University of Virginia Library

TO THE SEA.

Music is living in thy breast—in thy deep and awful breast,
Oh! thou astounding Sea and dread—in thy restlessness and rest—
Now 't is a murmur—now a roar—now a murmur and a roar,
While heaves and quakes and thrills and groans the everechoing shore;
What harmony in every change is found, proud Main! in thee,
What music hangs on thy deep lips—oh! sounding—sounding Sea!
Splendour is on thy glorious face! thou most transcendant Main!
Whether the Sun there doubly lives,—or shines Night's starry train—
'T is now a sparkle—now a blaze—now a blaze and sparkle too—
Till thou look'st all made of golden fire—yet tinged with the sapphire's blue —
What splendours still are found in thee, with every change to agree—
What glory and what sovereignty—oh! Royal, Royal Sea!

EPITAPH.

[Lie lightly, Earth! on the most blameless breast]

Lie lightly, Earth! on the most blameless breast
That ever was consigned to Thee—and Rest.
Lie lightly on the dear unconscious dust
Which to thy chill embraces we entrust,
For though we know the Soul that once could warm
The poor decaying and forsaken form
Yet lives—and ever shall remain the same,
Still Feeling lingers round the once-loved Frame!

EPITAPH.

[Unboastful Goodness—unaffected Worth]

Unboastful Goodness—unaffected Worth
Lie hid beneath this little mound of Earth.
Stranger! one moment pause upon thy way,
If these can claim thy sympathy, or stay—
Yet no—'t is false—this lowly stone beneath
Lie nought but ashes, dust, decay, and death,
That Worth—that Goodness—which can never die,
Dwell with their Great Creator in the Sky!

EPITAPH.

[If on this unadorned memorial-stone]

If on this unadorned memorial-stone
But half her goodness who from us is flown
Could be with truth and vivid force expressed—
Since truth were here the brightest praise and best,
'Twould make thee, pious stranger, fondly grieve
O'er such bless'd Virtues doomed this Earth to leave—
And yet 't would gladden thee to think how high
These must promote her in yon glorious sky.

EPITAPH.

[In ripened age and ripened Virtues too]

SONNET. I.

Perchance we all in something strive to excel—
How oft in miserable vanities!
Yet still to reach the goal, to snatch the prize
Our Souls are bent—and we for ever dwell
(Constrained as 't were by some dim mystic spell,)
In artificial atmosphere—we rise
To build our tottering Babels to the skies—
Which one breath can demolish—can dispel—
And as we see them shaken, bowed, and crushed,
We groan in anguish—yet with deeper will,
Rush to our fate—as we before had rushed,
And court the consequence of deeper Ill!—
Oh! that our throbbing hearts could but be hushed,
Or that we thus might strive our duties to fulfil!

SONG.

[Gentlest Deluder! Hope! false as fair]

SONNET. II.

Upon thy hills oh Spain, War's beacon gleams,
Battle's shrill Clarion startles thy soft air—
Spears glance and banners float! the sight is fair,
The sound is noble, by thy rolling streams—
And brings to mind a thousand glorious dreams,
But say, doth murder—heinous murder there
Her blood-stained arm with barbarous triumph bare?
What mean those groans, those yells, those echoing screams?
Alas! the Brave, the Gallant, and the Bold,
Must they escaping the honourable death
Upon the well-fought field—slow, slow and cold,
Have judgment dealt on them?—the laurel wreath
Shall wither on their brows, who thus have tolled
High Chivalrous Feeling's knell, on Battle's sanguined heath!

SONNET. III.

Ye that now wake th' old echoes that do dwell
Deep 'mid Spain's ancient Hills—with clang and shout
And all War's terrible sounds, what ye are about
Have ye bethought ye solemnly and well?
Beware—lest Discord's torch, the fierce and fell,
Once kindled, scarce should for long years burn out!—
And the Land shake beneath War's din and rout,
As she were governed by some fatal spell—
Through the unborn times! Aye! lest ye should transmit
Unto your Children's Children for an age
(While that dire torch is fostered—fanned, relit)
A stern and most unhappy Heritage
Of feuds and of division—in the pit
Of fierce Contention fall'n—deep—deep—say, are ye sage?

SONNET. IV.

Turn, turn to Spain—oh England! turn to her—
List to her cry of anguish and distress—
Oh! haste her griefs, her miseries to redress.
Maddened she is with the dire din and stir,
The rage and wrath of War—there be who spur
Her energies 'gainst herself—while she doth press
On towards black Ruin's brink! till none may guess
What doom remains for her!—no more defer—
The arm of pitiless Murder there arrest—
The fierce flagitious slaughterings there forbid—
The heroic chivalrous Land!—how heaves her breast
With sorrow—let the unnatural foes be chid,
Foul butchering their brave captives! be suppressed
The Infernal strife—oh, Heaven! for one hour of the Cid!

SONNET. V.

Spain! Spain! for one brave Spirit like the Cid,
What gallant Armies at his call should wake—
Towards Fame and Freedom the true path to take!
He who 'mongst all the Heroic deeds he did,
His Country's echoing hills and plains amid—
Abhorred Dissension, for Dissension's sake;
Who, if his Foes even sought, embroiled, to slake
Their fiery thirst in kindred blood—straight chid
The unrighteous War with voice and puissant hand!
And harmony and peace 'mongst those restored!
Oh! how would he,—or such as he, withstand
These hideous conflicts, and with hallowed sword
Beat down the infuriate—and thrice-desperate brand
Turned 'gainst a brother's breast—at one rash, factious word!

SONNET. VI.

Spaniards! ere your brave sires arose to thrust
Th' old Moors from their bright shores, who o'er them swayed
With a magnificent tyranny—ere brayed
Their trumpet's loud defiance—ere the rust
Fell from their idle swords, and the icy crust
Of Slavery from their souls—checked—wronged—betrayed,
Less need was there of championship and aid
Than now—worse this suspicion—this distrust—
These black home-hatreds—this disunion drear—
While in each breast harsh grudging spites lie hid—
No mutual cause to aid, consecrate—and cheer—
Oh! if the armed Stranger stalked your fields amid—
The Hostilities a nobler front should wear—
The Cause—the Cause might then unshroud your buried Cid!

SONNET. VII.

Spain—the romantic, chivalrous, renown'd,
What dread and desperate doings now disgrace
Thy name!—haste, haste from thence the stain to efface
In this foul strife, lo! how are ties unbound,
While friend 'gainst friend battling in wrath is found,
While brother holds his brother in embrace
Of hate and death, and armed sons in their place
Rise up 'gainst their grey sires,—such miseries wound
The Land, where Civil War's atrocious torch
Glares with its baleful horrors!—stained with gore
The peasant's threshold-stone is, and wreathed porch,
And kinsmen's heart-blood blackens all his floor,
And how doth Battle's tri-forked lightning scorch
Thy plains which late such smiling beauty wore!

SONNET. I. TO THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON.

November, 1834.

Thine is a glorious and a righteous aim,
Great Patriot!—and may certain good ensue.
Firm, loyal, brave, and temperate and true—
Thou favourite Son of Fortune and of Fame—
Honours crowd thick upon thy soaring name,
That name which Victory through her loud trump blew
What time on War's red field thy banner flew,
Foremost and highest, like a rushing flame!
But now that name a Nation's grateful heart
Doth consecrate in reverence, speechless—still!
While thy mind's lightnings through the darkness dart
Of these vexed times—the trouble and the ill,
The cloud, the fear, the heaviness shall depart,
And thine the praise shall be, strong, strong in swerveless will!

SONNET. II. TO THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON.

1834.

Oh thou! now called to that momentous post,
Where England's helm's committed to thy hand,
Gird thee to do thy Duty by the Land!
Restore the Peace, Fame, Honour she hath lost,
Heed not the cry of Faction's evil host,
Their vile flagitious threats with scorn withstand,
Make her once more the Glorious and the Grand—
Earth's happiest Sanctuary and proudest Boast!
On her own true, real, lasting Good intent,
Brunt thou the hate of her base ambushed foes,
Serve her, and save her 'gainst her own consent!
Deliver her from dark and desperate woes,
Heal, heal her wounds—oh! bind each yawning rent
And bid the opening chasm of fierce Destruction close.

SONNET. III. TO THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON. 1834.

High is thy calling as thy conduct high!
Oh thou! for aye and evermore renowned—
Thy forehead all with wreaths of Victory bound
Spreads its own light along our shadowed sky—
Proud name of Patriot!—fires that must not die,
A zeal, a strength, a trust too seldom found,
A loftiness that cannot touch the ground,
A bright and never-slackening Energy—
These, these must nobly constitute his claim
Who would aspire with clear Ambition just
To thee, oh! happy, high and holy name!
And who doth all things base and little thrust
Away—and toil with so sublime an aim
As thou—best Bulwark of an Empire's trust!

SONNET. IV. TO THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON.

1834.

I' the breach thou stand'st in daring high and proud,
Mark of all Arrows—with their treacherous aim,
Thou—that hast done such deeds as gild thy name
Beyond all increase!—but the unworthy crowd
Too oft forget their debts, and clamour loud
Their loose condemnings—their light, reckless blame—
Thou!—that hast done deeds that had given to Fame
An hundred thousand names! thou hast not allowed
That plea unto thyself to turn away
From difficulties which but seem the more
To fan the fires—that never should decay,
In thy high breast of virtuous zeal—i' the core
Of thy heart's strength! and still from day to day
To urge thee more to oppose, those waves that know no shore!

SONNET. V. TO THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON.

1834.

Great Leader! thou who, as the wide world knows,
Preserved our England in the troublous Past—
(What time rang loud the Red Destroyer's blast)—
From threatening, hating, fierce and fiery foes,
And gave her unto Peace and bright repose,
While before thee, those foes cowered down aghast,
Complete thy task, the glorious and the vast—
Though heavier, and more complex still it grows!
She tottereth—Oh! prevent her from the fall—
Strengthen—uphold her, fix her firm and fast.
To thee we turn—on thee, on thee we call:
Thou that deliveredst her from scathe and waste—
Render the noblest service now of all—
Save her—Oh! save her from Herself at last!

SONNET. VI. TO THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON.

1834.

How shall we honour thee enough—Oh! thou
On whom Fame hath no new Wreaths to bestow—
Who hath reaped such thick thick laurels, that below
No leaf remains for thee to cull—whose brow
Is blazoned by a deathless palmy bough,
And crowned with Victory's crown—and yet not so
Art thou Content! but with a Patriot's glow
Of bright and fervid zeal, dost thou avow
Thyself the foremost in the ranks of those
Who labour for their Country's Weal, her true
And generous Liegeman!—that doth scorn repose
With loftiest discontent, while to toil through
Steep Action's paths, can one bright hope disclose
Of good, which may to others thence accrue!

SONNET. VII. TO THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON.

1834.

Now be thine Aim—Attainment! and thy Will
Accomplishment!—for those—those base
Those wretched traitors, who would seek to efface
The high memory of thy deeds, which ought to thrill
Through every bosom—let them utter still
Their venomed words—Since 'tis in their own face
They shall recoil!—And not the slightest trace
Cling to thy starry name; Oh, thou! whose skill,
Whose towering Genius rescued them, and all
Of England's Children, from the threatened doom—
The oppressor's scourge and brand, and badge and thrall—
Can these thy Glory—or thy Good o'ercome?
No! let them go! 'tis pity from the fall
Thy hand prevented them—who are made for Slavery's gloom!

SONNET. VIII. TO THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON.

1834.

Now may the Chariot of thy lofty Fate
Roll upon Fortune's proudest wheels—and now
May a far nobler laurel crest thy brow
Than Victory's.—Hour of thrice auspicious date,
That sees thee placed in steerage of the State!
Let Faction veil her pride—let Treason bow,
Let Discontent her petty drifts avow;
Now let our Land exult and be elate,
Thou—thou whose mention seems like Victory's cry
The Nation's helm hath ta'en—though to resign,
Still much may be atchieved while these hours fly
On their deep-freighted pinions—now doth shine
Hope's heavenly crescent through our brightening sky—
Joy for one hour of such a Mind as thine!

SONNET. IX. TO THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON.

1834.

Now gird thee to a loftier Occupation far
Than is the Earth-shaking Warrior's! though he be
A thunder-bearing Conqueror even like thee!
For in the heart of this Land's peace is War,
More deadly than the ensanguined field's! thy car,
Thy scytheless car, oh! mount, and through the free
Pathways of Action proud—and o'er the sea
Of dread Events—that winged throne steer, though star
Nor compass may afford thee aid—and low
Beneath thy feet the embryo Mischiefs cast—
And to our gladdened eyes triumphant show
What Human Nature may be made when fast
It clings through tumult, and distress, and woe,
To Virtue's anchor 'midst the billowy waste.

SONNET. X. TO THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON.

1834.

First, Noblest of this world's crowned men of Might!
Who hath spared more blood than Asia's Conqueror spilt—
Chief—Statesman—Counsellor—Patriot—what thou wilt—
For all of Good and Great thou towerest in sight
Of the Earth's thronged millions! can the envenomed spite
Of grovelling Caitiffs, urge them to the guilt
Of loading thee, whose stainless Fame is built
On sure foundations—Champion of the Right!
With their abhorred black calumnies—the while
Thou labourest but to serve, and bless and aid
Thy foul Detractors—but can these defile—
These dim that Fame?—No! could they—well repaid
Wert thou by Heavenly Justice' guerdoning smile
That will not fail thee—and that cannot fade!

SONNET. XI. TO THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON.

1834.

Confusion seize upon their Counsels—those—
That would confusion to thy Counsels bring!
Let Faction turn upon herself her Sting,
And their own toils environ thy fierce foes.
Shall this be the Beginning or the Close?
Shall Justice, Truth, Faith, Honour, Virtue, spring
Once more to life—or shall black Discord wring
The Land to agony—and bar repose?
Perish the Lovers of Contentious strife!
That would destroy these Realms of prosperous Pride;
Who—knowing their own worthlessness—their life
Devote to making worthless all beside!—
They shall not stab with an Assassin's knife
Our Country to the heart, while thou'rt her Guard and Guide.

SONNET. XII. TO THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON.

1834.

Should we forget thy deeds of Glory?—No!
We should not, must not, cannot so forget—
Foul Shame 'twere, ere the living Sun hath set!—
But some remembering still what they do owe,
The worst of Ingrates—basely seek to o'erthrow
Their Glorious Benefactor!—Yet, oh!—yet
Some, some there are, who nobly chafe and fret
Beneath their load of Obligations, though
They dream not, hope not to discharge the whole
Of that most infinite, and onerous Debt!
Still evermore o'erflow their lips and Soul
With deep acknowledgments—to him who met
For them, War's horrent front—who made his Goal
Their England's Ark of Peace—unchecked by frown or threat!

SONNET. XIII. TO THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON.

1834.

Wisdom's clear eye, to observe and to apprehend,
And loftiest Courage to confront and dare—
Judgment to plan and execute with care—
And Patriotism its holiest fires to lend—
Are thine, Great Chief! and thine it is to rend
Self from thy thoughts—nor even to wish to share
The brilliant honours which the field may bear—
The field of Action!—England's truest friend
As thou hast been her best safeguard—Lo! thy name
Is as a Tower of Strength and of Defence—
Fortune smiles, linked to thine Auspicious Fame!—
Thy Presence—Power seems, and Pre-eminence—
Thy very Life—a bright additional claim
This Land hath on the Grace of Heaven's just Providence!

SONNET. XIV. TO THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON.

1834.

A heavy charge it is! a charge whose weight
Might crush a lesser mind into the dust—
A heavy charge it shall be and it must
In these momentous hours of gloomiest date.
Oh! thou who nor dejected nor elate,
Steeled with sublime resolve, the place of trust
Fill'st for a while—thou Sage and Brave and Just,
Thou Good—and how magnanimously Great!
Who dictated by thine own generous heart,
No thought of self through these strong hours could'st own—
Guardian—Deliverer—as thou wert and art—
Why on such troublous times hast thou been thrown,
Except to shew how proud and bright a part
Man, feeble Man may act—whom Virtue prompts—alone!

SONNET. XV. TO THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON.

1834.

Now, Curtius-like, thou hast leapt—calm, fearless, lone
Into the Gulph, and that dread Gulph shall close,
But not on thee—the troubles and the woes
Surely shall find their end!—Thou that hast won
The orbed Crowns of burning Victory—whose star shone
High in the Ascendant—above his who chose
This Realm or that, and straightway did depose
Their rightful Lords and seized them for his own.
Oh! thou the Greatest of Earth's Warrior Lords,
Thou, thou hast leapt into that Gulph of Gloom!—
And hark! the wind seems charged with prophet-words—
“Ye shall be saved from the dark threatened doom!”
Let the Envious, the Ingrate sheathe their tongue's sharp swords—
May Concord now her sweet Sway re-assume!

SONNET. XVI. TO THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON.

1834.

Out upon black Ingratitude!—most true,
It cannot harm thee—cannot rob thy name
Of one bright ray of Glory, or of Fame;
No! those who strive to o'erthrow, and to undo,
Those who for thee, in their foul malice brew
Their deadly potions, they shall rue the same,
In vain remorse and keenly stinging shame,
Bitterly and most miserably shall rue!
And thou uninjured shalt in pride of place,
Continue glorious as thou wert before;
Nay! with bright Indignation we shall trace
And grave thy Glories on our hearts the more!
Out upon man's Ingratitude!—the base,
The accursed sin—Oh! shun it and abhor!

SONNET.

[These are portentous days! deep, awful days]

These are portentous days! deep, awful days,
And men must gird their Souls to do and dare,
And meekly breathe to Heaven the imploring prayer,
For aid and for defence. Dread thorny ways
Have we to tread—and many a wildering maze
To thread and pierce—but hence! avaunt—Despair,
Avaunt ignoble Fear—and sordid Care.
Now let the good, the wise, shun all delays,
Prepared for Sufferance—or Resistance! Why,
Clouds dark as these have lowered round—let them go!
Those good, those just, those brave—can they deny
Their lofty natures—and turn, cowards—no!
Free, bold, and true—their trust is in the Sky,
And if it comes they will endure their woe.

SONNET.

[Hands strong and pure—hands mighty or to launch]

Hands strong and pure—hands mighty or to launch
The thunder-bolt, or with a gentler art
To bind the Land's now almost broken heart,
The Land's long bleeding yawning wounds to staunch,
These are required! Oh! that the Olive-branch
May wave around her brows, that now may start
In lovely Resurrection—even as dart
Stars from night's heavens—with silvery sheen to blanch
The Shadowy Arch—Hope, Concord, Peace, and Faith!
May she, who subjugated Realms of old,
Then lead them—breathing Peace, celestial breath!
By her example—so the master-mould
Of Nature's hand shall she remain! yet saith—
Winged Hope, more bright, more bright, shall we her face behold!