Moral Pieces, in Prose and Verse/The Conflagration at Washington
THE CONFLAGRATION AT WASHINGTON.
WHAT sounds are these, that on the hollow blast
Of startled midnight reach the list'ning ear?
They seem like shouts of conquest, join'd with shrieks
Of mad despair, and the confusion wild
Of those that fear or fly. And see the flames
In spiry columns burst thro' wreaths of smoke
Redd'ning the brow of night. O scene of woe!
That pile superb, whose lofty dome arose
With pomp and pride, aspiring to the skies,
Whose spacious halls once shone, with all that art
Or wealth could give, to dazzle and adorn,
A blazing pyramid of fire is seen.
Now its last ray illumes the glowing heavens,
Darts, sickens, and expires. What ruthless hand
Could spread the flames of vengeance, thus to blast,
Destroy, and desolate. Embers conceal'd
Of hatred and disunion, cherish'd long
By treachery's secret breath, and madly fir'd
By the wild torch of rashness, sprung to life.
Eternal Justice saw, and was incens'd;
And suffer'd them to rage; and lo! the flame
Has caught our fairest domes; it burns—it spreads,
And who shall quench it? Or with pow'rless strain,
Or hand so weak as mine, shall dare to paint
The horrors of that scene? The costly pile
Sinking in sheets of fire, and clouds of smoke;
The haste of flight, the agony of fear;
Pale apprehension, shuddering regret,
And misery, and tears? Ah! who shall bear
These shameful tidings, to our distant foes,
Nor shrink with anguish at his Country's wound?
Who, to the nations of the earth, shall tell
Her infamy, who once with noble front
Rank'd high among them? Who of all her sons
Can bear to gaze upon her eye, and say,
"Thy beauty is destroy'd, thy strength is slain?"
And when in future days, with downcast eyes,
Around these blacken'd walls they lingering stray,
And trace the mouldering ruins, and exclaim,
With pausing wonder, "Tell us, why was this?"
The burning blush will dye the hearer's cheek,
Grief chain the tongue! Then let oblivion's veil
In deepest folds forever shroud the scene!
Snatch the recording pen, from him who seeks
To make memorial of his country's shame;
From her stain'd annals rend the page unblest;
Break off th' unfinished lay; bid memory sleep,
Or hide her tablet from a future age.
Yet Oh! my Country! Who can hide thy loss?
Forget thy wounds, or mitigate thy woe?
Around is darkness, and within is pain;
Then let us look above! There is a ray
That gleams from thence, an angel voice that cries,
"Lift up the eye of faith; there yet remains
"Hope for the righteous; for the weary, rest;
"For the oppressor, vengeance." Still there reigns
A Judge Supreme, whom nothing can elude.
And though his step is sometimes on the deeps,
Shrouded in darkness, all his ways are peace,
Are wisdom, truth, and mercy. Tho' his throne
Is canopied with clouds, yet the meek eye,
Now drown'd in tears, and dim with mists of time,
Shall see, at last, its base was ever fix'd
On righteousness, and everlasting love.