
Ye whose relics rest around,
Henry, thou of saintly worth,
Passive as that humble spirit,
On the day of Towton's field,
Thou, Elizabeth, art here; Thou to whom all griefs were known ; Who wert placed upon the bier In happier hour than on the throne. Fatal daughter, fatal mother, Raised to that ill-omen'd station, Father, uncle, sons, and brother, Mourn'd in blood her elevation ! Woodville, in the realms of bliss, To thine offspring thou may'st say, Early death is happiness; And favour'd in their lot are they Who are not left to learn below That length of life is length of woe. Lightly let this ground be prest; A broken heart is here at rest.
But thou, Seymour, with a greeting, Such as sisters use at meeting, Joy, and sympathy, and love, Wilt hail her in the seats above.
Like in loveliness were ye,
Henry, too, hath here his part; At the gentle Seymour's side, With his best beloved bride, Cold and quiet, here are laid The ashes of that fiery heart. Not with his tyrannic spirit Shall our Charlotte's soul inherit; No, by Fisher's hoary head, By More, the learned and the good, By Katharine's wrongs and Boleyn's blood, By the life so basely shed Of the pride of Norfolk's line, By the axe so often red, By the fire with martyrs fed, Hateful Henry, not with thee May her happy spirit be!
And here lies one whose tragic name A reverential thought may claim ; That murder'd Monarch, whom the grave, Revealing its long secret, gave Again to sight, that we might spy His comely face and waking eye! There, thrice fifty years, it lay, Exempt from natural decay, Unclosed and bright, as if to say, A plague, of bloodier, baser birth, Than that beneath whose rage he bled, Was loose upon our guilty earth ;Such aweful warning from the dead, Was given by that portentous eye; Then it closed eternally.