Robert Southey

Francis Hodgson, "The Blessings of a Sinecure, by R. S." Leaves of Laurel; or New Probationary Odes, for the Vacant Laureatship (1813) 16-18.

Daylight! and yet no sleep?
O'er Sadler's Wells so deep,
O'er Islington's exalted spire,
O'er Pentonville, the festal fire
Streams on the blazing town from every station,
And heightens Victory's Illumination.
No falling rain-drop damps
The lustre of the lamps;
To thee, the MIGHTY-ONE of Spain, they shine,
And all this blaze of stateliness is thine.
Fast fled the French o'er valley and o'er mountain,
Nearly was King Joe shot by Captain Wyndham:
Proudly wast thou exhibited in England,
Staff of the Marshall!

Home! home! around the Square—
What do these horns declare?
Loud as Orlando's horn from Roncevaux,
From the same vales the Fall of France they blow!
Hear them! thou modern Charlemagne! oh hear!
Though Dresden now is not so near
To Bloomsbury-Square, as Paris on that day,
To Fontarabin!
Joy, joy to Wellington,
The glorious Wellington,
Joy! — in the passes of the Pyrenees,
Passes that never saw such passings through as these,
Where hollow winds with mountain echoes sport,
Soult has been vanquish'd at Jean Pied de Port.
Thy 27th and 28th, July!
Swell'd the loud battle's cry;
Till, when the harvest moon in youth appear'd,
Abisbal's Conde, who no Frenchman fear'd,
Succour'd brave Rowland Hill,
Yet mask'd thy towers, Pamplona! still—
—How much more calm is Pinner green!
There P—e's untimely tomb is seen,
Tomb of the green in age,
Tomb of the TUNEFUL-ONE! — who still could sing
To Britain's Queen, to Britain's King,
Of annual praise a page.