76
PRIZE POEMS.
The tide has turned: the roar is dying fast:
Each lessening wave breaks shorter than the last;
And France, the life-blood ebbing from her veins,
Feebly, yet furious still, for victory strains.
One effort more! a mighty one! She came,
Nerved by despair, and goaded on by shame.
But Britain marked her fainting rival's plight,
And gave her vengeance way; and from her height
Plunged, like the lava cataract, whose roar
Shakes frozen Hecla's precipices hoar.
The bright blue gems of Arctic ice that crowned
Her lofty head, are melting all around;
A thousand winters' hardened depth of snow
Is vanishing before that torrent's glow;
Mighty the rocks that, frowning, bar its path:
Rending, uprooting, scattering them in wrath;
The flaming deluge, with resistless sway,
Holds on its widely desolating way.
France! thou art fallen! and he, so oft the boast,
The idol, of thine oft deserted host,
Leaves it once more—to curse his name and die.
But as he turned, what phantoms met his eye?
Rising like those wild shapes that from the dead
Return to haunt the tortured murderer's bed.
No, mighty murderer! 'tis not a dream!
'Tis Prussia's self! her own exulting scream!
Fliest thou? she comes, with lavish hands to pay
The debt that swelled thro' many a bitter day.
There's rust upon her steel. Aye! there was shed
The deadliest venom hatred ever bred.
And she shall wash that deeply cankering stain,
France, in thy blood and tears: but wash in vain.
Not all the flames she kindles in thy land
Shall ever brighten that polluted brand.
'Tis retribution, bloody as thy deeds:
But who shall pity when a tiger bleeds?
Each lessening wave breaks shorter than the last;
And France, the life-blood ebbing from her veins,
Feebly, yet furious still, for victory strains.
One effort more! a mighty one! She came,
Nerved by despair, and goaded on by shame.
But Britain marked her fainting rival's plight,
And gave her vengeance way; and from her height
Plunged, like the lava cataract, whose roar
Shakes frozen Hecla's precipices hoar.
The bright blue gems of Arctic ice that crowned
Her lofty head, are melting all around;
A thousand winters' hardened depth of snow
Is vanishing before that torrent's glow;
Mighty the rocks that, frowning, bar its path:
Rending, uprooting, scattering them in wrath;
The flaming deluge, with resistless sway,
Holds on its widely desolating way.
France! thou art fallen! and he, so oft the boast,
The idol, of thine oft deserted host,
Leaves it once more—to curse his name and die.
But as he turned, what phantoms met his eye?
Rising like those wild shapes that from the dead
Return to haunt the tortured murderer's bed.
No, mighty murderer! 'tis not a dream!
'Tis Prussia's self! her own exulting scream!
Fliest thou? she comes, with lavish hands to pay
The debt that swelled thro' many a bitter day.
There's rust upon her steel. Aye! there was shed
The deadliest venom hatred ever bred.
And she shall wash that deeply cankering stain,
France, in thy blood and tears: but wash in vain.
Not all the flames she kindles in thy land
Shall ever brighten that polluted brand.
'Tis retribution, bloody as thy deeds:
But who shall pity when a tiger bleeds?
