Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, ODE ON THE DELIVERANCE OF EUROPE, 1814, by JOHN HERMAN MERIVALE


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ODE ON THE DELIVERANCE OF EUROPE, 1814, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: The hour of blood is past
Last Line: The hope-abandon'd chief of elba's lonely isle.
Subject(s): Napoleon I (1769-1821)


THE hour of blood is past;
Blown the last trumpet's blast;
Peal'd the last thunders of the embattled line:
From hostile shore to shore
The bale-fires blaze no more;
But friendly beacons o'er the billows shine,
To light, as to their common home,
The barks of every port that cut the salt sea foana.

"Peace to the nations!" -- Peace!
Oh sound of glad release
To millions in forgotten bondage lying;
In joyless exile thrown
On shores remote, unknown,
Where hope herself, if just sustain'd from dying,
Yet sheds so dim and pale a light,
As makes creation pall upon the sickening sight.

"Peace! Peace the world around!"
Oh strange, yet welcome sound
To myriads more that ne'er beheld her face;
And, if a doubtful fame
Yet handed down her name
In faded memory of an elder race,
It seem'd some visionary form,
Some Ariel, fancy-bred, to soothe the mimic storm.

Now the time-honour'd few,
Her earlier reign that knew,
May turn their eyes back o'er that dreamy flood,
And think again they stand
On the remember'd land,
Ere yet the sun had risen in clouds of blood,
Ere launch'd the chance-directed bark
On that vast world of ocean, measureless and dark.

And is it all a dream?
And did these things but seem --
The vain delusions of a troubled sight?
Or, if indeed they were,
For what did natur bear
The long dark horrors of that fearful night?
Only to breathe and be once more
Even as she was and breathed upon that former shore?

O'er this wild waste of time,
This sea of blood and crime,
Doth godlike virtue rear her awful form,
Only to cheat the sight
With wandering, barren light --
The meteor, not the watch-fire, of the storm?
The warrior's deed, the poet's strain,
The statesman's anxious toil, the patriot's sufferings, vain?

For this did Louis lay,
In Gallia's sinful day,
On the red altar his anointed head?
For this did Nelson pour,
In Britain's glorious hour,
More precious blood than Britain e'er had shed?
And did their winged thoughts aspire,
Even in the parting soul's prophetic trance, no higher?

Ye tenants of the grave,
Whom unseen wisdom gave
To watch the shapeless mist o'er earth extending,
Yet will'd to snatch away
Before the appointed day
Of light renew'd, and clouds and darkness ending,
Oh might ye now permitted rise,
Cast o'er this wondrous scene your unobstructed eyes;

And say, O thou, whose might,
Bulwark of England's right,
Stood forth, the might of Chatham's lordly son;
Thou "on whose burning tongue
Truth, peace, and freedom hung,"
When freedom's ebbing sand almost had run,
To the deliver'd world declare,
That each hath seen fulfill'd his latest, earliest prayer.

Rejoice, kings of the earth!
But with a temperate mirth;
The trophies ye have won, the wreaths ye wear --
Power with his red right hand,
And empire's despot brand,
Had ne'er achieved these proud rewards ye bear;
But, in one general cause combined,
The people's vigorous arm, the monarch's constant mind.

Yet that untired by toil,
Unsway'd by lust of spoil,
Unmoved by fear, or soft desire of rest,
Ye kept your onward course
With unremitted force,
And to the distant goal united press'd;
The soldier's bed, the soldier's fare,
His dangers, wants, and toils, alike resolved to share.

And more -- that when, at length,
Exulting in your strength,
In tyranny o'erthrown, and victory won,
Before you lowly laid,
Your dancing eyes survey'd
The prostrate form of humbled Babylon,
Ye cried, "Enough!" -- and at the word
Vengeance put out her torch, and slaughter sheath'd his sword --

Princes, be this your praise!
And ne'er in after days
Let faction rude that spotless praise profane,
Or dare with license bold
The impious falsehood hold,
That Europe's genuine kings have ceased to reign,
And that a weak adulterate race,
Degenerate from their sires, pollutes high honour's place.
Breathe, breathe again, ye free,
The air of liberty,
The native air of wisdom, virtue, joy!
And, might ye know to keep
The golden wealth ye reap,
Not thrice ten years of terror and annoy,
Of mad destructive anarchy,
And pitiless oppression, were a price too high.

Vaulting ambition!
Thy bloody laurels torn,
And ravish'd from thy grasp the sin-bought prize;
Or, if thy meteor fame
Still win the world's acclaim,
Let it behold thee now with alter'd eyes,
And pass, but with a pitying smile,
The hope-abandon'd chief of Elba's lonely isle.





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