Napier! take up anew thy pen, To mark the deeds of mighty men. And whose more glorious canst thou trace Than heroes of thy name and race? No other house hath ever borne So many of them to adorn The annals of our native land In virtue, wisdom, and command. But foremost, and to thee most near, Is he who vanquisht the Ameer. And when before his feet was laid By fallen power the thirteenth blade, With every hilt more rich in gems Than Europe's kingly diadems, Then, and then only did he stoop To take the spoils of victory up, That he might render each again To hands which wielded them in vain. "Is this the race of Clive?" cried they: "Did Hastings exercise such sway?" They since have seen him rais'd not more In pride or splendour than before, And studious but to leave behind The blessing of just laws to Scinde. Therefore do thou, if health permit, Add one page more to Holy Writ. Such is the page wherein are shown The fragments of a bloody throne, And peace and happiness restor'd By their old enemy the sword. Hasten, my friend, the work begun, For daily dimmer grows our sun, And age, if farther off from thee, Creeps on, though imperceptibly. Some call him slow, some find him fast, But all he overtakes at last, Unless they run and will not wait, But overleap life's flower-twined gate. We may not leave the lighted town Again to tread our turfy down, Thence tracing Avon's misty white, The latest object seiz'd by Night, Nor part at Claverton when Jove Is the sole star we see above; Yet friends for evermore. If War Had rear'd me a triumphal car, Imperfect would have been my pride Unless he plac'd thee close beside, And shouts like these the skies might rend, "See the brave man he chose for friend!" |