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38
Then Exultation wak'd the patriot fire
And swept with wilder hand th' Alcœan lyre:
Red from the Tyrants' wound I shook the lance,
And strode in joy the reeking plains of France!
In ghastly horror lie th' Oppressors low,
And my heart akes, tho' Mercy struck the blow.
With wearied thought once more I seek the shade,
Where peaceful Virtue weaves the Myrtle braid.
And ô! if Eyes, whose holy glances roll,
The eloquent messengers of the pure soul;
If smiles more winning, and a gentler Mien,
Than the love-wilder'd Maniac's brain hath seen
Shaping celestial forms in vacant air;
If these demand th' empassion'd Poet's care—
If Mirth, and soften'd Sense, and Wit refin'd,
The blameless features of a lovely mind;
