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E U E 0 P E:

LINES ON THE PRESENT WAR.

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ID. QVANDO. ACCIDERIT. NON. SATIS. AVDEO
EFFARI. SIQVIDEM. NON. CLARIYS. MIHI
PER. SACROS. TRIPODES. CERTA. REFERT. DEVS
NEC. SERVAT. PENITVS. FIDEM

aVOD. SI. QVID. LICEAT. CREDERE. ADHVC. TAMEN
NAM. LAEWM. TONVIT. NON. FVERIT. PROCVL
QVAERENDVS. CELERI. QVI. PROPKRET. GRADV
ET. GALLVM. REPRIMAT. FEROX

PETRVS. CRINITVS IN CARMINE
AD. BER. CARAPHAM.

EUROPE.

At that dread season when th' indignant North

Pour'd to vain wars her tardy numbers forth,

When Frederic bent his ear to Europe's cry,

And fann'd too late the flame of liberty;

By feverish hope oppress'd, and anxious thought,

In Dresden's grove the dewy cool I sought.

Through tangled boughs the broken moonshine piay'd,

And Elbe slept soft beneath his linden shade;—

Yet slept not all;—I h^ard the ceaseless jar,

The rattling waggons, and the wheels of war;

The sounding lash, the march's mingled hum,

And, lost and heard by fits, the languid drum;

O'er the near bridge the thundering hoofs that trode,

And the far-distant fife that thrill'd along the road.

Yes, sweet it seems across some watery dell

To catch the music of the pealing bell;

And sweet to list, as on the beach we stray,

The ship-bey's carol in the wealthy bay:—

But sweet no less, when justice points the spear,

Of martial wrath the glorious din to hear,

To catch the war-note on the quivering gale,

And bid the blood-red paths of conquest hail.

Oh! song of hope, too long delusive strain!
And hear we now thy flattering voice again?
But late, alas! I left thee cold and still,
Stunn'd by the wrath of Heaven, on Pratzen's hill.
Oh! on that hill may no kind month renew
The fertile rain, the sparkling summer dew!
Accursed of God, may those bleak summits tell
The field of anger where the mighty fell.
There youthful faith and high-born courage rest,
And, red with slaughter, freedom's humbled crest,
There Europe, soil'd with blood her tresses grey,
And ancient honour's shield,—all vilely thrown away.

Thus mused my soul, as in succession drear
Eose each grim shape of wrath and doubt and fear;
Defeat and shame in grisly vision past,
And vengeance, bought with blood, and glorious death the last
Then as my gaze their waving eagles met,
And through the night each sparkling bayonet,
Still memory told how Austria's evil hour
Had felt on Praga's field a Frederic's power,
And Gallia's vaunting train, and Moscow's horde,
Had flesh'd the maiden steel of Brunswick's sword.
Oh! yet I deem'd that fate, by justice led,
Might wreathe once more the veteran's silver head
That Europe's ancient pride would yet disdain
The cumbrous sceptre of a single reign;
That conscious right would tenfold strength afford,
And Heaven assist the patriot's holy sword,
And look in mercy through th' auspicious sky,
To bless the saviour host of Germany.

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