The Legend of Genevieve :: :: University of Virginia Library

Here clustering thick, the boughs have made,
With foliage dark, a pleasant shade;
We from our walk will rest a while,
The noon-day scorching to beguile
Upon this verdant slope:
Lo! what a beauteous scene around—
Green fields, brown woods, black steeps abound,
And hills the clouds that prop.
On every bank, in every dell,
The wild shrub charms both sight and smell;
The housing bee, on restless wing,
Hums on its flower-besprinkled way;
While Nature's untaught warblers sing,
Elate of heart, on every spray.
It seems as if a holiday

Were held on earth; the browsing flocks
Are on the sward reposing laid;
Some quaff the cooling stream; the ox
Stands panting in the beechen shade.
With cresses green, from rocky nook,
Springs glistening forth the limpid brook;
Across its bed, the freshening breeze
Just stirs the leaves on yonder trees,
And, for a moment, dissipates
The listless air, which burns around:—
Say, dost thou know the ancient gates
Of yonder rising ground?

Long, long from thence, when all around
Has smiled, these Gothic towers have frown'd;
Through ages there, the summer's heat
Has burn'd, the wintry storms have beat;
But, giant-like, these walls have stood
To scorn the winds, and mock the flood.
A mournful tale it were, to tell
In former times what there befell,
When first to cleanse a father's guilt
These consecrated walls were built;
And, from the relics there that lie,
Were named the Lover's Priory:—

Here, as a while we rest at ease,
That tale of love and woe may please.—

Some hearts to pitying love are prone;
Some hearts are framed in sterner mould;
Such was the Baron's, who did own
These Gothic towers of old.—
In fiery youth, the ocean plain
Lord Ronald with his sword had cross'd;
Career'd o'er fields of Paynim slain,
With backward heel, and loosened rein,
And viewed in pride, and then disdain,
The towers of Salem won and lost.

Now age was setting on his brow
It's signet; and, retired from all,
He stray'd beneath the forest bough;
Or paced his own ancestral hall,
Where many a warrior of his line
In pictured arms was seen to shine,
And, on the gazer, with a frown,
From 'neath his helm, scowl'd darkly down:
But, deem not, that with rustic peace
His heart was smitten, that his eye

On Nature's calm tranquillity
Had gazed, to bid contentions cease:—
No! let the stern hyæna blind
Be pent within his iron cage;
Or bar the vulture from the wind
Of mountain tempests, and its kind,
And both shall die of rage!

Deem ye, this ancient heritage
Brought calm seclusion to his age;
The stilly murmurs of the wood;
The river's sunless solitude;
The cavern'd steep, and grotto rude?—
The deer that raised his branchy head,
And o'er the lawns majestic fled;
The swans, that floated o'er the lake;
The birds, that caroll'd from the brake,
Were all unmark'd by him, whose mind,
Unfeeling, cold, and unrefined,
Was quite an alien to the ties
Of nature's finer sympathies.

The stranger pass'd his gate unblest;
The weary look'd not there for rest;—

Unsocial and sequester'd fell
The shadows of his turrets steep,
Athwart the fosse, and o'er the dell,
With melancholy sweep;
Beseeming to the eye that view'd,
The residence of Solitude.
But let not moody minds suppose
His dwelling was a wilderness;
Within his halls there bloom'd a rose,
A solitary rose, to bless
With loveliness the gazer's eye:
None e'er beheld a lovelier flower
Than this, the glory of his bower;
Admired it for a transient hour,
Nor parted with a sigh!

Oh! who could paint young Genevieve,
The aged Baron's only child!
Upon that countenance, believe,
Or if she sigh'd, or if she smiled,
Unspeaking eloquence reposed,
Like dew on flowers by evening closed:
Shaded by bright, soft, auburn hair,
Her brow serene, and high, and fair,

Outvied, in its pure arch of white,
The moonshine snows of winter night;
Her cheek the rosebud bathed in dew
Resembled; from her eyes of blue
Shone out the seraph's depth of hue;
And for her form, so heavenly fair,
As in her loveliness she shone,
Bewitching all that gazed thereon,
Not Helen could compare!
Nor e'er was gaze on creature bent
So artless, or more innocent.

Yet, oft, upon that lovely face,
The lily took the rose's place,
And, stealing grandeur, added grace;
'Twas scarcely grief—it was not gloom,
That broods in anguish o'er its doom,
Adding to truth imagined fears;
She seem'd absorbed in thought the while,
Like one who careth not to smile;
Like one whom tender thoughts beguile;
Like Cheerfulness in tears;
And even when Hebe's mirth would seek
With smiles to dimple o'er her cheek,

Her inward, wandering fears gave birth
To woes, that frown'd amid her mirth;
And cast a shadow, dim and blind,
Across the heaven of her pure mind.
When Music woke its sweetest tone,
And every care was lull'd to rest,
She loved desponding notes the best;
They seemed an echo from the breast,
And were the most her own.

When round the circle all was glad,
And pensive dreams in joy forgot,
Though she, alone of all, was sad,
Their happier state she envied not.—
Oh! when her coral lips unclosed,
What magic melody reposed
Upon that witching tongue!
Unconscious she, but listeners found
A spell within the elfin sound,
They wist not whence it sprung;
Enraptured there they linger'd on,
Yet own'd the gently soothing tone
Seem'd sad, for one so young:
It came like music o'er the sea,

At summer day's delightful close;
When winds and waters silent be;
And down on earth, with lustre free,
The star of evening glows!
And Rouen's knights, the young, the brave,
The chace and tournament would leave,
Forsake the din of war, to crave
A smile, a sigh from Genevieve;
But yet those looks, those smiles express'd
The unthaw'd coldness of her breast;
In her sad, melancholy mien,
Another Niobe was seen;
And they who hoped a mutual flame,
Who sadly went, and fondly came,
Felt, what their fears had pictured worst,
Despair to hopes by passion nursed.—
Yet idly do not deem, this told
A heart unfeeling, false, or cold;
If others be, hers was not such,
With purest flame that bosom burn'd;
One loved she well; with warmth as much
Her passion was return'd;—
To her his heart, his vows were given,
She was the day-star of his heaven!

How lovely is the afternoon
Beneath the summer smile of June!
It is a very blessedness
To breathe the air, so pure, and mild;
From out the bosom all distress
Is banish'd, and all care exiled:
A brighter blue invests the sky,
Where colour'd clouds reposing lie,
With all their rainbow tinctures fair,
Forming a paradise in air;
A fresher foliage decks the grove,
Whose echoes only murmur love,
Where, 'mid its central glooms, profound,
The amorous stock-dove's cooing fills
The silence with a gentle sound,
And peaceful thought instils.
In silvery current glides the stream,
Upon whose surface burns the beam
Of the bright sun, and mocks the sight
With prodigality of light;
Receding hills, and hanging wood
Beneath are in its mirror view'd,
And, in a sky of soften'd glow,
Dark rooks and white clouds sail below:—

The larch-tree gains a tint of blue;
The pine-tree's bark a crimson hue;
Majestically round her throws
The palm her wide, umbrageous boughs,
And shelters, through the glowing hours,
With welcome shade, the lowly flowers,—
The laughing flowers of varied dyes,
With fragrant breath, and radiant eyes,
Which look, as pitying that bright sun,
Whose circuit is so nearly run,
And, turning, hold their blossoms bright
Towards the great fountain source of light:
Thus, onwards through the scorching sands
Of shelterless, Arabian lands,
As pilgrims toil, on march divine,
They turn their face towards Mecca's shrine.

Within the shadowy castle grove,
The lone retreat of pensive love,
There was a beauteous jasmine bower,
Where roses shed a rich perfume;
The honey-suckle blent its flower,
The lilac bough its spiral bloom;
The acacia shot above; beneath

Lilies and violets widely strew'd,
An odorous, dim-eyed multitude,
Profusely shed their summer breath,
As past the wandering zephyr swept,
Which stirr'd the luscious guelder rose,
And kiss'd the bright laburnum boughs,
Whose yellow clusters waved and wept.
There Baldwin rests with Genevieve,
An hour secluded to beguile;
With hope to burn, with doubt to grieve;
Yet fondly, tenderly believe
That fortune on their lot would smile!—
What though contending rivals press'd
To woo her love, and gain her hand;
Though this was once a royal guest;
And that had armies to command;
What though a father's hatred fell
Between their hearts, when love unites—
The lightning's wing may but impel
More deep in earth the trunk it blights:
Distance to absence still bequeathes
The dream that lives, the thought that breathes;
Disaster to responsive hearts
A doubled tenderness imparts;

And love survives, by fortune crost,
When reason droops, and hope is lost.

“Ah! Baldwin, when with thee I rest,
The demon fear forsakes my breast;
And, for a while, the world appears
Bright with the glow of youthful years.
I know not why, yet, when apart,
A gloominess o'erhangs my heart;
And freezing doubts, and cares appal,
As if my years were winters all;
Still am I doom'd to hear around
The laugh of mirth,—an empty sound!
And Adulation's syren voice
I list unmoved, and hold in scorn;
Nor can my burthen'd heart rejoice,
Till from the crowd to silence borne;
And then, within my chamber lone,
As burns the star of fading day,
I sit, and feel how woe-begone
My spirit is, from thine away.—
Lo! when, serene, at noon of night,
The silver moon is shining bright,
I think how happy I could be

In some unknown, sequester'd grove,
Whose streamlets murmur'd pleasantly,
And all our thoughts should be of love;
Where I would find it sweet delight
To roam with thee the livelong day,
And not a pathway should invite
Intrusion's footsteps on to stray.
Oh! think not thou, 'mid splendid throngs,
That this poor heart from care is free!
To years with such less joy belongs
Than one short hour with thee.
To what, but vanity alone,
Do those unmeaning pageants tend?
True bliss on earth is only known,
Where two congenial spirits blend:
But yet, though woes on me await,
I am not so unfortunate
As she,

Sappho.

that, in her woe,
Found none to share her lonely fate,
Nor answering passion glow;
Who, wildly, to Leucadia's steep
Came in her frenzied love to weep,
And sought a grave below;
More happy planets smile on me,
Possess'd of all, when blest with thee,

My Baldwin, kind and true;
But, what if thou thy troth shouldst spurn,
To some more favour'd rival turn,
And prove a Phaon too?”

“Oh! hush, my love—if dwelt with me
The power to bless thee, Genevieve,
Far, far away, should sadness flee,
Nor leave behind a cause to grieve,
Thou sweetest flower, that ere owed birth
To this inhospitable earth!
Too rude for thine angelic form
The darkness of the gather'd storm;
And all too gentle that sweet breast
For disappointment and unrest;
My own, my dearest, all thy woe,
And all thy love, I more than know,
While now thy hand in mine is prest;
And when so near that generous heart,
Whence faith and feeling ne'er depart,
And virtue is a constant guest,
I feel how much that soul of thine
In love hath sacrificed to mine;
How long, how patiently, for me
A father's brooding jealousy

Thou, spareless of thyself, hast borne,
All uncomplaining, though forlorn!
Fair Genevieve! no powers shall part
The ties that bind thee to my heart;
The passion which hath stood the shock
Of absence, and dividing years,
Firm in its strength, shall also mock
The darkness of these harbour'd fears;
The sun that shone through mist and tears,
May see a bright and calm decline,
And down the depth of future years
With tranquil ray unclouded shine;
Now years, my love, away have flown,
Since passion first proclaim'd his power,
And, in their circuit, we have known
Both sorrowing day and blissful hour:
That plain, nay, even this very bower,
Where now like captive birds we rest,
Has seen us sad—and sees us blest.
'Tis long,—yet I remember well
How friendship to affection grew;
How day did lingering day impel,
When thou wert absent from my view
But with the lightning's swiftness flew

The eve, where yonder waters glide,
As, sauntering onward, side by side,
I sigh'd to think how years their tide
Might o'er us roll, while, still apart,
With sunder'd hands, we pined in heart!
And oft my soul was sunk in woe,
To learn what Genevieve had borne,
Nay, still did bear, who would forego
Her peace, and glean a father's scorn
For Baldwin's sake—”

“And I have sworn,”
The Baron cried, and rush'd between,
“This interview your last hath been.
This blade, before my rage abate,
Shall deal a well deserved fate
To thee, false knight, whose crafty eye
Is fraught with guile and treachery;
With whom, in hydra concert, dwell
The smiles of heaven, and snares of hell;
To thee, who proudly could'st aspire,
Base son of an ignoble sire!
To taint a long and princely line
By mingling there the dregs of thine;
Better for thee, while others roam,
To prate of war, and skulk at home;

Fitter for thee, meek child of love,
Than tented field, the myrtle grove;
For thee, who, adder-like, could'st twine
Around an only daughter's heart,
And, with soft sigh and words divine,
Could bid her play a traitrous part:
But justice shall avenge me yet—
Know this, to cheer thee, ere we sever,
Before to-morrow's sun shall set,
Another's she must be for ever!
Now, indignation, longer check'd
Than prudence dictates to avow,
Shall in thy forfeit blood be wreak'd—
Now shall I have atonement—now!”

Forward he rush'd; his weapon bright
Reflected back the dazzling light;
His cheek was of the crimson dye;
Red anger from his falcon eye
Shot forth the living glance of flame,
Which vanquish'd reason could not tame;
Forward he rush'd;—yet unsubdued
Of soul, and in determined mood,
Although defenceless, Baldwin stood;

His courage not a pause would brook—
Firm was his step, unawed his look:—
Forward he rush'd; but Genevieve
To Baldwin's neck did madly cleave,
As twines the ivy round the oak,
To shield him from the impending stroke.—
“Oh! father,” wild with woe, she cried,
“If one must fall, that fatal blow
Shall tear us not asunder—know,
We perish side by side!
Think of the time, when, worn with pain,
Beside thy midnight couch I sate,
And strove again, and oft again,
Thy restless pangs to mitigate!
Didst thou not then, relenting, bless
The hand of filial tenderness?
Didst thou not swear by all above,
To lend my woes a patient ear;
That thou no more would'st cross my love,
But strive to make me happy here?
Think, when a child upon thy knee,
Ere yet my mother died, I lay;
She pray'd thee to be kind to me,
Doth this betoken kindness, say?

Approach not nearer—touch him not,
Or else, upon this very spot,
Where thou would'st glut thy rage,
I'll leave thee in a hopeless dearth,
Alone—a marvel to the earth,
The scorn of wisdom and of worth,
And childless in old age!”

The malediction contained in the concluding lines of this paragraph, is liable to the censure of being too dark and strong for the lips of a daughter to utter. Parallel instances might, however, easily be adduced, among which is one, in the exquisite O'Connor's Child of Campbell, and another in the tragedy of Horace, by Corneille.—(1817.)

Five years after penning this Note, I find another remarkable illustration in Lord Byron's splendid but ill-judged poem of Juan. Indeed, the situations in both poems are so similar, (comparisons I dare not challenge,) that, but for this avowal of priority, I might be suspected of plagiarism.

Tempests do not for ever roll—
Deep on his heart the accents fell;
The Baron was not soft of soul,
But yet he loved his daughter well.
He oft had felt—did feel—that power,
When dangers threat, or sorrows lower,
Is insufficient to destroy
The gloom of grief with smiles of joy;—
Nature awoke; of all on earth
Who loved him like his Genevieve?
The only thing that owed its birth
To him, could he of life bereave?
And toils himself to ruin weave?—
No; from his brow dark rage was fled,
The blade again was scabbarded.
As, rising high, the tide expands
Its waters o'er the thirsty sands,

Affection hasten'd to assuage
The glow of half extinguish'd rage;
And now parental fondness stole
Across his heart, and calm'd his soul:
He saw his only daughter stand,
Imploring, with beseeching hand;
And scenes of former life arose
Above his frenzy and despair,
Like northern spring o'er winter snows,
And made all tranquil there.
His anger was subdued; he felt
His heart relax, his purpose melt;
But still, his ruggedness of soul,
Untouch'd by pity's mild control,
Though truth was like a star reveal'd,
Stood firm and fix'd, ashamed to yield.
Love could not calm, nor mercy move;
And, though subdued his demon glare,
Yet, in the glance he gave the pair,
Was more of rancour than of love!

“Young man,” indignantly he said,
“The daughter of my house to wed
Thou hast presumptuously aspired:
She shall be thine; one only boon

Of thee, to gain her is required:—
Behold yon mountain top!—as soon
As there, thou, from this plain beneath,
Hast borne her up, she shall be thine;
But court not rest, nor space to breathe,
Or else—”

No other word he heard,
But, circling round the fainting maid,
Within his arms his charge he laid:
How wildly then her bosom stirr'd!
And heaved, and sunk like ocean's spray,
Upon October's gusty day.—
Onward he sped; the mountain head
Already in his thought was gain'd;
Upon his prize his ardent eyes
He glanced, and every sinew strain'd.
As sweeps the falcon's wing along,
So up the steep he bore his bride;
While dark below the gathering throng
Of vassals to the mountain side
Did hasten, following in their flight
The lovers to that steepy height;
And pray'd with swelling hearts to Heaven,
That unto Baldwin strength be given

To gain his journey's end;
A curse upon the stony heart
The bands of true love that would part,
And would asunder rend
What Heaven, who always counsels right,
Together kindly did unite!

The eagle, though with sunward eye,
He soars the azure depths of sky,
Wheeling in princely majesty,
Beyond our vision's sphere,
Attains at length his pride of place,
Nor further dares to urge his race,
But checks his far career,
And downward seeks his mountain nest,
To fold his wearied wing, and rest:—
What, though with youth renew'd, and strength,
He ploughs the sky—an earthly guest,
And sees his generation fall?
Yet is he doom'd to know at length,
His fate is like the fate of all.—
Thus Baldwin, with a heart elate,
Pursued in strength his eager way;
Nor felt till long his force abate,
Nor dream'd it could decay,

While gazing on such rapturous charms
As those, he held within his arms.

To note the change the maiden shook,
His faltering step, and alter'd look;
The dews that from his brow did break;
The flushing of his ardent cheek;
And, as awoke the glistening tear,
Slow came her words of doubt and fear.—
“My Baldwin, thou art faint, I dread
We are not near the mountain's head;
Your heart now flutters, and at length
I may perceive your failing strength;
Oh! Heaven award it may remain,
Until our journey's end we gain!”—

He saw, upon her fading cheek,
The fears, the doubts, the hectic streak;
He felt her heart, in hollower tone,
Begin to throb against his own.—
“Fear not,—my Genevieve—my love—
I am not faint—nor—far above,—
The place—of resting—lies;—
I feel—when gazing—now—on thee,
That love—bestows—fresh energy—
And strength—to gain—the skies!”

Now sounds of joy along the vale
Began to ring; the gather'd crowd
No longer ventured to bewail
The toil as hopeless; long and loud
Their mirthful acclamations rose;
The task was drawing near its close;
They saw him scale the mountain's brow,
The steep ascent is past, and now
More level green succeeds;
Again the upward step he tries,
And o'er the narrow pathway plies,
That to the summit leads.

Prone on the top, deprived of sense,
Sank Baldwin with his burthen down;
Say, has his spirit journey'd hence?
Is being from his bosom flown?
Lo! pale a seraph stoops above,
With looks of tenderness and love,
While, on her varying cheek, appear
The lights and shades of hope and fear:
Her snowy arm around his neck
Flung Genevieve; his eyes were closed;
The burning tear she could not check,
And speechless in her grief, reposed;

At length words came—

“My life, my love!
My all on earth, my hope above!
Thy task is o'er; thy toil is done;
The top is gain'd; the prize is won;
Thy head upon my arm recline;
But speak, oh speak!—one word of thine
Would ease my soul; awake; awake!
One word, or else my heart will break!”

Slowly his eyes he opened,
And there the parting glance was shed;
But transient as the gleam, that flies
From rainbow, through the summer skies;
And languid as the ray, that smiles
When sunbeams start through tempest piles.
“I die, my Genevieve,—one kiss,
Before we part so suddenly;
When I am in the land of bliss,
Then heaven, my love, will comfort thee!
Farewell! nor let your days consume
In anguish that unnerves the frame;
In thee I lived; and, on my tomb,
Oh! let me bear thy husband's name,

And I am blest!—forget the past;
Above we shall—must meet at last,
To part no more!”

In peace he died,
She, whom he loved, was by his side,
His Genevieve, his lovely bride;
For her he died: and what behest
Could make his soul more truly blest?

Pale, motionless, and agonized,
As if to statue paralyzed,
Or inmate of that city lone,
Where life was conjured into stone,

Ras Sem, or the petrified city.—M. de la Maire and Dr Shaw have satisfactorily enough examined into the truth of this African tradition.

Cassem Aga, the Tripoline ambassador, gives, it must be allowed, a very different account of the matter.

Above the dead hung Genevieve;
Phrenzied and vacant was her look;
Despair her bosom's empire took,
Ere joy had time to leave.—
She gazed—she sigh'd: one shriek on high
Assail'd the earth, and rent the sky!
Slow dropp'd her arm; slow bent her head;
For then, and there her spirit fled.—
Now all is past; no more she weeps,
And Genevieve with Baldwin sleeps;
Like skiff upon a restless tide,
Which billows urge from side to side,

Without an anchor to oppose
The stream that runs, the gale that blows,
And drives it on its aimless way:
Her spirit wildly gazed around,—
But ah! no help or hope was found,
To bid it seek delay;
And with a sigh, the last—the first—
Her swelling heart o'erflow'd, and burst!

His daughter's form the Baron raised;
Upon her lifeless face he gazed,
On softend hues of tenderness,
With vacancy and languor mix'd;
There were no symptoms of distress,
But all was moveless—changeless—fix'd—
And but the eye, and save the ear,
That did not look, and could not hear;
And but the heart no motion kept,
It would have seem'd she only slept;
Though there had ceased the mortal strife,
Yet beauty had not fled with life,
And linger'd, loth to leave, though cold,
The fairest of terrestrial mould.

The crowd ascend; the listless air
The Baron rent in wild despair;

And, as Belshazzar, terror-smote,
Beheld the armless hand that wrote
His doom upon the palace wall,

See Jeremiah, Chap. I. ver. I.—This miracle has, of late years, been a favourite subject both with painters and poets. We allude to Byron, Milman, and Martin.

So conscience did his soul appal:
Fast on the dead was fix'd his look;
His wither'd hand with horror shook;
And on his face, and in his eye
Were throned remorse and agony!—
The child who could alone assuage,
With filial love, the woes of age,
Was by that very father torn,
With him she loved so well, from earth;—
Guilt by the guilty must be borne.
And who was he?—

The Baron's hearth
Shall be for ever desolate;
The guest no more will seek his gate:
Nor weary pilgrim leave the road,
To covet there a night's abode:
Who, when alone he sits at rest,
Will hush the tempest of his breast;
When painful memory wakes the while,
Who will his tedious hours beguile;
Will lull to sleep his mental throes,
Or bring his sleepless nights repose?—

With tortured heart he roams the grove—
It whispers scenes of filial love!—
Returning home, he seeks his hall,
And strives his sleepless cares to drown;
He lifts his eye, and from the wall
His pictured child smiles gently down!
Thus, as the dove, that left, of old,
The floating ark to skim the main,
Found not a spot whereon to fold
Its wing, and sought its cell again;
His tortured spirit seeks, in vain,
From recollection's throes release;
He finds no balsam for his pain;
No day of rest; no hour of peace;
No moment where his troubles cease!
He turns, and turns to shun despair;
His refuge lies—he knows not where—
Oh! who on earth would bear his doom?—
And woe to him in worlds to come!

But Baldwin and his virgin bride
Together slumber, side by side;
Danger had not the power to part,
Life did not change the link'd in heart,
And Death could not divide;—

The father, conscious of his guilt,
To heaven yon white-wall'd chapel built,
And raised the monumental stone;
Their blameless loves are carved thereon:
And there, the holy name of wife,
Of Baldwin's wife the maiden hath,
He, who would separate in life,
United them in death;
And hence these sacred walls on high
Are named the “Lovers' Priory.”

SIR ETHELRID.

Looking far forth into the ocean wide,
A goodly ship, with banners bravely dight,
And flag in her top-gallant, I espiede,
Through the main sea making her merry flight.
Spenser.

Hush'd were the tones of mirthful revelry,
Stay'd were the music and the dance, as fell
On Croydon's Gothic towers and battlements,
The shades of dreary midnight. In the hall
The hearth's brands were decaying; but a flame
Lambently lighted up the vaulted roof,
And circling walls, where antlers branching wide,
And forehead skins of elk and deer were seen,
And fox's brush; the trophies of the chase;

And warriors' cloaks depending, and the gleam
Of burnish'd armour—

In her chamber, one
Sleepless alone remain'd, where all was still;
Reclining on a couch, and dreaming o'er
The thoughts—the happy scenes of other years;
And, with a sweet, seraphic countenance,
Shining in beauty and in solitude,
Like morning's rosy star, when from the sky
Her sisters have in silence disappear'd.
Sorrowful Emma! were not thine of yore
Thoughts of unrest, and mournful countenance!
But sparkling eyes, that match'd unclouded heaven
In their deep azure; and carnation'd cheeks,
Round which the snow-drops like a halo spread;
And an elastic footstep, like the nymph
Health, when in very wantonness of play,
She brushes from the green the dews of morn.

And why, wrapt up in cloak of eider-down,
Chilling thy beauty in the midnight air,
Breathing, in solitude, the deep-drawn sigh,
Con'st thou, unheard of all, thy love-born tale,

The tale of hapless lovers, soft and sad?
And why, when all is still, and balmy sleep
Should seal the weary eyelids, dost thou sit
Mournfully beside the lattice, and attend
To the hollow murmurs of the distant sea,
Which fitfully, upon the passing gale
Break in, and die away?—

The winter's breath
Destroys the bloomy flowers—the ocean tide
Is govern'd by the moon; and, for thy grief,
Although unmark'd by all, there is a cause!

And she hath laid her down, and silently,
As Retrospection wander'd through the past,
Have her chaste eyelids closed; and, in her dream,
Lo! forests darken round with gloomy boughs,
And wolves are heard to howl; around her path
The forky lightnings flash; and, deeply loud,
The thunders roll amid the blackening skies.—
Anon her steps have gain'd a precipice
Above the roaring sea, where, waste and wild,
The foamy billows chafe among the rocks—
The rocks, whose sable heads, at intervals,

Are seen and disappear. Awfully dark
Night's shadows brood around; but, in the flash
Of the blue arrowy lightnings, far away
A vessel is descried upon the deep;
While moaning sounds are heard, and dismal shrieks
O'er the tempestuous billows breaking loud;
Until its stormy fury vented forth,
And the winds hush'd to silence and to rest
And the bright stars appearing, and the clouds
Breaking away, like armies from the field
When battle's clangor ceases,—she beholds,
Pallid beneath a cliff, the form of him,
Her chosen hero, bleach'd by wave and wind,
Unconscious of the seamew with a shriek
Hovering around—the victim of the storm!

Anon the vision changes; armies throng
The arid fields of Palestine afar;
And, glittering in the setting sun, she sees
The Moorish crescent over Salem's walls,
The Infidel victorious, and the hosts
Of baffled Christendom dispersed: she sees
Disaster and defeat the lot of those,
Who, 'neath Godfredo's banner, daring, left

On perilous enterprize their native shore.—
The battle's voice hath ceased; the trumpet's note
Hath died upon the west wind; bird and beast,
From mountain cliff on high, and woody dell,
Lured by the scent of blood, have come to gorge
On the unburied dead. Rider and horse,
The lofty and the low, commingled, lie
Unbreathing, and the balmy evening gale
Fitfully lifts the feathers on the crest
Of one, who slumbers with his visor up!

Starting, she wakes; and, o'er the eastern hill,
Lo! beautiful the radiant morn appears,
And, through the lattice, steadily streams in
The flood of crimson light; while, sitting there,
Upon the outward ivy wreath, in joy
Happy the robin sings; his lucid tones
Of harmony delight her listening ear,
Dispel the gather'd sadness of her heart,
And tell her that her fears are but a dream.

But hark! why sounded is the warder's horn?—
Doth danger threaten, or do foes approach?—
The guard are at their station; and she hears

The ring of brazen arms, as, anxious, there
The soldiers, girding on their swords, draw up;
The bugle's sound of peace is faintly heard,
Mournfully pleasing, in a dying strain,
Melodious—melancholy—far away!
An answer is return'd; heavily down
Sinks the huge drawbridge, and the iron tramp
Of steeds is heard fast-crossing. joy to her,
To long forsaken Emma, joy to her!—
Obscured by tempests dark, and brooding storms,
The sun may wander through the sky unseen
The livelong day; until, above the tops
Of the steep western mountains, forth he glows,
Glorious, the centre of a crimson flood,
In brightness unapproachable: so oft
The span of human life is measured out:
Sorrow and care, companions of our steps,
Hover around us, blotting out the hopes
We long had cherish'd; banishing the bliss
We oft have tasted, till our path is dark;
Then, lo! amid the gloom of hope deferr'd,
Breaks in a blessed light, a living day,
Like that of polar regions, glowing bright,
Unclouded, and unconscious of an end.—

A group of happy faces throng the hall;
And scarce hath Emma enter'd, like a flower
Blushing, and beautiful, with downcast eyes,
And palpitating bosom, ere her knight,
Young Ethelrid, from holy wars return'd
With laurels on his crest, to part no more,
Kneels faithful at her feet in ecstacy,
And lifts her snowy fingers to his lips.

ELLEN, THE FORSAKEN.

------Thou to me thy thoughts
Wast wont, I mine to thee was wont to impart;
Both waking we were one; how then can now—
Paradise Lost.

Beneath the daisied turf, without a stone,
Reposes one whose griefs were little known,
And pitied less; the woes of wounded pride
She felt too keenly, but she strove to hide;
Her cause of sorrow cared not to impart,
And kept the burthen on her lonely heart,
Till death in mercy came to her relief,
And eased her of her life and of her grief!

Not always so, yet, now and then, we find
That outward shapes and shades bespeak the mind;

And hers were such; the eye that on her dwelt,
Could augur how she thought, and what she felt;
For scarcely seem'd of earth her speaking mien,
Within whose lines almost her heart was seen.
So slender was her form, so slight her foot,
That, 'neath its fairy pressure, sound was mute:
Bright, beautiful, the wreathy auburn hair
Stole on her brow, and veil'd the lilies there;
Benign intelligence, the light of truth
Calmly illumed her ivory forehead smooth,
As if its purity did say—within
Dwells not a taint of earth, a touch of sin.
On either velvet cheek the mantling glow
Seem'd a carnation blooming in the snow
While her soft eye, soft as the infant day,
When breaks through stainless clouds the blue of May,
With seraph glow, so often downwards cast
In present grief, or musing on the past,
All meek and melancholy, seem'd to tell,
Though words were not, that something was not well.

Sedate above the maidens of her age,
She was not prone to trifles that engage
The giddy and unthinking; yet her face
Was like a sunbeam, lighting every place,

And cheering every dwelling where she came;
So every tongue rejoiced to bless her name,
And every eye that saw her hail'd the sight,
And every ear that heard her own'd delight;
She was so simple, so devoid of art,
So seraph-like in form, so pure in heart,
So mildly tender, and so gently sweet,
So chaste, the opening daisy at her feet,
When wet with dew, could scarce an emblem be
Of so much loveliness and purity!

A smile was always beaming on her face,
But through its dimples some began to trace
A fading of her colour, and the glow
Upon her cheek scarce tinged its sunless snow.
And some perceived that she loved solitude,
And did not care that any should intrude
Upon her evening path, as forth she stray'd,
To breathe the coolness of the woodland shade;
To mark the waning glories of the sky,
And doat on visions dear to memory!

What were the pensive dreams that memory brought?
And why was sorrow ever in her thought?

The gloomy silence of an April day,
Whose clouds impend, nor shower, nor shrink away.
Where was the peace that beam'd upon her brow?
She always had been cheerful—why not now?
Her simple tale it lists me to unfold,
And to disclose—what Ellen never told.

He whom she loved had left her; o'er the sea,
Far from the land of his nativity,
He was a dweller; but the vows of truth,
Repeated in his manhood, pledged in youth,
Had faded like the brilliance of the sun,
When clouds are gathering o'er, and storms come on.
Another form,—where perfume loads the air,
And man is weak, but woman 'wildering fair,—
Another form had flash'd upon his mind,
O'ercome his strength, and sear'd his reason blind;
Dried up the fountain of his former love,
And changed the heart which time was ne'er to move;
Love pass'd away; did conscience whisper not?
Perchance it did,—but Ellen was forgot.

Alas! how time, and absence, and mankind,
Impart their colours, and corrupt the mind!

All dream that they are faithful, but how few
Are to their promise firm, their honour true;
Change not with Fortune's breath, and stand through years,
Beyond the range of fickleness and fears.
He was not what he had been—nor was she—
At least within his soul so reckon'd he;
She had not now that place within his mind,
Whose holy bounds from worldly dross refined,
Was purified to loveliness, and made
A light to which the sunshine was like shade:
She seem'd not now, as she had been of yore,
A form to which the earth no likeness bore;
She was not now the soul of his delight,
His earliest thought at morn, his last at night;
The spell, whose name, when utter'd, could impart
The thrill of rapture to his conscious heart:—
In his soul's mirror Ellen had grown dim,
And yet she was unchanged—though not for him!—
Like one who gazes with profound delight
Upon the landscape on a lovely night,
A thousand beauties blended, as the beam
Plays on the hill, the forest, and the stream,
How beautiful! then upward turns his eye
To the moon that cloudless traverses the sky—

Lo! the sight dazzles, and the scenes below
Have lost their lustre, and forget to glow!

Thus oft the finer impulses of mind,
When hopes have been beguiled, and fate unkind,
And youthful visions, fairy-tinged and bright,
But syren scenes, and harbingers of night,
Weaken'd become—when friendship's holy ray
Has sunk to gloom, with love's diviner day,
When all the charms that mantled childhood's scene,
Have lost their scented bloom, their living green;
When wintry robes o'er human life are spread;
When all the fire that warm'd the heart is dead;
And man's diviner thoughts to shipwreck hurl'd
Within the Torryvrieken of the world!

Yet faithful Ellen lived, and far too true,
And though slow time crept by, her passion grew;
The wood, the river side, the sloping hill,
Wherever they had stray'd, she haunted still,
And every tree, and path, and prospect brought
Some long remember'd pleasure to her thought,
Some happy feelings, whose delightful glow
Had lighted up her bosom long ago!

And oft at balmy eventide she came
Before the tree, where he had carved her name,
And twined it with his own within a heart,
As if they were but one, and could not part:
Then she would sigh, nor deem'd herself forgot,
And Hope shed flickerings on her future lot.
But why so seldom hear of him? before
Comfort came frequent, and it promised more.
Yet now—and still a thousand fancies came,
Neglect to pardon, and excuse to frame;
The winds had long been adverse, or more near
Himself might be—then wherefore did she fear?—
Thus often did she soothe her troubled mind,
And in ideal bliss a comfort find;
But day in mental darkness follow'd day,
And month succeeding month revolved away,
And brought no cheering tokens to impart
Relief or solace to a sinking heart.
At length her doubts were clear'd—though not by him,
And darkness swallow'd what before was dim;
The truth like lightning flash'd upon her sight,
Destroy'd her mental day, and left her night.

And thus, as in simplicity of song
My verse unfolds, she pined in silence long;

Soon waned upon her cheek the roses fair;
Neglected was her neatness, loose her hair,
And not, as in her days of youthful pride
And ardent hope, with wreathy beauty tied;
Yet those who knew her not had never guess'd
That wan despair was working in her breast,
And had with noiseless tide begun to roll
Dark tempests o'er the ocean of her soul;
For silent was her eye, and mute her lips.—
A cloud had pass'd before her to eclipse
The springtide of her loveliness, and made
That which was sunshine once, disastrous shade;
And thus she pined, a flowret of the spring,
Struck by the lightning flash, and withering
On its fresh stalk: none ever guess'd the cause.—
She grew the very dream of what she was,
A phantom of the past that had its birth
In our green world, and still revisited earth:
There came no gloom to blot her outward light,
And, to her hour of setting, she was bright,
Bright as the radiance, when, at morning hour,
The silver moon descends to ocean's bower,
Tinges the wave with horizontal ray,
And in effulgent meekness melts away!

MARY'S MOUNT.

I

Who, standing on this rural spot,
With groves above, and fields around,
Would, pausing, e'er indulge the thought,
That armies throng'd the lower ground;
Or image neighing steed, or fear
That trump or drum salute his ear;
Or think this leafy screen enfolded
A being of as tragic fate,
As lovely, and unfortunate,
As Nature ever moulded!

II

Traced like a map, the landscape lies
In cultured beauty stretching wide;
There Pentland's green acclivities;
There Ocean, with its azure tide;

There Arthur's Seat; and, gleaming through
Thy southern wing, Dunedin blue!
While, in the orient, Lammer's daughters,
A distant giant range, are seen,
North Berwick Law, with cone of green,
And Bass amid the waters.

III

Wrapt in the mantle of her woe,
Here agonized Mary stood,
And saw contending hosts below,
Opposing, meet in deadly feud;
With hilt to hilt, and hand to hand,
The children of one mother-land
For battle come. The banners flaunted
Amid Carberry's beechen grove;

For an account of this action, so fatal to the interests of the unfortunate Mary, the reader is referred to Robertson's History, vol. I., book iv., Whittaker's Mary Vindicated, vol. I., chap. 4, sect. 3; also to Goodall's Examination of the Letters said to be written by Mary to Bothwell.

And kinsmen, braving kinsmen, strove
Undaunting, and undaunted.

IV

Silent the Queen in sorrow stood,
When Bothwell, starting forward, said,
“The cause is mine—a nation's blood,
Go, tell yon chiefs, should not be shed;

Go, bid the bravest heart advance
In single fight, to measure lance
With me, who wait prepared to meet him!'—
“Fly!—Bothwell, fly!—it shall not be”—
She wept—she sobb'd—on bended knee
Fair Mary did entreat him.

V

“I go,” he sigh'd—“the war is mine,
A Nero could not injure thee;—
My lot on earth is seal'd, but thine
Shall long and bright and happy be!—
This last farewell—this struggle o'er,
We ne'er shall see each other more—
Now loose thy hold! poor broken-hearted—”
She faints—she falls.—Upon his roan
The bridle-reins in haste are thrown.—
The pilgrim hath departed.

VI

Know ye the tenor of his fate?—
A fugitive among his own;
Disguised—deserted—desolate—
A weed on Niagara thrown;

A Cain among the sons of men;
A pirate on the ocean; then,
A Scandinavian captive fetter'd,
To die amid the dungeon gloom:
If earthly chance, or heavenly doom
Is dark:—but so it matter'd.

VII

Daughter of Scotland! beautiful
Beyond what falls to human lot,
Thy breathing features render'd dull
The visions of a poet's thought;
Thy voice was music on the deep,
When winds are hush'd, and waves asleep;
In mould and mind by far excelling,
Or Cleopatra on the wave
Of Cydnus vanquishing the brave,
Or Troy's resplendent Helen!

VIII

Thy very sun in clouds arose,
Delightful flower of Holyrood!
Thy span was tempest-fraught, thy woes
Should make thee pitied by the good.

Poor Mary! an untimely tomb
Was thine, with prison hours of gloom,
A crown, and rebel crowds beneath thee,
A lofty fate—a lowly fall!
Thou wert a woman, and let all
Thy faults be buried with thee!

NAPOLEON'S ADDRESS TO THE STATUE OF HIS SON.

My dearest thought—my darling son—
My beautiful Napoleon;
My dream by night, my waking care—
My only boy, so young and fair!—
As on thy sculptured lines I gaze,
Thou conjurest up my pride of days,

This poem is founded on an incident recorded by O'Meara in the “Voice from St Helena.” vol. II. p. 102-3. ed. 4th.

When my wide hopes, beyond control,
Survey'd the world—and grasp'd the whole!
Thou beam'st to me a star of light,
From out the yawning womb of night;

Thou comest, a streak of hope all fair,
Piercing the depths of my despair,
And shedding o'er my cheek the while,
A transient, unaccustom'd smile!
Thou on my sunk heart dost impress
The very weight of happiness;
The visions that I cherish'd long,
To burning recollection throng,
And fill the chambers of the breast
With soothing calm, and placid rest!—
When thus thy filial face I see,
I seem myself renew'd to be,
And to my longing soul is given
All that the frail may taste of Heaven!

Farewell! ambition—lofty schemes—
Heroic deeds—and daring dreams!
Farewell! the field of death and doom—
The pealing gun—and waving plume!
Farewell! the grandeur of the great—
The pomp and pageantry of state!
For, climbing, I have mock'd at fall—
Dared everything, and master'd all—
For what?—To find my bosom's pride,
Possessing, was unsatisfied—

Regardless of the past, and still
A slave to stern, regardless will;
'Mid pain and peril, pressing on
From field to field—from throne to throne.

From my proud eminence cast down;
Deprived of mine imperial crown;
Torn from the host of hearts away,
Whose swell exulted in my sway,
Here am I captived; I, whose soul
Did scan wide earth from pole to pole,
Disdain'd to rest, and loved to range,
Unsatisfied, in search of change!
Fearless as lions, when they haste
Athwart the long Numidian waste,
Were France's hosts, when I, their lord,
Forth to the battle front did fly,
With ardent soul, and flashing sword,
And cheer'd them on to victory—
Tameless as tempests, and as free,
Kings trembled when they thought of me,
And, in my sovereign nod, did own
The tie by which they held their throne!—
From leaguer'd walls, and tented war,
From courts and capitals afar,

Here am I captived;—round my gate,
Frown precipices desolate;
And nought disturbs the silence, save
The dashing of the far-off wave,
The wild wind's melancholy sigh,
Or sea-bird's shrill and savage cry;
And nought is seen within the dell,
Save, to and fro, the sentinel
Pacing his round,—a sign to me
Of uttermost captivity.

Once, at my name's imperial sound,
France through her valleys echoed round
The citizen and soldier's cry,—
It spake of fame and victory;
And, terror-smitten, France's foes
Did quiver with convulsive throes,
As, like a harbinger of Fear,
'Twas wafted on the unwilling ear!—
Once, when my arm on high was rear'd,
The craven shook, the fearless fear'd;
For danger and for death prepared,
Five hundred thousand blades were bared—
Five hundred thousand bosoms beat,
Expanding with heroic heat!

But that is past—Ambition's car
Hath fall'n 'mid chance-deciding war,
And I, the reckless charioteer,
A hopeless exile, linger here;—
I, who, amid the battle's tide,
Cover'd with glory, should have died,
And left behind to man and fame
An empty throne, and matchless name!
How shall my fate the world avail?
What is the moral of my tale?—
'Tis this, that what I dearest loved,
A mockery, a vision, proved,—
A phantom glow, whose rainbow dyes,
Flashing, did cheat the dazzled eyes,
And, like the false mirage, did play,
To lure and lead the steps astray;
And that, amid my deep distress,
The objects which I valued less
Did grow to treasures, and impart
Sweet balm to soothe a wounded heart.
Oh! wert thou with me—wert thou here,
My only boy! my child so dear!

Before thy filial smile should fly
The miseries of captivity;
And I, 'mid earth's lone desert blind,
Should know there bloom'd one flower behind!—
That is a boon denied; dark Death
Must strew his shadows o'er my path,
Before thy face I can behold—
Before thy form I can infold—
Before thy voice, in accents dear,
Again, like music, fills mine ear!
Men, for my sake, shall gaze on thee;
Thy steps shall not unheeded be;
Mean jealousy new fears shall find
In blossoms of thy opening mind;
And snares shall in thy path be laid;
But thou shalt pass on, unafraid,
If in thy swelling heart remains
One red drop from thy father's veins!
Adieu, adieu! beloved boy!
My latest care, and only joy,
Thou solace of my deep distress,
Thou pole-star in my wretchedness!
Wide oceans roll and roar between,
Broad lands and mountains intervene;

But distance cannot dissipate
The tie that links me to thy fate,
Nor quench the love, so warm and wild,
With which a father views his child.—
Adieu, adieu! my dearest son!
For me life's sands must soon be run;
Wild flowers above my bosom wave,
And island winds sigh o'er my grave;—
Smile on thy mother; and may she
In thy young looks remember me!

THE GREEK TO HIS SWORD.

(FROM THE ROMAIC.)

Now forth I draw thee, glittering blade,
Thy scabbard thus I cast away;
And we shall pass on undismay'd,
Though foes should thicken, like a shade
Around our path, on battle-day!

Too long in scabbard hast thou lain
Unused, amid Oppression's gloom;
When Thraldom round us wove her chain—
When suffering Mercy pled in vain;
And Hope was none—save in the tomb!

Now forth, my sword! oh, better far
To fight, to fall, in Freedom's cause,
Than crouch before Oppression's car,
And, sickening at the thought of war,
With trembling brook a tyrant's laws.

Too long beneath our native skies
Hath Tyranny her flag unroll'd;
“Forth, forth!” the voice of Nature cries,
“And o'er the necks of foemen rise,
“As did your patriot sires of old!”

The warrior's hand hath never toil'd
In nobler cause than ours before;
Nor shall our patriots' hopes be foil'd,
For prosperous Fate hath ever smiled
On such as dared themselves restore.

'Tis not in foreign hearts and hands,
To plead our cause and fight our fields;
Our hope is in our native brands;
'Tis Duty's iron voice commands,
And cursed be every son that yields!

Shades of the Helots! round us rise,
Point out our steps in glory's path!
Point out our islands—seas—and skies!
Point out our Greece, and bid us rise
Above the abject fear of death!

There is a voice which cheers us on—
Life dragg'd in chains is worthless dross;
Say, shall we turn from Danger's frown?—
No! with the Turkish crescent down,
Exalt on high the blessed cross!

On—on to danger—let us on;
And oh! my country, if we be
By Tyranny's vaunting hosts o'erthrown,
Yet honour falls to us alone,
Who, spurning fetters, dared be free!

Too long hath storm, and tempest-cloud,
O'ershadow'd earth, and veil'd our skies;
Now hill calls out to hill aloud—
“Of Darkness burst the envious shroud,
And let the sun of Hope arise!”

The spirits on the mountain hear
The spirits answering from the glen;
From ruin'd walls and sepulchre,
From heaven and earth a voice we hear,—
“Awake! arise! once more be men!”

On—on, my true and trusty brand;
To fields and foemen let us on;
And let us from our native land
Sweep, one by one, each turban'd band,
Who pluck the vine-trees not their own!

On—on, my blade, nor let us turn,
Though blood rain round in purple showers;
May every heart for glory burn,
At chains and flight alike we spurn;—
Let Freedom or the Grave be ours!

SPANISH PATRIOTIC ODE.

(FROM THE MADRID GAZETTE.)

To the wind, to the wind, your banners rear!
Awake!—nor lie in sloth reclining;
Arise—nor shrink in craven fear—
Lo! France's thousand blades are shining.
She comes—but not as friend she comes—
Death, ruin, rapine in her train—
To arms!—rouse up your warning drums—
Ho!—to the combat, Spain!

Our sires were great in ancient days,
No loftier power on earth allowing;
Shall we their mighty deeds erase,
And to the dust our necks be bowing?

They strove for fame—for liberty—
On fields where blood was spilt like rain;
Hark! how they call us from the sky—
Ho!—to the combat, Spain!

Castille, and Arragon, arise!
The tempest-cloud of war is brewing:
Burst through the shades that veil your eyes—
Are ye asleep while this is doing?
Lo! armies crowd the Pyrenees,
They carry with them thraldom's chain—
Will ye ignobly crouch to these?—
Ho!—to the combat, Spain!

Look forth on every well-known spot,
On field and forest, rock and river;
Then draw the sword, but sheathe it not,
Till these from foreign feet ye sever—
The trampling feet of foreign hosts,
Who march in power, and proud disdain:
Haste—homeward send their shrieking ghosts—
Ho!—to the combat, Spain!

And are we, then, so lost—so low—
That strangers can alone restore us?
Lo! earth regards our every blow—
The eye of Heaven is watching o'er us!—
By Spanish might, the Spanish land
Its freedom only can retain,
And crouch we to Oppression's hand?—
Ho!—to the combat, Spain!

THE SOLDIER'S GRAVE.

Beneath the morn, on yonder plain,
In ardour high, the valiant stood;
At eve, the cold moon o'er the slain
Besilver'd ghastly scenes of blood:
Below that mound they now are sleeping,
Wakeful once, and warmly brave;
Alas! the midnight dews are weeping
On the Soldier's Grave.

Of them to hear the patriot listens;
Pensive Love a sigh bequeathes;
Virtue's tear, while praising, glistens,
Fame presents her laurell'd wreaths;

And fond Affection, nobly warming,
Will laud the hearts which strove to save;
And Memory wave her wand of charming
O'er the Soldier's Grave.

The trump of Fame they heard—obey'd—
Afar at sea, the waning shore
In sad and sombre blue decay'd,
And ne'er by them was welcomed more!
But Gratitude will grieve for Glory,
And give the tear which once they gave;
And Wisdom tell her mournful story
O'er the Soldier's Grave.

We live secure, and sleep at ease;
To bless our dwelling peace awaits—
They left their homes, and plough'd the seas,
To keep the battle from our gates:—
The forest moans—a voice of wailing—
Above their heads white cannachs wave;
The bittern shrieks at eve, when sailing
O'er the Soldier's Grave.

Oft, when the faggot sheds its light,
As winter mantles white the plain,
The sire will spend the noon of night
To tell of those in battle slain.
His children will the warmth inherit;
And pity will a tribute crave,
To soothe the rest, and calm the spirit
Of the Soldier's Grave.

THE RUINED CASTLE.

Lonely mansion of the dead!
Who can tell thy varied story?
All thine ancient line have fled,
Leaving thee in ruin hoary.

Buttress and balcony fair,
Arrowy frieze thy lines surrounding;
Rayless keep, and hanging stair,
To the murmuring breezes sounding.

Thou hast had thy day of pride,
Martial squadrons rank'd before thee;
Towering high, and flaunting wide,
Gilded banners beaming o'er thee!

Heroes came, and tilted near,
Beauty claim'd thee for her dwelling;
Evening pilgrims paused to hear
Tones of mirth and music swelling.

From thy lattices thy light
Threw a magic halo round thee;
And, amid the shadowy night,
With a lucid girdle bound thee.

Thou hast had thy day of strength,
Braved the tempest in its thunder;
Scorn'd invasion, but—at length,
Time hath rent thy joints asunder!

Oft thy ladye from the tower,
Anxious o'er the forest glancing,
Hail'd her lord at twilight hour,
On his raven charger prancing,—

Home returning through the plain,
With the laurels war had crown'd him,
Pages at his bridle-rein,
Grooms behind, and squires around him.

Sad are now thy chambers, which
Warriors throng'd, and woman haunted;
Wall-flower blooms in every niche
Where the culverin was planted.

Ivy tendrils twine thy brow,
Purple lichens cling unto thee;
Birds of night thy dwellers now,
Swallows swim and twitter through thee!

Once, beneath the breath of morn,
In thy halls did cheer awaken;
Dull, and desolate, and worn,
Thou art lone, and left forsaken!

Where is now thy power and pride?
Whence hath fled thine ancient glory?—
Whelm'd in time's disastrous tide:
'Tis a moral for a story!

THE EMIGRANTS' FAREWELL.

Green Albyn, farewell! though by us never more
Should be welcomed the hills that encircle thy shore;
Though to far distant worlds 'tis our fortune to roam,
Still to thee shall we look, as the land of our home!

Green Albyn, farewell! though thou fadest on our sight,
Are the deeds of our fathers not written in light?
And cannot the tones of the pibroch display
How they march'd to the field, how they won in the fray?

Green Albyn, farewell! though to us be not given
For our country to strive, as our fathers have striven,
'Tween their ashes and us, though may roll the dark sea,
Still their spirit is ours, and our hearts are with thee.

Green Albyn, farewell! though the glens of our pride,
Through the mist of the morn, shall no more be descried,
Nor the deer on the hill; nor the cairn on the moor;
Nor the chief in the hall,—we are thine as of yore!

Green Albyn, farewell! when our footsteps shall stray
On the banks where Lake Erie expands to the day,
In our bonnets the rough-bearded thistle shall twine,
And be dear to our souls, as a symbol of thine!

Green Albyn, farewell! to thy rocks, to thy rills,
To the eagles that build on the crest of thy hills,
To the lake, to the forest, the moor and the dell,
To thee, and thy children, green Albyn, farewell!

TO THE SPIRIT OF KOSCIUSKO.

Unnoticed shall the mighty fall!
Unwept and unlamented die!
Shall he whom bonds could not enthrall,
Who plann'd, who fought, who bled for all,
Unconsecrated lie!
Without a song, whose fervid strains
Might kindle fire in patriot veins!

No! thus it ne'er shall be; and Fame
Ordains to thee a brighter lot;
While earth—while hope endures, thy name
Pure, high, unchangeable—the same—
Shall never be forgot;

Tis shrined amid the holy throng;
'Tis woven in immortal song;

Yes!—Campbell of the deathless lay,
The ardent poet of the free,
Has painted Warsaw's latest day,
In colours that resist decay,
In accents worthy thee;
Thy hosts on battle-field array'd,
And in thy grasp the patriot blade!

Oh! sainted is the name of him,
And sacred should his relics be,
Whose span no selfish aims bedim,
Who, spotless as the seraphim,
Puts forth his energy
To make the earth by freemen trod,
And see mankind the sons of God!

And thou wert one of these; 'twas thine,
Through thy devoted country's night,
The latest of a freeborn line,
With all that purity to shine,
Which makes a hero bright;
In all that lustre to appear,
Which freemen love, and tyrants fear.

A myrtle wreath was on thy blade,
Which broke before its cause was won;—
Thou to no sordid fears betray'd,
'Mid desolation undismay'd,
Wert mighty, though undone;
No terrors gloom'd thy closing scene,
In danger and in death serene!

Though thou hast bade our world farewell,
And left the blotted lands beneath,
In purer, happier realms to dwell;
With Wallace, Washington, and Tell,
Thou shar'st the laurel wreathe—
The Brutus of degenerate climes!
A beacon light to other times!

STANZAS ON THE DEATH OF NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE.

The knell hath toll'd, and the mighty hath gone
To the dust, like a thing forsaken;
No more shall the dread Napoleon
At the summons of Fame awaken!

Thou did'st not die on the tented plain,
With thy martial legions round thee;
But a captive, girt with the gnawing chain
In which the nations bound thee!

Thou did'st not fade like a lightning flash,
When thunder-clouds bend lowly;—
Thou did'st not sink like a torrent's dash;
But silently pined, and slowly.

A hundred battles were fought and won;—
Tens of thousands fell beside thee;
And thine eagle soar'd, with its eyes to the sun,
As if all but success was denied thee.

Thy name did sound a watch-word of fear,—
A spell, like the earthquake and thunder;
The nations did crouch, as thy banners drew near,
In the depth of amazement and wonder!

The sceptre fell from the regal hand;
And Liberty saw but one token
In Europe, the seat of her ancient command,
That her sway was resistless, though broken.

'Twas in Britain the stedfast heart did remain,
Through the terrors and tempest of danger,
That the patriot glow'd, while he scoff'd at the chain,
That was forged for his neck by the stranger.

'Twas to Britain the iron-bound captive gazed,
When Thraldom's low dungeon he enter'd;
'Twas in Britain the bulwark of Freedom was raised,
And the hopes of the earth were centred.

For the Swede, all unnerved, did succumb from fight,
The Italian lay down by his fountain,
The bright star of Prussia was clouded by night,
The Switzer had fled to the mountain:

The Austrian struggled, yet bow'd to the yoke,
And Muscovy trembled before thee;
Till Frost, like a giant, the talisman broke,
And withering ruin came o'er thee!

Still the warrior's power was but subdued
For a season—more strength to gather;
Then forth to burst, like a torrent renew'd,
To spread like flame o'er the heather.

And all was vain,—had not Wellington come,
His charger to thine opposing;
When Waterloo echoed the trump and drum,
And thy hosts with his were closing.

Then did the star of thy victories set,
And Night's black cloud came o'er thee,
And thy fate, all boastful and bright as yet,
To a human level bore thee.

100

Shame to the bard who would raise his voice,
One hostile feeling to cherish;
Shame to the Briton that dare rejoice,
When the fallen and mighty perish!

For thou did'st rise 'mid summer's skies,
Like an eagle all sunward soaring;
And thou stood'st the shock, unmoved as the rock,
When Adversity's storm was roaring.

101

ON ANDREW HOFFER.

No marble epitaph, no sculptured stone,
No monumental pillar needest thou;
When Egypt's pyramids to Time shall bow,
Thy name will as a household word be known!
Thy sword was garlanded with olive wreath,
First in the field, and latest to depart;
Untamed and independent, throbb'd beneath
Thy peasant garments an heroic heart.
When palace homes were girt by magic charm,
And life was stagnant as a frozen lake,
Thine was the soul which Thraldom could not shake,
That bared for holy strife thy country's arm.
While shines the daily sun, and rolls the sea,
Heroic Hoffer! men must honour thee!

For an account of the Tyrolese invasion, and a minute character of Hoffer, and of his scarcely less illustrious compeer, Joseph Speckbacher, see Geschichte Andreas Hoffer. 8vo. Leipsig, 1817.

Amid the somewhat dry and official details of modern history, the defence of the Tyrol, by the native peasantry, forms an episode of almost romantic interest.

103

TO HAYDON.

Genius creative, industry untired,
The power and the capacity of thought
Sublime, to mighty aspirations wrought,
Are thine, by thirst of great achievement fired.
I need not tell thee, Haydon, thou hast felt
The fears, the ecstasies, of daring art,
The heavings and the sinkings of the heart,
At obstacles that oft like vapours melt,
And oft like rocks oppose us. It is thine,
After a warfare silent, but most deep,
To triumph and o'ercome: thy name shall shine
In Fame's unfading record,—like a river
That, having toil'd o'er rocks, is left to sleep
'Mid everlasting hills, and gleams for ever!

104

LOCHLEVEN CASTLE.

Un arbre, le dernier adieu de la vegetation, est devant sa porte; et c'est â l'ombre de son pale feuillage que les voyageurs ont coutume d'attendre.
Corinne.

A light breeze curls the Leven's silver tide,
Spread like a sheet around yon rocky isle,
Whereon, in ruin'd hoariness, a pile
Uprears its massy walls in castled pride;
The sunbeams, shooting o'er a morning cloud,
Fall on it, and display the shrivell'd trees,
Blasted and tall, their thin leaves in the breeze
Fluttering, like plumes above a funeral shroud:
The blue-wing'd sea-gull, with a wailing shriek,
Sails round it; and, on high, the sable rook
Perches in peace:—no more 'tis doom'd to brook
Man's domination; but with aspect meek,
Crumbles to ruin, year, and month, and week,
Voiceless, and with a melancholy look!

105

SCENE ON THE GRAMPIANS.

Nè greggi, nè armenti
Guida bifolco mai, guida pastore.

Amid this vast, tremendous solitude,
Where nought is heard except the wild wind's sigh,
Or brooding raven's deep and hollow cry,
With awful thought the spirit is embued!—
Around—around, for many a weary mile,
The Alpine masses stretch; the heavy cloud
Cleaves round their brows, concealing with its shroud
Bleak, barren rocks, unthaw'd by summer's smile.
Nought but the desert mountains and lone sky
Are here; birds sing not, and the wandering bee
Searches for flowers in vain; nor shrub, nor tree,
Nor human habitation greets the eye
Of heart-struck pilgrim; while around him lie
Silence and desolation—what is he?

107

THE MOSSY SEAT.

Although thou canst never be mine,
Although even hope is denied,
'Tis sweeter for thee despairing,
Than aught in the world beside.
Burns.

The landscape hath not lost its look;
Still rushes on the sparkling river;
Nor hath the gloominess forsook
These granite crags, that frown for ever.
Still hangs around the shadowy wood,
Whose sounds but murmur solitude:
The raven's plaint, the linnet's song,
The stock-dove's querulous repining,
In mingled echoes steal along;—
The setting sun is brightly shining,
And clouds above, and hills below,
Are brightening with his golden glow.

108

It is not meet—it is not fit,
Though Fortune all our hopes hath thwarted,
While on the very stone I sit,
Where first we met, and last we parted,
That absent from my mind should be
The thought that longs and looks for thee!
The happy hours that we have proved,
When love's delicious converse blended,
As 'neath the twilight star we roved,
Unconscious where our journey tended,—
To memory yield a sweet relief,
And lull me with the joys of grief.

What soothing recollections throng,
Presenting many a mournful token,
That heart's remembrance to prolong,
Which then was blest, and now is broken!
I dare not—oh! hast thou forgot
Our early loves—this hallow'd spot?—
I almost think I see thee stand;
I almost dream I hear thee speaking;
I feel the presence of thy hand—
Thy living glance in fondness seeking,
Here, all apart, by all unseen,
Thy form upon mine arm to lean.

109

How sweet it was, at eventide,
To be with thee and fancy roaming,
When Summer wanton'd in its pride,
As down yon cliff the stream was foaming;
As humm'd around the busy bee,
As music woke from every tree;
How sweet it was!—but feeling now
No more such heavenly joys can borrow;
With thee the scene hath lost its glow
It spoke of bliss, and speaks of sorrow:
Mirth, music, friendship, have no tone
Like that, which with thy voice hath flown!

Though beauty bless the landscape still,
Though woods surround, and waters lave it,
My heart feels not the vivid thrill
Which long ago thy presence gave it;
With thee the blissful feelings grew,
With thee, alas! they perish'd too!
And memory only now remains,
To whisper joys that once delighted;—
Still, still I love to tread these plains,
To seek this hallow'd haunt benighted;
And glean a something sadly sweet,
In resting on this mossy seat!

110

THE EVENING LANDSCAPE.

A sunny leaf in memory's pictured tome.
Anon.

Back from the portals of the west,
The sun in cloudless glory gazes,
While in the beechen shade I rest
Upon a bank of daisies.

It is the Sabbath of the day,
Which every forest leaf is keeping;
The hum of life hath died away,
The passions all are sleeping.

113

It seems as conscious Nature yields
At her Creator's shrine devotion;
There comes no music from the fields,
No murmur from the ocean.

A silent joy—a holy pride
Steals on my swelling heart, and o'er me;
The visions of my boyhood glide
In bright review before me.

One lovely eve, at such an hour,
The woods were green, the sun was shining,
And I, within this beechen bower,
Upon the bank reclining;

When up yon path my loved one came,
In all the pride of vernal brightness,
With brow of snow, and lip of flame,
And form of fairy lightness.

I clasp'd my seraph to my breast,
With ecstasy my heart was beating,
And hers, within its joyous nest,
Was throb for throb repeating.

114

We roam'd about this woodland scene,
And down the hill and through the meadow
Till lowering, sombre, and serene,
Dim Evening threw her shadow;

And dews unheard were falling round,
And in the south a star was twinkling,
And from afar, with fitful sound,
The curfew bell was tinkling.

I press'd her hand in mine; the blush
Of meek and maiden perturbation
Came o'er her features, like the flush
Which crimsons the carnation.

I caught her gaze—it thrill'd my heart—
In silence eloquently pleading;
From her my thoughts could not depart,
And of nought else were heeding.

We parted with a fond embrace—
I stood and gazed in melancholy,
Even as a pilgrim turns his face
To Mecca's temple holy!

115

But ere yon hedge-row from my sight
The Peri of my hope had banish'd,
She waved her hand of lily white,
And like a spirit vanish'd!—

Long years since then have fled; and all
My hopes divine and dreams Elysian
Have pass'd, like sunshine from a wall,
In mockery of vision.

But fair is Nature—oh! how fair
Are all her beauties spread before me;
The tearful star, with dewy hair,
Beams tremulously o'er me;

The shades are darkening o'er the dell;
The night-fog hangs above the river;
Beloved scenes, farewell—farewell!
For ever, and for ever.

116

FEMALE DECAY.

Thy looks were soft; thy cheek was fair;
Thy glance was, ah! too heavenly bright:
But then, we might have omen'd there,
From purer day, a darker night:
Since even the sun, when in the west,
Shines sweetest as he sinks to rest.

Throughout the winter's brooding gloom,
I mark'd the lines of slow decay,
The roses of thy cheek consume;
Like rainbow tints they died away;
And pale, but placid, thou did'st greet
The doom, that some have shrunk to meet.

117

The wintry winds were hush'd to rest:
The fields array'd in robes of green;
The songster built its little nest;
The blossom on the tree was seen;
The earth put on a livelier hue;
The sky its clear and cloudless blue;

Then, by the jasmined lattice, thou,
As fell the twilight shades, hast sate,
Hast smiled to see the flower in blow,
And Nature's finger renovate
The spring, as by a second birth;—
It was the last to thee on earth!

Oh! had'st thou felt Misfortune's rage;
Had hopeless sorrows marr'd thy lot;
Our tears, our grief, it might assuage,
To think that now thou feel'st them not:—
But, thou from earth wert rapt away,
When friends were kind, and nature gay.

The patriot, till his parting hour,
When doom'd in distant realms to dwell
Feels not affection's giant power,
Nor knew he loved his land so well.

118

So we, who mourn the fatal blow,
May guess thy value from our woe!

I rest within the very walls
Where I have seen thee sadly gay;
Now,—thou art deaf to mortal calls;
Thou wert the flower of yesterday;
And roses, of as transient bloom,
Exhale their fragrance o'er thy tomb!

It is a white and simple stone,
That tells thy name, and timeless fate;
Within the grove it stands alone,
Beneath the boughs where thou hast sate;
And birds, allured by scene so fair,
Make melancholy music there.

Thou wert a meteor that did'st gleam
Before our eyes, and pass'd away;
And now to memory art a dream
Of loveliness, in pale decay;
Thy steps have sought another shore;
And we behold thy smiles no more!

119

EVENTIDE.

I

Oh! how sweet is eventide!
Come, my loved one, come to me;
Cast domestic cares aside,
As I oft have done for thee:
On the summer bank I stand,
Dark green woods on either hand;
Round my path the flowers are blowing,
O'er my head the sky is clear,
Soft below the stream is flowing,
All were sweet, if thou wert near!

II

Burning in dilated glow,
See the orb of day expire!
And the ambient clouds of snow,
Crimson'd o'er with living fire;

120

But can that, or these impart
Balm, to heal a wounded heart?
Soften now their tints to amber;
Sink the lines of lingering light;
Darkness, from her ebon chamber,
Rushing, takes the reins of Night!

III

Sad and silent are the groves;
Birds forget to soar and sing;
Past, in short, quick circle roves
Drowsy bat on leathern wing.
Gently now the evening breeze
Curls the lake, and stirs the trees;
Dimly now the planets twinkle;
Darkens round the leafy dell;
Sadly fitful, comes the tinkle
Of the distant curfew bell.

IV

Hast thou, oh my love, forgot,
Here in quest of thee I roam?
Night descends on grove and grot,
Pensively I wander home.

121

Love, 'tis thou who can'st impart
Balm, to heal a wounded heart;
Heaven, or hell on earth, thou makest,
Lord and light of all below,
Ecstacy or anguish wakest,
Deepest bliss, or darkest woe!

122

THE VISION.

Κατεσχε με σκοτος δεινον.

I call upon thee in the night,
When none alive are near;
I dream about thee with delight,—
And then thou dost appear
Fair, as the day-star o'er the hill,
When skies are blue, and all is still.

Thou stand'st before me silently,
The spectre of the past;
The trembling azure of thine eye,
Without a cloud o'ercast;
Calm as the pure and silent deep,
When winds are hush'd and waves asleep.

123

Thou gazest on me!—but thy look
Of angel tenderness,
So pierces, that I less can brook
Than if it spoke distress,
Or came in anguish here to me
To tell of evil boding thee!

Around thee robes of snowy white,
With virgin taste are thrown;
And at thy breast, a lily bright,
In beauty scarcely blown:—
Calmly thou gazest—like the moon
Upon the leafy woods of June.

The auburn hair is braided soft
Above thy snowy brow:—
Why dost thou gaze on me so oft!
I cannot follow now!
It would be crime, a double death
To follow by forbidden path.

But let me press that hand again,
I oft have press'd in love,
When sauntering thro' the grassy plain,
Or summer's evening grove;

124

Or pausing, as we mark'd afar,
The twinkli g of the evening star.

It is a dream, and thou art gone;
The midnight breezes sigh;
And downcast—sorrowful—alone—
With sinking heart, I lie
To muse on days, when thou to me
Wert more than all on earth can be!

Oh! lonely is the lot of him,
Whose path is on the earth,
And when his thoughts are dark and dim,
Hears only vacant mirth;
A swallow left, when all his kind
Have cross'd the seas and wing'd the wind.

125

BALLAD STANZAS.

Cette vie étoit trop douce pour pouvoir durer. Je le sentois, et l'inquietude de la voir finir etoit la seule chose qui en troubloit la jouissance.
Confessions, Livre VII.

How beauteous are the valleys, love, where we at eve have proved
That it was pure delight itself to love as we have loved;
The sun, descending in the west, no happier pair did see,
When, young and ardent in my heart, I burn'd for love of thee!

How beautiful was Nature then, how lovely her attire!
The music stream'd among the woods, as from a seraph's lyre;

126

As I drank the angel eloquence that glisten'd in thine eye,
The mountains wore a brighter green, more azure glow'd the sky.

Though years of shade have veil'd the scene whose beauty was so bright;
Though years have pass'd, and thou hast been a stranger to my sight,
Whene'er I gaze upon thy cheek, a talisman appears,
To wake the feelings and the thoughts of long departed years.

The evening walk, the whisper'd talk amid the fields of green,
When moonlight, with its magic rays, o'erhung the glowing scene:
As young Affection told his tale, with ardour o'er and o'er,
And I caress'd the yielding hand, that none had press'd before!

The old oak tree, beneath whose boughs in silence we have stood,
As through the leaves the radiance gleam'd, and glitter'd on the flood—

127

The briary bank, whose perfume rich was wafted on the breeze,
And added pleasure to a scene where all combined to please.

All—all have pass'd; but yet, amid the wilderness of years,
Amid the desert of the heart, where scarce a flower appears,
The sunshine of the summer days, that blossom'd to depart,
Reflects a beauty on the gloom and darkness of my heart.

131

STANZAS. ON THIS GREEN BANK, &c.

On this green bank I saw thee lie,
Upon a lovely afternoon,
When not a cloud was in the sky,
And birds were singing piously
Their hymns to leafy June.

Too fair for daughter of mankind,
What marvel, if thou didst appear,
Beloved! to a poet's mind,
Some houri come from realms of wind,
To grace our lower sphere.

132

The rose-tree form'd a pleasant shade,
To shield thee from the burning sun;
And, ever as the zephyrs play'd,
They caught new fragrance, and convey'd
Its sweets to thee alone.

Years have elapsed; but yet, methinks,
Thy loveliness is present still,
Bright as the flowers on river brinks,
Pure as the lily, when it drinks
The freshness of the rill.

The lake is calm, the sky is clear,
The woods array'd in living green;
The roses still are blooming near,
And only thou dost not appear,
Fair Naiad of the scene!

Thus, when the shadowy tempests lour,
With ruthless speed, the lightning blind
Flies arrowy downward, to devour
The landscape's solitary flower,
And leaves the weeds behind.

133

For deserts would be lovely, where
Appear'd thy sweet, seraphic face;—
Scenes beautiful—however fair,
Even Eden, if thou wert not there,
Would be a lonely place!

134

THE CONFESSION.

To------

Bid the cold and callous-hearted
Brood o'er bliss he ne'er imparted:
Let him linger, let him languish,
In his sordid, selfish anguish:
Not a sun his soul shall borrow,
To dispel his night of sorrow;
And a something shall annoy,
With a dread, his dreams of joy.

He knows not the blissful union
Souls partake by soft communion;
He knows not the pleasing sadness,
Less allied to grief than gladness,

155

Which the pensive heart is proving,
When its life consists in loving,
As congenial pulses beat
With a mild and mutual heat.

He who can despise thee, woman,
Must be more or less than human;
On his heart a frost is seizing,
In his veins the blood is freezing;
If thou can'st not, what can move it?
But his coldness none will covet,
Not a bosom shall condole
With his poor and paltry soul.

Some may say thine eyes are cheating,
Some may say thy love is fleeting,
Some may say—but I believe not—
Well I know thy smiles deceive not.
There is one, whose face my being
Finds redoubled life in seeing,
Who with seraph smile inspires
Gentle love, and genial fires.

156

Fairy is her form of lightness,
Azure is her eye of brightness,
Snowy is her brow, above it
Wreathe the auburn curls that love it,
Sweetly twining, and invading
Rosy cheeks that need not shading;
Blush not at my telling thee,
Oh my sweet—that thou art she!

158

SONNET. TO LOVE.

The world bursts in between us—we must part!
Earth is no home for happiness; the dreams
That lapp'd me in Elysium were but gleams
Of phantasy, and mock'd the willing heart:
Ah! never more such landscapes of delight
Shall spread their bloom around me; never more
The western sun behold me as of yore,
Nor such a glory gild the vault of night!
Why should we wish a heritage of years,
Since joy is but a vision! why should we,
Children of error, seeing what we see,
Anchor upon an isle that disappears?
All sublunary things take wings and flee,
Save disappointment, grief, and gushing tears.

159

ODE ON THE OLDEN TIME.

Somnia, terrores magicos, miracula, sagas,
Nocturnos Lemures, portentaque Thessala.
Horat.

The skies are blue; the moon reclines
Above the silent grove of pines,
As if devoid of motion;
The ivied abbey frowns forlorn;
And stilly to the ear are borne
The murmurs of the ocean.

The nightshade springs beside the walk;
Luxuriantly the hemlock stalk
Expands its leaves unthwarted
Above the monumental stones,
Above the epitaphs, and bones,
Of beings long departed

160

No human dreams disturb the soul,
Whose thoughts, like giant-billows, roll
'Mid darksome ages hoary;
When light upon the human mind
Dawn'd faintly, and the world was blind
With superstitious story.

When fairies, with their silver bells,
Were habitants of earthly dells,
All sheathed in emerald dresses;

“The Fairies of Scotland are represented as a diminutive race of beings, of a mixed or rather dubious nature; capricious in their dispositions, and mischievous in their resentment. They inhabit the interior of green hills, chiefly those of conical form, in Gaelic termed sighan, on which they lead their dances by moonlight; impressing upon the surface the marks of circles, which sometimes appear yellow and blasted, sometimes of a deep green hue, and within which it is dangerous to sleep, or to be found after sun-set.”—Dr Leyden's “Dissertation on the Fairy Superstition,” in Border Minstrelsy.

“Like the Feld-Elfen of the Saxons, the usual dress of the Fairies is green; though, on the moors, they have been sometimes observed in heath-brown, or in weeds dyed with stoneraw, or lichen. They often ride in invisible procession; when their presence is discovered by the shrill ringing of their bridles.” —Ibid.

And mermaids, from the rock, were seen
At sea, and every wave between,
Combing their dewy tresses.

When wither'd hags their orgies kept,
'Mid darksome night;

Such as wish to revel among the intricacies of witchcraft, may do so to surfeiting in that delightful miscellany, “Satan's Invisible World,” by the Glasgow Professor; Arnot's celebrated “Criminal Trials;” Sharpe's “Memorials of Law;” “Reginald Scot's Discoverye of Witchcrafte,” &c. &c.

when Nature slept,
And tempests threaten'd danger;
Sheer, from the precipice to throw
Down—down among the rocks below,
The lorn, benighted stranger.

When grim, before the vision stalk'd
Such figures, as no longer walkd
The upper world,

“The wraith, or spectral appearance, of a person shortly to die, is a firm article in the creed of Scottish superstition. Nor is it unknown in our sister kingdom.” —Sir Walter Scott.

To those who are curious in these matters, we relate the following illustration, having heard it repeatedly from the very lips of the person to whom it occurred:—

When the lady alluded to was a girl, she had an acquaintance, perhaps a lover, in the person of a midshipman on board the Royal George.

One morning she awoke suddenly from sleep, and, looking to the foot of her bed, she saw the figure of the midshipman standing, in boyish beauty, with closed eyes, dressed in his naval uniform, and with a black silk handkerchief round his neck. She gazed for an instant, and then plunged her head under the bed-clothes, uttering a loud shriek. When she ventured again to look up, the apparition had vanished.

She arose, and dressed herself; but remained during the whole day disconsolate, and could not help often bursting into tears when left alone. On the forenoon of that day, when walking with a friend, who remarked her sorrowful appearance, she related the circumstance, and said, that it certainly foreboded death; and was not to be laughed out of her fears.

In a few days arrived the awful news of the loss of the Royal George, and her gallant crew; among whose number was the young midshipman.

If the reader is anxious to learn whether the writer believes this anecdote, I beg evasively to answer him in the words of the old Border Minstrel,

“I tell the tale, as told to me.”

We confidently refer the curious reader to Dr Hibbert's recent Essay on Apparitions, as being quite recherchè on the subject. See also Dr Ferriar; and per contra Aubrey's Miscellanies.

and faces

161

Of men that on their deathbeds lay,
As Twilight spread her shades of grey,
Were seen in desert places.

These are, to use the words of the divine Milton, the

------Calling shapes, and beck'ning shadows dire,
And airy tongues, that syllable men's names,
On sands, and shores, and desert wildernesses.

“These spirits often foretell men's deaths,” saith old Burton, “by severall signs, as knocking, groanings, &c., though Rich. Argentine, c. 18. De Præstigiis Demonum, will ascribe these predictions to good angels, out of the authority of Ficinus and others; ‘prodigia in obitu principium sæpius contigunt,’ &c., as, in the Lateran Church in Rome, the Popes' deaths are foretold by Sylvester's Tomb. Near Rupes Nova, in Finland, in the kingdome of Sweden, there is a lake, in which, before the governour of the castle dyes, a spectrum, in the habit of Arion, with a harp, appears, and makes excellent musick; —like those blocks in Cheshire, which (they say) presage death to the master of the family; or that oke in Lanthradan Park, in Cornwall, which foreshews as much.”—Anatomy of Melancholy, Part I. sect. 2.

“Ambulones, that walk, about midnight, on green heaths and desert places; which, saith Lavater, draw men out of the way, and lead them all night by a bye-way, or quite bar them out of their way.” —Idem.

Then, glittering to the morning sun,
With casque, and sable morion,
And greaves, and cuirass glancing,

For an account of the rise, progress, institutions, and decline of Chivalry, vide Preliminary Dissertation to Robertson's “Charles V.” passim. For specimens of its prose details, the reader may consult Froissard's “Cronicle;” and for examples of its poetical, the “Lay of the Last Minstrel,” and the “Marmion,” of Sir Walter Scott,—may we add likewise his “Ivanhoe?” See, by the same, the article Chivalry, in the supplement to the “Encyclopædia Britannica;” for he has made the subject his own in all its bearings.

The knight, and vassals at his call,
On battle feud forsook the hall,
A thousand chargers prancing.

Dark deeds were done—and blood was shed
In secret, and the spirit led
To fury, and to madness;
Hearths quench'd; and black walls smoking round;
And children's blood upon the ground;
And widows left in sadness.

Then, from her cloister wall, the nun
Gazed anxious towards the setting sun,
Descending o'er the ocean;

Savary, in his “Lettres sur la Grece,” presents us with a most interesting description of the convent of Acrotiri, and its inhabitants. They were three in number; one advanced in years, another of middle age, and a novice of sixteen,—without seeing the last of whom, he informs us, it would be impossible to form any adequate conception. All that could beautify the form, or dignify the mind, of the fairest of nature's works, seem to have centred in one doomed for ever to solitude and sorrow. “Je vous avouerai,” says he, “que cette pensée m'affligoit. Tant de charmes ensevelis pour jamais au fond d'une triste solitude! Celle qui etoit née pour faire la felicité d'un mortel, separêe pour jamais des la societé des hommes!”

Till startled by the deep-toned bell,
That summon'd her from lonely cell
To even-tide devotion.

162

Then from the tilt, and tournay, came
The youthful knight, with soul of flame,
His lady's rights defending;
The glove upon his cap on high;
And love unto his falcon eye
Redoubled ardour lending.

Or at the Louvre—while his steed
Shot forward with the lightning's speed,
'Mid courtly crowds assembled,
The gallant bore the ring away,
And, turning to his mistress gay,
Their meeting glances trembled.

Now all have pass'd—their halls are bare—
The ravens only harbour there;
And restless owls are whooping
Around the vaults, as if to bring,
Day's rosy lustre withering,—
Departed spirits trooping.

A giant ruin!—grimly frown
Its walls of grey, and roof of brown;
Its watch-towers dimly throwing

163

Their shadows in the pure moonlight
Far from them, and to wizard night
A doubled power bestowing.

With hound in leash, and hawk in hood,
The forester, through pale and wood,
From morn till eve was roaming
'Mid scenes majestically wild—
Dark mountains huge, o'er mountains piled,
Begirt with torrents foaming.

And, o'er the precipices bleak,
At pride of place, the eagle's shriek,

A term of falconry;—the highest pitch of the eagle's flight. Shakespeare, in his Macbeth, says,

“An eagle, towering to his pride of place,
Was by a mousing owl hawk'd at, and killed.”

Beneath the tempest scowling,
Dismal he heard, afar from men,
In wastes where foxes made their den,
And famish'd wolves were howling.

No voice is heard—'tis silence all—
The steed hath vanish'd from the stall,
The hawk and hound have perish'd;
Lichens o'erspread the orchard trees,
The flowers and shrubs sigh to the breeze,
For gone are they who cherish'd.

164

Oh! wilder than the wilderness,
And deeper subject of distress,
'Tis unto Meditation
To mark a rose or lily blown,
'Mid mossy heaps of sculptured stone,
Where grandeur erst had station.

These, like the pointing hand of Fate,
Say—Man, behold thy lorn estate,
And God, in us, bestowing
A lesson high; the palace gay,
Roof, arch, and pillar'd pride, away
Hath pass'd—to leave us growing!

Hark!—'twas the boding owl that scream'd—
Too long, my spirit, hast thou dream'd
Of ages, far reclining
Amid the shadows of the past;
And, fitful as the lightning blast,
On wakeful memory shining.

Thou, holy moon, hast seen them all,
While clouds came o'er thee, but their thrall
Is passing, and in glory,

165

Stedfastly on the verdant ground
Thou shinest—on the graves around,
And mouldering arches hoary!

'Tis pleasant to revert the eye
From life in its reality—
From living things around us—
And, for a season, break the chain,
Which, ah! too soon will knit again—
With which the world hath bound us.

The grassy court—the mossy wall—
Vault—bartizan—and turret tall—
With weeds that have o'ergrown them;
Though silent as the desert air,
Yet have their eloquence, and bear
Morality upon them.

Yes! these are talismans, that break
The sleep of visions,

Amulet, a charm, or preservation against mischief, witchcraft, or diseases. Amulets were made of stone, metal, simples, animals, and everything that fancy or caprice suggested; and sometimes consisted of words, characters, and sentences, ranged in a particular order, and engraved upon wood, and worn about the neck, or some other part of the body. At other times, they were neither written nor engraved; but prepared with many superstitious ceremonies, great regard being usually paid to the influence of the stars. The Arabians have given to this species of amulets the name of talismans. All nations have been fond of amulets. The Jews were extremely superstitious in the use of them to drive away diseases; and even among the Christians of the early times, amulets were made of the wood of the Cross, or ribbons with a text of Scripture written in them, as preservatives against diseases.— Note by the Translator of Schiller's Ghost Seer.

and awake
Long silent recollections;
That kindle in the mental eye
Romantic feelings long gone by,
And glowing retrospections.

166

By them the mind is taught to know,
That all is vanity below;
And that our being only
Is for a day,—and that we pass—
And are forgotten,—and the grass
Will wave above us lonely.

Yea, all must change—we cannot stay
The spoiler. Time, with onward sway,
All human pride defaces:
A few brief years revolve, and then
We are no more,—and other men
Shall occupy our places.

And I, now resting on a tomb,
Shall sleep within its breast, the gloom
Of dark oblivion o'er me;
And beings, yet unborn, shall tread,
On moonlight eves, above my head,
As I o'er those before me.

173

THE LEAFLESS TREE.

The silver moon careers a sky,
Whose breast is bright as beauty's eye;
Though somewhat of a paler hue;
Though somewhat of a milder blue;
While sweeps around me, far and fast,
With icy breath, the brumal blast;
And lands and lakes are whitely lost
In glistening snow, and sparkling frost.

When last thy trunk by me was seen,
The bloom was white, the leaf was green;
The air was stirless, and the sun
His summer circuit had begun;

174

While throng'd about the flowers and thee
The singing bird and humming bee;
And 'neath thy boughs the cattle stray'd,
For sunshine could not pierce thy shade.
The playful foals were gather'd there,
And breath'd in haste the shaded air;
Startled at every murmur bye,
With rising ears and kindling eye,
Paw'd wantonly their clayey shed,
And toss'd the forelock o'er the head.—
Now, birds, and bees, and cattle, gone,
Upon the waste thou stand'st alone,
Beside thee, and beneath thee—none!
The fruitage and the foliage fled,
Thy naked and unshelter'd head
Uprears its straggling boughs on high,
To greet the moonshine and the sky.

How doth thy silence speak, and show
The changeful state of things below!—
No difference may the eye survey
On prospects, usher'd day by day;
Yet, when long years have pass'd between,
And these through them remain'd unseen,

175

Then—then, the pausing mind, awake,
Beholds the change that seasons make;
And scans, on earth's diurnal sphere,
The wrecks of each revolving year!
Time circuits on unjarring wheels;
Below his viewless pencil steals,
And traces o'er all being fall,
Perceived by none, and felt by all.

With barren, leafless boughs, lone tree,
Such change presentest thou to me;
Thy fading leaf, and fleeting span,
Remind me of the fate of man!
Speechless, to me thou seem'st to say,—
“All mortal things like me decay,
Partaking, in a round like mine,
Their spring, their summer, and decline!”

Where Salem in her glory stood,
The seat of wisdom, and the good,
A chaos worse than solitude
Frowns dark, and petty Agas sway
The realms that made the East obey!—

Jerusalem is at the mercy of an almost independent governor: he may do with impunity all the mischief he pleases, if he be not afterwards called to account for it by the Pacha. It is well known, that in Turkey every superior has a right to delegate his authority to an inferior; and this authority extends both to property and life. For a few purses, a Janissary may become a petty Aga, and this Aga may, at his good pleasure, either take away your life, or permit you to redeem it. Thus executioners are multiplied in every town of Judea. The only thing ever heard in this country,—the only justice ever thought of, is: Let him pay ten, twenty, thirty purses. Give him five hundred strokes of the bastinado. Cut off his head. Chateaubriand's Travels, vol. II. p. 171.

How pathetically does the prophet Jeremiah give vent to his dreary forebodings of Jerusalem's destiny.

“How doth the city sit solitary that was full of people! how is she become as a widow! she that was great among the nations, and princess among the provinces, how is she become tributary!” —Lamentations.

176

Her rose is wither'd,—nought is hers
But flat and terraced sepulchres,

The houses of Jerusalem are heavy square masses, very low, without chimneys or windows; they have flat terraces or domes on the top, and look like prisons or sepulchres. On beholding these stone buildings, encompassed by a stony country, you are ready to inquire if they are not the confused monuments of a cemetery in the midst of a desert. Chateaubriand, vol. II.

In joyless languor, where reside
The children of degraded pride.

Now lawless plunderers overwhelm
Assyria's solitary realm,

For an account of ancient Assyria, vide the first and second books of Herodotus; and for the modern, vide miscellaneous passages in Kinneir's Geographical Memoir of the Persian Empire; also Niebuhr, Travels, vol. II.

And issue from the sheltering rocks,
To reave the shepherd of his flocks:—
Yes! where Sennacherib of yore
The potent sceptre sway'd,

Sennacherib, King of Assyria, came up against all the fenced cities of Judah, and took them, &c.—Isaiah, xxxvi. and Chronicles II. chap. xxxii.

and bore
His multitudes to overthrow
And lay revolting Judah low;
Then turn'd his eye, and stretch'd his hand,
Towards Ethiopia's tawny land,
And loosed his lions from the yoke,
While Egypt shudder'd at the shock;
Now power hath fled, and nought remains
But yielding slaves, and desert plains!

How high to soar, how low to fall,
Were thine, Chaldea's capital!
Thy flowery gardens hung on high—

“Babylon, the glory of kingdoms,” saith Isaiah, “the beauty of the Chaldees' excellency, shall be as when God overthrew Sodom and Gomorrah. It shall never be inhabited; neither shall it be dwelt in from generation to generation; neither shall the Arabian pitch his tent there, neither shall the shepherds make their fold there. But wild beasts of the desert shall lie there: and their houses shall be full of doleful creatures, and owls shall dwell there, and satyrs shall dance there. And the wild beasts of the islands shall cry in their desolate houses, and dragons in their pleasant places.”—Chap. xiii. ver. 19, &c.—For a striking account of the fulfilment of Scripture prophecies relating to Babylon, vide Rollin, Ancient History, vol. II.

Thy palaces, that charm'd the eye,

177

With frost-work of refulgent gold;
Thy girding walls of giant mould
Have pass'd away, as doth the wind,
To leave not even a trace behind;
And snakes—a venom'd brood—are grown
The sovereigns of Babylon!

Alone the camel'd Arab hastes
Through Tadmor's proud, and pillar'd wastes,
'Tween towers and temples overthrown,
And palaces with moss o'ergrown;—
He gallops through the echoing streets,
Where nought he hears, and none he meets;
As smiles the setting sun on plains
Where not a worshipper remains!

It would appear that these magnificent ruins are falling rapidly into decay, various pillars having been removed between the time of the visits of Wood and Volney. The reader may consult, for a description of these monuments of splendour, “Volney's Travels in Egypt and Syria,” and “Pocock's Travels,” vol. II.

Once Carthage o'er the ocean sway'd,
But Dido's city hath decay'd!

Devictæ Carthaginis arces
Procubuere, jacent infausto littore turres
Eversæ. Quantum illa metus, quantum illa laborum
Urbs dedit insultans Latio et Laurentibus arvis!
Nunc passim vix reliquias, vix nomina servans,
Obruitur propriis non agnoscenda ruinis.

Greece, learning's seat, the patriot's home—

We can all feel, or imagine, the regret with which the ruins of cities, once the capitals of empires, are beheld; the reflections suggested by such objects are too trite to require recapitulation. But never did the littleness of man, and the vanity of his very best virtues, of patriotism to exalt, and of valour to defend his country, appear more conspicuous than in the record of what Athens was, and the certainty of what she now is. Lord Byron.

The might of Egypt—Persia—Rome,—
The ancient empires of the earth,

For an interesting account of Modern Egypt, vide the Travels of Denon, Volney, and Legh, together with the novel of Anastasius, perhaps equally valuable as a historical record, as a work of fancy. For Persia, vide Kinneir, Ker Porter, and Sir John Malcolm; as to Rome, vide Eustace, Classical Tour, and “Rome in the Nineteenth Century,” cum multis aliis. How striking is the exclamation of Poggio, when looking on the ruins from the Capitoline hill!—“Ut nunc, omni decore nudata, prostrata jacet, instar gigantei cadaveris corrupti atque undique exesi!”

That gave the wise and warlike birth,
Like them who rear'd have pass'd away
By dint of arms, or slow decay:—

178

The ancient sages, where are they?
The tenets they profess'd, and told
The world, have like themselves grown old;
For others, which like them shall fade,
Rising, have thrown them into shade:
'Twould almost seem, so strange the view,
That truth itself can vary too;
For things that have been clearly proved,
By time are alter'd, changed, and moved;
And maxims, which the sage hath sought
To suffer for, are come to nought;
Yet one remains, the favourite one
Of fallen Athenæ's sapient son,
The truest e'er pronounced below,
That “mortal man can nothing know!”

Well hast thou said, Athena's wisest son!
“All that we know is, nothing can be known.”

Childe Harold, Canto II. St. vii.

Though Wisdom bids us not repine,
How like man's luckless lot is thine!
Spring strew'd thy widening boughs with bloom,
Which Summer ripen'd to perfume,
Which Autumn mellow'd to decay,
And Winter sered, and swept away;
Thus Time presents her pleasures new,
As if to snatch them from our view;

179

And shew, by contrast, what distress,
What blind and blacken'd dreariness
Frowns o'er the wide and waste abyss
Of baffled hopes, and ruin'd bliss!—
So mortal joy and beauty flee,
But happier planets smile on thee;
For spring, with favouring hand, will shed
Reviving verdure round thy head;
The flowers again will bloom around,
And bees to sip thy sweets be found,
And birds that sport on wanton wing,
Amid thy sheltering boughs to sing.—
But ah! the bosom's wintry state,
No second spring can renovate;

By some strange coincidence these lines are almost verbatim the same with two in the introduction to one of the Cantos of Marmion.—That noble performance having been written long previous to this poem, I am consequently found guilty of plagiarism,—sine spe extricationis. I may be allowed to state, however, that this passage was written in 1817, and I have no remembrance of having seen Marmion before that period.

No second summer can restore
The happy years that now are o'er;
Childhood, with all its flowery maze
Of artless thoughts, and sinless plays;
Boyhood, devoid of cares and tears,
Of sordid acts and selfish fears,
And rising o'er the bonds of art,
Ardour of thought, and warmth of heart!
Or youth, when brightly over all
Love spread her rich and purple pall:

180

When lake and mount, and sea and shore,
A borrow'd pride and beauty wore,
And visions pass'd before the eyes,
Bright with the hues of paradise!—
A glory from the summer day
Hath slowly sunk, and waned away;
A splendour from the starry night
Hath pass'd to nought, and mock'd the sight;
For clouds have gloom d, and sail'd between,
To darken, and bedim the scene,
And o'er th' unshelter'd head hath past,
With wailing sound, Misfortune's blast.
The fond, the fairy dreams of Youth
Have vanish'd at the touch of Truth;
And o'er the heart, all sear'd and riven,
The ploughshare of the World hath driven.

The play-mates of our infant years,
Our boyish friends, and young compeers,
Are some estranged in heart and thought,
By fortune dark, or happy lot,
Depress'd too low, or raised too high,
By anguish or prosperity;

181

Are some, by many a weary mile,
Though bent on home, removed the while;
Are some, who, changed by wizard Time,
Even in a far and foreign clime,
Love best the pleasures usher'd last,
And, in the present, lose the past;
Some on the wild, and tossing wave,
But many—most—within the grave!
Man has in heart, in hope, in all,
Like Lucifer, a fate and fall!

182

THE MIDNIGHT REVERIE.

Alas! our young affections run to waste,
Or water but the desert; whence arise
But weeds of dark luxuriance, tares of haste,
Rank at the core, though tempting to the eyes,
Flowers whose wild odours breathe but agonies,
And trees whose gums are poison.
Childe Harold.

The stars are dim, the moon is not in heaven;
And Silence, brooding, spreads his noiseless wings
Over this midnight landscape. Far away,
Into the mazes of the tractless dark,
I list the murmuring of old Ocean's waves,
Dull, hollow, and continuous, like the sound
Of spiritual voices from another world:
And Darkness o'er the vast, umbrageous woods,

183

Like barrier walls, that circle me around
In wild majestic gloom, reigns wizard-like.—
Yea, in the midst, I mark the taper spire,
That stretches o'er the mouldering abbey vaults;
Where Superstition, in the ancient time,
Sadly sojourn'd, or, with unsmiling look,
And robes of penitential sackcloth, knelt
Before the altar with her rosary!

Hark! how the circling monitor of time
Tolls out sonorously the hour of twelve.—
No more the voice of merriment is heard;
The bustle of daylight hath died away;
Hush'd is the tongue of eloquence in sleep,
Commercing not with the unanswering night:
This is an hour of deep-descending thought—
A scene of most impressive loneliness.—

If ghosts from out their charnel cells come forth,
If spirits walk—and so our fathers deem'd—
Leaving the precincts of the grave, to haunt,
With noiseless step, and unterrestrial scowl,
The murderer's midnight chamber, dark with gloom,
'Twere at an hour like this,—so sad,—so lone,—

184

So witching-like, and wild.—The ivy hangs
Around this lattice in dark pendulous tufts,
'Mid which, the bat, through uncongenial day,
Covets, and finds a resting-place secure.

Behold, wide heaven is dismal as a pall—
One mighty cloud of blackness o'er the sky,
Journeying, blots out the blue, and star by star
Extinguishes—like Time, with ruthless hand,
Brushing away the joys of early years,
And leaving to our lorn and latter days,
Care, and regret, and desolation dim!—
Do none repose beneath these shadowy trees,
Whose faces are familiar to the eye
Of Memory, brooding o'er departed days?
Are those related, those we loved, and knew,
The sister and the brother, parent, friend,
Surviving all, the habitants of earth,
And gazers on the sun,—embodied souls?
Ah, no!—there is a gap in our desires;
A pictured leaf, torn out from Being's tome;
A tract of desart bleakness in the heart,
Which once was strew'd with beauty and with flowers,
And ne'er shall blossom more.

185

A few short years
Have pass'd, and where are they, whose faces glow'd
With pleasure, circling round the Christmas hearth,
Ere yet the throbbing of the youthful heart,
Repress'd by dull anxiety, betook
To more serene enjoyment—where are they?
We ponder, and we pause, and ask in vain!—
Grief has an empire in the earthly heart:—
We feel that all our hopes are but a dream;
We know that, as a shadow, all we love
Shall vanish,—even as dew-drops fly the sun;
Yet ever is the mind alive to feel
External impulses, and inward change,
A kingdom of sensation, where preside
The stirring witcheries of Joy, nor less
The darkness of Misfortune, and the gloom
Of wintry Disappointment; but the world
Steals on us, and steals o'er us unperceived;
Dries up the fountain of our sympathies,
And petrifies our heart-strings; we become
The slaves of custom, tyrannous over all,
Automatons that act our stated parts,
And tread with measured steps the path of life,
Alternately deceiving, and deceived.

186

Pause in this pulseless solitude, and think
How paltry are the things that busy men,
How mean their occupations.—Wealth and Power,
What are ye but an evanescent dream,
The phantoms of illusion, vacant thoughts,
As unsubstantial as the dew that lies
Upon the lap of morning, fugitive
As wanton colours on the clouds of eve!—
Your attributes, what are they? Can they bring
A sweet remorseless quiet to the soul,
And spread o'er all the avenues of thought,
The light of Love, the hues of Paradise?
When Fortune frowns, and Sorrow's sable wings
O'erhang, and hide the sunshine of the heart,
Say, can ye purchase pleasure with a bribe?
Or still the raging tempest of the soul?
Or lull the tortures of disease to rest?
Or touch, with poppied charm, the sleepless lid?
Or shut the gates of the palace, and defy,
Death's angel, lingering there, to enter in?
Then, what are ye, the mighty and the proud,
Ye rule but for an hour—but for an hour—
Your memories wither like the yellow leaves,
The traces of your being fade away;

187

And weeds o'ertop your epitaphs unread:
What are ye, when a century hath pass'd?—
The skies are veil'd, the stars are seen no more,
Nor bright Orion, nor the Northern Bear:
The countless splendours of the milky way,
Receding far beyond the reach of thought,
(A belt of luminous glory, girding in
The wide, immeasurable universe,)
Are curtain'd by the clouds, and all is gloom.
A desolate sound ariseth in the winds,
Fitful and far, a dull and ominous sound:
The leaves upon the pine-tree rustle sadly;
The murmur of the sea is heard again;
The dashing of the cataract, far remote,
Breaks in with sullen majesty, and dies
Slowly upon the listening ear away.
And now the heavy rain-drops patter round;
And, from the swinging bough, the raven croaks,
Startled from midnight slumber.—Hastily,
With a loud noise, a melancholy rush,
Comes down the shower; the sluices of the sky,
Over a desolate and dreaming world,
Are opened—Lo! with penetrating flash
The lightning glances o'er the shadowy earth,

188

And vanishes; and all is doubly dark,
Dark as the lone recesses of the grave—
As Chaos, ere the just created sun
Pierced, through the gloomy waste, his earliest beam.—
And Silence reigns with momentary sway,
Till peals the rolling thunder, deep and loud,
And long; the hills reverberate,
And speak symphoniously, with answering tongues,
Back to the midnight and the mantled sky,
Profounder still:—a wild and awful scene!
Man! hear ye not the warring elements?
Hear ye not Earth, crouch'd at the feet of Heaven,
Responding like a menial to his lord,
In dread amaze, and supplicating awe?—
Wrapt up in midnight slumber, on the couch
Unconscious ye repose: Fatigue has seal'd
Your faculties, or visionary bliss,
Long sought, and oft eluding, is your own.
Yes!—there ye rest, nor ever think of them,
Oh! ye of selfish and subjected minds,
Whose days are sunless, and whose long, long nights,
Sleep, with serene oblivion, visits not!

189

THE SEPTEMBER FOREST.

I

Within a wood I lay reclined,
Upon a dull September day,
And listen'd to the hollow wind,
That shook the frail leaves from the spray.
I thought me of its summer pride,
And how the sod was gemm'd with flowers,
And how the river's azure tide
Was overarch'd with leafy bowers.
And how the small birds caroll'd gay,
And lattice-work the sunshine made,
When last, upon a summer day,
I stray'd beneath that woodland shade.

190

II

And now!—it was a startling thought,
And flash'd like lightning o'er the mind,—
That like the leaves we pass to nought,
Nor, parting, leave a track behind!
Go—trace the church-yard's hallow'd mound,
And, as among the tombs ye tread,
Read, on the pedestals around,
Memorials of the vanish'd dead.
They lived like us—they breathed like us—
Like us, they loved, and smiled, and wept;
But soon their hour arriving, thus
From earth like autumn leaves were swept.

III

Who, living, care for them?—not one!
To earth are theirs dissever'd claims;
To new inheritors have gone
Their habitations, and their names!
Think on our childhood—where are they,
The beings that begirt us then?
The Lion Death hath dragg'd away
By turns, the victim to his den!

191

And springing round, like vernal flowers,
Another race with vigour burns,
To bloom a while,—for years or hours,—
And then to perish in their turns!

IV

Then be this wintry grove to me
An emblem of our mortal state;
And from each lone and leafless tree,
So wither'd, wild, and desolate,
This moral lesson let me draw,—
That earthly means are vain to fly
Great Nature's universal law,
And that we all must come to die!
However varied, these alone
Abide the lofty and the less,—
Remembrance, and a sculptured stone,
A green grave, and forgetfulness.

192

THE SILENT EVE.

The shades of night are hastening down,
To steep in blue the mountains brown,
The sky is cloudless, and serene;
The winds are pillowed; and the scene
So beautiful, so wild, so sweet,
Where forests, fields, and waters meet,
Is bathed in such delicious hues,
Beneath the twilight's falling dews,
That man, afar from Sorrow's sphere,
Might muse away his anguish here;
While, o'er his erring thoughts subdued,
That quiet—tranquillizing mood,
That tone of harmony would steal,
Which poets feign, and angels feel.

193

Earth answers to the hues above—
The music ceases in the grove;
While not a breeze, in wandering, stirs
The branches of the silent firs,
That stretch their azure cones on high,
And shoot into the lucid sky.

There is no living motion round,
Save, that, with meek and mellow sound,
The shaded river murmurs on,
'Tween banks with copsewood overgrown;
Athwart its bed, the willow throws
The brightness of its pendent boughs,
And hangs, with melancholy air,
And languid head, its tresses there;
Like Guilt, that feels remorse endure,
Performing penance to be pure.—

Lo! in the south, a silver star,
With amber radiance, shines afar;—
The eldest daughter of the night,
In glory warm, in beauty bright.
Thou diamond in the pathless dome
Of azure, whither dost thou come?—

194

Far—far, within the orbless blue,
A tiny lustre twinkles through,
With distant and unsteady light,
To catch the eye, then mock the sight;
Till—as the shades of Darkness frown,
And throw their viewless curtains down,
The very veil that mantles earth,
Awakens thee to brighter birth,
And bids thee glow with purer ray,
A lily on the tomb of Day!

With outlines palpable, and clear,
And, 'mid the lowering darkness drear,
Above the forest, rise sublime
The gothic towers of olden time;
Through lattices, unframed, looks forth
The calm, pure azure of the North,
Unbroken, save where, dark and down,
The ivy tendrils hang, and frown;
And Time, with mimic finger, weaves
A natural lattice-work of leaves.
What, marvel, then, that trembling Fear,
In many a grot, and cavern here,
Should hold her solitary reign,
To scare the natives of the plain,

195

And people every lonesome glade,
With many a mute, and wandering shade.
Lo! in the convent's dewy cell,
What time awoke the vesper bell,
The homeward-stalking peasant hears,
Beneath the moonlight of the spheres,
Strange music on the breezes swim,
A low—a wild—a wailing hymn,
Soaring, and sinking, like the breeze
Among December's leafless trees;
Nor backward is his mind to dream,
In passing, that strange faces gleam
From every frowning cranny there—
As throbs his heart, and stirs his hair,
With quicken'd step he hastens on,
For well he knows, in ages gone,
When sackcloth-vested abbots sway'd,
And Rome was mighty and obey'd,
That there unholy deeds were done,
Perceived by few, and told by none,
And oft the restless spirits sweep,
When storms are dark, and night is deep,
Amid the gothic aisles, where rest,
In charnel cell, their bones unblest.

196

The blue horizon circles round
This silent spot of fairy ground;
So hush'd, that even my very breath
Intrudes upon the still of death!
No trace of mind or man is here,
The sight to win, the heart to cheer;
Like him, who, on Fernandez, sate,
Lamenting o'er his lonely fate,—
While, in the hush of winds, the roar
Of Ocean thundering on the shore
Was heard, the only living sound,
To break the deep, and dull profound,—
So here I rest; no tempests roll
Above my head, or in my soul,
A musing heart, and watchful eye,
Conversing with the earth, and sky.

197

THE WILD ROSE.

From cloudless skies, the sun o'erhung
With crimson fire the western main;
In shadows deep and verdure young,
The woods and fields smiled back again;

It was a luxury to breathe
The very air, so pure and clear;
Vales, like a map, were spread beneath,
And far withdrawing hills seem'd near.

Afar from paths of men I stray'd,
With raptured eye and glowing heart;
And felt, that every field and glade
Could fresh delight and love impart;

198

The running stream, with flowers o'erhung;
The trees that seem'd to woo the air;
The bees that humm'd, the birds that sung,—
'Twas too much for the mind to bear!

The city's noise was left behind,
Remote its azure spires appear'd;
And human strife, thus brought to mind,
The rural quiet more endear'd.

Beside the stream, I threw me down
Amid the flowers all fresh and fair,
And, shooting from its banks of brown,
A wild rose spread its boughs in air;

Its leaves so beautifully green,
Its cups so delicate in hue,
Awaken'd thoughts of many a scene,
Far banish'd from my vacant view;

Thoughts, that have long been veil'd in sleep;
Hopes, that allured but to depart;
And recollections buried deep
Within the shut and silent heart.

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Wrapt in the mournful reverie—
Of shadowy thoughts a crowding throng,
Before the glass of Memory,
Like restless spirits, troop'd along;

And, for a while, absorb'd in thought,
From prospects drearily o'ercast,
A solace and relief I sought
Amid the sunshine of the past.

Frail beings are we! following still
The rainbow hopes that lure afar;
By night and day, for good and ill,
With others, or ourselves at war!

We cannot stop—we will not try
Contentment in our lot to find;
We dare not rest; tranquillity
Is worse than discord to mankind!

Well—'twill be over soon!—the strife
Of being, and the fond regret;
The visions of exalted life
We cannot reach, nor yet forget.

200

Chain'd down, and fix'd to present care—
Like exiles to their native shore
We look behind us; but despair
To find the bliss that charm'd before!

Then come the rack—the searching pains—
The rankling of the poison'd wound—
And, like Prometheus, from the chains,
With many a coil, that gird us round,

We strive to rise—or, like the bird,
That beats in vain against the wires,
Until no more its wings are heard,
And, palsied with its toil, expires!

201

THE MANIAC'S PLAINT.

My heart throbs on from day to day;
Mine eyes they never close in sleep;
I see my loved companions gay,
Yet all my solace is to weep;
For, clothed in melancholy deep,
My heart may well afflicted be,
Since Time can bring
Upon his wing
No earthly joy to me!—

I'll twine my brow with willow wreath,
I'll place the cypress in my breast;
I'll sit upon his tomb, and breathe
My plaint to him that loved me best;
When brooding storms obscure the west,

202

How sweet beneath the willow tree,
If, while I sing,
The tempest's wing
Should come to set me free!

The ravens sit, a clamorous troop,
Upon the mouldering Abbey tower;
Hark! as the owl sends forth her whoop
From danky vaults that form her bower;
Soon, at the silent midnight hour,
Lone men shall mark, amid the gloom,
In dim affright,
A lambent light
Glide slowly o'er my tomb.

Beloved youth, since thou art gone,
No hope bestirs my bosom, save,
When dark existence all is flown,
To join thee in the quiet grave;
And when the wandering breezes wave
The forests in the cold moonshine,
When all is still,
My spirit will,
Unseen, converse with thine!

203

A MOTHER'S DIRGE OVER HER CHILD.

I

Bring me flowers all young and sweet,
That I may strew the winding-sheet,
Where calm thou sleepest, baby fair,
With roseless cheek, and auburn hair!
Bring me the rosemary, whose breath
Perfumed the wild and desert heath;
The lily of the vale, which, too,
In silence and in beauty grew.

II

Bring cypress from some sunless spot,
Bring me the blue forget-me-not,
That I may strew them o'er thy bier,
With long-drawn sigh, and gushing tear!

204

Oh! what upon this earth doth prove
So stedfast as a mother's love!
Oh! what on earth can bring relief,
Or solace, to a mother's grief!

III

No more, my baby, shalt thou lie,
With drowsy smile, and half-shut eye,
Pillow'd upon my fostering breast,
Serenely sinking into rest!
The grave must be thy cradle now;
The wild-flowers o'er thy breast shall grow,
While still my heart, all full of thee,
In widow'd solitude shall be.

IV

No taint of earth, no thought of sin,
E'er dwelt thy stainless breast within;
And God hath laid thee down to sleep,
Like a pure pearl below the deep.
Yea! from mine arms thy soul hath flown
Above, and found the heavenly throne,
To join that blest angelic ring,
That aye around the altar sing.

205

V

Methought, when years had roll'd away,
That thou would'st be mine age's stay,
And often have I dreamt to see
The boy—the youth—the man in thee!
But thou hast past! for ever gone,
To leave me childless and alone,
Like Rachel pouring tear on tear,
And looking not for comfort here!

VI

Farewell, my child! the dews shall fall
At morn and evening o'er thy pall;
And daisies, when the vernal year
Revives, upon thy turf appear.
The earliest snow-drop there shall spring,
And lark delight to fold his wing,
And roses pale, and lilies fair,
With perfume load the summer air!

VII

Adieu, my babe! if life were long,
This would be even a heavier song;
But years like phantoms quickly pass,
Then look to us from Memory's glass.

206

Soon on Death's couch shall I recline;
Soon shall my head be laid with thine;
And sunder'd spirits meet above,
To live for evermore in love!

207

VERSES TO THE MEMORY OF ROBERT BLOOMFIELD.

Lore had he found in huts where poor men lie,
His daily teachers had been woods and rills,
The silence that is in the starry sky,
The sleep that is among the lonely hills.
Wordsworth.

Sweet, simple Poet! thou art gone!
And shall no parting tear be shed
By those to whom thy name was known
Above thy low and lonely bed?
Shall not a pilgrim, lingering by,
Gaze on thy turf, and heave a sigh?

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Yes! many, many! for thy heart
Was humble as the violet low,
That, shelter'd in some shady part,
We only by its perfume know;
Yet genius pure, which God had given,
Shone o'er thy path—a light from heaven!

'Mid poverty it cheer'd thy lot,
'Mid darkness it illumed thine eyes,
And shed on earth's most dreary spot
A glory borrow'd from the skies:
Thine were the shows of earth and air,
Of Winter dark, and Summer fair.

Before thee spread was Nature's book,
And, with a bard's enraptured glance,
By thee were seen, in glen and brook,
A limitless inheritance:
Thy ripening boyhood look'd abroad,
And saw how grand was man's abode.

Expanding with thine added days,
Thy feelings ripen'd and refine
Though none were near thy views to raise,
Or train to fruit the budding mind;

209

As grows the flower amid the wild,
Such was thy fortune—Nature's child!

No pompous learning—no parade
Of pedantry, and cumbrous lore,
On thy elastic bosom weigh'd;
Instead, were thine a mazy store
Of feelings delicately wrought,
And treasures glean'd by silent thought.

Obscurity, and low-born Care,
Labour, and Want—all adverse things
Combined to bow thee to despair;
And of her young untutor'd wings
To rob thy genius—'Twas in vain;
With one proud soar she burst her chain.

The beauties of the budding Spring;
The glories of the Summer's reign;
Rich, russet Autumn, triumphing
In ripen'd fruits and golden grain;
Winter, with storms around his shrine;
Each, in their turns, were themes of thine.

210

And lowly life, the peasant's lot,
Its humble hopes, and simple joys;
By mountain-stream the shepherd's cot;
And what the rustic hour employs;
White flocks on Nature's carpet spread;
Birds blithely carolling over-head.

These were thy themes, and thou wert blest;
Yea! blest beyond the wealth of kings;
Calm joy is seated in the breast
Of the wrapt poet as he sings;
And all that Truth or Hope can bring
Of beauty gilds the Muse's wing.

And, Bloomfield, thine were blissful days,
(If flowers of bliss may thrive on earth;)
Thine was the glory and the praise
Of genius link'd with modest worth;
To Wisdom wed, remote from strife,
Calmly pass'd o'er thy stormless life.

And thou art dead—no more, no more
To charm the land with sylvan strain;

211

Thy harp is hush'd, thy song is o'er.
But what is sung shall long remain,
When cold this hand, and lost this verse,
Now hung in reverence on thy hearse!

212

THE NOVEMBER GARDEN.

In Spring I visited this spot;
A thousand herbs and flowers were blooming;
And eglantine o'erhung this grot,
Mild April's balmy breeze perfuming;
The primrose open'd to the sun;
And languidly the daffodillies
Reclining bashful had begun
To smile beneath the sprouting lilies.

I came in Summer—shrub and flower,
Though changed in hue, were still before me;
Twas cloudless noon, I sought the flower
That threw its welcome shadows o'er me;

213

And, as I rested on its seat,
Absorb'd in silent meditation,
The bee was treasuring liquid sweet,
From the bosom of the soft carnation.

Again I come to view the scene,
Whose summer hues I well remember;
'Tis stripp'd of pride, 'tis shorn of green,
Beneath the rude sway of November!
The melody of song is mute,
Except the robin's lonely singing:
The trees have shed their leaves and fruit,
And weeds in every walk are springing.

The morn is cold; the sky is pale,
The winds no more are silence keeping;
Like childhood at a mournful tale,
O'er vanish'd bloom the flowers are weeping;
I look upon the sullen sky—
It wanes as when a daughter's duty,
Stay'd by a tyrannous father's eye,
Opposes love, and withers beauty.

214

All—all is changed, as if Simoom
Had pass'd with withering magic over!
No trace of beauty or of bloom
Can sense perceive or eye discover;
But wild, and waste, and desolate,
A wilderness is stretch'd around me;
And where, 'mid summer's smiles I sate,
November's wintry breeze hath found me.

The lilac boughs are tinged with red;
The yellow leaves profusely lying:
The flowers have bent or bend the head;
The latest of the train are dying.
Hark! 'tis the voice of Nature cries—
“Shall Pride and Passion vanquish Reason?
Will man be never—never wise!
Heaven is his home, and life a season.”

215

THE ARBOUR.

Thoughts, that do often lie too deep for tears.
Wordsworth.

O, 'tis delightful, on a vernal eve,
Within the tranquil and embower'd recess
Of a green arbour to recline alone,
While gentle rains, descending from the sky,
Make pleasant music on the thirsty ground;
And there indulge that pleasing pensiveness,
That languor of the meditative mind,
Which broods upon the ocean of the past,
Slow sailing onwards. O, 'tis sadly sweet,
To hear the small drops splashing on the stems
Of succulent herbs, and on the opening buds,
While, gently murmuring past, the west wind sighs
To and fro, waving, in the twilight air,

220

The broad expanse of melancholy leaves;
To see the swallow, 'mid the falling shower,
Darting aloft, and wheeling 'mid the sky;
And buzzing home, the startled humble-bee,
Journeying, in mazy flight, from flower to flower.
Then doubly sweet, and doubly touching then,
If, from the distant light-green groves, be heard
Soft Music's dying, undulating fall;
As if, again, the Pagan deities,
Pan or Sylvanus, for one season more,
Had sought the empires of their ancient reign:
And, turning from the concord of sweet sounds,
Gaze on the lovely blossoms, pink and white,
Of pear and apple tree; the varied bloom
Of varied herb; the many-tinctured flowers,
Recumbent with the weight of dew, between
Their girdles of green leaves; the freshen'd coats
Of evergreens; the myrtle, and the box,
And cypress, mid whose darkly-clustering boughs
The blackbird sits.

Such melancholy eves
Have nameless charms for me, too deep for words
To utter and unbosom. Feelings dwell
Deep, in theinner shrine of human hearts,
And shelter'd from the rude and passing shocks

221

Of common life, that need the electric spark
To fire them,—and at once the soul is flame!

To him, who sojourns 'mid the busy crowd
Of cities, where contention's jar is heard
For ever dissonant; whose pathway lies
'Mid tumult, yet whose youth hath pass'd away,—
His earlier, better years—in privacy,
Sequester'd from the rude shocks of the world,
'Mid hills, and dales, and woods, and quiet lawns,
And streamy glens, and pastoral dells; to him
Who, every eve, listed the blackbird's song,
And, every morn, beheld the speckled lark
Ascend to greet the sun; to him an hour
Like this, so pregnant with deep-seated thought,
Thought kindled at the shrine of earlier years,
Long quench'd, is more delightful than the mirth
Of smiling faces, 'mid the perfumed vaults
Of echoing halls majestic, where the pride
Of Art emblazon'd forth, extinguishes
The glow of Nature in the human heart!

Oh! not the most intense of present joys
Can match the far-departed loveliness
Of vanish'd landscapes, when the wizard Time
Hath spread o'er all their clefts and roughnesses
His twilight mantle, and the spirit broods

222

On what alone is beautiful, and soft,
And pure—as summer waters in the sun
Sleeping, when not a cloud is on the sky.
Oh! not the gorgeous splendour that invests
The evening cloud, when, from his western tent,
Resplendent glows the setting sun, and beams
O'er earth, and sea, and sky, his glorious light,
As if to shew us, with derisive smiles,
How sweet a paradise this world can be—
Oh! not the mid-day brightness, nor the blush
Of crimson morning, have the deep delight,
The state, the grandeur, the impressiveness
Of this most intellectual hour, which draws
The feelings to a focus, and restores—
As native music to a wanderer's ear,
In foreign climes afar beyond the sea—
The lightening vista of departed years.

There runs a current through the ocean depths,
A current through the ocean of the soul,
Made up of uncommunicable thoughts—
It is in vain, we cannot utter them—
Like lava in the bowels of the hill,
They dwell unseen—like lightning in the cloud;
They hold no concourse with the passing thoughts
Of common being, nor communion hold

223

With what is passing round us; like the rays
Of broken sunshine, they illume our paths;
Like relics snatch'd from paradise, they rise
Before us, telling us of something fair,
Which is not, but which hath been; to the soul
They are familiar, but we know not where,
Nor when, their first acquaintance-ship began:
All speak a language soothing to the heart,
Even from their voiceless silence; the thin smoke,
Bluely ascending from the cottage roof,
Through the still air; the sombre, quiet sky;
The shelving hills, whose green acclivities
Rise in the distance; the umbrageous woods,
Forming a canopy of gloom, beneath
Whose ample cope the shelter'd cattle rest;
The paradise of blossom round; the tints
Of freshen'd flowers; the dark and dewy ground;
The fanning of the zephyr, in its path,
Telling of perfume; the melodious hymn
Of birds amid the boughs; and, far away,
Scarce heard, the murmurs of the cataract.

226

SOLITUDE.

The autumnal sun, with melancholy ray,
Towards the approach of twilight, from the west
Faintly shone out; some specks of fleecy cloud,
Scarce colour'd by his glory, hover'd round;
The wind was not: and, as the shadows threw
Their darkness far, the pausing spirit felt
The deep impressive stillness of that hour!

Sure never place was more forlorn:—I saw,
Sole image of existence, the grey hawk
Perch'd on an antique stone, once character'd
With figures, now all lichen overgrown.—
Four-sided rose the walls around me, dark,
And sprinkled with the moss of many a year,
Grey mouldering lime, and iron weather-stains,
Piled in old times remote, by artisans
Long perish'd, leaving not a trace behind.

227

Hard by, in ancient times, a hamlet stood
Fair, as tradition tells:—its habitants,
Sequester'd from the scenes of city life,
Were simple, and were peaceful, like the men
Of patriarchal days; in love they dwelt,
In hope they died, and here were laid to rest.
Arising with the lark, at morn they drove
Their team a-field; or, on the neighbouring hills,
From wanderings and from danger kept their flocks,
The long blue summer through; and when the snows
O'erspread the verdant pasture, by the hearth
'Twas theirs to sing amid their household tasks;
Friendship together knit their willing hearts;
Nor was Love distant, with her rosy smile,
And laughing eyes, to bless the younger train.—
Now, where the hamlet stood, the fern and moss
Spread thick; with prickles arm'd, the bramble throws
Its snake-like branches round; the broad-leaved dock
Shoots rankly; and uncheck'd the nettles spring
Luxuriant, with their tufts of hanging seed.
Silent—alone—one melancholy tree,
With rifted rind, and long, lean, hanging boughs,
Like skeleton arms, upon the wither'd heath
Stands desolate; and with its quivering leaf,

228

That, as in mockery, saws the twilight sky,
Whispers, How spareless Time hath triumph'd there!

How silent!—Even the beating of my heart
Feels an intrusion here:—the sward is dim
With moss and danky weeds, and lichen'd stones
That seem, as if from immemorial time,
Upon the same spot to have lain untouch'd.
The very graves have moulder'd to decay,
Tenantless—boneless—clods of common earth:
The storms, the piercing winds, and plashing rains,
So long have beat upon them, and the snows,
Melting in spring, so often soak'd them through
And through, that every undulating swell
Is levell'd.

Oh! how dim, how desolate!—
The aspect of mortality is press'd
Like lead upon my soul:—that human things
Such as I am, and others are, and such
As those were, who of old were buried here,
Should lie and rot amid the damp, wet mould,
Moveless, and voiceless, senseless, silent, still,
To nourish for a while the earth-worm's brood,—
Then pass to nothing, like a morning mist,—
Nor leave one token, nor one trace behind!

229

Musing, I stand a breathing creature here
In loneliness, beneath the twilight sky,
Silent, and circled with forgotten graves!—
A hundred years have come, and pass'd away,
Since last a fellow-mortal in this field
Did make his bed of rest; a hundred years,
Eluded, have the drilling insects bored
Their passage through the sterile soil, nor found
Aught new to be a banquet for their brood;—
No kind descendant, kindling with the fire
Of ancestry, in filial reverence comes
Hither to gaze, where his forefathers lay;
Their generation, their descendants, all
That knew them living, or might weep them dead—
Their thoughts, their deeds, their names, their memories,
Have floated down the stream of time, to join
The ocean of oblivion, on whose breast
Of their existence not one wreck appears.—

Silently as the clouds of summer heaven,
Across the skies of life they fleeted by,
And were not; like the flaky snow, that falls
Melting within the ocean stream;—the mist
That floats upon the gentle morning air,
And dies to nothingness at glowing noon;

230

Like valley flowers, which at the sunrise ope
Their golden cups, and shut at eventide!

A remnant from the flock of human kind
They lie cut off—a solitary tribe:
Now o'er the spot, where erst their ashes lay,
The dews may fall, the rains may beat unknown,
The winds may journey, and the weeds may spring,—
None heed them, and none hear them—all is still.

231

RURAL SECLUSION.

A SKETCH.

How splendidly! with what a glorious light,
Beyond the summits of yon forest deep,
The sun descends, tinging its boughs with flame
The western tent around him glows, and far
Up the steep cope of heaven outstretching brightly,
Dart the red lines with soft decaying glow.
How utter is the solitude around!
How wild, and how forlorn! It is a scene,
Which stern Salvator, with a kindling eye,
Might long have gazed unsated, treasuring up
A throng of omens dark, and desolate thoughts:
Nor motion of one living thing dispels
The breathless and unstirring loneliness,

232

Nor insect's hum, nor vesper song of bird,
Nor sound of lapsing stream; the evening breeze,
Sighing along, just passes o'er the flowers
Of the dark heather, and subsides to peace:
There is no trace of human step, no mark
Of man's dominion here; these mossy rocks,
These lichen'd stones, all purple-tinged and blue,
These deep-brow'd rocks, and that dim weedy pool,
Mayhap from Time's remotest chronicling,
Untouch'd have lain, and undisturb'd and lone!

The ptarmigan, when wintry frosts were o'er,
And skies were blue, may here have sunn'd herself,
The red-deer taken up a night's abode,
Or the lithe adder roll'd; it may have been,
That in the gloom of olden times austere,
Beneath that arching rock, the Eremite,
Shunning communion, may have dwelt alone,
Till human speech was, to his vacant ear,
Like vision to the blind, a thing gone by;
Saw, o'er yon far-off hills, the waning light
Of the last setting sun that shone for him,
In loneliness outstretch'd his wither'd limbs,
And, dying, left his bones to whiten here!—

233

Or, it may be, when Persecution's rage
Pursued the champions of the Covenant,
In ages less remote, on this lone mount,
At earliest sunrise, or beneath the stars,
The suffering martyrs gather'd, from the looks
Of unrepining zeal in each worn face,
—As each on each they gazed with searching eyes—
To glean rekindled ardour; here perhaps,
—And sanctified if such the spot must be!—
Kneeling they pray'd; for Scotland's hills and dales,
Pour'd out their hearts, for liberty of soul,
And for serener times.

243

INCH-KEITH BEACON.

Far in the bosom of the night
The Ochills' dusky summits rise,
Their outlines starting, darkly bright,
In the clear mirror of the skies;
The northern skies, through which the Sun
The circuit of his path explores,
Imparting glory, never done,
And life to other shores.

And Silence reigns upon the sea,
While hosts of stars are on their march,
To stud the lucid canopy,
That mantles the nocturnal arch.
The beacon-light on yonder isle,
Revolving, wanes, or waxes clear;
And sheds a mild, but mournful smile,
Like Hope beguiling Fear.

244

How bright it burns!—of threatening wreck
To warn the wareless mariner;
He hails it from the midnight deck,
And feels as if a friend were near:
Thus, as the navigator spied
The berries on the ocean foam,
That gladly omen'd land beside,
This ushers him to home.

Yet rocks bestrew Life's stormy sea,
And dangerous quicksands there abound;
We never pause, nor turn to flee,
Till Hope is past, and wreck around.
No eye can pierce the shades of Fate,
Nor Wisdom point to Sorrow's goal;
What heavenly light shall dissipate
The darkness of the soul?

And many a heart hath leapt to hail
That sparkling beacon of the deep;
And eyes been bright, with joyful tale,
That left it long ago to weep;

245

The memory of departed days
Will rush upon the pilgrim's mind,
More warm and hallow'd thoughts to raise
Of those he left behind.

Say, where shall Anguish rest her head,
When Sorrow's shadows lower around!
Youth's fascinating dreams are fled,
Its friends are now no longer found;
The kindness that upheld our hearts
Hath fled, as flashes light away,
And Memory only now imparts
Her retrospective day.

How often o'er this breezy walk,
At eve, with Friendship stray'd have I,
Pursuing themes of varied talk;
What time within the southern sky,
As day-light's western flood was stemm'd,
The orb of Venus glitter'd bright,
The foremost of the train, that gemm'd
The diadem of Night.

246

While flowers and grass were sprinkled o'er
With diamonds of the sparkling dew;
And, homeward veering from the shore,
The congregated ravens flew;
And while the white-wing'd sea-gull rose,
To hold its solitary way
To where the cliffs of Bass oppose
Tamtallan's quiet bay.

While, then, it burn'd, as now it burns,
On lovely nights, to Memory dear;
And then it turn'd, as now it turns,
Dim—distant—fairer—brighter—clear.
The earth, since then, has lost a hue;
The sky a tint—the heart a string;—
Ah! never more shall Time renew
The glories of our Spring!

The Summer of the soul is past;
The Sun-shine of existence fled;
Its flowers have bent in Sorrow's blast,
Or only blossom o'er the dead.

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The bounding pulse, the glowing heart,
Affection's warmth, and Pity's tear,
Yea, all ennobling thoughts depart,
To leave us wretched here.

The world allures—the world betrays—
The world corrupts the purest mind;
The gem that glitters, by its blaze
Too often strikes the gazer blind.
The glorious dreams that Hope could weave
All that, in youth, we could adore;
Have vanish'd from the view—to leave
Nothing worth living for!

Who are the mighty of our race?—
Behold, they perish'd in their prime!
Age never drew a wrinkling trace
O'er them—they never stoop'd to Time.
Soon did the flower of Cressy fall—
Wolfe—Crichton—Hampden, bold for Truth;

“Were we superstitious,” says a celebrated critic, “we should be inclined to think that it was the fate of a certain gracefulness of character, personal and intellectual, to meet with an early death; as if Providence would keep its image with us always young—

—‘lovely to the last;
Extinguished, not decayed.’

Surrey, we see, died at thirty-one; Raphael died at thirty-seven; and Sir Philip Sidney at thirty-two. Yet Ariosto reached a good age; and Alfred lived long enough to surmount our idea of him, as the accomplished young soldier and musician; and holds his place in our memories as a bearded sage.”

To these illustrious men, and early martyrs to death, I have added other seven in my text; in all of whom this gracefulness of person and splendour of intellect were equally remarkable; and whom the world had only time to see—and admire—and lose. We have now to add the dead, but deathless Byron, at thirty-seven! And why should we omit Burns?

Moore—Horner—Gordon—glorious all!
Extinguish'd in their youth!—

248

And yet a thousand souls live on,—
Dark, worthless, abject, and debased,
From out whose bosoms, cold as stone,
All generous feelings are erased.
These are the low—the lost of mind—
The sons of Fashion—Folly—Mirth—
The host—the herd of human kind—
The governors of earth.

Cease doubt to rack—cease fear to gloom;
As is the ocean by that light,
The hidden mysteries of our doom
Shall stand unveil'd—reveal'd to sight.
When Time no more shall mar or make,
And all this shadowy dream be o'er;
The beacon stars of Heaven awake,
To shine for evermore!

Columbus.

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EVENING RETROSPECT.

The day had been a rainy day;
The hours in gloom had lagg'd away;
A heavy mixture bent the flowers,
To earth each languid bloom was stooping,
And birds, within their sullen bowers,
Like cell-imprison'd nuns, were drooping.

Now, 'twas the hour, when silent Eve
Her mazy web begins to weave,
With woof of melancholy thought—
When shadowy throngs by Recollection
Are to the passive spirit brought,
To claim a sigh, and cause reflection.

250

The sun reclined in western tent;
Dim vale and rocky battlement,
Empurpled by his regal gleams,
In Beauty's mellow flood were glowing;
The woods breathed odours, and the streams
In Music's holiest tone were flowing.

My footsteps gain'd a little hill,
Where, standing mute, I gazed my fill;
Through far-stretch'd years mine eyes had not
(Alas! how Time, unmark'd, is gliding—)
Feasted on that delicious spot,
Where yet Youth's spirit seem'd presiding.

Each object had its story there;
The very feeling of the air
Unchanged, came back—the blossom'd trees—
The aspect of the fields—the bleating,
Wide scatter'd flocks—and, over these,
Hills, that with heaven seem'd proudly meeting.

Like lava came the past—a flood—
And turn'd to fire the rushing blood:

251

Departed hopes, Youth's vanish'd pride,
Sprung forth, as springs the mountain river,
To sweep the rubbish from its side
Into the oblivious sea for ever!

Methought, my spirit, in the track
Of former years, had wander'd back—
With gladden'd eyes, and beating heart,
I saw the fields of childhood blooming;
And felt its cloudless sunshine dart
Into my soul, its depths illuming.

Faces, alas! too long unseen,
(The veil of years or death between,)
Lost friends again before me stood,
How thrilling was the welcome vision!
Life seem'd no more a solitude,
And Earth was clad in robes Elysian.

The blackbird sang a mellow song,
Deep was the cadence, deep and long;
Into my heart of hearts, the note
With an electric power was stealing,
Days vanish'd far, hopes long forgot,
Loves sever'd, or suppress'd, revealing.

252

The buried and the absent came,
From out the dusk, in lines of flame;
Far scenes in pictured beauty gleam'd,
In boyhood's glow of magic glory,
And life seem'd—what at first it seem'd—
A fairy tale, an eastern story.

Upon the myrtle sate the Dove,
Earth own'd the sovereignty of Love;
I wonder'd in a world so fair,
How Woe could spread such ample pinion;
How Hope should darken to Despair;
Or Soul to Mammon own dominion.

I marvell'd much how Mind could bow
To earthward cravings, meanly low;
And sigh'd to think, that envious Time,
One after one, annuls our pleasures,
Till Age, regarding Youth's bright clime,
Is startled at the chasm it measures!

How long with arm on mossy tree,
In this engulphing reverie,

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Pondering I stood, I cannot tell—
So powerful was the spell subduing,
Till startled by far curfew bell,
And Twilight's tints the hills embuing.

The sun had sunk; but brightly shone
Night's star within the south alone;
And thus I thought—when Life declines,
And Death's dark night is hovering o'er us,
Undimm'd Hope's glorious planet shines,
And Faith to heaven mounts up before us!

263

SONNETS.

[_]

Poem II is included elsewhere in English Poetry.

No. I. RAINY MORNING.

The winds are high, the waters fill
The traveller's tread in the sands.
Southey.

On rush the blinding tempests of the North;
The heavy raindrops plash upon the roof,
Mournful; the drooping cattle, far aloof
From shelter, through dim valleys wander forth.
A moaning sound is heard among the woods,
A sound of desolation, dull and drear;
Downward and onward, with a prone career,
Rush, roaring to the sea, swoln mountain floods:
The sky is mantled with a joyless pall;
The sea o'erhung with mists; a lonely sail
Beats upward, tacking in the boisterous gale,
Which, like a tyrant, keeps it still in thrall.
The plover's wail is heard; and, on the sands,
Lonely, with dripping wings, the heron stands.

265

No. III. DAYS OF YORE.

These were the days, Mr Rigmarole!
Goldsmith.

There is a mystery on departed things,
Which renders distance beautiful! no more
The alchemist, with crucible and ore,
To light miraculous invention brings!—
No more, at eve, wrapt up in sabled gown,
(What time the babe sets out on life's career,)
Gazing on night, the sage astrologer
Notes every planetary aspect down:
The hooded monk, no more in fretted aisle
Sequester'd, ponders o'er his massy tome,
As, through the stained glass, the sunbeams roam
Upon his wall, with many-colour'd smile:
Romance is passing from us all the while,
Witchcraft, and sheeted ghost, and haunted dome!

266

No. IV. THE SCHOOL BANK.

Upon this bank we met, my friend and I.
A lapse of years had, intervening, pass'd,
Since I had heard his voice, or seen him last;
The starting tear-drop trembled in his eye;
Silent, we thought upon the school-boy days
Of mirth and happiness, for ever flown;
When rushing out the careless crowd did raise
Their thoughtless voices—now, we were alone,
Alone, amid the landscape—'twas the same:
Where were our loved companions? some, alas!
Silent reposed beneath the churchyard grass,
And some were known, and most unknown, to Fame;
And some were wanderers on the homeless deep;
And where they all were happy—we did weep!

267

No. V. TO THE EVENING STAR.

Dimly around the shades of evening lower;
The winds are pillow'd, and the waves asleep;
Still are the woods; their shadows, dim and deep,
Rest on the waters; 'tis a solemn hour!
An orange flush pervades the western tent,
Waning to faintness; while, with flag unfurled,
Resplendent Star! in southern firmament,
Thou look'st from Twilight's watch-tower o'er the world.
Thou art serenely beautiful, and peace
Dwells with thee, herald of the star-eyed night.
Often, when daylight's busy murmurs cease,
Amid the dewy fields I take delight
To stray, and when the heaven from cloud is free,
Muse on the past, and fix my gaze on thee!

268

No. VI. DECAY OF CHIVALRY.

The poetry of life hath pass'd away,
And men become tame citizens; here and there
Lifting their battlements through liquid air,
Rise castled cliffs, majestic in decay;
A solemn grandeur wraps the dark Abbaye;
And, as we gaze, the pomp of former times
Wakens, with glow that raises and sublimes
Our souls bow'd down to suit the passing day!—
These are thy monuments, lost Chivalry,
Thy tombstones, for the spirit long hath fled;
What have we in thy stead?—Affections cold;
Feelings to generous emulation dead;
The grasping hand; dull heart; and stony eye;
Body, and mind, and soul, to Mammon sold!

269

BALLADS.

No. I. SIR HAROLD.

A day of strife hath fled;
The azure mantle of Twilight falls;
The field is strew'd with dead;
But the cross is planted on Salem's walls!
In vain the Sultan cried,
'Mid the boiling fight, for the Prophet's aid;
And on, with swords allied,
Rush'd the hosts of the Christian undismay'd!

270

He laid him down to die,
At the foot of an aloes, a wounded knight,
Beneath the chilly sky,
And the fading traces of western light:—
With desolating force,
The night-wind moan'd 'mid the forest gloom:
And, in its sweeping course,
Uplifted the depth of his raven plume.

In garb of green, a page,
Alone, o'er his dying master hung,
His anguish to assuage,
And cool the thirst of his burning tongue;
The frequent falling tear
He dash'd in vain from his eyes of blue;
As the knight, he loved so dear,
His painful breathing aye shorter drew!

Said the knight, “When war is done,
And to Europe our vessels retrace the sea,
Then bear this pledge to one—
The only one that may weep for me!

271

Oh! tell, that, as I sigh'd,
This broken pledge to my heart was press'd;
Oh! tell, that ere I died,
I hung o'er her magic name, and bless'd!”

“Pardon,” exclaim'd the page—
“If love will pardon to love allow;
Ella of Hermitage
Forsook her kin, to be with thee now!”—
He turns his dying eyes,
Sir Harold, and gazes on that sweet face;—
To speak in vain he tries,
Then sank like lead in a last embrace!

She press'd her cheek to his,
To his as cold as the marble stone;
And with one long, long kiss,
Her heart had broke—her spirit was flown!
In the shade of the aloes tree,
In death united, the lovers lay;
And many a tear fell free,
O'er their graves, at the dawn of day;

272

And brightly o'er the tomb,
Where, side by side, these lovers repose,
Commingling their perfume,
A rose of England and Sharon grows;
And, on the boughs above,
When fades in the west the parting light,
The dirge of faithful love
A bulbul hymns to the ear of Night.

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No. II. ADELINE.

The night was dark, the thunder roll'd,
In torrents the rain was pouring;
The lightning flash'd—'twas to unfold
The breast of the wild sea roaring:—
Then, from the tower, gazed Adeline
On the tempest's wild commotion,
And dim blue lights were seen to shine
Afar on the foaming ocean!

Alas! she sigh'd, that one so dear,
Should toss on the faithless billow,
While thousands, void of doubt and fear,
Repose on the downy pillow;

274

Hark!—'tis the distant signal gun
And lo! as the lightning flashes,
The crowds on yonder deck that run,
As the sinking vessel crashes!

No more she saw—no more she heard,
For darkness begirt the ocean,
Save the dismal wail of frighted bird,
Or the yeasty waves' commotion,
Till morning woke; and, on the beach,
Did Adeline's eyes discover,
Beneath her tower, within her reach,
The pale, pale face of her lover!

Hark! from her lattice to the breeze,
How mournfully sweet she is singing!
Now gazing wistful o'er the seas,
And ever her white hands wringing:
From festal bower, since that dread hour,
Hath Adeline's smile departed,
And oft she sings, when shadows lower,
The song of the broken-hearted!

275

She was a star of beauty rare,
O'er the brow of a twilight mountain;
A flower that spreads its bosom fair,
By the side of a vernal fountain:
There came a cloud, and veil'd the star,
From earth its light is banish'd;
There rose a flood, and, in the jar
Of waters the young flower vanish'd!

276

No. III. FALSE FLORENCE.

They harbour'd from the ocean,
Whereon they long had roved;
And Paul, in youth's devotion,
Sought out the maid he loved.

His every wish was thwarted,
And hope forsook his eye,
As calm, but broken-hearted,
He laid him down to die.

Weaker he waned, and weaker,
Unto a shade he wore;
At length, he bade them seek her,
And bring her him before.

277

They sought her, and they found her,
A young, and joyful bride;
With mirthful faces round her,
A bridegroom at her side,

They brought her to him lying,
A pale, departing man;
She gazed upon him dying,
And then to weep began.

He stretch'd his hand unto her,
And press'd her hand in his,—
“Florence, had'st thou been truer,
It had not come to this.

“Yet will not I upbraid thee;
No—freely I forgive;
When low in dust they've laid me,
Long—long, and happy live!”

No more he said, but closing
His eyes, as if in sleep;
They thought he lay reposing—
That last repose was deep!

278

No. IV. THE BARD'S WISH.

Oh! were I laid
In the greenwood shade,
Beneath the covert of waving trees;
Removed from woe,
And the ills below,
That render life but a long disease!

No more to weep,
But in soothing sleep
To slumber on long ages through;—
My grave-turf bright
With the rosy light
Of eve, or the morning's silver dew!

279

For all my dreams,
And vision'd gleams,
Are not like those of this earthly span;
My spirit would stray
For ever away
From the noise of strife, and the haunts of man.

I ask no dirge.—
The foaming surge
Of the torrent will sing a lament for me;
And the evening breeze,
That stirs the trees,
Will murmur a mournful lullaby.

Plant not—plant not—
Above the spot,
Memorial stones for the stranger's gaze;
The earth and sky
Are enough, for I
Have lived with Nature all my days!

Oh! were I laid
In the greenwood shade,

280

Beneath the covert of waving trees;
Removed from woe,
And the ills below,
That render life but a long disease!

281

No. V. FITZTRAVER'S GRAVE.

The clouds frown darkly on the sky,
And the night-wind moans as it rustles by;
The stream runs down with heavy sound,
And all is dreary and dull around.

Fitful, between the parted shroud
Of the rifted, melancholy cloud,
A bright star twinkles, and then is hid
Beneath the moving pyramid.

'Tis a gloomy landscape: all is still,
Save bleat of lamb from the distant hill,
The watch-dog's hollow bay on the breeze,
And night-winds tossing the sullen trees.

282

The long weeds hang o'er the massy gate
Of our watch-tower, ruin'd and desolate;
Its idle door no menial bars,
And with every blast it creaks and jars.

Desponding, and dreary, and dark with strife,
Bear witness these, is human life,
And thrills the blood, as hemlocks wave
O'er the buried murderer's grave!

Ho! rein thy steed—'tis on the stone,
Where rots the maniac bone by bone:
By this castle gateway alone he stood,
In the dark, to sheathe his knife in blood!

Spouted forth the ensanguined tide—
And, without a murmur, Sir Edmund died!—
With the torches red throng'd our vassals round,—
But the murderer folded his arms, and frown'd.

“Tis done—this dagger hath well repaid
For friendship wrong'd, and for trust betray'd;
Go—tell his perjur'd ladye too,
That a slighted lover thus could do!

283

“Now strike me”—and a flash of swords,
Ready and sharp like his frantic words,
Through him went, and down he sunk—
Cloven helmet, and mangled trunk.

They dug his grave whereon he stood,
That weeds might spring from his tainted blood;
But the chanted hymns did duly roll,
Morning and night, for our master's soul.

Though, alas! for our Ladye Alice fair,
She tore the jewels from her raven hair,
And evermore, in the convent cell,
Came forth her prayers at the toll of bell!—

Yearly, when this night comes round,
Spectres haunt this accursed ground,
And yon desolate castle, tower, and spire,
Brightly gleam with unhallow'd fire.

Traveller, on—the night is dark,
Yet lights to the west thine eye may mark;
And down through the hazel copses turn,
By the dove-cot rent, and the wimpling burn.

284

Then rein thy steed, and turn thee aloof,
On that grey stone print not his hoof;
Plunge thy spur to the rowel red,
And on and away be thy journey sped.

285

No. VI. THE SPECTRE'S VISIT.

Within her lonely chamber sate
Fair Helen at the dusk of day;
She ponder'd o'er her hapless fate,
Then sigh'd for William far away.

Kneeling, she pray'd her love return'd
From moonless storms, and weltering seas;
And aye, as desolate she mourn'd,
Plash'd the loud rains, and raved the breeze.

Dim lower'd the night of Winter down
On bleak December's tempest wild;
Waste was the sylvan, and from town
Joy seem'd with Summer's warmth exiled.

286

Without she heard the raven's cry;
Within lay silence o'er the room;
The embers flicker'd fitfully
O'er the high roof, then sank to gloom.

Now brighten'd shone the warriors stern,
In limnings old that hung around;
In light their smiles she could discern,
But ever with the dark they frown'd.

She wept—the warm unconscious tear
The bridling lid no longer brook'd;
Startled, she rose with sudden fear—
She listen'd,—and behind she look'd.—

“Who—what art thou?” she shriek'd aloud,
“That comest to cause me needless fear?”—
Like winds beneath grey Winter's cloud,
So came the voice that thrill'd her ear.

“Helen! behold me—I am he
To whom was pledged thy virgin troth;
Whelm'd lie my bones within the sea,
And bleach beneath the surge's froth.

287

“The starless Archipelago
In fire and foam did o'er us break;
Our good ship sank the floods below;
Yet sought I life for Helen's sake!

“I buffetted the mountain waves;
I dash'd the foaming brine aside;
Now downwards suck'd to ocean's caves,—
Now whirl'd aloft upon the tide.—

“The clouds were crush'd, a deluge rush'd;
With sheeted fire the sky was riven;
And now the rolling sands we brush'd;
And now the reeling stars of heaven!

“The tempest howl'd; sea-monsters growl'd;
'Twas thunder's burst, and billows' roar;
Grim forms of flame before me came—
And dizzying sounds—and all was o'er.—

“Ha! dost thou know me not? has Death
Then changed this cheek so wan and wild?
Hast thou forgot the hawthorn path,
Where William sued, and Helen smiled?

288

“Hast thou forgot the broken gold?
Hast thou forgot the linden tree?
Must our love-tokens all be told?
Oh Helen, Helen, this from thee!

“'Tis done—'tis o'er; I must away
O'er wave and wild, unseen to roam;
Before the moon her earliest ray
Sheds o'er the deep, I must be home!”—

He turn'd and raised his shadowy arm,
As if in grief to veil his brow;
Uprose the ladye, in mad alarm,
Around his neck her arms to throw.—

“I go with thee, through fire or sea!”
Rushing, she cried with piercing scream;
Like bliss from heaven, oh sure 'twas given—
She woke, and found 'twas all a dream!

'Twas all a dream, red morning's beam
Through the bower'd casement glimmer'd free;
While clouds on high were sailing bye;
The blackbird chanting from its tree.

289

And yet its song she could not heed:—
Who knocks so loud, and cannot wait?
Hark!—'tis the neighing of a steed—
And lo! her love is at the gate!

290

FUTURE PROSPECTS OF THE WORLD.

[_]

(FROM AN UNPUBLISHED POEM.)

Spirit of Concord! shall it still be thine
To mourn thy sorrows, an unending line?
Shall never Wisdom, in her robes of white,
Chase Ignorance afar, and Error's night?
Shall never War recline his leaden ear,
Nor spareless Phrenzy cast aside the spear?
Must it be thine, despairingly to weep
Bloodshed on shore, and Rapine on the deep?
While seasons hold their course, and heaves the main,
Shall Sin light Misery's watch-towers o'er her reign?
Can Mercy send no star of heavenly birth,
To cheer the aspect of this darken'd earth,
And, with a radiance gloriously sublime,
Illume the footsteps of departing Time?

291

Say, never shall the strife of Discord cease,
And Man, with Fellow-man, embrace in peace?—
Or, doom d for ever to her scythed car,
Shall fire-eyed Vengeance wield the sword of War;
In ruin mock the lightning and the flood,
And drench her reeking blade in human blood;
Turn, smiling turn, from Life's expiring throe,
And scorn, in mockery wild, the plaint of woe?

No! heavenly light dispels the shapeless gloom,
And Hope presents to Man a brighter doom;
Far through the shadowy mist of years, I see,
Degraded world, thy glorious jubilee!
See from the fetter'd hands the shackles fall,
And Peace appear at Mercy's pleading call;
See Ignorance and Error take to flight,
And Abdera's new uprise to glad the sight;

“At Abdera, in Thrace, (Andromeda, one of the tragedies of Euripides being played,) the spectators were so much moved with the object, and those pathetical love speeches of Perseus, among the rest, O Cupid, prince of gods and men, &c. that every man, almost, a good while after, spoke pure iambics, and raved still on Perseus' speech, O Cupid, prince of gods and men. As carmen, boyes, and prentises, when a new song is published with us, go singing that new tune still in the streets; they continually acted that tragicall part of Perseus, and in every man's mouth was, O Cupid; in every street, O Cupid; in every house, almost, O Cupid, prince of gods and men.”— Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy, Part III. Sect 2.

Much has been said, and justly, concerning the exquisiteness of Sterne's genius; as to its disdain of plagiarism, the reader of the above passage may turn to “Sentimental Journey,” vol. I. Fragment commencing—“The town of Abdera, notwithstanding Democritus lived there;” and to Dr Ferriar's Illustrations, passim.

See Truth present the scene, by Fancy given,
And open'd to Mankind the gates of heaven;
While glorious on the view the prospects rise
Of cloudless Joy, and blooming Paradise!

As Herod's heart to Mariamne turn'd,

See the story of Herod and Mariamne, collected from the historian, Josephus, in Spectator, No. 171. Who recollects not Byron's fine melody,

“Oh, Mariamne, now for thee
The heart for which thou bledst is bleeding!”

Hung o'er her recollected charms, and burn'd,
Sorrow'd for frailties past, and fondly swore
To love her memory, and to err no more

292

So shall the devious mind, that hath deplored
Its errors past, to Virtue be restored;
And, as Repentance drops the bitter tears,
Mercy expunge the stains of other years!

While o'er the rolling earth, and heaving main,
The voice of strife is heard, and terrors reign;
Lo! Friendship gazes with prophetic eye,
And, hopeful, reads our future destiny!

“Behold,” she says, “what clouds of dreary shade,
To wither all its charms, the scene pervade;
Beneath a chilling breeze, a frowning sky,
Droop all the fragrant summer sweets, and die.
Yes! Sin her upas poison breathes around,
And sink her victims writhing to the ground;
Dark is the wilful destiny of man;
Nature laments her controverted plan:
And where, of yore, emblossom'd Eden smiled,
Peace is o'erthrown, and innocence exiled!

“With cypress coronal, and robes whose dye
Exceeds in darkness Zembla's midnight sky,
'Mid yon dim cloudy bowers, from which the day
Melts off with baffled and impervient ray,

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Sits Superstition, she whose hydra hands
Have bound the rolling world through all its lands,
To lingering death her captive thousands thrust,
And bow'd the laurell'd conqueror to the dust;
As if in scorn corporeal forms to bind,
She wreathes her mystic fetters on the mind;
Degrades celestial Reason from her throne,
Chains Fancy's feet, and makes all sway her own:
'Twas she, amid Dahomey's groves of blood,

How incredible are the acts of atrocity to which the unbridled passions of man subject him! even Fancy must fail to communicate half the horrors which but too accurate history has supplied us with. Without adverting to the lamented Bowdich's Mission to Ashantee, and other voyages or travels, We refer, as more immediately connected with the text, to Dalzel's History of Dahomey, and the particulars contained therein.

That edged the brand, and loosed the purple flood;
'Twas she, 'mid Brama's wilds of awful gloom,

About the year 1798, twenty-eight Hindoos were reported to have been crushed to death at this very place, Ishera, under the wheels of Juggernaut, impelled by sympathetic religious phrenzy. The fact of their deaths was notorious, and was recorded in the Calcutta papers; but so little impression did it make on the public mind, and so little inquiry was made by individuals into the subject, that it became doubtful at last whether the men perished by accident, or, as usual, by self-devotement; for it was said, that to qualify the enormity of the deed in the view of the English, some of the Hindoos gave out that the men fell under the wheels by accident.—Dr Buchanan's Journal, p. 35, in Christian Researches in Asia.

“At Lahor,” says Bernier, “I saw a very handsome, and a very young woman burnt; I believe she was not above twelve years of age. This poor unhappy creature appeared rather dead than alive when she came near the pile; she shook and wept bitterly. Meanwhile, three or four of these executioners, the Bramins, together with an old hag that held her under the arm, thrust her on, and made her sit down upon the wood; and, lest she should run away, they tied her legs and hands; and so they burnt her alive. I had enough to do to contain myself for indignation.”

Under the delusion of what sophism, such a learned and enlightened man as Colonel Mark Wilks can come to defend such a practice, I know not, but behold it written in Historical Sketches of the South of India, vol. I. p. 499.

That gave the widow'd wretch a living tomb;
'Twas she that o'er the necks of erring love,
The wheels of Juggernaut triumphant drove;
'Twas she that sent the banner'd cross afar,
Whose mandate kindled Palestine to war,
That bow'd the crest of Turkey's haughty lord,
That drench'd in Moslem blood the Christian sword,

Innumerable are the anecdotes of enormity and atrocity ascribed to the Crusaders, by travellers and annalists, as if the misfortune of being Mahometans took from their enemies all title of being treated like men.

“The valour of Richard (Cœur de Lion) struck such terror into his enemies,” says Chateaubriand, “that long after his death, when a horse trembled without a visible cause, the Saracens were accustomed to say that he had seen the ghost of the English monarch.”—Travels, vol. II.

That gave—ah! record of eternal shame!—
A Ridley to the stake, a Cranmer to the flame!

“And yonder, see, within a trackless maze,
The dreadful power that Pyrrho worshipp'd strays;
Like midnight skiff, without a magnet, tost,
Dubious of wreck, yet certain to be lost;

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Dim is the mist-attired horizon round,
Gulphs yawn before her—yet no hope is found,
No sign like that, which, pointing Israel's way,
Forbade the weak to sink, the bold to stray:
She looks beneath—there is no prospect, save
A wakeless sleep, and everlasting grave,
Across whose precincts, in unhallow'd bloom,
The nightshade waves its canopy of gloom;
She casts her glance above her, to descry
A chance-created heaven—a godless sky,
And wavering Fancy wanders to explore,
In helmless bark, a sea without a shore;
While Silence, like a guardian, grasps the key
That opes the portals of futurity!

“'Tis night; and, lo! from yon beleaguer'd wall,
Shatter'd with shot, and tottering to its fall,
Burst shrieks and shouts that pierce the shuddering ear
With wild amazement, and delirious fear;
There, where red Murder walks his hourly round,
Where ashes smoke, and wrecks bestrew the ground,
The mother tends, with fear-dejected eyes,
The couch whereon her slumbering infant lies,
And feels for danger and for death prepared,
So dooms propitious Heaven that it be spared!

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The orphan relic of her house she sees,
Hangs o'er its beauty on her trembling knees,
And pours—alas! 'tis lost in empty air,—
Her choicest blessings, and her warmest prayer;
For scarcely from her tongue the words depart,
Fraught with the holiest feelings of the heart,
Ere bursts the fire-wing'd globe, and spreads a flood
Around her household walls of guiltless blood,
And down she sinks, released from earthly pain,
To wake, and meet her babe in heaven again!—
Thunders reverberate, dire lightnings flash,
Sink down the crumbling towers, the temples crash.
The curses of revenge, the shrieks of pain,
Burst forth from lips that ne'er unclose again;
While, reft of life, the patriot drops his blade,
By foes o'ermaster'd, or by friends betray'd,
And o'er paternal fields, and native plains,
In Power's licentious pride, the tyrant reigns!

“See o'er the earth, with waste and woe replete,
Lithe Flattery crouching at Corruption's feet;
Ambition mounting by the neck of Sin;
And Wisdom's small voice drown'd by Folly's din.
Lo! at the beck of Luxury, Wealth awaits;
While haggard Famine, prone before the gates

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Falls down, without a robe to shield her form
From the sharp winds, and night's descending storm:
There Industry, his day-long labour vain,
Looks on his half-fed family in pain;
And Beggary, with her orphans at her back,
Climbs slowly on up Virtue's rocky track,
Turns from Temptation's paths, whose sweets invite,
'Mid Nature's craving wants, her longing sight;
Expects not human aid, and to the skies
Trusts only for the help which man denies!

“No longer gaze in anguish and affright
Upon the realms of uncongenial night,
But o'er them, where Elysian prospects lie,
Far to yon glowing summit turn thine eye,
To yon bright tract, where Hope and Fancy roam,
And share the spring of pleasures yet to come;
Cimmerian shadows, that o'erhang the day,
Abide not yonder sun, but melt away,
While nought expands before the ravish'd view,
But scenes of garden bloom, and skies of blue!

“Behold that seraph in the robes of white,
Who waves her snowy wings, diffusing light;

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Bright glows her cheek in everlasting youth,
Her birth-place is the sky, her name is Truth:
Lo! as she comes, the shadows melt away,
Like night-collected dews at dawn of day;
Around her glows an atmosphere of light,
To which the sun is dim, the noon is night:
Sent from the glorious mansion of her birth,
Onwards she bears, descending to the earth;
To wondering man her brightness shall appear,
And Error vanish on the wings of Fear!

“Though frowning labyrinths of earth and sky,
Stretch'd like infinitude, between us lie,
Behold in glory, on yon mountain blue,
Dim though the sight, and indistinct the view,
—Yet how inviting is the goodly scene,
How sweet the landscape looks, and how serene
Sits Peace enthroned! the roses of her cheek
Are bright as morn, but yet as evening meek;
Sedately pure, the azure of her eye
Excels the tints of Autumn's cloudless sky,
And brows of snow seem whiter still beneath
The auburn tresses, and the myrtle wreath:
Her generous hand the horn of plenty bears,
And in her zone the olive leaf she wears:

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Behind her, see, the cherub train appear,
Love in the front, and Mercy in the rear;
While gloom and grief melt off before her sight,
As flee before the sun the stars of night;
And earth again, as vision'd seers foretold,
Is nether heaven, the paradise of old,
Ere yielding woman, to her duty blind,
Tasted the fruit of sin, and cursed mankind.

“Behold the breast of Nature clothed again
With flowery Carmels, and with Bactrian grain;

“Bactriana, a country between Parthia and India, celebrated for the largeness of the grain of its wheat.”—Note on a passage in Sotheby's admirable translation of the Georgics.

Its current stainless, and its banks undyed,
Through bloomy vales rolls on the silvery tide;
Perennial music, floating on the air
Of summer noontide, charms away despair;
He who had borne the sword now bears the crook,

“They shall beat their swords into ploughshares, and their spears into pruning-hooks; nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any more.”— Isaiah, chap. ii. ver. 2.

The hand that grasp'd the brand the pruning-hook;
No more in thunder through the midnight skies,
To desolate the earth, volcanoes rise;
But rural sounds and sights, ordain'd to blind
The sense of sadness, elevate the mind,
And bring, when sin and sorrow melt away,
A placid calm, and intellectual day!

“Look to the habitants of earth, behold
With doubled bliss returns the age of gold;

—he sang Saturnian rule
Return'd, a progeny of golden years,
Permitted to descend, and bless mankind.

—Excursion.

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Since Pleasure's flames with purer radiance glow
Above the embers of extinguish'd woe,
There is no joy like that which owes its birth
To inward purity and conscious worth;
There is no joy in mind's capacious sphere,
That is not brightly won and worshipp'd here:
Untired benevolence, whose bounds extend
Firm and unfeign'd to earth's remotest end;
Celestial gratitude, whose ardent eye
Beams with delight, and fastens on the sky;
Sincerity and Truth, that scorn to move,
And blameless Justice, and unsullied Love,
Rule every heart, and deal that bliss around
The Muses feign, though men have never found!”

Spirit of Wisdom! haste, descend, and bear
Celestial beauty to the shores of care;
With thee thy train of heavenly graces bring,
And shake immortal pleasures from thy wing.
Lo! from thy sight Night's prowling wanderers fly,
And withers sin beneath thy radiant eye;
War breaks his brand, finds not a welcome shore,
But mounts the whirlwind, and is seen no more;
While Science, from her hill, walks forth

When we look back to the discoveries of the last half century, perhaps it is no exaggeration to say, that Science has been making more rapid strides towards perfection, however far distant that may yet be—than in any previous age of the world. Every day introduces some new improvement, whereby the invaluable art of printing is rendered more diffusive in its operation, and consequently more extensively blessed in its effects. Chemistry has established itself as one of the most brilliant and useful of the sciences, and in the hands of a Davy, a Thomson, and a Dalton, who will be bold enough to set a limit to its operation? But, above all, the mighty power of steam, subjecting itself to science, has put into the possession of man an engine, alike applicable to land and ocean, and which may come in time to render the boast of Archimedes scarcely a hyperbolical exaggeration.

in mirth,
And spreads her glorious empire o'er the earth:

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Through clouds she passes, and they melt away
Before her wand, as darkness flies from day;
O'er rocks she climbs, and 'neath her tread the ground
Expands in level beauty smiling round;
She bids the tempest fruit and fragrance bring,
And robs the fire-eyed lightning of its sting;
Darts daylight into Error's darkest cave;
Reigns o'er each realm, and stills the stormy wave.

And thou, Religion, though through fire and flood
By saints upheld, and seal'd with holiest blood,
From clime to clime thy glorious light expands,
And chases Darkness from rejoicing lands:
Sin's rod is broken; Superstition, long
The only mistress of Earth's erring throng,
Wraps round her mantle, and in wild affright
Flies shrieking downward to congenial night;
No more beneath her knife the victim reels;
No more bedews with blood her chariot wheels;
No more, torn reckless from the light of day,
Pines in the hopeless grave a living prey;
But light all pure, ineffably serene,
Illumes mankind, and brightens every scene;
At the same altar, tribes by every sea
In sacred adoration bend the knee.—

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Far in the wilds of Afric's torrid zone,
Mid burning sands, where verdure is unknown,
At vesper hour, when all around is mute,
Save sullen sound of camel's wearied foot,
Kneels, by the scanty well, the Arab dun,
And, in the broad light of the setting sun,
Pours out, all glowing as the cloudless west,
The fears, the hopes, the wishes of his breast,
And lifts, in holy dread, his mental eye
To him, his God, who bled on Calvary!

While, lo! the voice of psalms, the tones of praise,
Hard by the icy pole, believers raise:
Though Day upon the waste and wildering scene
Shuts up, and howl afar the billows green;
And the sad night of desolation drear
Glooms o'er their world, and saddens half the year,
Beneath impending storms, and circling snows,
No chilling doubts the fur-clad shiverer knows;
With Faith's unfaltering eye he looks abroad,
Through the wild storm, to mark the works of God;
Beholds the traces of his power afar
In the blue sky, and each revolving star;
Trusts, with a hope that softens, yet sublimes,
For happier seasons, and serener climes,

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And knows that He, who form'd this rolling ball,
Is still the Lord, and shall be Judge, of all!

Oh happy time, when crimeless all shall be,
And in the spirit's sunshine walking free,
No more by vice degraded and deprest!
No thought but peace awaking in the breast,
Earth, calm'd to beauty, shall again resume
Primeval bliss, and Eden's forests bloom,
Bright as when Adam, with a holy kiss,
Embraced his chosen in the bowers of bliss!
Love o'er the world shall spread his halcyon sway,
The weak shall own it, and the wise obey;
The summit of the hills shall murmur love,
And echo catch the sound in glen and grove;
Creatures that, far from human face exiled,
Prowl'd the dim forest or unpeopled wild,
Shall leave their dwellings, and, with meekness bland,
Crouch at the feet of man, or lick his hand,
And Nature, all his errors past forgiven,
Proclaim him Lord, and own the loved of Heaven!
From shore to shore, from isle to isle around,
Shall spread of holy peace the welcome sound;
Far on the deep, where nought but wave and sky
Extends, and scarce is heard the sea-bird's cry,

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The streamer'd flags of far-spread realms shall meet,
And hail each other in communion sweet;
Brothers in heart, all jealous fears subdued,
Love's sever'd links harmoniously renew'd,
The South shall hail the North, and East with West
Embracing, own one feeling, and be blest!

Advancing glory, hail! although the day,
When Earth shall bow, subservient to thy sway,
To Truth's severe and chasten'd gaze appears
Dim, through the shadows of uncounted years,
Yet Hope, the siren prophetess, whose eye
Darts through the twilight of Futurity,
The first to come, the latest to depart,
Enchains thee, by her anchor, to the heart;
O'er barrier rocks bids Expectation climb,
And sheds a halo round the march of Time!

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THE END.