Metrical essays :: :: University of Virginia Library

“The harp, whose angel tones beguiled
My soul to transport when a child!
The harp, that with unfailing truth,
Has been the solace of my youth!
And lent its seraph voice to bless
Those days of dream, of loneliness;
When in the silence of the wood,
When 'neath the mountain's hermit tree,
Or the cragged heath's wide solitude
That harp was all the world to me!”
Howitt.

I

Spirit of elder time! immortal Song!—
The high and the inspir'd have told thy worth;
Thou shedd'st around us, like the night's bright throng,
A ray of softness, gracefulness, and mirth:
Thou art, and hast been from thine earliest birth,
A charm with man's affections intertwined,—
A beauty and a glory upon earth,—
A power and a creation of the mind,
Which is itself divine, mysterious, undefined!

II

With the young minstrel, in his visioned moods,
Thou art a “visible presence;” thy decree
Throngs with majestic forms his solitudes;
His feelings, thoughts, receive their life from thee.
Spirit of Song! the melancholy sea
Gives up its ancient secrets to thy hand;
Thou speak'st the language of eternity;
Histories of long-lost years at thy command
Sound on the thousand tongues and echoes of the land!

III

Thou sing'st the sweetness of the morn's first hour,
When to the founts her loveliest tints are given;
Thou sing'st of love—in court, in hall, or bower;
Of those who with hard fate have nobly striven;
Thou sing'st of war—of helms and corslets riven—
Of the dread grandeur of the battle field;
Where flees the foe, by horse and horseman driven,
Flash the sharp brands the victors madly wield,
Red in the blood of all that strive or basely yield.

IV

Spirit of Verse! in deepest reverence
I bow before thine ever glorious shrine!
Thee I have loved with passion most intense;
And though I feel thy meeds can ne'er be mine,
Yet may I pour one low and gentle line,—
A breath of song:—I know it to be vain,
This cherished wish a living wreath to twine;
'Tis not for me such honour to attain:—
Some few may list, perhaps, and not condemn my strain.

AGRIGENTUM.

“This city was besieged by Hannibal, A. M. 3593. The besieged were so pressed by famine, that all hopes of relief seeming desperate, they resolved to abandon the city. The reader will naturally imagine to himself the grief with which these miserable people must be seized, on their being forced to leave their houses, rich possessions, and their country. But the most grievous circumstance was the necessity they were under of leaving the sick and aged, who were unable either to fly, or to make the least resistance.” Rollin.

I

The clash of war ran loud;
The sword of slaughter gleam'd;
But shriller from the starving crowd
The voice of anguish scream'd:
Many arose in haste to fly—
Then dropp'd upon the roads—to die!

II

Death stalked the streets each day,
And from his armed hand
Dealt the deep blow of agony,
Shriek'd—horror to the land!—
As in a frightful dream men stept—
Mothers look'd on their babes—and wept:

III

And there sat one yet young,
An old starv'd man her care;
Nor painter's hand, nor poet's tongue,
Ere pictur'd maid as fair:—
Each feature's grace—her curls' dark braid—
Seem'd by Love's self,—love's genius made.

IV

Beauteous she sat—while he
Bade her in flight to seek
Her safety, and the enemy
Not half the woe could wreak:
The thought would sooth his direst hour,
To know his child had 'scaped their power.

V

Then she would kiss his brow;
And to his calls to fly
Said, were the foe upon them now,
There were full time to die;
She would not leave his snow-white head
For foeman's rabble foot to tread.

VI

Next her young lover came:
The city walls were thrown;
And to escape from death—from shame—
One moment was their own:
That lost, then passed their only chance;
Each street would gleam with sword and lance.

VII

Think of their brutal hand,
A maiden thou—and fair—
Oh! haste thee—fly this ruin'd land,
For love and life elsewhere!
Her father gazed upon her face:—
She wept—but did not quit her place.

VIII

Father, I have a vow!—
Life seem'd almost to flee—
Go,—go dear youth—oh, leave me now—
I may not follow thee,
The Gods be with thee—plead no more—
Leave me—and seek some happier shore.

IX

He's gone—she's left alone—
Alone among the dead;
Her sire has breath'd his dying groan
In blessings on her head.
Her eyes dwell on one spot—there past
Her lover—there he gazed his last.

X

The deeply shrouded sun
Upon the vault appears;
Like hope—when every joy is gone,
Seen through the mist of years,
That ray we view when sorrows press,
Pointing to distant happiness.

XI

The red sun's light is there
In sombre radiance shed
Upon a slaughter'd maid—so fair,
You would not deem her dead;
One arm an aged man clasps round;—
Her life-blood weeps along the ground!

ALEXANDER THE GREAT.

“These are but few from many
Of life's chequer'd scenes; yet these
Are but as all,—pride, power, hope,
Then weakness, grief, disease.
Oh, glory of the morning!
Oh, ye gifted, young, and brave!
What end have ye, but midnight;
What find ye but the grave?”
L. E. L.

I

The bravest of the mighty dead!
That glorious name I sing,
Linked unto immortality,
As sunlight to the spring:
The name before which nations bow'd,
As though a God it owned;
The name on fame's bright page beheld
With hundred conquests 'throned!—

II

Thou heard'st it, gorgeous Babylon,
A spell it was of fear,
Dark and distasteful to thine eye;
And humbling to thine ear.
Thou heard'st it, O! Jerusalem,
And in thy quailing heart
There came that pulse of bitterness
With which 'tis bliss to part.

III

Vict'ry seem'd proud to grace his brow,
Fortune to lead his car,
His sword was light upon the land,
Upon the waves a star!
The earth bestowed her splendid wealth;
And the vast realm of seas
Gave up, as to her rightful lord,
Her golden argosies.

IV

Sad—silent—is the regal hall,
It's gardens of the rose
So beautiful, the eye might gaze
And never wish to close;—
The richest carpets woo the feet,
The banquet board is spread,
But he, alas! for whom they shine—
Their lord—their king—is dead!

V

Hear ye those sounds—loud as the storm
O'er the dark forest sweeps;
Wild as the giant cataract
From rock to valley leaps;
Hear ye those martial strains which swell
Like floods when thunders fall?—
It is the gathering of a host—
A monarch's funeral!

VI

It comes—that brave solemnity;

“The multitude of spectators in this solemnity is hardly credible; but they were drawn together as well by their veneration for the memory of Alexander, as by the magnificence of this funeral pomp, which had never been equalled in the world.“ Rollin.

And glorious 'tis to see
The flash of arms—the wave of plumes—
The silver panoply;
All rich accoutrements of war:—
The banners' stately fold,
The funeral car—the raven steeds—
The throne of burnish'd gold!

VII

Great Alexander! e'en of all,
Oe'r which his banners wave,
He hath—he cannot claim—but this,—
One narrow spot—his grave!
And is it thus the mightiest pass;
They, on whose lightest breath
Hundreds attend;—then, what is pride
'Fore its high master—Death?

VIII

A morning sunbeam on the lake,
Slave to each tyrant shade,
A bubble, only blown to burst,
A flower, ere night to fade.
The only things on which 'tis wise
To fix the heart and eye
Are deeds and words of nobleness,
For these shall never die!

THE ROSE.

“Go, lovely rose!
Tell her that wastes her time, and me,
That now she knows
When I resemble her to thee
How sweet and fair she seems to be!”
Waller.

The rose, the rose, is the poet's flower;
Grace of the garden, pride of the bower;
Its buds like the loveliest lips are bright,
'Tis born in beauty, 'tis nurs'd in light;
And a holy spell is around it flung,
A charm more sacred than minstrel has sung—
A nameless sweetness like melody's tone
In bosoms young Love has made all his own.
In the gay saloons, in the splendid halls,
Where the dance is led, where enchantment calls,
Beautiful rose, thy fragrance is there—
On the snowy breast, on the raven hair,

Where eyes are glancing like planets of night,
Where bosoms are throbbing with warm delight;
'Mid sparkling tresses, 'mid diamond wreaths,
Thy songs are flowing, thy witchery breathes,
While myriad lamps from each silver tower
Light beauty and love to thy gala hour.
The rose, the rose, on thy Syrian breath,
Is wafted a strain—'tis the lay of death;
Is floating a sigh, which the wild fates weave,
Which may break the heart, but cannot relieve;
On the ruin'd breast, on the marble brow,
With the dead thou art in the house of woe;
With the dead thou art—fit symbol to be
Of beauty's swift fate—her mortality!—
The rose, the rose, gems our bridal hours,
It's spirit is over love's moonlight bowers;
In the day of hope, in despair's broad gloom,
In the festive hall, in the cheerless tomb!

PAULUS ÆMILIUS.

[_]

(This, and many of the Poems contained in the volume originally appeared in The Literary Gazette.)

“—Æmilius then proceeded to Italy, carrying with him the captive kings, Perseus and Gentius. He sailed up the Tiber in the royal galley, magnificently adorned, and on arriving at Rome demanded his triumph. Perseus and his family led as captives, added, in a Roman eye, to the splendour of the scene; though even Roman hearts were affected with sorrow at the example this afforded of human change and wretchedness. But the Consul himself was an instance equally striking. Of his two sons by his second wife, whom he designed to represent his own family, one, at the age of fourteen, died five days before the triumph; the other, aged twelve, three days after it. Æmilius in a speech he made to the Romans on this occasion, said,—‘Now the man who triumphed, and he who was led in chains, are on a par; but the children of Perseus are living—those of Æmilius are no more!” Aikin's Biography.

I

Beauty was on the waves;
The royal galley like a palace rode—
Voices in triumph past—and warriors strode,
Close manacled, and slaves.

II

Rome wav'd her pennons high,
As through her streets the captive monarchs past,
The clang of steel—the shout—the trumpet blast—
Announcing victory.

III

All hail the army's boast!—
Long live the conqueror! live the nation's pride!—
Æmilius! brave Æmilius! myriads cried,
And fair hands waved—a host.

IV

'Twas a triumphant day—
A proud and glorious day. The hero bow'd;
Mov'd like a god before that countless crowd,
Which swell'd the wild huzza!

V

A full and brilliant star
Look'd from the heavens like a destiny;
While rush'd the step of steel-girt warriors by,
Red from the field of war.

VI

Why died the commons' cheers?
'Twas then King Perseus and his children, chain'd,
March'd on; and many Roman hearts were pain'd:
It was a sight for tears!—

VII

Not long did feeling melt;
Again the triumph-shout far shook the ground,
Again the victor gaz'd on all around,
And like a victor felt!—

VIII

Stillness upon the land—
Stillness upon the grandeur of the dome—
Stillness upon the waves. Night's heralds come:
Sleep rules with charmed wand.

IX

But 'tis not sleep doth rest
Upon the parian coldness of that frame;
Sleep speaks not to those watching eyes of flame—
That brow with grief imprest.

X

Sleep's whispers do not rise
To sooth the mourner by his dead son's bier;
A cry of horror wakes the father's ear;
Death scowls before his eyes.

XI

Who may the warrior be?
I know his face; we've met—but 'twas not thus—
High was his bearing: 'tis—Æmilius!—
This looks not victory.

XII

Tears are upon his cheeks—
Despair is in the flashing of his eye—
Upon his quiv'ring lip deep agony—
Slowly and sad he speaks:

XIII

There lies my all of bliss,
My boy—my graceful boy—alas, the sight!—
Would to the Gods I'd perish'd in the fight,
Ere I'd known woe like this:

XIV

If ever pleasure came,
Thou wast her leader—if I glory sought,
My boy—it was for thee thy father fought,
Through fields of sword and flame.

XV

Darkness is on my days,
The sunlight of my life—my hope is fled—
The voice I lov'd is gone—my son is dead!—
O sight—to blast the gaze!

THE WAR SHIP.

“Like leviathans afloat,
Lay their bulwarks on the brine;
While the sign of battle flew
On the lofty British line.”
Campbell.

I

The mid-day sun looks down,
From his heaven clear and high,
On the sounding waves which sweep beneath,
Like another glorious sky.

II

A solitary ship
Comes rushing o'er the tide;
Like a thing of hope and light she seems,
In this her hour of pride.

III

Her tall and noble mast
Stands like a forest pine;
A thousand men might march her decks,
In gallant battle line.

IV

Proudly her white flag streams,
Which often on that sea
Has waved above the smoke of war—
The shout of victory!

V

Hark to the gathering din!—
A foreign sail appears,
Which, towering midway to the skies,
Her gory crescent rears.

VI

Hark to the gathering din!—
To the loud confused call—
Like the mutter'd threat'nings of a storm,
Ere its blasting thunders fall!

VII

Hark to the onset cry!—
The arm of war is bared;
The sword of blood and death is raised,
Which never yet hath spared.

VIII

Louder and louder grows
The booming cannon's bray;
The frighted eagle screaming soars
Far from that fearful fray.

IX

There are cries of agony,
Mix'd with the shouts of rage;
Where the vessels amid smoke and flame
Their “hell of battle” wage.

X

She reels! that proud flag falls
'Mid foemens' savage roar;
Her crew in ghastly heaps lie slain—
Her deck swims red with gore!—

XI

For aye hath set her star—
Her hold the dark sea drinks;—
Mid crash and shout, mid foam and blood—
That gallant vessel sinks!

XII

'Tis night—the round fair moon
Shines calmly o'er the wave,
Where cold, and in the sleep of death,
Rest the illustrious brave.

XIII

Oh! many a heart shall feel,
When heard their doom of woe,
That weight of utter misery,
Which breaks young hearts to know!

XIV

Many grow sad and pale,
Though their grief may not find breath;
But silently—like blighted flowers—
Will they pass on to death!

XV

Woe for the hopes which seek
Their light from days to come!—
For ah! where most we look for joy,
There sorrow builds her home!

KING RICHARD III. AND HIS SON.

[_]

(Originally published in The Literary Magnet.)

It is believed Richard III, had a natural son, who, on the eve of the battle of Bosworth field, obtained an audience with the king, wherein he acknowledged him; and in the event of the battle proving successful, gave his royal word to receive him as his son amid his assembled peers. In this well-remembered battle (which lasted only two hours) Richard was slain: his son passed the rest of his life in obscurity and indigence.

I

Night veil'd the battle plain!—
O'er heaven and earth watch'd night;
Falchions were sheathed—the martial strain
Died with the proud sunlight:
Silent and calm the pale tents lay,
While voiceless war slept night away.

II

Richard, in frowning thought,
Sat 'neath his purple tent;
His brow with some dark doom seem'd fraught—
Terror and sadness blent.
One knelt before his feet in awe;
He gazed—yet recked not what he saw.

III

Dimly the silver lamp
Lighted his waving hair
And faded cheek—the iron stamp
Of death had settled there;
His breastplate shook beneath its sway,
As some deep, hidden grief had way.

IV

Then passed his hour of pride;
He knew that injured one—
He clasped him in his arms and cried,
My son—my son—my son!—
Remorse and love long conflict kept:
He groan'd in thought—he saw—and wept.

V

“Pride” cried he “was my bane;
For that I barter'd all—
Peace, love, content—all to obtain
A crown; and now I fall
Prone from my tow'ring height to earth,
My deeds abhorred—accursed my birth.

VI

“Boy! I would yet be loved;—
Though stern has been my will;
Though haply I have cruel prov'd,
I am thy father still;—
Thou wilt not?—no 'twere sin for thee
To curse a parent's memory.

VII

“I weep!—they are not fears
Which shake my warrior frame;
No hopes o'erthrown have caus'd these tears,
This breast and brow of flame;—
Thy fancied hate—thy hate probes deep—
For that, and more, for thee—I weep!”

VIII

Like a warrior king appears
The sun, with banners fair;
His glancing beams, like golden spears,
Are flashing through mid air;
The mountain springs—the forest land—
Are sounding like a martial band.

IX

There is a lonely grave

Richard III. was privately buried in a country cemetry, not even a grave-stone marked the spot where he was interred.

To which the ravens wing;
Nor sculpture shines—nor pennons wave—
Yet there lies England's king.
And he, the heir of Britain's throne,
Wanders, sad—hopeless—and alone.

INEZ DE CASTRO.

Inès de Castro, dame d'honneur de la princesse Constance, premiere femme de Don Pèdre, ou Pierre Premier, Roi de Portugal, inspira un violent amour à ce prince, qui n' étoit encore qu'infant. L'infant Don Pèdre epousa Inès en secret, et en eut Jean le Premier; Alfonso IV. son pere, fut instruit de cette union; et comme il desiroit une alliance plus illustre, il prit le parti de sacrifier Inès à la politique. Don Pèdre furieux, s' unit d'interêt avec Ferdinand et Alvarès de Castro, frères de sa maitresse. Il prend les armes contre son pere, et met tout à feu et à sang dans les provinces où les assassins avoient leurs biens. Alfonse ne put le calmer qu' en les bannissant de son royaume. Dès que Don Pedre fut sur le trône, il chercha à se venger des meurtriers de son épouse. Don Pèdre fit exhumer le corps d' Inès. On le revêtit d' habits superbes, ou lui mit une couronne sur la tête et les principaux seigneurs du Portugal vinrent rendre hommage à ce cadavre, et reconnoitre Inès pour leur Souveraine.” Dictionnaire Biographique.

I

Morn on the glorious dome,
On the red vines waving bright,
On the streams which sweep from their mountain home,
On the flowers of dewy light;
Morn on the chesnut glades,
On the lemon's living gold,
On the joyous brows of the village maids,
Which Love's own hand did mould.

II

There is music in the halls,
In the palace halls of state,
Haught banners hang the frowning walls,
Where gallant warriors wait;
And the horn is heard again;
While, quick from east and west,
Comes the gathering tread of martial men,
Dark plume, and golden crest.

III

There sits a princely form,
To his foot proud knees are bent,
But his look is like a deep'ning storm,
O'er a sun-lit element;
And in his full black eye
Lives a strong, undying woe;
Night hath watch'd long and silently,
His tears like rain-drops flow.

IV

He looks on one whose frame
Hath risen from pall and shroud;
And he calls her softly by her name—
He calls—and weeps aloud—
Oh Inez! never more thy voice
May pour its mellow strain;
How would my grieving soul rejoice
To hear thee speak again!

V

Death sits upon thy lip,
On thy graceful lip, where oft
Thy husband, Inez, sweets did sip,
While fond arms pillow'd soft;
As then thou look'st; I see thee yet
In all that life and bloom.
O God! that we had never met,
Or fill'd the same cold tomb.

VI

Rose of our lovely land,
Soon thou died'st—alas! for me;
For me—and by a father's hand—
That hand of cruelty:
The seraphs, from their cloud built seat,
Thy murderer's doom have given;
My father! can'st thou, dar'st thou, meet
The lightning eyes of heaven?

VII

Be loud the trumpet blown—
Bid the cannons' thunders peal;
Upon her forehead place the crown—
Bid lords and warriors kneel.—
'Tis done; and o'er the solemn scene
Waves many a laurel wreath,
And the lords and warriors hail their queen,
Who sits there dark in death.

VIII

Be loud the trumpet blown—
Bid the cannons' thunders peal,
Upon his forehead place the crown—
Bid lords and warriors kneel.—
'Tis done; the skies with voices ring,
And banners stately wave;
And the lords and warriors hail their king,
And pray the gods him save.

IX

He stands amid the best
And the bravest of his land;
In robes of regal purple drest,
With sceptre in his hand;
He stands with marble cheek—
While every whisper sleeps;
He strives—but all in vain—to speak—
The king, the monarch, weeps!

X

'Tis o'er; he moves as wont,
And the storm of grief is gone;
Upon his proud and warlike front,
Is seen the king alone:
The throne of state he leaves,
He leaves his death-cold queen;
And if the monarch's heart still grieves,
It is no longer seen.

CONSTANCE DE CEZELLI.

[_]

(This poem originally appeared in The Literary Souvenir, edited by Alaric A. Watts Esq.)

“During the troubles of the League, in 1590, Barri de St. Aunez, Governor of Leucate for Henry IV., was taken prisoner by the Spaniards. They pressed the governor to deliver up Leucate; they threatened at the same time to kill him, if he did not persuade Constance de Cezelli, his wife, who had put herself at the head of the garrison, to open the gates. He was immoveable. Constance, informed of his danger, replied, she would never purchase the life of her husband by giving up a fortress, for the preservation of which he would glory to die. Irritated at this they put their threat into execution, and then raised the siege. Henry IV., who knew how to recompense great actions, sent her the brevet as Governess of Leucate, with its reversion to her son.” History of France.

I

List to the bugle's call, trampling of mailed feet,
A battle cry from the outward wall, where cuirassed warriors meet;
A sound of woe is on the breeze, a murmuring of despair,
And tears half shame, half sadness, flow from one wild watching there.

II

She walks the turret's height, and she stills her heart to speak,
While falls the sombre hue of night, like sorrow on her cheek;—
“Oh, would that life of mine might save thy proud head from the sword,
I'd welcome as a joy the grave, my husband and my lord!

III

“They tell me thou must die, and I look upon our son;—
Might'st thou be saved? Thou might'st—and I—what hath my rashness done!—
Yet wert thou by thy Constance now, all stained thy noble fame,
How could I gaze upon thy brow—and die not in my shame!

IV

“Oh, ever wert thou known to wear, in tent, on battle plain,
The loftiest brow, the stateliest mien, of all the knightly train;
And I have gazed with woman's pride, lived on each look, each word,—
Oh, woe that thou should'st leave my side,—my husband and my lord!

V

“Where France's banners wave, 'mid the thundering cannon's breath,
Had'st thou found among the perish'd brave a hero's honoured death,
I had not wept the destiny, renown and glory wrought;
But, thus by traitor hands to die;—it is a maddening thought!

VI

“Our son is wild with grief, yet recks not of thy fate,—
‘Where’ cries he ‘is my sire, our chief, the foe beset our gate?
Those gleaming swords, gay dancing plumes, which mock the kindling sky—
Mark when my gallant father comes—they will not wave thus high!’

VII

“Day sets behind the hills, and countless golden lines
Are flashing down the crystal streams, on the green and purple vines;
Alas! even now thy doom they seal—thy groans are on the air—
Save him! oh, hear me, heaven—I kneel—I kneel in my despair!”

VIII

'Tis morn, but dark and drear,—she looks on earth 'mid storm,—
The wide sea trembles, as in fear, before her threatening form:
On Leucate's plain, a warrior knight in pale death lonely lies,
‘His funeral song the thunder's peal,’ as it sweeps from the frowning skies.

LINES WRITTEN BY THE SEA SHORE.

“'Tis Evening.—On Abruzzo's hill
The summer sun is lingering still,—
As though unwilling to bereave
The landscape of its softest beam,—
So fair,—one can but look and grieve
To think, that, like a lovely dream,
A few brief fleeting moments more
Must see its reign of beauty o'er.”
Alaric A. Watts.

I

Sunset! the eve smiles like a regal bride,
Whose jewell'd garb magnificently beams;
Sunset! beneath the heavens far and wide,
The quiet universe of waters gleams.
Sunset upon the shore, like slumber still,
Sunset upon the cliff—the vale—the hill!

II

I saw the morn look from the sombre sky—
A morn like midnight—heavy, chill, and drear;
Convulsed it seem'd with some strange agony,
Which but to look upon spread woe and fear:
The mighty deep howled 'neath the deadly storm,
And shook, as if in rage, his giant form!—

III

I saw a ship upon her difficult path,
Cleaving with desperate power the boisterous wind;—
Vainly she strove 'gainst th' overwhelming wrath,
She sank!—nor left a single trace behind!—
One solitary scream swept by the shore,
And the warm pulse of hundreds—beat no more!

IV

The rock which seemed eternal as the heaven,
An archetype of strength with earth to last,
Even to its base was shiver'd, crush'd, and driven
Like feathers onward with the conquering blast!—
O! what is earthly pride—and earthly power,
Before the destined arm!—the destined hour!

V

Such was the morn!—how changed—how beautiful,
How tranquil—how magnificent the night—
No warring winds the golden vault may dull,
No heavy clouds veil its rejoicing light—
Beauty enwreaths the shore—the placid seas—
Joys in each sound—and freshness in each breeze.

VI

'Twas thus my mind the day's events reviewed,
Whispering the precepts of that noble one,
Who last amid this stately solitude,
On such a night—so lovely, calm, and lone—
Poured out his spirit on the silent air,
The genius of a mind—made dark by care.

VII

He had endured that bitterness of grief
Which knows no hope—no refuge—but the grave,
To which time may not minister relief,
Nor prayers from the wild rack of memory save;
He looked a glorious structure in decay—
Majestic still—although to fate a prey!

VIII

Fortune might change—it could not bend his soul—
Friends might prove false—he pitied and forgave—
The tongue of folly could not him controul—
The pomp of affluence he did not crave—
Climbing ambition he saw downward hurled—
Futile the states—the glories of this world!—

IX

What, cried he, is life's reign?—a transient hour—
The sovereignty of rank?—a meteor-beam—
The boasted strength of earth?—a summer flower—
Our dearly cherish'd hopes?—a passing dream—
Seek we not joys which perish with the morn,
Build monuments to Fame—which Time will scorn!—

X

For fame—the monarch turns to fields of fire—
For fame—the statesman vends his happiness—
For fame—the poet woos the grief-fraught lyre—
For fame—the seaman leaves his bride's caress—
For fame—how many million lives have paid!—
For fame—how many kingdoms lie decay'd!—

XI

O power of man—destruction waits thy tread—
O pride of man—despair attends thy call—
O hope of man—look to the silent dead—
O love of man—tears thy brief life inthral—
O hope and love what are ye at the best,
But beauteous roses—dying whilst carest!

XII

Grief rules the world—but there's a world above!—
Here all is change—there power eternal lives—
Here sorrow breathes—there every breath is love—
Here death consumes—there man o'er time survives!
Mortal, this very hour may speak thy doom;
Where is thy might to overcome the tomb!—

CAPSALIS.

Πατρις, θειον ονομα!
Καθε ψυχη
Με κρυφον μαγευμα
Νικς εσυ.

Τρεμουν οι τυραννοι
Και σε μισουν,
Σ' ακουουν οι ελληνες
Κ' ε'υθυς ξυπνουν.

I

Voices upon the seas

“Almost all the families of Missolonghi were divided into two parts; those who remained in expectation of death, and those who were on the point of rushing forth to vengeance and to new dangers. The hardiest warriors were subdued to tears; and the bravest hearts quailed at the approaching separation. All these preparations were however, rendered abortive by the infamous treachery of a Bulgarian soldier, who had deserted to Ibrahim and disclosed the whole plan. The Turks suddenly attacked the town, and bathed themselves in christian blood. The scene that followed was hideous. “But one voice was heard among the despairing women” says M. Fabri: “‘To the sea! to the sea!’ Many precipitated themselves into wells, into which they first threw their children. But the wells at length became full, and it was a long way from the ramparts to that part of the harbour which was sufficiently deep for the purpose of death. The conquerors anxious for slaves, followed close on their victims. Several women and even several children had the address and the good fortune to free themselves by throwing themselves on the naked swords of the Arabs; others plunged into the flames of the burning houses, twelve hundred, who could discover no way of destroying themselves, fell into the hands of the enemy. The attention of the conquerors was soon drawn to the powder magazine. The size and the solidity of the building, induced them to believe that the wealth of the inhabitants had been there deposited. It contained however, only women and children, and Capsalis (one of the primates of the town,) who, having obstinately refused to accompany the garrison in their projected sortie, conducted to the powder-magazine a crowd of women and children, saying ‘Come, and be still; I will myself set fire to it.’ They wept not; they had no parting to apprehend; the grave was about to unite them for ever. The mothers tranquilly pressed their infants to their breasts, relying on Capsalis. In the meanwhile, the enemy crowded round their asylum: some attempted to break open the doors; some to enter by the windows; some climbed to the roof, and endeavoured to demolish it. At length, Capsalis, perceiving that a vast multitude had assembled, uttered a brief prayer, familiar to the Greeks—‘Lord remember me,’ and applied the match. The explosion was so violent, that the neighbouring houses were thrown down, large chasms were produced in the earth, and the sea moving from its bed, inundated one part of the town. Two thousand barbarians were blown up with Capsalis.” Such was the catastrophe of this terrible drama! Literary Gazette.

Of wildness and despair;
One common cry of agony
Fills all the circling air.

II

Age, with snow-honoured head,
Manhood, with ardent eye,
Youth, with its light of loveliness,—
All seek one hope—to die!

III

A shout upon the land,
A flash and ring of arms;
A gathering rush of barbarous men
Shakes earth with dread alarms.

IV

Like the avalanche their speed;
Like the tempest in its wrath;
Like the simoom's fatal sweep—
Is their red and deadly path.

V

The virgin's sacred breast,
Where love might but preside,
Lies, like a crush'd yet beauteous flower,
Bath'd in its pure life-tide.

VI

The wan and aged head
Sinks there, to rise no more;
The sightless eyes are dull and cold,
The white hairs dash'd with gore.

VII

Seek thousands, as a boon,
Death's sullen sanctuary;
For who, when life is shame, would live?
When death is bliss—not die?

VIII

Ye dead, ye noble dead!
From your still, gory sleep,
A voice shall pass to stir men's souls,
Far as the wild waves sweep.

IX

A light, as of the morn,
Through this dim night shall break;
Valour shall burst the Moslem chain!
And slumb'ring Freedom wake!

X

The soul that would be free
Will drag no fetter'd limb;
Sooner may man the sun's course turn,
Than throw slave-bonds on him.

XI

Call up the splendid past,
From rock, from plain, from sea;
Each hath its tale of stirring deeds
Of stainless chivalry.

XII

Call up the gallant bands
That died with conquest won;
Proud spirits of Thermopylæ,
Brave hearts of Marathon.

XIII

Lost hath the warrior's son
The charm that roused his sire?
Is there no bright though failing spark
Of the old patriot-fire?

XIV

Yes, Capsalis! in thee
That pure flame is not dead,
Which lit the shrine of Liberty,
For which thy fathers bled!—

XV

Thou speak'st—and at thy voice
The eye regains its glow;
The heart, as at some gladd'ning sound,
Shakes off its weight of woe.

XVI

A multitude to thee
In their last hope press now;
Thou lead'st them on,—is it to death?
With that calm glorious brow!—

XVII

Is it to death? the heavy gates
Close on the martyr-train;
Gaze they their last upon that earth
They ne'er may see again.

XVIII

They breathe beneath the walls
Of the war-stor'd magazine;
The flaming torch is in the grasp—
Yet no dismay is seen.

XIX

Fiercely the din of arms
Is heard the walls without:
Two thousand of the Turkish horde
Send up their hellish shout.

XX

They scale the gloomy roof
The pillar'd sides entwine;
Now, now, heroic Capsalis,
Revenge, revenge, is thine!

XXI

Jesu! what sounds arose,
What horrid cries sprung there,
As twice three thousand souls thus died,
Dash'd through the bleeding air!

XXII

The dark alarmed sea
Wildly its bed forsook,
And fearful chasms yawned around;—
Earth to her centre shook!

XXIII

O many a heart shall mourn
The evil of that day;
And eyes shall weep those bitter tears
No hand may wipe away!

XXIV

Yet through these sombre clouds,
Of woe—and waste—and war—
I see a morn of beauteousness
Far rising like a star.

XXV

As from the grave the soul,
Enfranchised, mounts the skies;—
So from the ashes of the brave,
Shall Liberty arise!

XXVI

Hear it thou far spread land—
Record it—oh, thou sea—
Not vainly Freedom's martyrs bleed
No! Greece shall yet be free!

STANZAS FOR MUSIC.

Suprême bien des jeunes cœurs,
Redoutable Amour plein de charmes,
Dont les passagères ardeurs
Enfantent mes tendres alarmes;
Garde tes amères faveurs,
Mais laisse-moi tes douces larmes.

I.

Mild is the air of the summer night;
Alvina, we wait for thee,
Where rests our boat in the clear moonlight,
On the softly murm'ring sea:
We have bound young Love in a silken band,
And his song's melodious call
Invites thee, maid, to a beauteous land,
And to Beauty's carnival.

II.

There the lamps are hung from the mirror'd dome,
The pillars with roses wreath'd;
And bow'rs are there like Love's own bright home,
Where love should be only breath'd:
There the halls are throng'd with Sicilian maids,
There the fairest youths are met;
Who whisp'ring rove through delightful shades,
Or dance to the castanet.
Mild is the air &c.

III.

The stars are out on the gala sky,
The white clouds are bathed in light,
The loveliest things to the heart and eye
Grace the holy calm of night:
O lady, haste, and thy lover bless,
'Tis the hour when lovers meet,—
When maidens speak what their eyes confess,
And the heavens love-sighs repeat.
Mild is the air &c.

IV.

O lady, haste, disappointment steals,
Cold, dark, like a with'ring sear,
The soul of bliss—pain the soonest feels—
The heart, if it loves, must fear—
I hear thy voice, and its low soft sound
Bids grief from my bosom part;
I hear thy step on the silent ground,
Now I hold thee to my heart!
Kind swells the breeze of the summer night,
All our sails are now thrown free;
And swift we glide in the clear moonlight
O'er the softly murm'ring sea.

STANZAS TO A LADY.

I

Not love thee! from that blessed night,
That first sweet hour, our young eyes met;
Thou wert my heart's acknowledged light,
With which its hope should rise or set:
The world in her domain holds nought,
Which could requite thy loss to me;
Whole years have been one long—long thought—
One deep expressive dream of thee:
No! never hast thou been forgot:—
And say'st thou that I love thee not!

II

I never drew a radiant scene
But thou mad'st all its happiness,
And dark and cold my life had been
Had'st thou not promised it to bless;
Thine image from the first hath dwelt
Within my breast as in a shrine,
Before which my young heart hath knelt
With faith that never knew decline:
Thou art the light of my drear lot:—
And say'st thou that I love thee not!

LAST WORDS OF AN EXILE.

“The look sincere, and proffer'd hand,
May hide a callous heart.”
W. Jerdan.

I

My path is o'er the gloomy sea—
My home—is yet to find—
Yet grieve I not for loss of thee,
Thou land I leave behind:
Thy breath has brought but misery
A dark and aching mind.

II

Reckless I quit thee, beauteous Isle,
Where love my heart first knew;
Where friendship spoke with ready smile,
And hopes like roses grew:
I've learnt how deep these names beguile,
Fleeting as morning dew.

III

I loved—how truly and how well,
This wither'd form will show;
I loved—oh! lips may never tell
The soul's impassion'd flow;
I loved—now love's a broken spell,
Its vain deceits I know.

IV

Friends!—they fled fast when sorrow came;
They're false, though fair they seem;—
O! trust not thou to friendship's name,
It's truth is but a dream;
Its kind warmth but a flick'ring flame,
A transitory beam!

V

Yet—yet 'tis sad to say “we part”—
From friendship's dream to wake;
And we have known fate's keenest dart,
When hope and love forsake;
But God, who sees the mourner's heart,
Can heal—or bid it break!

THOUGHT.

What is thought? it is a mine
Whose gems are of a land divine;
A power no tyrant may control;—
An emanation of the soul!—
A spark of a celestial fire
To favoured man in mercy given;
Spirit of an immortal sire!
A plant whose flower is Heaven!
O! not beneath the sky's array
May highest thought with man unite;
'Tis but a gleam of that fine light
Whose glory shines through an eternal day

A LOVER'S LAST SONG.

I

To love—to be beloved—there's not
A holier bliss young hearts attain;
But oh! that misery of lot,
To love—yet know we love in vain:
A fearful weight is on the brain—
A gloom—of human ills the worst—
Oh, I have known such madd'ning pain,
As made me wish my heart could burst!

II

In the young summer of my years
My sun of hope hath darkly set;
Still 'mid this agony of tears
I would not we had never met;
In shame, I own I love thee yet:
Condemn me not—nor mock my doom—
For hearts that know not to forget
God's mercy hath prepared a tomb!

THE TEMPEST.

Horrida tempestas cœlum contraxit; et imbres
Nivesque deducunt Jovem:
Nunc mare, nunc silüæ
Threïcio Aquilone sonant.
Horace.

I

Storm on the wild dark sky—
Storm on the rushing sea—
The tall ship between cloud and wave
Is rolling fearfully.

II

The elemental flash
Is the only light seen there;
While the dismal cry of perishing men,
Mid tumult rends the air!

III

The stoutest of that crew
Strain for one moment's breath;—
Oh God! it is a bitter thing
Thus to look on with death!

IV

The mother clasps her child,
And views above—around—
Bewildered and silently;
There's grief too deep for sound!

V

Stands there an old pale man,
With lip and brow of fear;
He was prepar'd for the dark tomb,
But, oh!—not thus—not here!

VI

He thought at last to rest
In his own lov'd village ground;
His lowly grave enwreath'd with flowers,
And mourning forms around.

VII

He, in his own far home,
Hath a son—his spirit's joy—
'Twere bliss to see him but once more,
To say—God bless thee, boy!

VIII

The young and faithful meet,
And with ghastly eyes gaze on;
Still would they speak of hope—alas!—
Both voice and thought are gone.

IX

They weep!—yet, ah! their tears
Seem not like human grief;
The mild warm drops the sad heart grants
To yield itself relief:

X

A sure and stern despair
In the blood-shot sight appears;
Such drops might suit the eyes of death,
If death may e'er know tears.

XI

Is there no hope?—go ask
The melancholy deep;
It hath startling tales to tell of those
Who 'neath its wild waves sleep.

XII

Is there no hope?—go ask
The red and threatening clouds;
O! many a sight of misery
Their angry shadow shrouds.

XIII

Is there no hope?—I saw
Longtime the good ship strain;
I saw it battle—reel—and sink:—
I saw it not again.

XIV

Of all the gallant souls
In that vast vessel tost,
O! were there none that could escape?
Not one—they all were lost!

XV

Was wreck nor corpse e'er found
Upon that gloomy coast?—
The secret of their doom's with God;—
They all—they all were lost!

LADY JANE GRAY.

“What most excited the compassion of the people was the execution of Lady Jane Gray, and her husband Lord Guilford Dudley, who were involved in the punishment, though not in the guilt of this insurrection.” History of England.

I

Dark closed the melancholy day—
The heavy night came on—
The rough winds swept around the tower,
With a sad unearthly tone:
Like a funeral dirge on the prisoner's ear,
The wailing tempest came;
And she pressed her hand, almost in fear,
On her cheek and brow of flame.

II

“The morn is charged with death,” she cried
“But lesser pain that doom
Than my heart-sickening solitude,
These sounds, this madd'ning gloom;
O! thou, whom my young heart first loved!—
Who shared my dream-like power;
Methinks I hear thy bitter curse
Rise on me in this hour!

III

“Had we ne'er met—had not thy lot
Been linked, alas! with mine,
Thou might'st have gain'd a glorious name,
Where arms in battle shine;
Thou might'st have died as heroes die,
'Mid many a hostile brand;—
But now, dishonour'd dost thou fall—
Death, from the headsman's hand!

IV

“Thou said'st it was thy dearest wish
To see me once again;
This to deny thee, love, increas'd
Still more my bosom's pain;
But ah! to know what I must know,
To feel what I must feel,
Brings more of cureless agony
Than words may e'er reveal.

V

“Dudley, farewell! to us on earth,
A stormy course is given;
Yet know there is for breaking hearts,
A home of peace in heaven;
Keep we this hope—though dread our path,
It must be firmly trod;—
Thou, in that wild, subduing hour,
Be with me, O my God!”

VI

It is the morn that heavily
Looks from the sombre sky;
No sun beams forth a cheering ray,
No warbling bird wings by;
The dim land mourns the banished sounds
Of morning's wonted mirth:—
O! surely yon mysterious heaven
Holds converse now with earth!

VII

There is a deep, hoarse murmuring heard—
A multitude have met;
They speak of one whose star of life
For evermore hath set;
They speak of her heroic mind,
Of her yet tender years,
Her loveliness no grief could mar—
And cannot stay their tears.

VIII

But what to her may now avail
The sorrow here exprest?
The woes which rack'd her soul are past—
Her weary heart finds rest:
All earth has vanished like a dream
The sleeper long wished o'er,
And nought of mortal hate or love
May ever reach her more!

A MONARCH'S LAMENT FOR THE DEATH OF HIS SON.

“Oh, that all human hopes should prove
Like the flowers that will fade tomorrow;
And the cankering fears of anxious love
Ever end in truth—and sorrow!”
Alaric A. Watts.

I

Away! I will not hear of hope,—
Never again know joy;
Thou wert the bright gem of my crown,
My noble, gallant boy!—
Thy plume waved foremost on the field,
Thine arm the bravest led;
Oh heart, the bitter pang to say,
My son, my son is dead!

II

I deemed thou would'st have wept my death—
I dreamt not of this doom,
That all thy beauty and thy youth
Were for the silent tomb!
Methought to see thee by my side
When these few hairs were gray;
I reck'd not death could be for thee
In thy spring's glorious day.

III

I left thee in the pride of health,
Thy locks of ebon night
Clouding around thy graceful head,
Thy brow, and eyes of light:
I felt the joy a father feels
As 'fore my gaze thou past;—
My son!—and am I then so curst—
Was that short look my last!

IV

Never: my sword shall not be drawn
For conquest or renown;
Why mock me with this show of power?
Take hence that bauble crown!
Or bid the dark earth yield its prey,
Give back the young and brave:—
Oh! heard'st thou, heaven, his dying cry?—
Heard'st thou? yet would'st not save!

V

There is a darkness in my soul,
On which no light may shine;
A deep, immedicable grief,
Which ne'er can know decline.
Day follows day, yet brings no change
To this distracted breast;
Oh when will my worn spirit flee?—
When will my woes find rest?

SERENADE.

I

When falls refreshing dew
O'er summer roses;
And on the waters blue
Twilight reposes:
When—like bright stars above,
Fond eyes are beaming;
And all the hopes of love
Bless young hearts' dreaming;
When the sweet bird of night sings sad and lonely,
Come, in that hallow'd time made for love only.

II

'Tis in that hour of songs,
Brightest and fleetest;
Fair youths' and ladies' tongues
Whisper the sweetest:
'Tis when the moon shines lone
O'er mead and ocean;
Then youthful spirits own
Love's first devotion:
Come in thy beauty's light, fairest and dearest,
Earth has no gladness until thou appearest.

III

Night hath a holy power
Young love to nourish;
Like that which warms the flower—
Lights it—to flourish!—
O! never daylight rose,
Fair, though bedighted,
When it saw eyes like those
Star-rays have lighted;
Then, when the evening sky smiling looks o'er thee,
Young beauty, haste to the arms which adore thee!

FIRST LOVE.

“I would have rather been a slave,
In tears, in bondage, by her side,
Than shared in all, if wanting her,
This world had power to give beside.”
L. E. L.

I

It was the maid of Monaco
Walk'd forth in the grey twilight,
To list the shadowy waters flow,
To gaze on the gentle night:
And never was seen more beautiful maid,
In morning sunlight or in evening shade.

II

Soft ringlets, like a golden shower,
O'er her graceful bosom hung;
Eyes—ne'er had azure eyes such power;
O! her voice was odours sung:

A lover will comprehend this line—none else.

Her footsteps like dews on the sleeping ground,
When they press the grass with a light sweet sound.

III

I followed with an eager tread;
In a soft and fault'ring tone
I spoke, I know not what I said,
I but knew we were alone;
I but knew I had watch'd—I had pray'd to see
This moment, to speak my idolatry.

IV

She heard me with a virgin grace,
With a mild and bashful air;
And as I gazed upon her face,
A blush sprung trembling there;
O! ne'er is love's cheek so dear to the eye
So pure, as when rosed by young modesty.

V

She spoke not; 'twas enough for me
She had heard—did not deride;
I cared not if I might but be
Thus gazing, and by her side:
In this pause was bliss inexpressible;
Had she spoken her voice had destroyed the spell.

VI

Daylight hath risen—but never set
On the fountain's crystal flow,
But on that spot again I've met
The young maid of Monaco.
She has told her love; I have heard with pride—
This rose of my heart will become my bride!

THE DEATH OF OTHO.

“We are not fighting for Italy, with Hannibal, or Pyrrhus, or the Cambrians; our dispute is with the Romans;—and whatever party prevails, whether we conquer or are conquered, our country must suffer. Under the victor's joy she bleeds.” Last words of Otho.

I

The armed hosts have met,
There is cry of victory won;
The battle brand to the hilt is red
With the blood of sire and son.

II

With the fam'd and noble dead
Reeks that accursed plain;
Brother by brother's hand borne down!
Kinsmen by kinsmen slain!

III

Thine altars, Rome, are dark
With the stain which never dies;
Though twice ten thousand hecatombs
Were offered to thy skies:

VI

I weep—but years of woe
May not veil this infamy;—
I stand by thy polluted shrine,
And I am here to die.

V

For me—this field was fought,
For me—the sword flash'd high,
And Rome was bath'd in her own blood:
This yet is left—to die!—

VI

Welcome, destroying death!—
Welcome, thou grave—my home!—
I die, as erst the patriot died—
I die for thee, O! Rome.

VII

Thus Otho spoke;—then rush'd
On the bright sword he bore:—
The soul from its proud shrine hath fled—
Death's agony is o'er!

CARTHAGE

A FRAGMENT.

“So fails, so languishes, grows dim and dies,
All that this world is proud of. From their spheres
The stars of human glory are cast down;
Perish the roses and the flowers of kings,
Princes and emperors, and the crowns and palms
Of all the mighty, withered and consumed!”
Wordsworth.

I

The sun is gilding the luxurious blue
Of the clear morning heav'ns—the dark leaf'd lime,
The date, the palm, and branch of every hue
Fruit hung or bloss'ming in the fragrant clime.
Above, the day is gleaming broad and high—
Beneath, the ruins of lost Carthage lie:—

II

The palaces—adorned capitals—

Who has not heard of the riches and magnificence of Carthage.— This ambitious city extended her conquests into Europe, invaded Sardinia, made herself mistress of a great part of Sicily, and reduced to her subjection almost the whole of Spain; and having sent out powerful colonies into all quarters, enjoyed the empire of the seas for more than six hundred years.

The golden lined temples—each high fane—
The deities of gold—majestic halls—
Throng'd sounding streets—and does there nought remain
Of all thy wealth, vain mistress of the sea,
Save these few stones to tell thy history?

III

Where are the young and brave—the ag'd and proud—
The powerless and the mighty—where the fair?
The beautiful of form—the noble brow'd—
Whose lips were murmuring on the summer air?—
I ask'd the skies what ravager had come—
The silent earth—the skies and earth were dumb.

IV

The lover mourns his tale of griefs—and dies;
The warrior finds death on the battle field!
A kingdom as a village wasted lies—
A monarch as a slave—alike all yield:
The pompous monument denies at last
Its feeble voice—that falls—is with the past.

V

Say what art thou—thus terrible in might,
Who giv'st the young heart bitterness and tears,
Destroying nations in thy clamorous flight,
Humbling the pride of youth, the strength of years?
Say what art thou—whose voice was with the birth
Of the new world—and cursed the infant earth?

VI

The streams flow'd by in loveliness and song,
The flowers sprang joyous into radiant life;
The beautiful of air and earth among
The woods rose up—the fields in sweets lay rife—
A paradise where angels might have ranged;—
Thou cam'st—earth trembled—the new world was changed.

ODE TO SOLITUDE.

“There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society, where none intrudes,
By the deep sea, and music in its roar.”
Byron.

I

O! thou celestial maid who lovs't to dwell,
And list uopn some high impending rock
To the hoarse madden'd surge
Lashing with foam the shore!

II

What time the fragrant morn on beauty's wings
Spreads o'er the meads her summer gifted charms;
While all around appears
A paradise of sweets.

III

When, upborne to the sapphire of the east,
The lark on airy wings of fancy roves,
Soft, on the ambient air,
Her richest music pours;

IV

Beside yon dazzling stream's meand'ring course,
Where myriad flowers the velvet banks bedeck,
And to the heaven's high vault
Their grateful incense breathe;

V

His lot how blest with thee, sweet maid, to sit,
While thus from human turmoil far remov'd,
And with enraptured soul
To list thy spirit-voice:—

VI

Or when pavilion'd on aerial heights,
Eve, fair-eyed goddess, her grey mantle spreads;
Gives to the varied scene
Her peaceful, soft delights;

VII

When the young moon from her imperial throne,
In majesty of sweetness, beams sublime,
Luring the pleased eye
To gaze upon her charms.

VIII

With thee, instructive maiden, let me haste
To where yon grove its front fantastic rears;
Where echo warbles back
The night-bird's tender tale.

IX

There should I think of fairest dreams destroyed,
Visions of joy, of peace, for ever fled;
And hope's balm breathing smile
Chaced hence by lean despair.

X

As some pale wild flower lifts its pensile head,
Alone and friendless on the barren waste;
Till winter comes—and then
It with'ring droops and dies.

XI

O! teach me, in thy dear and holy hour,
Thy bosom's quiet happiness to gain;
Upon thy gentle breast
Hush thou my cares to peace.

PARTING WORDS.

I

Then be it so—since we must part,
And all our blessed dreams are o'er;
I go to teach my woman's heart
To speak—to think of thee no more:
To hide my bosom's heavy fears—
To smile when most my brain may ache—
To mate with misery for years!—
O! heart, forget thy wrongs—or break!

II

Hours—perish'd hours—still fancy brings
Your early gladness, light, and bloom;
Ere grief had droop'd my spirit's wings,
And robed Love's own sweet heav'n in gloom!—
Memory, like some dim, ruined land,
Shows traces yet of beauty past;
Fall'n idols, rear'd by young Hope's hand,
Too bright—and oh, too lov'd!—to last.

III

Yet broken—desolate—deprest—
Thy sun of glory past away—
Still, Memory, live in this worn breast,
Till death may yield it to decay:
O! when the spirit's light has fled,
And wither'd all the flowers Love gave,
When fond hopes—cherish'd long—lie dead,
The heart knows but one home—the grave!

MEMORY.

What is Memory? 'tis the light
Which hallows life—a ray profound
Upon the brow of mental night;
An echo—time the passing sound;—
A mirror—its bright surface shows
Hope, fear, grief, love, delight, regret:
A generous spring; a beam which glows
Long after sun and star have set:
A leaf—nor storm, nor blight can fade—
An ark on Time's bereaving sea—
A perfume from a flower decayed—
A treasure for Eternity!—

We are taught by the Scriptures to believe, that after death we shall still retain the memory of our past earthly transactions, if these have been worthy and honourable memory may then prove to be a treasure to eternity!

100

THE PROSPECT.

“When we reflect how soon the season of life is over; and that no one hour of the past can ever contribute a single moment to the future: when we behold the young and the beautiful withering in their prime, or feel ourselves the last survivor of many friends, after having seen the best of their wishes vanish in disappointment, and the last of their hopes melt into nothing, what awful views of nature and of life are presented to the imagination!” P. Bucke.

I

I stood in a romantic pass,
Near which swept many streams;
The ancient mountains pale and far
Lay like a land of dreams.

II

The sunlight bathed the gorgeous sky,
The sunlight wreathed the plain;
Golden the summer grass appeared,
Golden the tranquil main.

101

III

The trees sprang up like hope to heaven.
The flowers grew close like love;
Nothing but beauty was seen below,
Nothing but glory above.

IV

Rose near a stately edifice,
Marble its colonnades;
Fountains, and rarest statuary,
Gleam'd 'tween the trees' green shades.

V

Like soft and silvery clouds of morn,
A lake shone quietly;
The white swan plumed her graceful wings,
The red deer darted by.

VI

It seemed a shrine for happiness,
A spot insphered in bliss;
For surely nought of care might taint
A home so bright as this!

102

VII

Alas for life—alas for love—
Who breathes, that hath not been
By sorrow pressed? in fairest buds
Some blight is ever seen!

VIII

Came on mine ear those weary sounds
Afflicted bosoms give!
The tones which tell Hope's chord is lost,
As few may breathe—and live!

IX

She who such sorrows uttered
Had direst cause for tears;
Widowed and childless and alone,
Stricken with grief and years.

X

The lady of those halls she was,
Of that most rich domain.
Gave these no joy? her head was bowed—
Her tears fell thick like rain!

103

XI

And melancholy 'twas to see
The land such glory wear;
It seem'd as all the earth knew bliss
Save her—save only her!

XII

Days fled—when up that lonely pass
A funeral train twined slow;
Dark waved the death plumes on the air,
With a heaviness like woe.

XIII

And Time hath done his work of ill
On statues, fount, and hall;
Ruined and lone, they, year by year,
Fragment by fragment fall!

XIV

Such are the treacherous joys of life,
The hopes we make our own.
Beams there an eye that hath not wept
Lives one grief has not known?

104

WOMAN'S AFFECTION.

I

The sky! all its beauty and lightness,
Slow dies 'neath the night's coming gloom;
And thus 'tis with me—my youth's brightness
Now slow—but ah! sure—finds a tomb:
I see thee, and, lorn, broken hearted,
I think of that rapturous time;
Ere the light of my life had departed,
Ere love brought me sorrow—and crime!

105

II

Far fled is my once happy dreaming,
Hope's beautiful glances have past;
O! who, when such glad rays were beaming,
Could deem they would thus be o'ercast:
For ever—for ever—for ever!—
The calm of my bosom is gone;
Yet may'st thou, my dearest one, never
Feel grief—be that fate mine alone!

III

Think not of bye-times if they wring thee,
The grave of my happiness show;
O! think not of me if I bring thee
But one fleeting moment of woe;
I bless thee!—thus abject and driven
Abroad, a scorned daughter of shame;
I bless thee! my last prayer to heaven,
Shall still mingle peace with thy name.

106

IV

Farewell! may no evil betide thee,
Be thoughts which could pain thee forgot;
May she who in love smiles beside thee,
Make one blissful circle thy lot.
Farewell! my young brow's bitter sadness
The depth of my feelings may tell;
For, oh! 'tis in anguish—in madness—
I leave thee!—I bid thee farewell!

107

ODE TO IMAGINATION.

I

O! thou, the mistress of the poet's dreams,
Whose magic touch to rapture lifts his soul;
As to his vision'd eye
Thy fairy world's displayed!

II

By thee inspired he tracks remotest wilds,
Searches the treasured bosom of the deep,
Mounts to the glowing stars,
And treads the jasper skies!

108

III

Thou, whose sylph form in brilliancy attired,
Upon the pearly beams of the young moon
Frolicks in gay disport;
Imagination, hail!

IV

Goddess who lov'st, besides some warbling fount,
To gaze upon the crimson tissued clouds,
While night, in sable pomp,
Veils slow the lovely scene.

V

Or 'mid the lightning's glare—and thunder's peal—
To climb the summit of the craggy cliff,
Meanwhile the foaming waves
Are battling with the storm:

VI

'Tis thou who mirror'st to the lover's eyes,
Ideal scenes of happiness and bliss;
Bright as that wintry gem
Which glows—then melts in tears!

109

VII

Or as the earliest promises of spring
First smile beneath the hawthorn's budding boughs;
But, ah! too soon to fade—
To perish ere matured!

VIII

In night's mid-noon—when fierce Bellona's trump
Hath sounded a retreat—while earth is drench'd
In human gore, and man
Grows tired with massacre,

IX

Thou tread'st the blood-warm plain, not'st the pale forms
Which lie in grisly heaps—the frenzied eye
Which rolls in bitter anguish—
And the despairing groan:—

X

From thence to brighter scenes—'neath Dian's beams
Where, swiftly gliding o'er the curling waves,
The zendaletto bears
The amorous gondolier,

110

XI

Under the lattice of the beauteous maid
Whose virgin charms his youthful heart hath won;
And in her list'ning ear
He pours his ardent tale.

XII

O! born of Pœon—light of sweetest bards,
Benignant grant his early prayer, who thus,
A pilgrim at thy shrine,
In adoration bends;

XIII

Instruct his hand to strike with skill the lyre,
To tune to pleasing melody its tones;
And, as thy form he views,
To realms of beauty lead!

111

AN EXILE'S SONG.

“Vincet amor patriæ.”
Virgil.

I

Still to thee, oh, still to thee
My spirit turns where'er I roam;
Still in my midnight dreams I see
Thy mounts—thy vales—my cottage-home—
And feels my brow thy breezes bland,
Once more, beloved Switzerland!

II

Once more thy mountain waters sound
Like sweetest music on mine ear;
And old familiar scenes around
Speak to my heart of hours most dear;
Of love's fond glance—of friendship's hand—
Of kindred minds, dear Switzerland!

112

III

It is a joy, though but in dreams
To be as in time past with thee;
For oh, on distant shores all seems
Dreary, and cold, and sad, to me;
My heart breaks 'neath the harsh command
Which parts us, lovely Switzerland!

113

SACRED MELODY.

I

His voice! 'tis heard upon the earth
When morning's odorous songs have birth;
'Tis heard when the acclaiming waves
Come springing from their thousand caves;
'Tis heard when lowers the dark'ning heaven,
When walls are thrown—and ships are riven!
O! is there in the world a spot
Where to the soul God's voice speaks not?

114

II

The glory of the ancient night,
Rich in her countless worlds of light,
The beauty of the living land,
Speak of his high, mysterious hand:
Go—if thou doubt'st this truth—behold
When sets the sun in seas of gold;
Then say if there's on earth a spot
Where to the soul God's voice speaks not!

115

THE PENITENT.

“Nay! hid beneath Love's warmest smile,
Lurk falsehood, perfidy, and guile,
The female heart to snare.”
W. Jordan.

I

We meet—but, ah! not thus we met
In past and happier time,
When stars grew bright, and daylight set,
In my own lovely clime:
It was not thus thou gazed'st on me—
Thou wert not silent then:
Such blessed hours as those with thee,
When shall I know again?

116

II

My home! name still most fondly loved—
Well I recal that morn
I left thee, and the friends long proved,
To meet this false one's scorn:
Thou saw'st, thou know'st, how wild I wept—
Each limb in anguish shook;
I kissed my mother as she slept—
But, oh! I dared not look

III

Upon my ag'd and honour'd sire,
Lest in his noble face,
Though sleeping, I should read his ire,
His curse on my disgrace.
It follow'd soon—my mother died—
Died! worn with grief and shame;
And he knelt there, by her dead side,
And cursed my evil name!

117

IV

Yet, yet I live: alas! the pain
Of life, when hope is o'er,
When dark despair o'erclouds the brain,
When hearts may joy no more!
O! thou art kind to look on me
With such contempt and hate;
I have known guilt, deep guilt, for thee—
And shame and woe's my fate!

118

A NIGHT SCENE.

“It is the hour when lovers' vows
Seem sweet in every whisper'd word.”
Byron.

I

Awake! awake, the night spirit calls,—
Sweet floats her song through the forest halls;
Like the faint voice in a lover's dream—
Like the soft lute by the mountain stream—
Abbey and donjon fade on the sight,
Faintly and dim in the pale starlight;
Wake from thy slumber—fairest, awake—
We must sail far ere morning break.

119

II

The maid has stept forth in her deep disguise;
And her lover bends o'er her with soul speaking eyes—
Now kisses the tears from her beautiful cheeks,
And in words of devotion and tenderness speaks;
Silent she looks on his eloquent face,
Blushing and trembling half meets his embrace;
Whilst, lamp'd by the lights of the summer sky,
Their bark o'er the blue waves sails rapidly.

120

SERENADE.

“It is my love that calls.”
Romeo and Juliet

I

Lady, list! thy lover's singing,
Night her holiest hour is bringing;
Soft the summer waves are sleeping,
And the roses perfume weeping:
Never came a time more sweet
For Love to sigh at Beauty's feet;
Never shone the stars more bright,
A lady's gentle steps to light;
Then linger not, but come to me
My own fair flower, my deity!

121

II

But if eyes that would betray thee
From thy lover's bosom stay thee;
Eyes that, while the night advances,
Watch thee, love, with dark, cold glances:
Waft from thy fair hand a kiss—
And I shall know our fate from this;
And I will breathe a low Good-night,
Yet linger still within thy sight;
And should those looks be turned from thee,
Light of my heart, oh, come to me!

122

DI TANTI PALPITI.

I

Never may these lips express
My affection's fond excess;
Never will I love thee less
Than in this hour I've met thee:
Light, as pure as stars above,
Light, as dear as Time may prove,
Light of beauty, hope, and love;
O! I will ne'er forget thee!

123

II

Fairer lovers may appear,
Sweeter vows may woo thine ear,
But not one more true—sincere—
Beloved, could implore thee:
O! should sorrow thee o'ertake
My fond heart with pain might break,
But it never could forsake:—
To death it will adore thee!

124

A FAREWELL.

I

It is in vain—it is in vain—
The seal of destiny is set;
And, oh! we ne'er may meet again,
As once in hope and love we met:
Too bright those hours, too sweet to last,
Such bliss our breasts shall ne'er regain;—
For what charm can restore the past?—
It is in vain—it is in vain!

125

II

It is in vain—it is in vain—
My soul is dark—as in a shroud,
My life is known but by the pain,
'Neath which each throbbing pulse is bow'd:
O! never may this ruin'd heart
Its former happiness attain;
Peace seeks not those who, like us, part!
It is in vain—it is in vain!

126

ALLEGORICAL STANZAS.

I

I saw a form of beauty 'neath the shade
Of stately cedars leaning—at her feet
A wild brook sung its low song, clear and sweet,
Then wander'd gracefully through the dim glade.

II

Her face—the earth holds nought which may compare
With its expressive, noble loveliness;
Like evening sunbeams fell each silken tress,
Kissing her regal neck and bosom fair.

127

III

Her radiant fingers swept a golden lyre;
Producing tones of such deep melody—
So spirit-like—they seemed of heaven to be—
Such heavenly visitings alone inspire.

IV

The evening stars shone mild in the clear blue
Of summer's shadeless heaven; and the morn
Came with fresh voices and with flow'rs new born:—
Still there I listen'd—mindless how time flew.

V

Another evening set, mid hues that shone
Like roses in gold vases, rich and bland;—
Then—Darkness wept like Sorrow o'er the land—
I turned; the lyre remain'd—the Lyrist gone!

VI

Bending, I struck the strings 'mid many fears,
The magic tones within my soul still rung;
But oh, so tuneless were the words I sung,
My tortured spirit spent itself in tears!

128

VII

Say, have you met the lady I adore?
Long—long I've waited 'neath the cedar-shade
Where first I saw, first heard, that peerless maid,
But ah, she comes to me—to me—no more!

129

THE PEASANT GIRL'S SONG.

I

From the fields—from the fields—
I have gather'd fresh flowers;
The sweetest and rarest
That grace summer hours:
I've roses—wild roses—
Which beam in their light,
Like the lips of a beauty,
All balmy and bright.

130

II

From the streams—from the streams—
Hidden far in the glade;
Soft gliding and sounding,
Mid sunshine and shade;
Dark violets I 've gather'd,
And lilies—like snow—
Or beautiful pearl-wreaths
Upon a queen's brow.

III

From the woods—from the woods—
Where the bird-songs are gay;
And where young lovers walk,
In the clear moon-ray:
I have flowers of all hues—
Like a rich sunset sky,
Gold—purple—and crimson—
O! come, come and buy!

131

STANZAS.

I

Tell me—oh, tell me—ye roses, that rest
On the fragrant snow of my love's young breast;
When your beauty the balm of her breath receives,
When her warm lips are prest to your glorious leaves,
When her bright eyes bend o'er you like heaven's pure sky,
Where the azure and pearl strive for mastery:
To you, oh, to you, do her whispers tell
The pleasant thoughts in her soul that dwell?

132

II

To you, oh, to you, do her frequent sighs
Breathe of love's bashful secrecies;
Breathe of her young bosom's sweet distress,
Where modesty wars with tenderness:
Flutters her heart half in joy, half in fear,
Crimsons her cheek when my footstep falls near?
Answer, blest flowers—I await your decree—
Her heart and her love—are those treasures for me?

133

GOOD NIGHT!

I

Good night! a thousand times good night!—
My first and last—my only love;
And o'er thy pillow dreams of light,
In beauty and enchantment, move!

II

Good night! I will not think of woe,
Long years of doubt and peril past;
'Tis bliss—repaying all—to know
Thou—thou art mine—mine own at last!

134

III

Good night! sweet love, I may not speak
My proud heart's grateful happiness;
The strongest words seem far too weak
To tell thee all I would express.

IV

Good night!—yon star, the hills above,
Warns me of Time's disfavouring flight—
Once—but once more—God bless thee love!—
Good night! a thousand times good night!

135

STANZAS FOR MUSIC.

I

Forget not, forget not my beautiful one,
All thy vows of affection are mine;
O! when far from the light of thy love I am gone,
Should another bend low at thy shrine,
Should he pour forth his treasures of gold at thy feet,
Urge with passionate tears thy decree—
Then say will thy bosom still faithfully beat
With its first owned devotion to me?

136

II

Believe not, believe not, my beautiful one,
The cold world, should it load me with blame—
O! the heart where the sun of thy love hath once shone
Can ne'er glow 'neath a less holy flame:
Then never, love, never, give heed to the tongue
Which may cast its dark venom on me;
But recal my deep truth in our past hours of song,
And, as then, deem me still,—true to thee!

137

MARIE.

I

My gentle love—my only love—
My drooping spirit pines for thee;
The gorgeous hall—the lighted bower—
Lute, dance, and song—have lost their power:
Thou only can'st this cloud remove,
My beautiful Marie.

II

Then haste thee dear, the kingly west
A splendid gift flings o'er the sea;
And breathes the rose a sigh more sweet,
To hail the hour the parted meet;
O! come to this devoted breast,
My beautiful Marie.

138

III

'Tis bliss to meet—'tis sweet to part
To meet again by love's decree;
I cherish not a hope more fond,
Nor prize a paradise beyond
That hour which gives thee to my heart,
My beautiful Marie.

139

STANZAS FOR MUSIC.

[_]

Air, Mozart.

I

Never shall my heart forget thee,
Come what may of joy or ill!
Love! the hour when first I met thee
Lives in memory still:
Beauty's hallowed light was o'er thee—
Music's spell was on thy tongue;
O! to see, was to adore thee,
Maid of Avinlonge.

140

II

Maid, the shades of night are falling,
The blest hour of love draws nigh;
Like the voice of Beauty calling,
Floats the bird-song by:
Though our fond hearts Fate should sever,
Darkly doom to pine alone,
Still as first they loved, for ever
Should our souls love on!

III

Though from dreams of Hope awaking,
I can scorn Fate's ire to me—
Smile, though my own heart be breaking,
If Fate wounds not thee:
Never shall my lips deceive thee,
My devotion ne'er decline;
Dearest! until life shall leave me
My whole heart is thine.

141

LE POUR ET LE CONTRE.

LE CONTRE.

I

Dark fate will follow love,
Cloud his last ray;
Time but a traitor prove,
Hope too betray:
No! still my heart is free,
Thus it shall ever be;
Think'st thou I'll bend to thee?—
Never, Love, never!

142

II

Seas, which all tranquil seem,
Tempests o'ertake;
And from Love's sunny dream
Soon we awake,
To endure looks of scorn,
Words, of wild anger born;
Thus shall I pine forlorn?
Never Love, never!

LE POUR.

III

Lady, fate's darkest hours
Weak minds estrange,
But hearts attached as ours
Time cannot change;
Souls in affection strong
Quail not at fortune's wrong;
Love shall I scorn thy song?
Never, oh, never!

143

IV

Turn, turn thine eyes on me,
Young beauty bright;
Life without love would be
One endless night:
They who his rule condemn,
Never Love breathed to them;
Shall we his gifts contemn?
Never, oh, never!

146

STANZAS TO A LADY.

I

Come, we will sit together by this stream,
While o'er our heads the summer birds are singing—
Bright flowers and bloss'ming plants are odours flinging,
And beauteous things float in the solar beam.

II

And I will read to thee a pleasant tale,
Of love—true love—unchangeable and holy;
When hearts know but one wish, one object solely:
And thoughts like roses grateful sweets exhale.

147

III

There I will whisper to thee many a vow
That all my aim shall be to give thee gladness;
Should'st thou e'er feel, my love, a moment's sadness,
Soon I will kiss the sorrow from thy brow.

IV

When—oh, how blessedly!—long years have past,
And the grave's summoner is nearer flying,
As of a glorious fate we'll think of dying;
With love untired—unshaken—to the last!

148

STANZAS FOR MUSIC.

“I've been roaming, I've been roaming.”

I

I will meet thee—I will meet thee—
In that dear and silent hour;
When the moon and stars are shining,
When the dew is on the flower:

149

II

I will meet thee—I will meet thee—
On that spot the graces wove,
There our blessed vows were plighted,
There thy lips first owned thy love.

III

I will meet thee—I will meet thee—
With a heart and faith still thine,
Never shall that heart deceive thee,
Never shall that faith decline.

IV

I will leave thee—I will leave thee
When the sweet stars lose their light,
When the lake, the vale and mountain,
In the golden morn shine bright.

V

I will leave thee—I will leave thee—
Though thy presence is to me
What the sun is to the blossom,
What the rain is to the tree.

150

VI

I will leave thee—I will leave thee—
With affection nought may chill;
Dearest wheresoe'er I wander,
All my soul is with thee still!

151

SONNETS.

153

THE VOICE OF NATURE.

Feels thy high heart the pulse of vanity?—
Behold the quiet grandeur of the hills,
Observe how small a space thy greatness fills,
A grain on earth!—a raindrop on the sea!—
Art thou admired—acknowledged beautiful?
O! view the evening sky when all array'd
In gorgeous light; mark with what speed 'tis dull!
Then tell thy soul how swift the lovely fade!
Are thy blue eyes like stars?—the stars must fall—
Thy voice a warbling stream?—the stream may dry—
Thy lips like roses?—roses too will die—
Thy brow yet young?—age cannot youth recal—
The beautiful of earth are only given
As dreams of the reality of heaven!

154

LIFE.

I saw a light upon the landscape playing,
Sunning the broken turret, tree and mount;
Anon, the waters of the distant fount
In rainbow hues of loveliness arraying:
I marked how dark and sudden fell the gloom,
How deathlike, as the wandering beam pass'd on,
To make some happier spot its transient throne;
Again to leave it rayless as the tomb!—
Emblem of life, methought, is this brief light;
We feel one moment of a warm glad ray,
One blessed glow of youth, then far away
It speeds, and we are left to death and night!—
But there's a world to light and love assign'd,
A fadeless day for the undying mind!

155

THE OLD MARINER.

The snow of many hoary winters play'd
Around his aged temples—and his form
Was bowed beneath much suffering, strife, and storm:
All save his generous heart Time had decay'd:
The ocean was his passion, gale or calm;
He reverenced each wave on its vast breast,
Its ancient sounds a world of thoughts exprest,
Falling upon his spirit's love like balm;
Morning or noon or night still he was there,
Pacing with lingering steps the breezy shore,
Rejoicing in the ships the proud sea bore,
Rejoicing in the sails and streamers fair:
His last request was that his lowly grave
Might be some spot loved by the sounding wave!

156

AN EMBLEM.

A solitary cloud is on the sky,
Heavy and black, the warm effulgent sun
Irradiates it not, slow floats it by,
Dark as when first its sullen course began
From the grey west—the only sombre thing,
Where all is beautiful—the clear sunlight
Bathes the blue quiet heaven, the lark's wing
Is crown'd with glory on its sounding flight.
True emblem of the lost and fallen mind!
Drear, though around it love's sweet beams are cast,
Austere and doubtful, gloomy to the last,
Scorning the blessed light to man assign'd;
Sad is its path—in danger it is trod—
Save and forgive that erring mind, O God!

157

WRITTEN ON MY MOTHER'S GRAVE.

O spirit of my Mother! if that thou
May'st hear me from this dark and desert place,
If, through the dim immensity of space,
Thine eyes might gaze upon my sadden'd brow;
If in thy sainted sphere thou lov'st me now;
Pour down the freshness of thy spirit's light
Upon my lonely heart—bid Virtue's might
The quiet tenor of my days endow:—
That when my summer breath of time is o'er,
When lost upon Death's shore is Life's last wave;
I may from the damp silence of the grave
Spring to thy blessed arms to part no more;
And, ah! until that home of bliss be won,
Look down, my Mother! bless—oh, bless thy Son!

158

THE BRIDE.

[_]

(The lady on her bridal-day quitted England for the Continent.)

She kissed her aged sire—her hopes were dull—
And bursting sighs told what she could not speak;
O! as her bright lips touch'd his faded cheek,
She look'd of all on earth most beautiful:
She kissed her sorrowing mother—on that breast
Which oft had pillow'd her in sweet repose
She sank, 'mid tears and blushes, like a rose
On which the heavy morning dews have prest;
Her sister too—and could she e'er forget
The charm of many a past delightful scene?
They part to be no more as they have been;
They part to meet no more as they have met:
Alas, who may the depth of sorrow tell
Which lies in that bereaving word—Farewell!

159

EVENING.

The moon upon the cloudless heaven moved slow,
The pale flowers gather'd up their leaves to sleep;
In silence lay the lonely vale below
In silence spread the venerable deep:
The ancient mountains dream'd in loneliness,
A languor seem'd even in the moonlight ray,
The fresh clear stream, that gurgled through the day,
Now passed in calm and holy quietness:
The last light from the cottage casement fled,
The late bird's wings lay folded in sweet rest,
The Spirit of the Evening all things blest,
Bird, flower, vale, mountain, and the cotter's bed!—
Gradually yielding to the night's mild sway,
As music on the seas, faint, fading, far away!

160

THE STRANGER.

There is regality on his stern brow,
A mental grandeur in his gloomy eye,
Denoting thoughts—feelings that may not die—
Yet blight the melancholy heart to know:
O! there must live some fearful cause of woe
To stoop that lofty mind—that spirit high,
And give to solitude and misery
One formed to grace the all Love may bestow.
I have marked tears—the bitterest which flow—
Heard, too, the long repress'd corroding sigh
From him, who when the madden'd tempests blow
Will their fierce might—their deadly rage—defy!
But who the soul in its dark depths may show?—
Man to himself is still a mystery!

161

TIME.

On speeds the dark sepulchral flow of Time,
Its depths unsearchable as the vast sea,
Its goal—the harbour of eternity,
The stormless beauty of a heavenly clime:
What know the neighbouring shores of its career?
I hear a voice, as of the trumpet's breath,
Replying “All we know of Time—is death!—
But we have trust in God and do not fear.”
What feel the buried dead of its high power?—
A voice comes answering from the charnel-land—
“Man! seek not thou the doom Time may command,
That will thy God show in his own good hour!”
Then Time, unawed I mark thy fatal roll,
Thou hast no power o'er the immortal soul!

162

THE STREAM.

There is a stream—a dark and lonely stream—
Springs where the cypress branches weep around;
Few footsteps visit that secluded ground—
The aged woodmen it unholy deem:
Wild tales are told of fearful objects seen
Wandering its gloomy banks—of thrilling cries
Heard in that hour when purple twilight dies
Along the south—mild, beauteous and serene—
But morn or noon have never found the power
To change the dismal hue those waters bear:
'Tis night—unaltering and for ever there,
In vain the sun may shine—the storm may lower!—
Are there not men, much like this history,
That live in darkness, and in darkness die?

163

A CHANGE.

In a romantic path—love joys to grace—
Border'd with flowers of rarest light and bloom,
Filling the summer zephyrs with perfume,
A crystal brook begins its singing race,
In all the world there is not such a place
For graceful beauty—there the playful fawn,
And the red deer are seen at early dawn
Drinking its waters—fearless of the chace:
The queenly broom bestows a golden shower
Of richest fragrance, it is favour'd by
The lark's and blackbird's sweetest melody!
A home just formed for youth's impassion'd hour:
Beauty enwreaths the spot where e'er you move;—
'Tis sacred to the heart—to hope—to love!

164

THE MOURNER

Break! break my lonely heart—thou wert not made
To stem the treach'rous billows of Life's sea;
Earth's sweets are rife—but they bloom not for thee—
Thy cherish'd hopes in one brief moment fade;
Canker and blight thy tender buds invade,
While stranger flowers 'mid summer light spring free.
O! thus for ever comes some dire decree,
To cast thy bright'ning heaven into shade;
Whate'er thou prizedst, its sure decay was fleet:
Alas, thou hast but served whereon to make
A burning record of man's black deceit!
Of friendship false!—of love that could forsake!—
When will thy cup of misery be replete?
My heart—my heavy heart—forget,—or break!

165

ETERNITY

Eternity!—the name—the very sound
Lies like a spell of glory on my soul;
Rapt in the visions, I may not control,
Of light too vivid! darkness too profound!
Eternity begun—the soul reborn—
Dead, yet not lost; awakening....to what?—
A sphere how beauteous—an unfading morn—
Heaven—love, joy, gain'd! earth—care and woe, forgot!
Spirits untired—a never drooping thought—
Whence flows the spring of exquisite delight;
A home! earth's brightest seats are dim as night
To the blest mansions in God's splendour wrought;
And lives for man this home? this deathless crown?—
Bow to the ground my soul in worship down!

166

THE GRAVE.

Could'st thou unsolve the mystery of thy reign,
Thou gloomy grave! prompter of many fears!
The hidden histories of forgotten years;
Had'st thou a voice to publish and explain;
Thine were a theme to crush—destroy the brain—
To fix the eyes till they dissolved to tears—
O God! the boundless, globe one tomb appears,
The bones of Death one vast terrific chain:
A King lies mouldering there! where rests his crown?
A Woman! who would now her dark lips kiss?
A Poet—and may genius fade to this,
Thrown from his eagle flight untimely down?
O! fearful is thy strength insatiate Grave,
But there's a power far mightier—to save!

167

THE VILLAGE CHURCH.

It stands within a solitary vale
Shadow'd by ancient trees, which year on year
Still live—as relics Time and Death revere—
Unhurt by lightning's scathe—by winter-gale;—
Around each low calm grave the wild flower pale,
Like Pity, bends with many a balmy tear
There, too, pride's 'scutcheon'd monuments appear,
With high ancestral name and lofty tale!
Dull is the mind—oh, more than cold the breast
That lonely Village Church may not incline
To deep and holy musings—from its rest
A warning spirit speaks with voice divine:—
Pass thou few days—few months perhaps at best—
A shroud—a grave—an epitaph is thine!

168

THE TREE.

Is it not beautiful—when Spring calls forth
Its countless shining leaves—and Winter's hands
Have loosed their withering hold upon the lands,
To wave their stormy banners in the north:—
Is it not beautiful—when Summer breathes
'Mid its red blossoms, like the richest wine,
And the clear sky sends down its warm sunshine,
In one broad radiance o'er its graceful wreaths—
Is it not beautiful—when gentle birds
Pass their melodious lives among its boughs;
Winning each other with soft music-vows,
Sweet as in starlight hours sound lovers' words?
Too soon it dies—while unkind storms assail,
A type of beauty—fading, fair and frail!

169

MORNING.

It is the Morn—but low and dim her ray—
Broad envious shades her beauteous form conceal,
The silent birds her banished brightness feel,
Droop the green leaves, the young buds pass away:
Thus man, when his enjoyments slow decay,
When disappointments like dark shadows steal,
When youth and hope no more their charms reveal,
Withers like leaf and flower, to grief a prey.
Morn's clouds are past! out bursts the glorious day!—
A thousand merry ringing voices peal—
Spring thousand summer blossoms, bright and gay,
Beauty on earth seems to have set her seal!
O! thus may Virtue unto man display
God's promised bliss, and his deep sorrows heal!

170

TO THE SUN.

Thou light of life! Thou glory of all light!
Spirit and sign of the eternal one!
Thou splendid monument—unmatch'd—alone—
Of HIS august, immeasureable might!
Time, change, and death speed on their ravaging flight;
Continents have perished—Empires been o'erthrown—
Even the giant Ocean change hath known—
Yet still Thou reign'st—unalter'd to the sight!
Nature looks up to thee as with a heart
Feeling instinctively thy blessed power;
Birds chant sweet vespers to thee—and the flower
Lives in thy life—dies when thy smiles depart—
While man—blest man—forgets the bonds of earth
His soul assured of its immortal birth!

175

FINIS.