CHAPTER IX.--RETROSPECTION.

Let us retrace our steps along the phantom shore Of the dead centuries, two thousand years or more, And look upon a nation whose fame will never cease-- A learned and noble people--grand, heroic Greece. A freedom-loving nation never could be slaves, And many desperately fought fields are pent with graves To freedom. Attest Marathon and Thermopylæ, Where millions rushed to conflict on that fatal day When Leonidas with his three hundred Spartans fell In an immortal struggle in the jaws of hell.

Not in vain their fall--they died for freedom’s glory; Greece remembers still--all time shall tell the story. Persia was ruined at Platæa and Salamis, And Greece’s voice exultant was raised in praise and bliss. Shall we not, too, O Time, those dauntless deeds extol? Though marred by thy stern hands, Greece shall be brave of soul.

Alexander at Arbela grasped immortal fame, And for the Macedonians an undying name; And Babylon lay at his conquering feet, And the conquest of the proud Persians was complete. But the Tigris and Euphrates ran red with gore, And Darius, all ruined, could not restore Confidence from disaster, so fled swift away From Arbela, crushed by disaster in a day.

Swiftly the grand Roman legions marched away To the field of Metaurus, where waiting lay The Carthaginians under their leader, Hasdrubal, Hannibal’s famous brother--idol there of all. Stealthily the Roman legions swift onward go, And at Metaurus at the dawn fall on the foe-- A wave of Roman valor with resistless flow That swept the Carthaginians from the field, After a heroic struggle compelled to yield To the fiery Nero, all mangled and torn, And almost destroyed since the opening morn. All Rome went mad with joy when news of victory came, And a wild enthusiasm, like a quenchless flame, Pervaded all. Imperial Rome would not be denied; She swept her foes away, and a world defied.

Why should we, O Time, repeat or enumerate The world’s decisive battles, or the remorseless fate Of nations that went down on fields of strife and blood Forgetting the cause of freedom and even God? The shadow of thy wing fell on them like a pall Of destiny when tottering unto their fall.

Thou wast with Cambyses at Pelusium on the Nile, When the earth shook with the collision, and the vile And cruel Pharaoh met such a sore defeat, And Egypt lay defenceless at her captor’s feet.

Thou sawest Arminius, the German, put to flight Varus and his proud Roman legions, and the sight Should have stirred e’en thy unsympathizing soul-- A people freed from tyranny, winning freedom’s goal.

The Romans and the Visigoths at Chalons stood Face unto face with Attila, the “scourge of God.” The carnage of that field the world remembers still, And the fame of Attila and his daring will.

At Tours, in Gaul, the Saracenic leader came, And many fine cities of the Franks were in flame, And Moslem fury raged, pillaged everywhere, And Christianity was in great despair. But their noble Christian king to the rescue came, And all Christendom doth revere and bless his name. The furious Moslem Arabs were put to flight, And slain was Abdurahman in the awful fight. Charles Martel’s name ’s inscribed on the tower of fame, And thy savage waves, O Time, beat on its base in vain.

The last of the Saxon kings at Hastings field fell-- Heroic Harold! England’s noblest loved thee well. Nobly Britons faced the ruthless Norman pride; Fearlessly, desp’rately they fought and died. Valorous souls! death were preferable to yield, And they sank to one pent grave on that decisive field.

O’ercoming all obstacles that beset his way, Marlborough with Eugene for the Danube made way, Where at Blenheim Marshal Tollard was deployed, And the French that great day were utterly destroyed. Immortal Marlborough! thy arm never failed, And despots, usurpers, before thy power quailed. Imperishable is thy talismanic name-- E’en yet the thought of thee sets Britain’s heart aflame.

Plassey, Jena, Wagram, Borodino, Fontenoy, Were maelstroms of butchery, nations to destroy. Even the “blue, lone sea” hath known man’s ruthless might, And torn hath been her bosom by the guns in fight-- The fight of navies, drowning the sea’s tumultuous roar, Shaking the very ocean, reddened by their gore: Camperdown’s fierce conflict, Copenhagen and the Nile; Trafalgar, crowning glory of Britain’s dauntless isle. But that field of fields that stirred the whole world through, The battle of the battles, deathless Waterloo-- The brightest gem that shines in England’s diadem; ’Twas fought for liberation and the rights of men.

Unbidden they rise up, so many dreadful days-- The world is red with carnage and dreadful affrays; Millions of tears hath fallen, despair unspoken Hath deluged millions of hearts, and millions broken.