Charles
XII of Sweden
by Samuel
Johnson
|
On what foundation stands the
warrior's pride, |
How just his hopes let Swedish
Charles decide; |
A frame of adamant, a soul of
fire, |
No dangers fright him, and no
labours tire; |
O'er love, o'er fear, extends his
wide domain, |
Unconquered lord of pleasure and
of pain; |
No joys to him pacific sceptres
yield; |
War sounds the trump, he rushes
to the field; |
Behold surrounding kings their
power to combine, |
And one capitulate, and one
resign; |
Peace courts his hand, but
spreads her charms in vain; |
'Think nothing gained,' he cries,
'till nought remain, |
On Moscow's walls till Gothic
standards fly, |
And all be mine beneath the polar
sky.' |
The march begins in military
state, |
And nations on his eye suspended
wait; |
Stern Famine guards the solitary
coast, |
And Winter barricades the realms
of Frost; |
He comes, not want and cold his
course delay; - |
Hide, blushing Glory, hide
Pultowa's day: |
The vanquished hero leaves his
broken bands, |
And shows his miseries in distant
lands; |
Condemned a needy supplicant to
wait, |
While ladies interpose, and
slaves debate. |
But did not Chance at length her
error mend? |
Did no subverted empire mark his
end? |
Did rival monarchs give the fatal
wound? |
Or hostile millions press him to
the ground? |
His fall was destined to a barren
strand, |
A petty fortress, and a dubious
hand; |
He left the name, at which the
world grew pale, |
To point a moral or adorn a tale.
|
Samuel Johnson
| Classic Poems |