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MONODY.

SCENE, Corunna....TIME, Evening Twilight.

WHAT glitt'ring form sweeps hurried o'er the main,

And, hov'ring, ponders o'er yon dark champaign, Where bleak Corunna's bleeding waste extends, And war's red bolt from bursting clouds descends? I know Thee now, by thy majestick charms; Bright Island Goddess, Queen of arts and arms!

High on thy barque, alone, thou spurn'st the flood, Which deluged nations still o'erwhelms with blood. The foaming tempest, while it strikes thy shore, Exalts thy flag, and bids thy forests roar.

Calm on the surge, thy fixed, unaltering eye
Surveys the storm that breaks against the sky;
O'er mountain waves, along the whirlwind's race,
It dares the journey of the blast to trace.

But now, alas! thy robes imperial flow, In all the frantick negligence of woe;

With burning bosom, o'er the darkling wave,
Thou com'st to kneel beside thy Warriour's grave;
Where sacred sleeps, in village turf enshrined,

That gallant form, which breathed a nation's mind.
Fame o'er his recent sod no statue rears,

But Victory writes his epitaph in tears!

Let Triumph weep! In Freedom's generous van
To die for glory, is to die for man;

The bleeding Patriot, with a seraph's eye,

Sees through each wound a passage to the sky.

Lamented Moore! how loved, how graced, wert Thou! What air majestick dazzled on thy brow!

By genius raised, and by ambition fired,
To die distinguished, as to live admired;
In battle brilliant, as in council grave;
Stern to encounter, but humane to save;
Virtue and valour in thy bosom strove,

Which most should claim our homage or our love.

In thee they flowed without the pulse of art,
The throbbing life-blood of thy fervid heart;
While, warm from Nature, panting Honour drew

That vital instinct, Heaven imparts to few;

That pride of arms, which prompts the brave design,
That
grace of soul, which makes the brave divine!

His heart elate, with modest valour bold,
Beat with fond rage, to vie with chiefs of old.
Great by resolve, yet by example warmed,
Himself the model of his glory formed.
A glowing trait from every chief he caught;
He paused like Fabius, and like Cesar fought.

His ardent hope surveyed the heights of fame,
Deep on its rocks, to grave a soldier's name;
And o'er its cliffs to bid the banner wave,
A Briton fights, to conquer and to save.

On martial ground, the school of heroes' taught, He studied battles, where campaigns were fought. By science led, he traced each scene of fame, Where war had left no stone without a name. Hills, streams and plains bore one extended chart Of warriors' deeds, and showed of arms the art. The tactick canvass all its lore revealed,

To seize the moment, and dispose the field.
Here, still and desperate, near the midnight pass,
Couched ambush listened in the deep morass;
There, Skill, opposed by Fortune, shaped its way,
With prompt decision, and with firm array;
Here, paused the fight, and there the contest raved,
A squadron routed, or an empire saved!!

Inspired on fields, with trophied interest graced, He sighed for glory, where he mused from taste. For high emprize his dazzling helm was plumed, And all the polished patriot-hero bloomed. Armed as he strode, his glorying country saw, That fame was virtue, and ambition law; In him beheld, with fond delight, conspire Her Marlboro's fortune and her Sidney's fire. Like Calvi's rock, with clefts abrupt deformed, His path to fame toiled up the breach, he stormed; Till o'er the clouds the victor chief was seen,

Sublime in terrour, and in height serene.

His equal mind so well could triumph greet, He gave to conquest charms, that soothed defeat. The battle done, his brow, with thought o'ercast, Benign as mercy, smiled on perils past.

The death-choaked fosse, the battered wall, inspired
A sense, that sought him, from the field retired.
Suspiring pity touched that godlike heart,

To which no peril could dismay impart ;
And melting pearls in that stern eye could shine,
That lightened courage down the thundering line.
So mounts the sea-bird in the Boreal sky,
And sits where steeps in beetling ruin lie;
Though warring whirlwinds curl the Norway seas,
And the rocks tremble, and the torrents freeze;
Yet is the fleece, by Beauty's bosom prest,

The down, that warms the storm-beat Eyder's breast;
Mid floods of frost, where Winter smites the deep,
Are fledged the plumes, on which the Graces sleep,

In vain thy cliffs, Hispania, lift the sky,
Where Cesar's eagles never dared to fly !
To rude and sudden arms while Freedom springs,
Napoleon's legions mount on bolder wings.
In vain thy sons their steely nerves oppose,
Bare to the rage of tempests and of foes;

In vain, with naked breast, the storm defy

Of furious battle, and of piercing sky;

Five waning reigns had marked in long decay,

The gloomy glory of thy setting day ;'
While bigot power, with dark and dire disgrace,
Oppressed the valour of thy gallant race.