When first thou wert an exile from thy home, Unbroken was thy strength, thy health not wasted; But couldst thou now endure to roam, When both thy health and strength thou hast outlasted? With peace and plenty to thy throne restored, Perchance thou deem’st thyself adored: Thou seest around thee subjects bending low; But should misfortune now return, Be sure thou soon shalt know Thyself their hate, and all thy race their scorn. Where are thy men-at-arms, they, once who moved So lively at the warlike trumpet’s call? And where their chiefs, thy mareschals all, Heroes in many a glorious battle proved?— In stern repose each warrior lies. As flowers that all the darksome night Close themselves up, until the day-star rise, Then ope, and turn, as worshipping his light: So these, in sullen slumber now reclined, May soon awake, when thou shalt find Their worship and their service turn’d and gone, Toward their own day-star, the young Napoleon. And darest thou, presumptuous, now demand That Heaven shall speed thy mad career To spoil an unoffending land? And darest thou hope that Heaven will hear? Believe it not:—but for thyself beware; And learn to moderate thy prayer: Pray that kind Heaven will condescend To grant thee rest and safety till thine end; And for the consummation of thy lot, That old St. Denys will allow thee room To sleep uncensured and forgot, Among thy fathers in a silent tomb. VERSES SPOKEN IN THE THEATRE, OXFORD, AT THE INSTALLATION OF THE CHANCELLOR, LORD GRENVILLE, JULY 10, 1810, BY HENRY CROWE, A COMMONER OF WADHAM COLLEGE. Still through the realms of Europe far around Echoes the martial trump, the Battle’s sound: There many a nation, now subdued and broke, In sullen silence wears the Tyrant’s yoke: There the fierce Victor waves his sword, and there Stalks amid ruin, and the waste of war: And, where he bids the din of arms to cease, He calls the silent desolation—peace. Yet what his prize of glory? What the gain Of his wide conquest, of his thousands slain?— His guilty seat on thrones subverted stands; His trophies are the spoil of injured lands: For his dark brow no comely wreath is twined, But iron[32] crowns and blood-stain’d laurels bind.