University of Virginia Library

THE FATE OF ADELAIDE.

CANTO I.

[I.]

Romantic Switzerland! thy scenes are traced
With characters of strange wild loveliness,
Beauty and desolation, side by side;
Here lofty rocks uprise, where nature seems
To dwell alone in silent majesty;
Rob'd by the snow, her stately palace fram'd
Of the white hills; towering in all their pride,
The frost's gigantic mounds are lost in clouds,
Like to vast castles rear'd in middle air.
The ice has sculptur'd too strange imagery—
Obelisks, columns, spires, fantastic piles;
Some like the polish'd marble, others clear
As the rock crystal, others sparkling with
The hues that melt along the sunborn bow.
And winter frowns upon the throne, which he
Has been whole ages raising, and beneath,
The gloomy vallies, like his footstool lie,
Where summer never comes—where never spring
Wreathes the young flowers round her golden hair.
The sun looks forth in beauty, but in vain,
Those dark vales never know the light of noon:
But there they hide them in their sullenness,
As the pale spirit of desolation chose
Them for his lonely haunt. No trace hath been
Of living thing upon those untrack'd snows;
Nought hath pass'd o'er them but the printless wind;
Ev'n that wild deer, which loves the mountain side,
Springs the abyss, and dares the venturous path
We shrink to look upon, yet comes not here.
For perilous were the rocks, and the false ice
Were slippery as the friendships of this life—
When most we lean on them, most treach'rous then,
Smooth but deceiving; and the precipice
Yawns in its fearful darkness close beneath;
So close, that but a single step aside,
And human help were vanity indeed!
And o'er them lowers destruction, high in air,
Upon those jutting crags, whose rugged sides,
Riven in fragments, and like ruins pil'd,
Seem as that giants of those ancient days
When earth born creatures braved th' Olympic Gods,
Those of whom fable tells, had torn away
Rocks from their solid base, and with strong arm,
Parted the mountains: there the avalanche hangs,
Mighty, but tremulous; just a light breath
Will loosen it from off it's airy throne;
Then down it hurls in wrath, like to the sound
Of thunder amid storms, or as the voice
Of rushing waters—death in its career.
The lurking tempests hold their gathering place
Within these caves, waiting the angry winds
Which are to bear their terrors thro' the skies.
But 'mid these scenes of wintry gloom, are some
Fair relics of the spring time blossoms, like
The sunny smiles of May, as if some breeze,
Just wander'd from delightful Italy,
Had brought the blessings of its birth-place here.
And lovely are the vallies which extend
Beneath the mountains; oh! how sweet it is
To gaze around when summer sunset sheds
Its splendor in the west; when the bright clouds,
Warm with the hues of eve, gleam o'er the sky,
As 'twere some heavenly spirit veil'd his form
In bursts of glory from a mortal eye.
When glowing in the ray, the glacier's shine,
With all the opal's varied colouring,
And every tint that tulip beds disclose,
Gilds the rich pageantry of parting day;
The golden arches, rich with purple gems,
Pillars of light, and crimson colonnades,
Like the gay palaces of fairy land
Which flit upon the thought, when the young eye
Dwells in rapt wonder on the enchanted tale.
Beneath are sun-bright vales and silver lakes,
The blue waves mantled with reflected red,
The sky's bright image on the stream imprest;
Green vineyards wreathing round the steep hill's side,
And groups of cheerful peasantry reclin'd
By their white dwellings, round whose lowly thatch
The light laburnum waves her yellow hair;
And rising on the gale, is heard the sound
Of rustic music, of that cherish'd song
The Switzer loves; whose every note is fraught
With thoughts of love, youth, home, and happiness.

II.

Raised on a rock, which overlooks the vale,
Like to it's guardian power, a ruin stands;
It is o'ergrown with ivy, and the walls,
Mouldering around, are grey with aged moss.
There is yet left one melancholy hall—
The roof is riven, and the big rain drops beat
Upon the weed-grown floor; and sun-beams fall,
Almost in mockery, for they are fraught
With too much happiness for scenes like this.
It has no tapestry but the spider's web;
No music save the skreech owl's fearful cry,
And the bat's noisy flight, or when the wind
Howls thro' it drearily, as 'twere a dirge
Mourning it's fallen fortunes. Ask it's fate
Of those who dwell around, and they will tell
The wild romantic tales of other days—
Remembrances that linger like the tints
Of evening blushes 'neath the veil of night.
Such is the tale of which my lyre would tell,
(Unskill'd and plaintive are the notes it breathes,)
I scarce may hope to catch one echo'd sound,
One murmur of the strain I love so well.
My wreath, if wreath at all my harp may claim,
Will be of simplest field-flowers. Oh! belov'd
Inspirer of thy youthful minstrel's dream,
How dear the meed of fame would be to me!
For thou must see it, and thy hand would give
The brightest blossom that could sparkle there.
Thine was the earliest smile that ever shed
Its cheering light on my young laurel's growth.
Tho' other praise be dear (where is the bard,
To whom the voice of flattery is not sweet?)
Yet never, never can approval's smile
Be half so treasur'd, half so priz'd as thine.

III.

It was a night of gloom; strange shadowy forms
Rode on the dreary wind, which hoarsely blew
A prelude to the tempest's gathering.
Darkness was on the sky, and murky shades
Obscur'd the brightness of the rising moon,
Which, struggling, threw at times a silvery smile,
Soon disappearing, and rebellious clouds
Crowded around and mock'd their gentle queen;
The stars were hidden; one, and one alone,
Shed o'er the west her solitary ray;
And well that one might linger;—it had been,
In days which have a hallow'd memory,
The star peculiar to the smiling pow'r
Of love and beauty: never more than now
Could it seem Woman's emblem; so her light
Should shine 'mid darkness, and her loveliness
Cheer the dull hour of gloom:—e'en that is past,
A cloud like death came over it, and quench'd
Its tender beam; at once the storm pour'd forth
Its cup of fury, and the blasts arose,
Sweeping among the mountains with a sound
Of anger and of anguish, laughter, groans,
And shrieks as if of torture, and deep sobs
Mingled together; and at times the voice
Of thunder spake in wrath; and crashing woods,
Fierce gusts, and echoing caves, dread answers gave.
The Spirit of the lightning fiercely roll'd
His eyes of fire athwart the sky, and rent
The veil of blackness with his burning glance.
Dark lower'd the fearful night, but onwards still
The traveller urg'd his course; there was no light
To point the gloomy path, save when a flash
Glar'd its blue flame around. The wood is past,
And he has gain'd the steep ascent which leads
To Ethlin's Castle.—He has entered now;—
'Tis a young warrior, and his bosom wears
The red-cross. Instant cries of joy arise,
And words of greeting; one to meet him sprang,
And clasp'd him in her arms, while his warm cheek
Was wet with her sweet tears of tenderness—
My brother! oh, my brother! welcome home.
She started back, half sorrow half surprise,
From his averted clasp, and on him gaz'd
Almost reproachfully; and then her glance
Fell on a stranger's form: she turn'd and hid
Her gathering blushes in her father's arms.
The stranger spoke no word, but gave an urn
Unto that venerable chieftain's hand.
It told its tale too well; the dear, the lost,
For whom their lips yet trembled with the words
Of fond affection hailing his return,
He was gone from them, and the gates of death
Had clos'd for ever on their earthly love.

IV.

Most heavily this blight fell on the heart
Of Ethlin's Lord. Ernest had been his pride;
On whom each bosom hope had built its throne;
With what proud joy the warrior sire had mark'd
The promise of his boyhood, when a child,
A very infant in his nurse's arms,
His eye would sparkle at the trumpet's voice,
And his young cheek grow red, when tales were told
Of glorious battle and heroic deeds!
It came, the wish'd-for time, and Ernest took
His father's sword, and sought the fields of war.
When Europe pour'd her thousands on the East,
That sword was claim'd by no unworthy hand:
Again it flash'd the reddest in the fight—
It was a hero's still! But all too soon;
Cropt in his spring of glory, Ernest fell.—
In that lone moment, when all earthly ties
More fond, more holy, twine around the heart,
He thought upon his home; and in that thought
There was a chill more terrible than death.
He gaz'd upon the chief, who knelt beside,
And cool'd his burning lips with the fresh spring,
And held his dying brow—“Orlando, we
Together sought these fatal plains, and still
Our course has been together, and our swords
Have been as one: oh! by thy love for me,
And by thy faith, let not my ashes mix
With this accursed earth; but let them rest
Their last sad sleep in my own Switzerland!
My spirit would not slumber in a grave,
On which a father's blessing was not breath'd—
That was not moisten'd by my sister's tears.
Orlando, thou wilt tell them, that my death
Was such as well became a hero's child!”

V.

How precious is the memory of those
Who slumber in the tomb! their lightest word
And look is then recall'd, and hallowed
As tender relics love had left behind—
Sweet but sad treasures! ah, how dear the thought
Which dwells on those departed; when the heart
Beats quick with fond reflections, and the worth,
The praise of those gone to their silent sleep,
Comes like a healing balm to sorrow's wound.
Most soothing was it to the father's grief
To hear how gloriously his Ernest fell;
Still would he ask Orlando of the fields
Which they had fought together; and the tale,
Tho' often told, was sweet unto his ear,
As the blithe peal, that tells the traveller,
Wayworn and faint, a refuge is at hand.—
And there was one who listened to the tale,
And treasur'd ev'ry word Orlando breathed.
Young Adelaide, those accents are to thee
As sounds of heav'nly music, which no time
Or change can ever banish from the heart!

VI.

VIII.

[_]

There is no part numbered VII in the source text.

They wander'd thro' a scene, where every spot
Was trac'd with some soft record of the heart;
Where the eye could not glance, but it must gaze
On some memorial of their happiness.
Here wing'd with pleasure moments fled, as in
A magic circle, where hours past, but left
No sorrow for their loss—perish'd like flowers
Dying in odours, while fresh blooms succeed:
But these were dreams of blessedness departed;
And the long lingering looks they now were giving,
Perchance would be their last. Another day,
And, Adelaide, thy love will be afar.
The arm now round thee thrown so tenderly,
Will be the reddest in the ranks of death;
That voice, that sinks so sweetly on thy ear,
Low murmuring the gentle tones of love,
Will swell the war cry, and breathe loud defiance!

IX.

It was a night of summer's mildest reign—
Calm, lonely sweetness! scarce the breeze had pow'r
To waft the fragrant sighs born with the dew;
It did not stir a leaf, nor wake a sound;
But all was quiet as an infant's sleep,
Save when the distant waterfall was heard,
Like airy notes of fairy minstrelsy.
'Twas a fair scene! beside them flowers bloom'd
Such as the earth puts forth to grace the step
Of a celestial visitant: the turf
Gleam'd with the diamond dew; and over head,
The half-form'd crescent of the young moon smil'd
On the blue ocean of the starry heaven;
A few light clouds were wandering around,
Still varying like love's dear uncertainty!
Now flowing gracefully, like beauty's veil,
Now as the frothing waves upon the sea,
And ever, as like snow they scatter'd round,
Gleam'd forth the glorious stars. At distance seen,
The ice-clad mountains rose magnificent,
Like marble palaces that Rome once rear'd
In her now long-past days of mightiness.
Girdling them in dark woods the black pines waved;
O'er them the night had thrown her deepest shrowd;
Gloom, where the moon had wasted her sweet smiles;
Shades that she might not pierce, where brightness fell
Vainly, as soothing words upon despair.

X.

They linger'd there, Orlando and his love,
His fair betrothed bride; each step was link'd
With some associate sweetness, and recall'd
Some thought that love had hallow'd. Love will shed
His magic hues, where'er his pinions find
A resting place; the wilderness will smile,
And blossom like a rose, if he be there.
They reach'd a shadowy alcove, where oft
Th' unconscious hours had past unmark'd away.
It was in young affection's earliest day
They rais'd the fragrant temple, and then said—
No flower should ever deck their fav'rite haunt,
That was not hallow'd by the minstrel's song,
Or fancy could not paint some tender thought.
They rear'd it 'neath a pine which long had braved
The perilous bursting of the winter's storm;
The stem was yet unbent, but it was scath'd
By the red lightning; and the tempest's wing
Had past it, withering like adversity:
A white rose gracefully around it twin'd,
Cheering its ruin, and united still
Even amid decay, like faithful love,
Clinging more closely to the wounded spirit.
Around were brightest flowers; the myrtle flung
Its snowy buds—a wreath for constancy;
The young moss-rose threw from its vermil cheek,
The green veil, fresh and beautiful as those
That caught their warm carnation from the lips
Of Venus, when she kiss'd their fragrant leaves;
Fraught with cerulean hues, the violet
Half-open'd, timidly, its fair blue eyes;
Close by it's side, the lily pensively
Bow'd down its languid head, pale as the cheek
Faded by sorrow. There the hyacinth bloom'd
With liveliest colours; some like rubies glow'd,
Some bright with tyrian purple; others wore
The melting azure of a summer sky;
Some white and stainless, others ting'd with red,
Like the last warmth of a departing blush.—
Here had they come to watch the earliest smile
Of morning dimple into roseate light;
Here breezes, which had bath'd their burning wings
In streams, whose birth-place is amid the clouds,
Breath'd mountain freshness o'er the sultry noon;
Eve found them here listing her vesper song,
And stars had been the lamps to light their bowers.
And oft at that sweet solitary time
Would young Orlando listen to the voice
Of her he lov'd, soft as the moonlight song
The fabled Syren breath'd; and at his praise
A blush like day-break, and a smile, would play
Upon her cheek—the heart's own eloquence.

XI.

It was the hour of parting, and they breath'd
Those vows of tender constancy,—the hopes,
The fears, the fond regrets that crowd the time
Of love's farewell. Hope, for what joy can thrill
The maiden's bosom with such throb of bliss,
As when, returning from the fields of death,
The warrior comes in all the pride of fame,
And seeks his dearest trophy in her smile!
Fear, for what heart but sickens at the thought
Of danger darkening round some cherish'd being!
A few short hurried vows of changeless faith,
And their farewell was taken silently.
That sorrow is not much, which seeks for words
To image forth its grief. Methinks adieu
Is cold, when uttered with aught else but tears.

XII.

'Tis the bright hour of noon; the sun looks forth
In all his splendour, o'er the stirring scene
Of thousands rushing onward to the strife.
They come in armed ranks, and spear and shield
Are glistening in the ray. How beautiful,
How glorious, and how glad they move to death!
The very banners sweep as they were proud
To spread their crimson foldings to the air.
Here the young warrior curbs his foaming steed,
Impatient for his first of fields; and here
The toil-worn veteran, with his locks of age,
White as the war-plume waving o'er his helm,
Pants for the bursting of the battle storm.—
How bright, how envied, is the warrior's fate!
For him will glory bind her choicest wreaths
Of fadeless laurels;—his the stormy joy,
Which the brave spirit feels at honour's call,
When the bard wakes his proudest minstrelsy:
(And what can thrill the harp like warlike theme?)
His deeds will be remembered, and his name
Will live for ever in the breath of song:
Love's fairest roses 'neath the laurel grow,
And woman's fondest sigh is for the brave.

XIII.

XIV.

Thus far my song hath reach'd again to thee,
With whom my strain began: say, will thy smile
Beam on my harp, like sunshine upon flowers,
Depriv'd of which they die? Oh! if one note
Can boast of sweetness, 'tis from thee 'twas caught.
Enough, enough! whate'er my fate may be,
That song is transport, that wins praise from thee.

CANTO II.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

THE FAREWELL.

Farewell! companion of my solitude!
Light of my loneliness, my heart's desire;
Spirit, that wander'd o'er the soft harp's strings,
Farewell! awhile I wake me from thy dream;
Fondly farewell, adored one! to thee.—
Rose of my soul! beside the social hearth
Was thy first springing up; thy ev'ry shoot
Was brighten'd in the smile of those most dear:
Affection was thy sunlight and thy dew.
And when thy bloom was lonely, when no more
The eyes I lov'd watch'd o'er thy growth, thou wert
The blest memorial of those far away—
Thy blossoms breath'd of happiness and home.
What joy to think, perchance some future day,
Those looks would dwell on thee again, and greet
The buds expanding, and thy new sprung leaves!
Thou, Poetry, in absence wert a chain,
Binding our hearts together: where so well
As in thy numbers, could I pour my soul,
In soothing tenderness? 'twas bliss, to make
Thought visible to those of whom I thought.
Now that enchantment over, thy slight bark
Adventures in a wide and perilous sea;
Dark are the waves around thy fragile skiff;
Unskilful is the hand which pilots thee;
And few have ever reach'd thy destin'd shore.
I part from thee, as I should part from one
Whom I may wish, not hope, to see again.
Fondly, and fearfully, farewell to thee,
Sweet sojourner, so long my bosom guest!
Perhaps a long, perhaps a last farewell!

LINES TO ---

[Think of me, and I'll tell thee when]

FRAGMENT.

[Love thee! yes, yes! the storms that rend aside]

Love thee! yes, yes! the storms that rend aside
All other ties will but entwine my heart
More closely, more devotedly to thine.
Love thee!—but that I know how heavily
Sorrow hath press'd thy generous spirit down,
I should almost reproach thee for the doubt!
I have no thought, that does not dwell on thee;
No hope, in which thou minglest not; no wish,
In which thou bearest no part; my orisons
To heaven, begin and end with thy dear name:
My fate is link'd with thine—I did not plight
My vows to thee for a mere summer day,
But still to be unchang'd; it was most sweet
To share thy sunlight of prosperity,
Thine hours of brightness; now I only ask
To share thy sorrow, and to be to thee
All tenderness, and love, and constancy—
A feeling, lighting up thy desolate heart;
A fountain springing in the wilderness;
Or as the breeze upon the fever'd brow,
Soothing the pain it may not chase away.

ABSENCE.

[“And all the fix'd delights of house and home—]

CURTIUS.

There is a multitude, in number like
The waves of the wide ocean; and as still
As are those waters, when the summer breeze
Sleeps on the moveless billow; there is awe
On every countenance; and each does stand
In gasping breathlessness, as terror chain'd
The life pulse down; or, as they deem'd, a sound
Might call down new destruction on their heads.—
The sun look'd smiling from his clear blue throne,
And nature seem'd to gladden in the ray;
When suddenly a cloud came over heaven,
A black and terrible shadow, as the gloom
Of the destroying angel's form; the wind
Swept past with hollow murmur; and the birds
Ceasing their song of joyfulness, with mute,
And quick, and tremulous flight, for shelter sought!
Fear was on every living thing: the earth
Trembled as she presag'd some coming ill;
The voice of thunder spake; and in the midst
Of that proud city, in the midst of Rome,
The ground was riven in twain; and in the spot,
Where human steps had but so lately been,
There yawn'd a fearful gulf, dark as the powers
Of hell were gather'd there—no eye might scan
That fathomless abyss; the augur's voice
Hath told the will of heaven—nought may close
That gulf of terror, till it is the grave
Of all Rome holds most precious. Then came forth
A youthful warrior—“What is dear to Rome,
But patriot valour? Ye infernal Gods,
Who now look wrathful from your deep abodes,
Behold your ready sacrifice!” He comes,
Arm'd as for battle, save no plumed helm
His black hair presses: he is on the steed
Which has so often borne him to the field.—
Young Curtius came, but with a brow as firm,
And cheek unchang'd, as he was wont to wear,
When he essay'd the glorious strife of men;
Pride glanced upon his eye—but pride that seem'd
As a remembrance of the higher state
In which aspiring spirits move; whose thoughts
Of avarice, indolence, and selfish care,
The chains of meaner ones, have given way
Before the mighty fire of the high soul—
Whose hope is immortality, whose steps
Are steps of flame, on which the many gaze,
But dare not follow. He one moment paus'd,
And cast a farewell look on all around.
How beautiful must be the sky above,
And fair the earth beneath, to him who gives
A lingering look, and knows it is his last!—
Then onward urg'd his courser.—Hark! a voice,
A wild shriek rings upon the air: he turn'd,
And his glance fell on her, his own dear love.
She rush'd upon his bosom silently,
As if her life were in that last embrace.
All was so still around, that every sob,
And the heart's throb of agony, were heard.
He clasp'd her, without power to soothe her grief,
But press'd her coral lip—did never flower
Yield fresher incense forth!—and kiss'd away
The tears on her pale cheek, then on her gaz'd.—
All his deep feeling, anguish, high resolves,
And love intense, were in that passionate glance.
He clasp'd her wildly, and his dark eye swam
In tenderness; but he has nerv'd his soul—
He has spurr'd on—and the dread gulf is clos'd!

Sketch of a Painting of Santa Malvidera, escaped miraculously from Shipwreck.

She knelt upon the rock; her graceful arms
Were rais'd to heaven, in attitude of prayer:
You might have gaz'd on those half-opened lips,
And deem'd you listen'd to their silvery tones.
Sweet tears were trembling in her fair blue eyes,
Like drops that linger on the violet—
The glistening relics of a summer shower:
They were the tears of pious gratitude;
And hope, like sunshine, brighten'd thro' their dew.
She look'd all stainless purity; her glance
Spoke of unearthly things, and of a soul
Already mingled with its native skies:
She knelt on the cold rock, while the rude waves
Dash'd o'er her slender form their foam; around
Was a drear solitude, where the dark cliffs
Frown'd o'er the sea; and the black shadowy clouds,
Gathering their sullen masses, seem'd to be
The tempests' dwelling place. Yet that young saint
Pray'd fearlessly; she felt, the guardian hand,
So late stretch'd forth to save in peril's hour,
Would not desert her now.

SONNET.

[Green willow! over whom the perilous blast]

Green willow! over whom the perilous blast
Is sweeping roughly; thou dost seem to me
The patient image of humility,
Waiting in meekness till the storm be pass'd,
Assured an hour of peace will come at last;
That there will be for thee a calm bright day,
When the dark clouds are gathered away.
How canst thou ever sorrow's emblem be?
Rather I deem thy slight and fragile form,
In mild endurance bending gracefully,
Is like the wounded heart, which, 'mid the storm,
Looks for the promis'd time which is to be,
In pious confidence. Thou shouldest wave
Thy branches o'er the lowly martyr's grave.

SONNET.

[It is not in the day of revelry]

It is not in the day of revelry,
When that the cup of joy is bright and sweet,
And the fresh blossoms spring beneath our feet,
That we reflect on that, where yet must be
Our rock of hope and trust—eternity.
But let the weeds of care, the thorns of strife,
Rise in their darkness o'er our path of life;
Then the pale mourner looks beyond the tomb.
There are some flowers, whose breathings of perfume
Are shed in the night season; so the heart
Yields forth the fragrance of its better part,
When sinks its summer sunlight into gloom:
Most holy in the shadowy hour is given
The soul's best incense, which springs up to heaven.

STANZAS.

[I do not weep that thou art laid]

I do not weep that thou art laid
Within the silent tomb;
I weep not that the cold death-shade
Hath marr'd thy youth's sweet bloom.
'Tis with no wish to wake thy sleep
These tears thy grave bedew;
Ah, no!—ah, no! I only weep
I am not sleeping too.
What is my life, but a vain show,
Of its last hope bereft?
What spell can soothe the soul of woe,
That has but memory left?
How dear, how very dear thou art,
These bitter drops may tell;—
Sole treasure of my lonely heart,
A long and sad farewell!

THE VILLAGE OF THE LEPERS.

[Taken from the Account in the Literary Gazette.]

There was a curse on the unhappy race—
They dwelt apart from all their fellow men—
Sad weary solitude! and every eye
Was turn'd away in loathing. I did pass
Thro' their lone village: silence brooded round,
And misery had set her withering stamp
On every brow; rayless and dim each eye,
And a wan sickly hue was on each face:
They had a look of hopeless wretchedness.
To them the voice of kindness was a sound
Unheard, unwish'd for; no one came to soothe
Their days of bitterness; prescribed, and left
Alone, to struggle with despair and pain:
Riven asunder all the blessed ties
Which are the hope and happiness of life;
Polluted, desolate, the cup of wrath
Had pour'd its utmost fury on their heads.
And there was one, whose image long hath dwelt,
Like to a thought of sorrow on my soul:
She had been beautiful, but now her cheek
Was deadly pale; and from her parched lip
The rose had fled, and left it colourless;
And in her eye, one same expression dwelt,
Of heartless, comfortless despondency!
Her brow was care-worn, blighted by the scathe
Of fell disease, which had destroy'd her prime,
And wither'd youth, when youth is loveliest.
She turn'd her from my look—the curious gaze,
To sorrow is a piercing mockery.

LINES ON ---

[I saw thy cheek when 'twas fresh as spring]

FRAGMENT.

[It is not spring, but still the new-come year]

It is not spring, but still the new-come year
Bears on its softened brow sweet promises
Of soon returning smiles;—twilight again
Claims her soft reign of one delicious hour;
When the red sunset, fading from above,
Leaves on the west an arch of silvery light—
A fairy garden for the evening star
Ere yet the other glorious lamps of heaven
Look on her vesper solitude; or ere
The moon has risen o'er yon shadowy hills.
The hazel flings its yellow blossomings,
And some green traces of expected May
Are venturing to show forth; tho' not as yet
The violet or primrose have awak'd,
Or the wild rose blush'd faintly into bud;
Only the languid snow-drop now is seen—
A melancholy harbinger of joy,
Whose delicate beauty is but for a day,
To welcome in the spring, and then to die.
And by it is the deadly aconite—
To look upon, a pale and innocent flower—
Alas! that even in this first fair gift,
This early wreath, there should the poison lurk!
But it is thus with every loveliness:
Either so frail, its life is but a breath,
Or else some bitterness grows by its side.

PORTRAIT.

I gaz'd admiringly upon his face;
Th' etherial fire, that kindles from the heart
Of inspiration, lighted up his brow.
There was a wild expression in his eye,
A brilliancy, a deep impassion'd glance,
Which look'd as it had gaz'd on glorious dreams,
And strange and beautiful imaginings,
Until it had reflected back their splendour,
As it communion held with the young storm,
Rolling its gather'd darkness o'er the sky;
And watch'd the golden palace, which the sun
Uprears at eve, of crimson clouds, and all
The earth's magnificence, until his soul
Grew ràptured with the wonders it beheld,
And fill'd his eyes with an unearthly light—
A radiance too intense, but that the veil
Of the dark lash, softened its glowing ray.
It was a glance, that dwells upon the thought,
And bids us look for some excelling being
Fraught with rare gifts of the immortal mind.

TO ---

[Oh! say not, that I love not nature's face]

Oh! say not, that I love not nature's face,
And that I cannot know her beauty's power!
Pleasure is unto me a lonely thing:
Deep sorrow, or rapt joy, I cannot feel,
But in still solitude: I may not brook
Another's eye should mark my secret thoughts.
Since the first hour that tears or smiles were mine,
I never sought communion in my grief,
And none could share my silent happiness.
If thou would'st know how I do love to gaze
On nature's face, spring from thy sleepless couch,
And mark the moonlight, when no one may see
Thy deep emotion, and no idle word
Of heartless praise disturb thy soul-felt spell;
Gaze on the stars, till thou dost deem the gale
That murmurs by is music from the spheres,
No taint of earth upon thy dream of heaven;
Watch the bright farewell of the sun, when he
Seeks the white bosom of his ocean-love.
Look on those glorious tints, till thou dost wish
Thou wert a beautiful shadow like to them—
A transitory, but a brilliant thing,
Born amid glory, past away in light;
Ah! then, indeed, nature has magic charms,
And I do love to dwell upon them then.

CORINNA.

She stood alone; but on her every eye
Dwelt in mute ravishment; her long black hair
Flew loose upon the gale, but half confin'd
By the light veil and wreathes of braided rose,
Shading her bosom's matchless ivory,
And fell upon the lyre, like hyacinths
Twin'd fancifully round; a pensive shade
Was on the brightness of her deep blue eyes,
Where the sweet tenderness of woman's glance
Softened the minstrel's fire that sparkled there.—
The song arose; it was just such a strain
The soft Erato wakes, when she would sing
Of loveliness, and love by sorrow shaded;
Her voice (the Syren's is not sweeter, when
She breathes her music to calm moonlight seas,)
Was fraught with tender feelings, and called forth
An answering harmony within the heart;
And even when it ceas'd, the list'ner's ear,
Thrill'd with its wild and witching melody.
She stood, like some fair creature of the skies,
In mild unconscious beauty, and her eyes
Sunk to their timid station on the ground:
Her cheek was delicately pale; but when
They placed the laurel crown upon her brow,
Her face was mantled by a burning blush,
Bright, beautiful, like summer's glowing eve,
Such as young Psyche wore, when Love first taught
His own sweet language.

SLEEPING CHILD.

How innocent, how beautiful thy sleep!
Sweet one, 'tis peace and joy to gaze on thee!
Thy summer sports, thy cloudless gaiety,
Are hush'd in slumber; but there lingers still
A smile upon thy lips, like the young day,
Flinging its sunlight o'er the half-blown rose;
Thy laughing eyes are clos'd, while the dark lash
Rests on thy dimpled cheek, where health has shed
Its liveliest carnation; unconfin'd,
Like golden clusters, shadowing thy face,
Thy chesnut curls twine round thy little arm,
Half hidden by the violets, which breathe
Their fragrance o'er thy head; thy snowy brow
Is clear and open as a shadeless sky:
There are no records there to tell of griefs,
That came like blights in spring, or winter storms
Of tortured feelings, withering cares and joys,
Whose end was bitterness; but here are found
Pure innocence and love, and happiness.

LINES ADDRESSED TO COLONEL H---,

ON HIS RETURN FROM WATERLOO.

Who envies not the glory of the brave!
The sunshine of their fame—their laurell'd grave!
Theirs is the memory of afterlight;
Theirs is a brightness 'mid oblivion's night:
Time whelms the many with eternal gloom,
But sheds fresh honours on the heros' tomb.
In life, they move not with the common throng,
To them the nobler heights of fame belong;
Each heart admires, each lip is warm with praise;
Each hand would weave the victor-chieftain's bays.
Warrior, this praise is thine! but there will be
A purer, holier, dearer mead for thee:
Thine was the arm that stopp'd the destin'd blow,
And spar'd the triumph of a fallen foe.
The wreath that valour's deeds must gain is bright—
But its chief lustre flows from mercy's light.

LOVE's PARTING WREATH.

ANSWER.

[The wreath you gave me, love, is dead]

DIRGE.

Oh, calm be thy slumbers!
The cypress shall wave,
The harp pour its numbers
Of grief o'er thy grave.
I'll scatter each blossom
Upon thy cold stone:
The rose's white bosom,
Pure, fair, as thine own;
The violet glowing,
Blue, like to thine eyes;
The jessamine, throwing
Its sweets, like thy sighs.
Like thee, they'll be gather'd
All fresh in their prime;
Like thee, they'll be wither'd
Before it is time:
The flowers we strew o'er thee,
Will fade like thy bloom;
Like the hearts that adore thee,
They'll die on thy tomb!

SONNET.

[I envy not the traveller's delight]

I envy not the traveller's delight,
When he looks on Italia's loveliness,
Or the Swiss mountains rise before his sight;
The view to me would be but loneliness,
Remembering me that I was far away
(Like to a leaf, borne from its natural spray)
From my own dwelling. It does seem most strange,
What happiness it can be thus to range:
Let others roam this world of wonders through—
Theirs be each beauty of the earth and sea;
The flower gemm'd green, the narrow arch of blue,
Around my home, will be enough for me.
I cannot envy him, whose footsteps rove
At distance from the dear ones of his love.

ABSENCE.

[Oh! never can we feel how dear]

A LOVER's DREAM.

THE PHŒNIX AND THE DOVE.

My wings are bright with the rainbow's dyes,
My birth is amid perfume;
My death-song is music's sweetest sighs;
The sun himself lights my tomb.
My flight is traced in the clouds above;
The grave teems with life for me;
I stand alone—Alone! cried the dove—
Oh, I then can but pity thee!

LOVE's CHOICE.

Too long the daring power of love
Had braved the angry gods above:
His doom is seal'd—the doom of heaven—
Love may not hope to be forgiven.
They took away his bow of gold,
And from his eyes the veil unroll'd;
His rose-wreathed quiver is unbound;
His sparkling darts bestrew the ground.
But Venus wept—can such sweet rain
From beauty's eyes e'er fall in vain?
Jove gaz'd on Cytherea's tear,
And own'd his sentence too severe.
“Well, let the boy one treasure keep;
The one he may most dearly prize,
That let him chuse.” Love ceas'd to weep,
And caught the veil that blinds his eyes.

THE STAR.

Oh! would I might share thy wild car,
Thou strange and magnificent star!
Thou scatterest thy fiery hair;
Thy steps they are bright on the air—
Behind thee a glorious light;
Streams o'er the dark bosom of night.
Where hast thou been? is the sun
Thy home, when thy journey is done?
Or art thou a wand'rer on high,
No rest for thee found in the sky?
Never again shall I gaze
On the gleam of thy wonderful rays.
Soon the hour of thy splendour is o'er;
I shall look on thy beauty no more:
Thou wilt pass thro' the infinite space—
No mortal thy pathway may trace.
There is mystery stamp'd on thy brow—
A marvel, a secret, art thou.
Oh! would that to me it were given,
To wander with thee thro' the heav'n.

STANZAS,

ADAPTED TO MUSIC BY---

My heart is as light as the gossamer veil,
That floats on the bosom of air;
It changes as oft as the varying sail—
Like a butterfly, roams without care.
Love, like a flower, is but fair for awhile;
Its freshness soon passes away;
To-morrow I'll seek in some newly-found smile,
The charm that delights me to day.
That cup may be sweetest which deepest is drunk;
Be it mine but the surface to sip:
When once from the top the bright bubbles have sunk,
Oh! then let it pass from my lip!
That love may be blissful, whose roses can bind
For ever the heart to its shrine;
But as well you might chain the light wings of the wind,
As throw fetters for long over mine.
Thus gaily I'll rove, o'er the blossoms of love,
Just catching their sweets as I fly;
As the zephyr, that transiently bends from above
A fresh flower for every sigh.

ANSWER TO---

[Twine not the cypress round my harp—]

CASTLE BUILDING.

FABLE.

Four souls, that on earth had just yielded their breath,
Were by Mercury led to the regions of death:
A father, who left wife and children behind,
A hero, a poet, their honours resign'd;
A maiden, to whom the cold death-warrant came
At the critical moment of changing her name.
Oh, love! cried the fair, I less mourn for my doom,
Than for the dear youth who now weeps o'er my tomb;
For soon will his ashes, commingled with mine,
Seal vows, so oft plighted, at constancy's shrine.
Alas! quoth the sire, at this moment I see
My wife and my children lamenting for me;
The thought of their sorrow's despair to my soul;
May heaven, in pity, their anguish console!
And what is their grief, pray?—the hero replied;
What are you?—a poor pitiful ghost by my side.
From the north frozen desert, to Africa's sands,
Unrivall'd my name crown'd with victory stands.
Who is there on earth, whose presumption dares claim
A glory like mine, in the annals of fame?
I dare! said the poet; oh! ever will bloom,
The justly gain'd laurels that twine round my tomb:
The trophies I've won are more durable far,
Than the splendour which glitters round victory's car;
Long ages to come, will remember my strain;
Oh! when will a harp, like to mine, wake again!
Indeed, cried the god, I half grieve to dispel
Illusions, which now seem to please you so well;
But know, my fair maiden, your well belov'd youth
Has wedded another,—great proof of his truth:
And, father, instead of regretting your fate,
Your children, at law squabble for your estate;
Your wife seems to think you no very great loss,
For, as you grew old, you grew stingy and cross.
And, general, already your laurels decay—
Fresh wreaths are adorning the chief of the day:
And you, my fine poet, who thought that the earth
To another such minstrel could never give birth,
Already your works are all thrown on the shelf,
And their author condemn'd as an ignorant elf.—
Yes; look thro' the world, and this truth you will find—
That, once out of sight, you are soon out of mind.

SKETCH OF SCENERY.

It was a little glen, which, like a thing
Cherish'd in secret, as a treasure hid
From all the world, lay bosom'd in those heights;
'Twas such a spot, as in all ages men
Have sacred held: the Greek had said, it was
Some fabled wood-nymph's favourite dwelling place;
And former minstrels of our isle had deem'd,
The fairies chose it for their moonlight haunt:
Fed by a mountain rill, which softly fell—
Quiet, like patient tears, a fountain rose.
In spring, the violet and primrose breathed
Their sighs upon the banks; for tho' the flowers
Had pass'd away, the green leaves spread around,
'Mid the soft turf;—but tho' the scented race
Of April blooms were gone, yet there were still
Bright odourous blossoms: there the pale pink heath
Grew in its delicate beauty; and the blue
Of the fair harebell seem'd as it had caught
Its azure from the wave. You might not gaze
At distance round, for lofty trees uprose,
And rocky summits clos'd it in. The noon
Had here no power; it was most sweet to lean,
In the hot summer hours, upon that bank,
And watch the sun beams o'er the waters play,
Just where they left the hill side and came down,
In a light diamond shower, silently,
Yourself in shade the while; for o'er that rill
An ancient beech spread its deep canopy:
Some one had planted there a pale white rose;
And the wild ones sweetly blush'd beside, and twin'd
Around the lovely stranger, as they would
Give it kind welcome. Never more my steps
Will wander in thy solitude, lone glen!
I shall not list again the serenade
The wood lark pours unto the eve; or wish,
When that I saw a green leaf float along
Upon the sunny waters of thy stream,
That such might be the fate of those I lov'd—
A bright untroubled course; and when the gale,
Too rudely breathing, whirl'd the leaf away,
Bethink me of how very vain my wish.
It is not grief, to say farewell to thee,
Valley of beauty! even in thy shades
I felt as exiles feel, when far from those
With whom their heart's love dwells: I have oft look'd
Upon the clouds, and envied them the wind
That bore them on. All lovely as thou art,
'Tis joy to think, that when to-morrow's sun
Shall sink amid those woods, my anxious eye
Will gaze on scenes most precious to my soul,
That have so long been memory's resting place,
Where every hope of happiness is shrin'd.

LINES TO ---

[No, no! thou hast broken the spell that entwin'd me—]

LINES ADDRESSED TO MISS BISSET.

Came it not like enchantment on the soul,
Chaining the very life pulse with delight!
Each feeling lost in one delicious dream,
All hush'd in that deep harmony. If yet
This earth can boast a trace of Paradise,
One relic of its former state, 'tis that
Which yet survives in music's hallow'd sigh.
If ever that sweet spirit, whose rich breath,
Is on the evening gale which murmurs by,
Fraught with the nightingale and wood lark's song,
Or wafting from the moonlight waves soft notes
Of airy melody from the wind wak'd shells
In the blue waters of the sea, ere gave
His power, his magic power, to human hand,
He gifted thee! Thine every witching tone,
In which the soul of music lives; light sounds,
Sweet as a lover's serenade, or wild
As minstrelsy that thrills a minstrel's dream,
Or the deep swell of inspiration's glow—
All are thine own, Cecilia of our isle!

FRAGMENT.

[I saw her amid pleasure's gayest haunts—]

I saw her amid pleasure's gayest haunts—
Her black hair bound with roses, which grew pale
By the vermilion of the cheek's rich dye;
And when she mov'd, those ebon tresses wav'd
Upon the air, as love's wing had just past
And fann'd them: such a lip of sweets and smiles
Young Hebe wore, when treading 'mid the stars,
Herself a fairer one, she held the cup
Of sparkling nectar. She was, 'mid the gay,
The gayest of the throng; in her dark eye,
Where soul and softness mingled, there was mirth,
Gleaming like light from the long shadowy lash,
Which on it hung like night—but such a night
As when the moon look'd forth in loveliness.
She mov'd amid the dance, light as the wind,
At which the tremulous aspen scarcely bends.
Beautiful girl! ah, who that saw thee there—
Joy in thy steps, and smiles upon thy brow,
Thy cheek so warm with life and gaiety—
Could deem those smiles, those blushes were thy last!
Pass but a little moment, and those eyes
Would close in endless sleep! that even now
The hand of death is on thee!—
There is the wreath she wore; the roses yet
Retain a breath of sweetness; but the brow
Round which they twin'd, is low in the cold grave!

LINES.

[She kneels by the grave where her lover sleeps]

THE STORM.

There was a vessel combating the waves,
Like one who struggles with adversity:
The sea has wash'd her decks, and the wet sails
Hang droopingly; by the blue lightning's flash—
Light horrible and strange—there might be seen
All shapes of wild despair; the clasped hands,
Rais'd in scarce-conscious prayer, the cold white lip,
The stern fix'd brow, which braves the death that yet
The fainting pulses tremble at; and sounds
Of sobs suppress'd, and mutter'd words, were heard,
When the winds sank in low and solemn wail—
A breathing space of terror, but to rouse
More fearfully. That tempest had swept o'er
The awaken'd deep so suddenly, it seem'd
As some unholy spell had call'd it forth—
Summon'd, unthought of, from its secret home.
Lost in the fair blue sky, where scarce a cloud
Was seen, save those that threw their rosy wreaths
Upon the west, to hail the approaching sun,
Like flowers strewn upon the conqueror's way.
The ocean hush'd in beautiful repose,
Seem'd fitting mirror for the pale young moon,
And the soft light of the sweet evening star.
Sailing in majesty and loveliness,
The vessel cut the waters, which did seem
To pay her homage, as unto their queen;
And far in the horizon was a speck,
Scarce visible, but watch'd as anxiously
As would a mother watch the first faint tinge
Of health revisiting her child's wan cheek,
Where every thought and hope had long time clung—
Light of the voyage drear—their native shore.
A sound breaks the still silence, and a cloud
Is gathering on the air: that sound is not
The tumult of the storm; and the dark roll
Of yon black volume, rising streak'd with fire,
Is not the tempest's dwelling;—'tis the breath,
The fiery breath of war; and man has dar'd
Profane the quiet of an hour like this!
Battle! destruction!—does the world contain
One spot, whereon your baneful taint is not?—
A thicker darkness gathers; 'tis not now
Alone the dense smoke curling; hark, yon roll!
Echoing the cannon, as in mockery.
The winds have burst their slumber, and are risen,
Like waken'd giants, wrathful at their rest.
The foes are sunder'd; there is many a cheek,
Late warm with pride of battle, pale and cold.
Came not the storm upon their warfare like
A sign, a fearful warning?—on it swept;
Foam crested the dark billows as they dash'd,
Like armed warriors rushing to the field
Upon the shore; and gleaming flashes rose,
As when the clashing weapons meet in war.
And still against the moveless rock, the sea
Led on her armies; and the howling winds
Pour'd their war-song in murmurs, fierce and loud,
As they did triumph in the desolate power
That urg'd them now. There was just light enough
To show the black clouds hung upon the sky,
Like ministers of vengeance; and the swell
Of the pil'd waters—that most fearful sight
Of human creatures perishing, with scarce
One moment's warning ere their doom is seal'd.
The lightnings rush'd, and that tost ship is seen
Rais'd on the mountain waves—another flash!
There are the angry billows—but no trace
Of living thing is seen.

TO SIR JOHN DOYLE, Bart.

My heart has beat high at the heroes of old,
As they live in those annals of fame,
Where the deeds of their glory are glowingly told,
When history has hallow'd their name.
It was pride, as I thought on those sunbeams of yore,
Like vessels of light on oblivion's dark seas,
To pass o'er those ages, and think my own shore
Had many, whose names would shine brightly as these.
Who has not proudly dwelt on those memories of light,
And felt them, like something that glorified earth?
Who has not exclaim'd, with a burst of delight—
'Tis my own native land which has given them birth!
Yes, warrior! 'tis only high spirits like thine,
That teach man the generous path he may tread;
The steps of the mighty are nature's best shrine,
Where the hopes of the young and aspiring are fed.
Yes, warrior! when young hearts shall pant for the praise,
Such praise as the praise of the valiant will be,
He will think of the splendour that brighten'd thy days;—
He will think of that splendour, and imitate thee.
Hail, honour and pride of the Emerald Isle!
How envied the mead that will ever be thine!
The laurel of fame, and humanity's smile,
To grace thee, shall always together combine.
The soldier, worn down by war's strife and turmoil,
No longer's left cheerless and friendless to roam;
For the rest of his age may be grateful to Doyle,
For the sweets of his hearth, and the peace of his home.

FRAGMENT.

[Is not this grove]

ADDRESSED TO ---

The bee, when varying flowers are nigh,
On many a sweet will careless dwell;
Just sips their dew, and then will fly
Again to its own cherish'd cell.
Thus, tho' my heart by fancy led,
A wanderer for awhile may be;
Yet, soon returning whence it fled,
Comes but more fondly back to thee.