CLASSICAL MODERN POETRY. 159 



He falls, and Earth again is free. 

 Hark ! at the call of Liberty, 



All Nature lifts the choral song. 

 The fir-trees on the mountain's head, 

 Rejoice through all their pomp of shade ; 

 The lordly cedars nod on sacred Lebanon : 



Tyrant ! they cry, since thy fell force is broke, 

 Our proud heads pierce the skies, nor fear the woodman's 

 stroke. 



Hell, from her gulf profound, 

 Rouses at thine approach ; and all around, 

 Her dreadful notes of preparation sound. 

 See, at the awful call, 

 Her shadowy heroes all, 

 E'en mighty kings, the heirs of empire wide, 

 Rising, N\ith solemn state, and slow, 

 From their sable thrones below, 

 Meet, and insult thy pride : 

 What, dost thou join our ghostly train, 

 A flitting shadow, light and vain : 

 Where is thy pomp, thy festive throng, 

 Thy revel dance, and wanton song 

 Proud King ! Corruption fastens on thy breast, 

 And calls her crawling brood, andbids them share the feast. 

 O Lucifer ! thou radiant star ; 

 Son of the Morn, whose rosy car 



Flamed foremost in the van of day ; 

 How art thou falTn, thou King of Light ! 

 How fall'n from thy meridian height ! 

 Who said'st the distant poles shall hear me, and obey. 

 High, o'er the stars, my sapphire throne shall glow, 

 And, as Jehovah's self, my voice the heavens shall bow. 



He spake, he died. Distain'd with gore, 

 Beside yon yawning cavern, hoar, 



See, where his livid corse is laid. 

 The aged Pilgrim, passing by, 

 Surveys him long with dubious eye, 

 And muses on his fate, and shakes his reverend head. 



Just heavens ! is thus thy pride imperial gone ? 

 Is this poor heap of dust the King of Babyloix ? 



