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XXII.

October, 1803.

When, looking on the present face of things,

I see one Man, of Men the meanest too!

Raised up to sway the World, to do, undo,

With mighty Nations for his Underlings,

The great events with which old story rings

Seem vain and hollow; I fiud nothing great;

Nothing is left which I can venerate;

So that almost a doubt within me springs

Of Providence, such emptiness at length

Seems at the heart of all things. But, great God

I measure back the steps which I have trod;

And tremble, seeing, as I do, the strength

Of such poor Instruments, with thoughts sublime

I tremble at the sorrow of the time.

XXIII,
TO THE MEN OF KENT.

October, 1803.

Vanguard of Liberty, ye Men of Kent,

Ye Children of a Soil that doth advance

Its haughty brow against the coast of France,

Now is the time to prove your hardiment!

To France be words of invitation sent!

They from their Fields can see the countenance

Of your fierce war, may ken the glittering lance,

And hear you shouting forth your brave intent.

Left single, in bold parley, Ye, of yore.

Did from the Norman win a gallant wreath;

Confirmed the charters that were yours before;—

No parleying now! In Britain is one breath;

We all are with you now from Shore to Shore:—

Ye Men of Kent, 'tis Victory or Death!

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Six thousand Veterans practised in War's game,
Tried Men, at Killicranky were array'd
Against an equal Host that wore the Plaid,
Shepherds and Herdsmen.—Like a whirlwind came
The Highlanders, the slaughter spread like flame;
And Garry, thundering down his mountain-road,
Was stopped, and could not breathe beneath the load
Of the dead bodies.—'Twas a day of shame
For them whom precept and the pedantry
Of cold mechanic battle do enslave.
Oh! for a single hour of that Dundee
Who on that day the word of onset gave!
Like conquest would the Men of England see;
And her Foes find a like inglorious Grave.

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Shout, for a mighty Victory is won!

On British ground the Invaders are laid low;

The breath of Heaven has drifted them like snow,

And left them lying in the silent sun,

Never to rise again!—the work is done.

Come forth, ye Old Men, now in peaceful show

And greet your Sons! drums beat, and trumpets blow!

Make merry, Wives! ye little Children stun

Your Grandame's ears with pleasure of your noise!

Clap, Infants, clap your hands! Divine must be

That triumph, when the very worst, the pain,

And even the prospect of our Brethren slain,

Hath something in it which the heart enjoys:—

In glory will they sleep and endless sanctity.

XXVI.

November, 1806.

Another year!—another deadly blow!
Another mighty Empire overthrown!
And we are left, or shall be left, alone;
The last that dares to struggle with the Foe.
'Tis well! from this day forward we shall know
That in ourselves our safety must be sought;
That by our own right hands it must be wrought,
That we must stand unpropp'd, or be laid low.
O Dastard whom such foretaste doth not cheer!
We shall exult, if They who rule the land
Be Men who hold its many blessings dear,
Wise, upright, valiant; not a venal Band,
Who are to judge of danger which they fear,
And honour which they do not understand.

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