FRANCE. AN ODE. I. YE Clouds! that far above me float and pause, Whose pathless march no mortal may controul! Ye Ocean-Waves! that, wheresoe'er ye roll, Yield homage only to eternal laws! Ye Woods! that listen to the night-birds' singing, My moonlight way o'er flowering weeds I wound, By each rude shape and wild unconquerable sound! ye loud Waves! and O ye Forests high! And O ye Clouds that far above me soared! Yea, every thing that is and will be free! II. When France in wrath her giant-limbs upreared, And with that oath, which smote air, earth and sea, And when to whelm the disenchanted nation, And flung a magic light o'er all her hills and groves; To all that braved the tyrant-quelling lance, And shame too long delayed and vain retreat! For ne'er, O Liberty! with partial aim I dimmed thy light or damped thy holy flame; "And what," I said, scream III. though Blasphemy's loud "With that sweet music of deliverance strove! Though all the fierce and drunken passions wove "A dance more wild than e'er was maniac's dream! "Ye storms, that round the dawning east assem bled, "The Sun was rising, though ye hid his light!" And when, to sooth my soul, that hoped and trembled, Her arm made mockery of the warrior's tramp; 1 Domestic treason, crushed beneath her fatal stamp, Writhed like a wounded dragon in his gore; Then I reproached my fears that would not flee; "And soon," I said, "shall Wisdom teach her lore "In the low huts of them that toil and groan! "And, conquering by her happiness alone, "Shall France compel the nations to be free, Till Love and Joy look round, and call the Earth their own." IV. Forgive me, Freedom! O forgive those dreams! Of all that made their stormy wilds so dear; To taint the bloodless freedom of the mountaineer- Are these thy boasts, Champion of human kind; From freemen torn; to tempt and to betray? V. The Sensual and the Dark rebel in vain, Slaves by their own compulsion! In mad game They burst their manacles and wear the name Of Freedom, graven on a heavier chain! O Liberty! with profitless endeavour Have I pursued thee, many a weary hour; But thou nor swell'st the victor's strain, nor ever Didst breathe thy soul in forms of human power. Alike from all, howe'er they praise thee, (Not prayer, nor boastful name delays thee) The guide of homeless winds, and playmate of the waves ! And there I felt thee!-on that sea-cliff's verge, Whose pines, scarce travelled by the breeze above, Had made one murmur with the distant surge! Yes, while I stood and gazed, my temples bare, And shot my being through earth, sea and air, Possessing all things with intensest love, O Liberty! my spirit felt thee there, February, 1797. |