Ode, Written On The Night Of The Illuminations For Lord Howe's Victory On 1St June, 1793

Whence the shouts of public joy,                 Whence the galaxies of light,                 That strike the deafen'd ear?                 That charm the dazzled sight?         While Night, arrested in her highest way,     Stands wondering at the scene, and doubtful of her sway?                 Hark! Fame exalts her voice:         'Britannia triumphs, let her sons rejoice!         The Gallic Foe, that dared her vengeance brave,         Lies whelm'd in death beneath the blood-stain'd wave;         Britannia thunder'd o'er the rebel main,     His distant billows heard, and own'd her awful reign.'         Be hush'd my soul! in still amazement mourn!                 O fly the giddy train!         From their inhuman transports turn                 With pity, with disdain!         Strip, strip, from Victory the fair disguise,         And let her own dire form appal thine eyes!         Ah, mark her triumphs in yon hideous scene!             Myriads of brother-men untimely slain;         Hear the deep groan, survey the dying mien,             Convulsed with agonies of pain;         And hark! what cries of wretchedness resound                 Throughout the troubled air!         Widows and Orphans doom'd a helpless prey                 To famine and despair!         And does ambition glory? Oh! the shame!         The direful outrage to the human name!     Nature herself is moved, the blushing stars retire,     And sudden storms denounce high heaven's awaken'd ire.             See the black firmament divide!         The almighty sword, with heavenly lustre bright,                 Flashes on the sight         Terrific glory, dazzling mortal pride;         The parted concave closes, while around                 Deep, rushing peals resound,         Scatter the clouds, in airy tempest hurl'd,         And shake the solid pillars of the world.                 As breathing from the tomb,                 A death-like stillness reigns,             Save that in Fancy's jealous ear             A sad, prophetic breeze complains                 Of some impending doom,     While every soul is lost in vacancy and fear.         Now while Ambition lies in sleep unblest,         Portentous visions haunt his guilty breast:         Borne on a trophied car, sublime he goes                 Amid the gazing crowd,                 Who shout his triumphs loud;         With haughty bliss his flatter'd spirit glows:                 Sudden deserted and alone,         Confused, alarm'd, in dreary shades unknown,             He hears the wild waves beat the shore,                 The din of battle roar:         'Tis silence! frowning vengeful from the gloom,                 Before his shrinking eyes                 Unnumber'd spectres rise,     Point to their bleeding wounds, and sternly curse their doom:         The conscious Murderer starts, the thunders roll,     And hell's dread chaos yawns on his despairing soul.         But when the morn exerts her cheering power,         And guilt-alarming darkness disappears,         Wilt thou, Ambition! slight the warning hour,         And fondly strive to dissipate thy fears?                 Yet wilt thou dare fulfil                 The madness of thy will?         Kindle round earth the wasteful flames of strife,         And glut the fiends of war with human life?         Then mask with glory's name thy murderous cause,         While fond, deluded mortals shout applause?                 Yet madly wilt thou dare?                 Devoted Wretch! forbear!         Cries of the living, curses of the dead,                 Have claim'd thy destined head;         And that same Power, whose mighty hand                 Once humbled thine aspiring flight,                 And hurl'd thee, with thy rebel band,                 Down to the deeps of hell and night,     Now warns no more; that Power no longer spares,     Thy sentence he hath fix'd, thy fate he now prepares.