ODE TO THE AUTOCRAT. 101 



Insatiate still of blood and sway, 

 Nor thinking of the distant day 

 When some nomadic waiiderer 

 Shall desecrate thy sepulchre? 



Death, Time, and Thought are waiting 



To do the work of Doom ; 

 The first all pride abating 



In the ashes of the tomb ; 

 While time hurls down the thrones of kings. 

 Yet beareth Thought upon his wings, 

 Fostering the infant to a strength, 

 That matches with his own at length. 



Sceptres and swords together 



Time buries in the dust ; 

 'Neath moss and mountain heather 



Pow'r's mingling emblems rust : 

 And where the greenest grass is found, 

 There warriors* corses fat the ground; 

 The whistling ploughboy drives a-field 

 Where clarions o'er the death-cry peal'd. 



What but endemic madness 



Prompts thousands at the call 

 Of one, to rush with ^^ladness 



To bloody carnival ? 

 Death's Angel from the ghastly sight 

 Weeping resumes his gloomy flight, 

 Nor History lingers long to tell 

 Where victors stood and heroes fell. 



Think not, fierce Calmuck ! think not 



We vie thee in arms, 

 Though from thy threats we shrink not, 



Nor pale at war's alarms : 

 In arms no more with thee we strive — 

 When nations war, then tyrants thrive ; 

 And but to guard their own loved land 

 May freemen wield the deadly brand. 



Yes — to repel the aggressor 



A holy war men wage. 

 When from the free the oppressor 



Would rob their heritage; ..} 



