by Leigh Hunt
The Deed of blood is o’er!
And, hark, the Trumpet’s mournful breath
Low murmurs round it a Note of Death –
The Mighty are no more!
How solemn slow that distant groan!-
O, could ambition, wild with fear,
The deep prophetic warning hear,
And, looking, listening vain around
For one soul-soothing, softer sound,
While near, unseen, the Fiends of Hell
Toll round the wretch his fancied knell,
Rave all alone!
But, hark, soft plaints arise! –
Friendship, adieu; farewel, soft love!
I go to smiling Peace above: –
The Friend, the Lover dies!
Yet, happy Soul to Freedom giv’n,
Go where no proud tyrannic Lord
Drives man upon his brother’s sword;
Where angels from thine arms shall tear
The chains ambition bade thee wear;
Where, on the once pale cheek of woe,
In smiles immortal, Roses blow –
The bloom of Heav’n!