To the Duke of Wellington

Though Age and Solitude profound
In chains of ice the Muse had bound,
Their weight shall cling no more.
Years have been level'd in a theme
That rolls in a commanding stream,
Till Fame shall count no more.

Youth at thy wand, romantic Chief,
Has with its fruit outstript the leaf,
Before the ripening claim!
Why may not Hermits in their cell
Against the beard of snow rebel,
And put their staff to shame?

For in Life's book who marks the page,
When the oppress'd his arm engage,
Or elevate his lay?
Young in the sacred theme alone,
Who deigns to ask if youth is flown,
Or tells the hair that 's grey?
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