Poems (1857) :: :: University of Virginia Library

TO HENRY T. TUCKERMAN, IN TOKEN OF SINCERE ESTEEM, AND OF AFFECTIONATE REMEMBRANCE.

IT WAS THE EARLY WINTER.

I

It was the early winter,
The snow was on the ground,
When first my beauteous maiden,
My flower of love I found:
She passed me with a timid step,
A soft and downcast eye;
My feelings mounted to my cheek,
When first my love passed by.

II

I saw her gain the cottage,
And yet I lingered near;
Around me breathed a magic—
Life never seemed so dear!
My spirit in a golden ring
Of beauty had been bound:
It was the early winter,
The snow was on the ground.

III

I saw her on the Sabbath,
I ventured near her side;
Oh, how I prayed to Providence
That she might be my bride!
And soon my fondest hopes were blest,
Whilst bells did sweetly sound:
It was the early winter,
The snow was on the ground.

SUMMER, COME.

Radiant from thy throne of morn,
Summer, come!
Spring hath wreathed the blossomed thorn,
Roses wait thee to be born—
Summer, come!
Come,—there's glory on the lea,
Song of insect, bird, and bee:
Earth is calling but for thee—
Summer, come!

Whither would'st thou wing so soon?—
Summer, stay!
What though fled each fleeting boon,
Fled the rosy joy of June—
Summer, stay!
In thy light our love was cast,—
Link some feeling to the Past;
Leave us not to meet the blast!—
Summer, stay!

She is gone—her reign was brief—
Autumn shows
Field and vale with golden sheaf,—
Hurries fast the falling leaf
To its close;
Whilst the shortening day afar
Cometh on its cloudy car;—
And, 'midst elemental war,
Winter blows!

AT THE PARTING OF DAY.

At the parting of day, when the west shone in state,
I saw a young maid leaning over a gate;
“Day is leaving the sky, pretty maiden,” said I,
“And the night its rich glory eclipses:
Why stay you so late, by this old lonely gate?”
Said she, “Sir, I'm afraid of the gipsies,
The gipsies,—
Kind sir, I'm afraid of the gipsies!”

Not far had I roved, where the gipsy tents lay,
When I met a young man speeding swift on his way;
“You're in haste, sir, I see,—what affair may it be,
That your foot the best runner eclipses?”
“Sir,” he said, “there's a maid it's important to aid,
Who's sadly afraid of the gipsies,
The gipsies,—
Who's sadly afraid of the gipsies!

“Their tents are close by,—there are robbers about,
And she's sorely alarmed, for the watch-dogs are out;”
Said I, “Danger there's sure,—see your heart be secure,—
There's a thief who all other eclipses,—

One who steals with a smile,—one whose glances beguile,
And I warn you take care of such gipsies,
Such gipsies,—
Oh! I warn you beware of such gipsies!”

WHAT'S A FAIR OR NOBLE FACE.

I

What's a fair or noble face,
If the mind ignoble be?
What though Beauty, in each grace,
May her own resemblance see!
Eyes may catch from heaven their spell,
Lips the ruby's light recall;
In the Home for Love to dwell,
One good feeling's worth them all.

II

Give me Virtue's rose to trace,
Honor's kindling glance and mien;
Howsoever plain the face,
Beauty is where these are seen!
Raven ringlets o'er the snow
Of the whitest neck may fall;
In the Home for Love we know
One good feeling's worth them all!

I WOOED THEE.

I

I wooed thee, I wooed thee, my love,
For charms more endearing than speak
In thy soft beaming eye—like the dove—
Or the exquisite grace of thy cheek.
For a heart by each feeling refined,
And pure as a seraph's above;
For the beauty and grace of thy mind,
I wooed thee, I wooed thee, my love.

II

When the spring-tide of beauty is o'er,
And the grace of thy young cheek decayed,
The Mind will a new spring restore,
Whose loveliness never may fade!
For there the true fountain is given,
Life's charm and enchantment to prove;
Not only for Earth,—but for Heaven,—
I wooed thee, I wooed thee, my love.

I KNEW MY LOT WAS LABOR.

I knew my lot was labor,
I knew my joys were few;
But Monday morn was welcome
Whate'er the work to do!—
My heart was light and cheery;
The day sped swiftly o'er;
But now my work is dreary—
For Mary is no more!

I asked no gift from fortune,
Nor envied king nor peer;
For there were walks with Mary,
When Saturday drew near!—
But now the days drag slowly,
And labor seemeth sore;
For she who made life holy,
Sweet Mary is no more!

The Sabbath is not Sabbath,
The hymns seem not the same;
And lonely in the churchyard
I read my Mary's name.
Ah, once the earth had gladness,
And work sped swiftly o'er;
But now all work is sadness,
For Mary is no more!

153

SHE'S NOT SO FAIR.

She's not so fair as many there
But she's as loved as any,
And few you'll find with such a mind
Or such a heart as Nannie:

154

A maiden grace, a modest face,
A smile to win us ever;
And, she has sense—without pretence—
And good as she is clever!

She's not so fine as some may shine
With feathers, pearls, and laces;
But oh, she's got, what they have not
With all their borrowed graces,
Eyes blue and bright with heaven's light,
That kindle with devotion;
A cheek of rose, a heart that glows
With every sweet emotion!
She's not so fair as many there
But she's as loved as any,
And few you'll find with such a mind
Or such a heart as Nannie.

159

LOVE'S CONFESSION.

If there seemed coldness in my glance,
Oh, could thy heart not read
I did but feign indifference,
That thou the more might'st plead!

160

If I confessed a doubt upon
The love I found so true,
Oh! 't was not that I wished thee gone,
But that thou more wouldst woo!

'T was sweet to have a thousand fears,
And each by thee removed;
'T was bliss—'t was music to my ears—
To love and be beloved!
And thus to prove thee o'er and o'er,
My fond complaints grew bold;
But never did I love thee more
Than when thou deem'dst me cold!

A SIGH.

Nothing that lives can bloom
Long upon earth;
Meteors, that realms illume,
Die in their birth!
All that the soul admires—
All that the heart desires—
From heart and soul expires;
Leaving but dearth!

Stars, as they light the hours
Steal them away!—
Suns which unfold the flowers
Bring them decay!—

161

Even Morn's beams of light
Fresh on their heavenly flight,
Shine but to speed the Night!—
Nothing can stay!—

So, for a little while,
Time passes on—
Flowers that our hopes beguile
Fade one by one!
All that our love can say,
Of those who blessed our way,
Is—that they passed their day—
Lived—and are gone!

162

WHY ART THOU SO UNLIKE THE REST?

Why art thou so unlike the rest—
So far unlike the beings near thee?
Why com'st thou like some heavenly guest,
Why seems it heaven itself to hear thee?
Or is my own fond heart too fond—
And finds thee, what none else have found thee?
Oh, no: thy presence soars beyond
All meaner things that gather round thee.

Why look'st thou with those eyes of love
As though a seraph dwelt within them?
Why speak'st thou sweet as lips above—
That breathe to angel hearts and win them:

163

Why see'st thou all with such kind eyes
Whilst mine thyself can only see!—
And even as they gaze Earth flies—
And all their vision's lost in thee!

168

WHAT IS THAT WE TAKE FROM EARTH?

What is that we take from earth
When the spirit leaves its clay?
What is there of mortal birth
Worthy to be borne away?
Is it state, or power, or fame,
Gold or rank, we need above?
Oh! there's nought worth heaven's claim
Save that gift of heaven—love!
Love, which fills the world with light,
When the sun hath set afar;

169

Love which joins us in our flight
To that land where angels are!

From all nature doth it draw
Beauty to adorn its shrine;
By some spiritual law
Making earthly things divine.
It the inner soul inspires,
It the purer life reveals;
And eternity requires
To express the faith it feels!
Love, 'tis love, fills earth with light,
When the sun hath set afar;
Love, which joins us in our flight
To that world where angels are!

Yes, 'mid all that God hath made
There is one surpassing spell;
In its strength are saints arrayed,
In its glory angels dwell.
It is this which still outspeeds
Sight and space, and time and breath,
It is this the spirit needs
When immortal over death!
Sweetness which outblooms the May,
Brightness which outshines the star;
This, 'tis this, we bear away
To that land where angels are!

172

THE TREE OF THE VALLEY.

I

The tree of the valley
Waves gracefully round,
Its green leaves in beauty
Adorning the ground!
But dark 'neath its verdure
The broken bough grieves;
And deep are its storm-wounds,
Though hid by the leaves!

II

'Tis thus with ourselves—
To the world we appear
All smiles, as unknowing
A sigh, or a tear!
And little they think,
Whom the light laugh beguiles,
That hearts which are breaking
Hide sorrow 'neath smiles!

SWEET EIGHTEEN.

I

Sweet eighteen!—graceful eighteen!
Bring me roses—the birth-day flower—
Bathe them in dews where the fairies have been,
To wreath a charm for my natal hour:

173

Time will show me his magic glass—
Future life in each varied scene—
Lights and shadows which come and pass
Over the heart when it's turned eighteen!

II

Mother, oh! sing me again to rest,
Tender and fond as thy bosom of yore;
Father, I kneel, to again be blest
Over my prayers as thou blessed me before!
Nature half grieving, half glad, appears;
Tears and smiles on the skies have been;
Just as I feel when I call past years,
And think that I now am—oh, sweet eighteen!

III

Summer hath brought me a bridal dress,
Lilies all gemmed with the treasures of morn;
Woodbines that twine, with their fondest caress,
Round the old cottage where they were born!
Thus will I cherish, thus hallow the spot,
Passing the moments your loves between;
For what are the pleasures my home has not?
Oh, what other years are like sweet eighteen?

175

SONG.

The winds are blowing winterly!
Lonely o'er the midnight sea,
Frozen sail and icy mast
Shiver in the northern blast!
Wild birds to their rock-nests flee,
For the winds are blowing winterly!

O'er the moor the cotter strides—
Drifting snow his pathway hides;
Stars keep trembling in and out,
As though too cold to look about!
Glad he'll see his own roof-tree—
For the winds are blowing winterly!

By the fire the cotter's dame
Sits, yet scarcely feels the flame;
Often looks she from the door,
Fearing sad that dismal moor,
And weeping for her son at sea—
For the winds are howling winterly!

176

THE BIRD OF HOPE.

I

A golden cage of sunbeams
Half down a rainbow hung;
And sweet therein a golden bird
The whole bright morning sung!—
The winged shapes around it, grew
Enchanted as they heard:
It was the bird of Hope—my love—
It was Hope's golden bird!

II

And ever of to-morrow
The syren song began!—

177

Ah, what on earth's so musical
As love and hope to man?—
I listened, thinking still of thee,
And of thy promised word:
It was the bird of Hope—sweet love—
It was Hope's golden bird!

III

Though ours should be a cottage home,
From pride and pomp apart;
The truest wealth for happiness
Is still a faithful heart.
And thus it sung—“unloving wealth
Would never be preferred!”—
It was the bird of Hope—sweet love—
It was Hope's golden bird!

POOR MAN'S SONG.

I

Oh! better be poor and be merry,
Than rich as a lord and be sad;
For good beer laughs louder than sherry,
Which never such happy friends had!
There's a tale for each drop in the tankard,
A song for each fresh filling-up;
Time may chide if he will,—here we're anchored—
Whilst Friendship goes round with the cup.
For better be poor and be merry, etc.

178

II

The Baron may arrogate loudly
The splendors of lordship and land;
And why not the Peasant as proudly
The skill of his wealth-making hand!
Oh, liberty's not for the knightly—
The poorest are often more free;
And he who thinks well, and acts rightly,
Who's richer or nobler than he?
Then better be poor and be merry, etc.

III

Here's the strength of old England, my hearties,
The vigor that lies in good beer!
Political changes and parties
Keep outside the door whilst we're here!
May the plough and the loom thrive together;
May Industry ne'er know a sigh;
And the times that bring darkest of weather
Still show us a brighter day nigh!
Then better be poor and be merry, etc.

179

KING FROST.

I

King Frost galloped hard from his Palace of Snow
To the hills whence the floods dashed in thunder below;
But he breathed on the waters, that swooned at his will,
And their clamor was o'er, for the torrents stood still!
“Ho! ho!” thought the King, as he galloped along,
“I have stopped those mad torrents awhile in their song.”

180

II

With pennons high streaming, in gladness and pride,
A fair vessel moved o'er the billowy tide;
But whilst bold hearts were deeming their perils all past,
King Frost struck the billows, and fettered them fast!
“Ho! ho!” cried the monarch, “their homes may long wait
Ere aught, my fine vessel, be heard of your fate!”

III

Through the forest rode he, and the skeleton trees
Groaned, withered and wild, 'gainst the desolate breeze;
And shook their hoar locks as the Frost King flew by,
Whilst the hail rattled round, like a volley from high!
“Ho! ho!” shouted he, “my old Sylvans, ye're bare,
But my minister, Snow, shall find robes for your wear!”

IV

By the convent sped he—by the lone, ruined fane,
Where the castle frowned wild o'er its rocky domain;
And the warder grew pallid, and shook, as in fear,
As the monarch swept by with his icicle spear!
Whilst his herald, the Blast, breathed defiance below,
And hurrahed for King Frost and his Palace of Snow!

182

THE BRIDE'S FATHER.

I

The last kiss is given—the last adieu sighed—
The bridegroom's away with his beautiful bride;
Alone sits the father—alone in his years!
The mansion is silent, the old man in tears!
He thinks of her sweetness, which soothed every care,
And he fondly looks up, as expecting her there.
Ah! when was the time he such sorrow had shown,
As she came not?—but now the old man weeps alone.

II

And could she remember his fondness, that threw
Fresh flowers o'er her path every moment she knew—
That granted each wish her light heart could prefer—
Who in the wide world had but her—only her!
Oh, Nature! how strange and unfeeling appears
This breaking of all the affections of years,
For one who a summer ago was unknown!
Yet that one has her heart—the old man weeps alone!

III

No, not for a crown—as an emperor's bride—
Had I quitted a father's affectionate side!

183

I'd have thought of his evenings, long, lonely, and dim,
And prized not a love unconnected with him;
Deemed the one who'd have soothed not my father's decline,
Howe'er he might love me, unworthy of mine;
Nor changed the affections 'neath which I had grown,
Nor left a fond father—old, cheerless, and lone!

THE FIRST PRAYER.

I

Tell me, oh! ye stars of night—
In the ages ye have seen,
Aught more gentle, mild, and bright,
Aught more dear to angels' sight,
Hath there been;
Or more innocent and fair,
Than an infant's earliest prayer?

II

Tell me, oh! ye flowers that meet
By the valley or the stream,
Have ye incense half so sweet,—
Fragrance in your rich retreat,—
That ye deem
Half so dear to Heaven's care,
As an infant's quiet prayer?

184

III

Speak, and tell me, thou, oh! Time,
From the coming of the Word,
Aught more holy, more sublime,
From the heart of any clime,
Hast thou heard,
Than the voice ascending there,
Than that lowly infant's prayer?

NO MORE.

I

No more, dear valley of my youth,
I breathe thy free inspiring air;—
Romance hath yielded now to Truth,
Dark droop the hopes that once bloomed fair!
The poetry of soul that threw
Its fine and rich enchantment o'er
The valley, and each scene I knew,
Is felt no more!

II

No more, beside the clustering vine,
My sister, may'st thou smile and sing;—
Yet, oh! if ever song's divine
It is when Memory wreathes the string!—
I left thee, but with looks that gave
No coming sorrow to deplore;—
And now—I weep above thy grave!—
Thou sing'st no more!—

185

III

It is not that the Vale is changed,
The change is in my own sad heart;
Still smile the very scenes we ranged,
But where's the charm they could impart?
Ah, thus looks youth to Man as born
For all that nobler minds adore;
And man looks back to Youth's brief morn
And smiles no more!

207

THE GAY WORLD.

Pass on, thou World,—
Follow the prosperous and the great,
Nor sympathize with suffering fate;
Nor let one tear for others flow,—
Pass on,—the poor and friendless know,
'Tis not for long!

Thy halls are bright
With music, beauty, all that Wealth reveals;
Why shouldst thou pause to think what misery feels,—
With what sad terrors poverty must cope;—
Pass on,—the wretched look to heaven, and hope
'Tis not for long!

Thy parks and lawns
Yield health, and bloom, and pleasure to the eyes!
Why seek the couch where haggard sickness lies,

208

In streets confined,—in alleys chill and lorn,—
Pass on,—there is God's rose for sorrow's thorn,—
'Tis not for long!

228

PERSEVERANCE.

Take the spade of Perseverance;
Dig the field of Progress wide:
Every bar to true instruction
Carry out and cast aside;
Every stubborn weed of Error,
Every seed that hurts the soil,
Tares, whose very growth is terror—
Dig them out, whate'er the toil!

Give the stream of Education
Broader channel, bolder force;
Hurl the stones of Persecution
Out where'er they block its course;
Seek for strength in self-exertion;
Work, and still have faith to wait;
Close the crooked gate to fortune;
Make the road to honor straight!

Men are agents for the Future!
As they work, so ages win
Either harvest of advancement,
Or the product of their sin!
Follow out true cultivation,—
Widen Education's plan;
From the majesty of Nature
Teach the majesty of Man!

263

BETTER DAYS.

I

'T was said she had known better days!
Sad words—how old on earth!
The voice which fortune here obeys
Is but of fickle birth!

264

How oft we mark some faded dress,
Where decent pride betrays
Still mournfully, 'mid all distress,
An air of better days!

II

Ah, poverty hath many a shape
To make the thinking weep!
The little hat whose scanty crape
Turns pale the widow's cheek!
They touch me most who fain would hide
Their fall from fortune's ways;
I can respect—nay love their pride
Who have known better days!

III

When we our trifling cares reveal—
Cares which too oft we seek;
Could we but feel what others feel
Our lips would shame to speak!
To see the morn but not the means—
How dread that morning's rays!
Alas, they bear life's hardest scenes,
Who have known better days!

265

MEET ME THERE.

I

When the lingering daylight closes
O'er the lily's graceful breast;
When the moonbeam on the roses
Glitters like a bridal vest;
By the stream through Devon flowing
Like some faint and fairy strain,
Meet me, in thy beauty glowing,
Meet me there—my own sweet Jane!

II

For the daylight first shall perish
Ne'er to bless my waking sight,
And the moonbeam fail to cherish
Love's own roses through the night;
And the stream be mute for ever
Through sweet Devon's lonely plain,—
Heart and soul and feeling sever—
Ere I cease to love my Jane!

266

THE KIND OLD FRIENDLY FEELINGS.

I

The kind old friendly feelings!
We have their spirit yet—
Though years and years have passed, old friend,
Since thou and I last met!
And something of gray Time's advance
Speaks in thy fading eye;
Yet 'tis the same good, honest glance
I loved in times gone by!
Ere the kind old friendly feelings
Had ever brought one sigh!

II

The warm old friendly feelings!
Ah, who need yet be told,
No other links can bind the heart
Like those loved links of old!
Thy hand I joyed in youth to clasp
The touch of age may show;
Yet, 'tis the same true, hearty grasp
I loved so long ago!
Ere the last old friendly feelings
Had taught one tear to flow!

III

The kind, old friendly feelings!
Oh, seem they e'er less dear

267

Because some recollections
May meet us with a tear?
Though hopes we shared,—the early beams
Ambition showed our way,—
Have fled, dear friend, like morning dreams
Before Truth's searching ray;—
Still we've kept the kind old feelings
That blessed our youthful day!

272

THE SHEPHERD'S DAUGHTER.

I

Where the golden hand of morn
Touches light the singing fountain,
There a maiden, lowly born,
Guides her flock along the mountain;—
Bashful as the fawn, and fleet,
She invests the world with beauty;
Simple grace, and manners sweet,
Dignify her humble duty.

273

II

Sudden light has wreathed the earth,
Robed the fields and flowers in gladness;
New delights, too deep for mirth;
Gentle griefs, too sweet for sadness:
Who this sudden charm hath wrought?—
Sent this flow of bright revealings?—
Mind, that springs with joyous thought!
Heart, that glows with heavenly feelings!

III

Surely, 'tis some angel strayed,
Not a shepherd's daughter solely,
Who hath earth like heaven arrayed,
In a light and love so holy!
Oh! when stars, like drops of pearl,
Glimmer o'er the singing water,
There I'll woo my mountain girl,
Proudly wed the Shepherd's Daughter!

283

THE RIVER.

Thou art the Poet of the Woods, fair River,
A lover of the beautiful!—and still
Wand'rest by wildest scenes, while night-stars quiver,
The only voice that haunts the desert hill:—
Thou art the Poet of the Woods, whose lay
Charms the dim forest on thy sylvan way.

Thou art the Artist of the Vale, bright River,
That paint'st the glowing hues of earth and sky
On thine own pure and placid breast for ever;
Two worlds of beauty on thy waters lie!—
Thou'rt Nature's boldest Painter—broad and free—
And human genius ne'er surpasseth thee!

Thou art the Minstrel of the Fields, sweet River,
Whose music lingers like an angel's tongue—
A voice that sings the glory of the Giver!
Creation's first, sublimest, birth of song!
Still let my soul thy liquid music hear,
Oh, sweet Musician!—voice for ever dear!

287

THE BETTER WREATH.

I

What mortal plant that grows
Should wreathe immortal fame?
The Rose? it darkens ere it blows;
Its glory's but a name!—
Its blush, which meets the Morn's young beams,
Must bear Night's tears ere long;
Find fitter emblem for Fame's dreams,
The poet's soul and song!

II

The Laurel? Shall its sombre leaves
Fame's lofty brow entwine,
Which living light from heaven receives,
And mirrors thoughts divine!
No! Cast it o'er some dismal wave,
Where human hopes ne'er breathe;
The glorious songs the poet gave
May ask a nobler wreath.

III

The Bay? Oh! still its hues proclaim
The same prophetic mark;
All things that speak of after fame,
Are gloomy, stern, and dark!

288

The lovelier still the briefer lot;
They blossom and depart!
Their dead leaves lingering o'er the spot
Like memories round the heart.

IV

Away! of human feelings twine
The garland that shall live;
Hopes, thoughts, affections—all divine,
Be these the wreath ye give!
The Heart's the flower that sweetest glows,
And bears the dearest name:
What other mortal thing which grows
Should wreathe immortal fame!

289

MAID OF SARAGOSSA.

“The two sieges of Saragossa were the most distinguished displays of Spanish intrepidity during the war. The assault on the last day, the 28th, was renewed with still greater fury. It was preceded by a terrible blow. Whether by treachery or accident, the powder-magazine in the centre of the city exploded, tearing away fourteen houses, and burying above two hundred of the people. While the citizens, startled by this sweeping disaster, were crowding to dig their dead and dying friends out of the ruins, the French batteries opened a tremendous discharge, and the columns of assault advanced under it to the gates; in that moment, Agostina, a woman of the humbler classes, sprang into the battery, calling on her countrymen to follow, seized the burning match, and fired off the cannon; then, jumping on it, loudly made a vow to ‘Our Lady of the Pillar,’ never to quit it till either she was dead, or the enemy were driven away.”

I

There were murmurs through the night,
As of multitudes in prayer;
There were tears of wild affright,
And the wailing of despair:
For Invasion's gory hand
Scattered havoc o'er the land.

II

The startled morn arose
To the trumpet's fierce acclaim,
To the ringing steel of foes,
And the battle bolts of flame;
Whilst the Gallic wolves of war
Round were howling, and afar.

290

III

The matron armed her son,
And pointed to the walls:
“See, the carnage hath begun,
'Tis thy bleeding country calls!
Better, son, the patriot's tomb,
Than a slave's ignoble doom.”

IV

The gray-haired father took
His time-worn brand and shield;
The pale monk closed his book,
The peasant left his field;
And daughters, e'en a scar had grieved,
Now deeds of dauntless heart achieved.

V

Right onward dashed the foe,
O'er the red and reeking ground,
'Till the giant gates below
Burst with an earthquake sound;
And the rocking walls yawned deep,
'Neath the cannon's shattering sweep.

VI

Yet ne'er with tyrant warred
A firmer, bolder band:
Again the gates were barred—
Again the walls were manned;
Again, as with prophetic sight,
The hallowed Cross advanced the fight.

291

VII

But heavier woes befell
The still unvanquished brave,
'Mid sounds that seemed the knell
Of freedom's hopeless grave:
A hurricane, a blazing shower,
Swept shivered rampart, rock, and tower!

VIII

In that appalling hour
When Fate with Gaul combined
To quell the freeman's power,
To crush the valiant mind—
When e'en the last defence had died,
Who braved the storm? who stemmed the tide?

IX

No steel-girt knight of fame,
No chief of high emprise;
A maiden's soul enshrined the flame
Which lit Hope's darkening skies;
A maiden's valor dealt the blow,
And stepped 'tween conquest and the foe.—

X

Stood on that fatal brink,
Defying pain and death!
And could Napoleon's legion shrink
Before a woman's breath?
Could Gaul's proud eagle, from its height,
Stoop to a mean, disastrous flight?

292

XI

Yes: that fair arm withstood
The chivalry of France,
And poured destruction, like a flood,
On quailing helm and lance:
Leonidas in maiden's stole,
A woman's breast with Curtius' soul.

XII

Heroic heart and true!
Thy deeds shall find a voice
To bid usurping tyrants rue,
And freedom's sons rejoice:
The loved of Time, the prized of Fame,
Spain's noblest boast, and Gallia's shame!

297

THE PRINCE OF THE STORM.

I

I was born in a cloud of sulphureous hue—
Darkness my mother, and Flame my sire;
The earth shook in terror, as forth to its view
I sprang from my throne like a monarch of fire!
My brother, bold Thunder, hurrahed as I sped!
My subjects laughed wild, till the rain from their eyes

298

Rolled fast, as though torrents were dashed overhead,
Or an ocean had burst through the bounds of the skies!
I am Prince of the Storm—of the Cloud—of the Air—
I strike the firm oak that doth ages defy;
And lo! in an instant 'tis shattered and bare—
For the Lanceman of Death, the red Lightning am I!

II

Hurrah! what a whirling and rush o'er the land;
Like the cannon of battle the dark mountains roar;
Whilst around, with my lances of fire in my hand,
I scatter wild havoc behind and before!—
Hurrah for the forest! with sounds like the ocean,
The boughs heave in billows and groan in the blast:
Then, silent as death, not a branch seen in motion,
They breathless look up when the tempest hath passed.
Oh, I'm Prince of the Storm—of the Air—of the Cloud,
I strike the tall rock that doth ages defy,
And lo! in an instant 'tis shivered and bowed—
For the Lanceman of Death, the red Lightning am I!

THE END.