The Warrior Poem by Charlotte Dacre

AH! shall th' enamour'd muse recite
Thy vent'rous glories gain'd in fight?
When following fierce the din of war,
Lur'd by Bellona's trump from far,
Thy men victorious onward led
O'er many a smoking field,
And chang'd to heroes!--freely bled
Near thee, asham'd to yield.

Or drooping low her soaring wing,
Falt'ring touch a sadder string,
Weeping, shall she not relate
The harsh decrees of stubborn fate?
Sinking from embattl'd story,
How, with many a wound aggriev'd,
Weep that form which speaks thy glory,
Scars alone should have atchiev'd!

Yet viewing thee with grief inspir'd,
Again she feels her fancy fir'd;
Again with rapture loves to trace
Th' immortal glories of thy race:
She sees the hero of her lay,
While mem'ry points to fame,
All lesser regrets fade away,
For Triumph marks his name!

When erst a youth, thy dawning years
Fill'd all around with hopes and fears;
Courage and Virtue were combin'd,
But Vanity still intertwin'd:
From Passion all thine errors sprung,
Luxuriant nature's child!
For Passion o'er thy reason flung
Her chain of flow'rets wild.

Vainly to stop thy wild career,
Had Prudence caution'd thee to fear,
Like some bright comet darting by
The lesser spangles of the sky,
Thy course no more might be detain'd,
Tho' boding evil near,
But onward still would be maintain'd,
Destruction in the rear.

Thy fame victorious early swell'd,
America thy feats beheld;
To raise the youthful warrior's pride,
Fortune her various honours tried!
Homage in all thy footsteps trod,
In ev'ry clime and state,
In crouds to look and move the god--
Ah! 'twas a test too great!

The hero fell;--ah! muse forbear,
Forbear to shed th' ignoble tear:
Phaeton, who sought to rule the world,
For vanity was downward hurl'd.
A mortal is a mortal still,
Whate'er the prize he gain;
He hath not pow'r , but only will ,
Perfection to attain.

Then weep not, Muse, thy fav'rite's fall,
Misfortune is the lot of all;
And Merit, struggling with its foes,
But prouder from oppression grows;
Then baleful Envy hovers round,
To blast the soldier's wreath,
To rob the brows with honour crown'd,
Nor leave him fame in death!

True, hate unkind and slander foul
Combine to crush the soaring soul,
But, like a bright and vig'rous flame,
It still shall rise to gild thy name,
Confuse, expose the ranc'rous band,
And shine in triumphs new,
Their lowliest rev'rence yet command
The friendship of a few.

Then hasten, youth! from British clime,
Let blushing honours croud thy time!
Haste! and shortly be repaid
Those glories thou did'st rashly fade;
Retire awhile, let Malice spend
Its idle rage and hate,
And providence shall be thy friend,
And mindful of thy fate.

Shadows in youth we all pursue,
Covet the false, disdain the true;
Passion in her trappings vain,
Lures the hero to his bane;
But pale Experience, sternly keen,
Points out youthful folly,
Then, amaz'd, we quit the scene,
To mourn in melancholy.

It cannot be, a day so bright
Should sink in endless gloomy night;
It cannot be, so bright a morn
Of all its glories should be shorn!
It must not be, a noon so glorious
Clouds eternal should o'ercast,
Nor thy laurel-wreath victorious
Perish in the envious blast!

Then let, oh! Muse, thy tears be dry,
While Hope forbids the rising sigh--
I tell thee, tho' a cruel blow
Threw thy comely hero low;
His eve in glitt'ring vest shall smile,
Dispers'd the transient gloom,
And gaily to his native isle
Bright beams his path illume!