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
Rose 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.