by Mrs. Fletcher.
Originally published in Bradshaw's Journal (William Strange) vol.2 #1 (06 Nov 1841).
I saw him on the battle eve,
When like a king he bore him!
Proud hosts in glittering helm and greave,
And prouder chiefs before him:
The warrior, and the warrior's deeds,
The morrow, and the morrow's meeds,—
No daunting thoughts came o'er him;—
He looked around him, and his eye
Defiance flashed to earth and sky!
He looked on ocean,—its broad breast
Was covered with his fleet;
On earth,—and saw from east to west
His bannered millions meet:
While rock, and glen, and cave, and coast,
Shook with the war-cry of that host,—
The thunder of their feet!
He heard the imperial echoes ring—
He heard, and felt himself a king?
I saw him next alone;—nor camp,
Nor chief his steps attended,
Nor banners' blaze, nor coursers' tramp
With war-cries proudly blended:—
He stood alone, whom fortune high
So lately seemed to deify,
He, who with heaven contended,
Fled, like a fugitive and slave;
Behind, the foe,—before, the wave!
He stood,—fleet, army, treasure, gone,
Alone and in despair!
While wave and wind swept ruthless on,
For they were monarchs there;
And Xerxes in a single bark,
Where late a thousand ships were dark,
Must all their fury dare;—
Thy glorious revenge was this,
Thy trophy, Salamis!