Analysis of Ode On The Present Times, 27th January 1795
Amelia Opie 1769 (Norwich, England) – 1853 (Norwich, England)
Lo! Winter drives his horrors round;
Wide o'er the rugged soil they fly;
In their cold spells each stream is bound,
While at the magic of their eye
Each sign of Spring's gay beauty fades,
And one white wild the aching sight invades.
It is the time for Woe to reign,
And hark! she bids her haggard train,
Pale poverty and want, appear,
Disease, their darling child, draw near,
And, grateful for the favouring hour,
They feel, they seize, they riot, in their power.
But Winter! not to thee alone
Their heart-appalling sway they owe,
For they to war's despotic throne
As tributary subjects bow;
War, who bids trembling Europe gasp,
With wild convulsions in his bloody grasp.
Whence yonder groans? O wretched land!
Poland, from thee, alas! they came,
A despot speaks, and lo! a band,
Blaspheming pure Religion's name,
Bid cold, deliberate murder live,
And death's dread stroke to helpless thousands give.
And see, on Belgia's reeking plain,
Alternate horrors rise and reign!
What mingled sounds affright the ear!
Now, we the song of victory hear,
And now, despair's appalling tone,
And now, of death the deep sepulchral groan.
Freedom! for whose dear sake I'd dare
Each various ill that tortures life,
Though I thy matchless victories share,
While, towering 'midst the bloody strife,
I see thy form sublime, acquire
New power to charm, new beauty to inspire;
I cannot smile; I cannot join
The song of triumph; tho' thy foes,
Celestial power! are also mine;
And tho' I weep for all thy woes,
Yet I thy triumphs too must weep,
And in my tears thy bloody laurels steep.
For who are they that madly bear
Against thy sons the venal spear?
Are they not men?—then say, what power
Can bid my bosom mourn no more;
O where's the fiend-delighting ban
Forbidding MAN to weep for SLAUGHTERED MAN!
E'en Victory, when reflection's voice
Breathes in her ear 'thy brothers die,'
Shall bid her sons no more rejoice,
But change her shouts for pity's sigh:
She will her breast in anguish beat,
And wear the sombrous aspect of defeat.
O Britain! ill-starred land! no more
Must Peace to thee her olive bear,
But on thy once-triumphant shore,
Must we behold the form of fear
Expecting, on the swelling tide,
To see the FOE in proud defiance ride!
Avert the threatening, awful ill;
For fraught with power, and fraught with will
To make thy hardiest veterans die,
A lurking fiend, alas! is nigh,
Who threatens on thy sons to pour
The fatal cloud thou bad'st on GALLIA lower.
Lo! FAMINE spreads her banners wide;
She comes arrayed in horrid state;
But, not to humble Gallia's pride,
And on the rear of victory wait;
She comes the humbled to subdue,
And twine round fading wreaths, death's baleful yew.
She comes to Britain!—at the thought,
Winter! thy scene with horrors fraught,
Fades from my sight—the present ill
Appears to lose its power to kill:
To future scenes pale Fancy flies,
Lifts her dim tearful eyes to heaven, and dies.
Scheme | ABABCCDDEEFFGHGIJJKLKLMNDDOOGGPQPQFRSTUTVVPEFWXXYBYBZZWPWE1 1 2 2 BBWF1 3 1 3 4 4 5 5 2 2 6 6 |
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Poetic Form | |
Metre | 11011101 110010111 01111111 11010111 11111101 0111010101 11011111 01110101 11000101 01110111 01010110 11111100110 11011101 11010111 11110101 1100101 111100101 1101001101 11011101 10110111 01010101 110101 110100101 0111110101 0111101 10010101 1101101 110111001 0110101 01110111 10111111 110011101 11111001 110010101 111101010 11011110101 11011101 01110111 010101101 01111111 11110111 0011110101 11111101 01110101 111111110 11110111 11010101 0101111101 11100111 10011101 11011101 1101111 11010101 01011101 11011111 11110101 11110101 11010111 01010101 1101010101 010100101 111100111 1111001001 01010111 11011111 010111111010 11010101 11010101 1111011 010111001 11010101 0111011101 11110101 10111101 11110101 011111011 11011101 10110111001 |
Closest metre | Iambic tetrameter |
Characters | 2,882 |
Words | 512 |
Sentences | 32 |
Stanzas | 1 |
Stanza Lengths | 78 |
Lines Amount | 78 |
Letters per line (avg) | 29 |
Words per line (avg) | 7 |
Letters per stanza (avg) | 2,262 |
Words per stanza (avg) | 507 |
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Submitted on May 13, 2011
Modified on March 05, 2023
- 2:37 min read
- 89 Views
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"Ode On The Present Times, 27th January 1795" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 29 Apr. 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem-analysis/2049/ode-on-the-present-times%2C-27th-january-1795>.
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