Nor mark ye yet, confirm’d by proof on proof,
    Bavaria’s perfidy,
    Who strikes in mockery, keeping death aloof? 
    (Shame, worse than aught of loss, in honour’s eye!)
    While ye, with honest rage, devoted pour
    Your inmost bosom’s gore!—­
    Yet give one hour to thought,
    And ye shall own, how little he can hold
    Another’s glory dear, who sets his own at nought
    O Latin blood of old! 
    Arise, and wrest from obloquy thy fame,
    Nor bow before a name
    Of hollow sound, whose power no laws enforce! 
    For if barbarians rude
    Have higher minds subdued,
    Ours! ours the crime!—­not such wise Nature’s course.

    Ah! is not this the soil my foot first press’d? 
    And here, in cradled rest,
    Was I not softly hush’d?—­here fondly rear’d? 
    Ah! is not this my country?—­so endear’d
    By every filial tie! 
    In whose lap shrouded both my parents lie! 
    Oh! by this tender thought,
    Your torpid bosoms to compassion wrought,
    Look on the people’s grief! 
    Who, after God, of you expect relief;
    And if ye but relent,
    Virtue shall rouse her in embattled might,
    Against blind fury bent,
    Nor long shall doubtful hang the unequal fight;
    For no,—­the ancient flame
    Is not extinguish’d yet, that raised the Italian name!

    Mark, sovereign Lords! how Time, with pinion strong,
    Swift hurries life along! 
    E’en now, behold!  Death presses on the rear. 
    We sojourn here a day—­the next, are gone! 
    The soul disrobed—­alone,
    Must shuddering seek the doubtful pass we fear. 
    Oh! at the dreaded bourne,
    Abase the lofty brow of wrath and scorn,
    (Storms adverse to the eternal calm on high!)
    And ye, whose cruelty
    Has sought another’s harm, by fairer deed
    Of heart, or hand, or intellect, aspire
    To win the honest meed
    Of just renown—­the noble mind’s desire! 
    Thus sweet on earth the stay! 
    Thus to the spirit pure, unbarr’d is Heaven’s way!

    My song! with courtesy, and numbers sooth,
    Thy daring reasons grace,
    For thou the mighty, in their pride of place,
    Must woo to gentle ruth,
    Whose haughty will long evil customs nurse,
    Ever to truth averse! 
    Thee better fortunes wait,
    Among the virtuous few—­the truly great! 
    Tell them—­but who shall bid my terrors cease? 
    Peace!  Peace! on thee I call! return, O heaven-born Peace!

    DACRE.

* * * * *

      See Time, that flies, and spreads his hasty wing! 
    See Life, how swift it runs the race of years,
    And on its weary shoulders death appears! 
    Now all is life and all is spring: 
    Think on the winter and the darker day
    When the soul, naked and alone,