War Poem by Janetta Philipps

When fell Oppression o'er the earth
Her iron sceptre waved with fearful sway,
To thee, dread power of War, the fiend gave birth,
To thee, who marked with gore her desolated way;
Revenge thy sire, whose furious hand,
As Discord tossed aloft her flaming brand,
Struck at the breast that gave thee life;
His glittering dagger drank her blood,
Whilst thou, amid th' unhallowed strife,
With eager lip imbibed the sanguine flood.
Infuriate War! what hand shall dare
To trace the horrors of thy way ?

No radiant beam from heaven is there,
To mark the track with lucid ray,
But storms and tempests round thee wait;
Thy dire artillery, big with fate,
Spread with thick, sulphureous breath
'Darkness that may be felt'- a fearful night,
Though streaked awhile with sudden light,
The fatal harbinger of death.
O'er thee no anxious mother fondly hung,
For thee no soothing lullabies were sung;
But wildly did the hoarse winds sweep
In mournful cadence round the steep,
Where Furies rocked thee in their horrid arms.
Nourished with blood, thy desperate rage
Would from the lion rend his prey,
Or deadly battle furious wage

When the gaunt tyger crossed thy way;
And the deep roarings, that at evening's close
Render the savage wilderness so drear,
Chilling the fear-struck traveller as he goes,
Were sounds most grateful to thy infant ear:
For then thou hadst not learned with blasting breath,
From the shrill trumpet's brazen throat,
To wake the loud, the maddening note,
That calls devoted man to fields of death.
Ere thou, the world's dread scourge, wert born,
When smiling Peace still held her gentle reign,
Then flowers and fruits profuse from Plenty's horn
Shed their rich honours on the verdant plain.
Then man a tranquil shelter found,
(The idle toils of greatness scorning,)
Where fragrant roses strewed the ground,

Wet with the dew of early morning.
There the mother, sweetly smiling,
Hushed her infant to repose;
And Hope, the pains of Age beguiling,
Bade life's sabbath calmly close.
Then was the Golden Age below;
Then Echo learned her sweetest strain,
Responsive to the lover's pain,
Who breathed in softest sounds his fancied woe.
But ah ! too soon thy giant form
Was dimly seen amid the storm;
Thy red arm o'er the prostrate world
The ensign dire of death unfurled;
The deep-toned drums thy swift approach declare;
Loud, loud the echoing rocks among,
Groans, and the clang of arms around,

Answered to the trumpet's sound,
Whilst birds, ill-omened, hover in the air,
And shriek the fated victim's funeral song.
Yet not for ever round thy way
Demons, foes to man, attend;
Since ruthless Fate full many a day
Hath bid him hail thee as a friend.
By thee the hardy Warrior of the north
Snatched from the Tyrant's head his bloody crown,
When Sweden bade her patriot sons go forth,
To win with him the meed of high renown.
Thee, 'mid Helvetia's rocks, her gallant band_
Did once with solemn firmness sternly hail,
When Liberty aloft with dauntless hand
Waved her white banner to the mountain gale.
Thee too, in later times, did man invoke,

Though not with like success, when grasping Pride,
And fell Ambition, with remorseless stroke,
Bade a whole kingdom fall- a realm divide.
Hero of Poland, whose illustrious name
In future times shall honoured be,
And raise, perchance, to emulate thy fame,
With happier fortunes blest, a chief like thee:
Like thine, the warrior's dauntless soul
May brave Oppression's fierce control,
And bid thy bleeding country yet be free.
But not in vain thy toil and pain,
Thy sun of glory beams afar;
While sad, though low, the shriek of woe
Pursues the conqueror's gaudy car.
No nation's grateful tears shall e'er bedew

The blood-stained wreath, that decks the victor's brow;
Unlike the deathless meed, which, gained by you,
Shames all the laurels Conquest can bestow.