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 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 

 
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 I 
 
 t 
 
 ■
 
 THE 
 
 BRIDAL OF TOMAR; 
 
 AND 
 
 OTHER POEMS 
 
 BY JOSEPH HARDAKER, 
 
 AUTHOR OF THE AEROPTERON, OR STEAM-CARRIAGE, ETC. 
 
 KE1GHLEY: 
 
 PRINTED \ND SOLD BY CHARLES CRABTREE, CHANGE-GATE. 
 II BLISHED IN LONDON BY 8IMFKIN AND MARSHALL, 
 BTATIONER8 '-HALL COURT: AND SOLD BY 
 ALL BOOKSELLERS. 
 
 1831.
 
 p/R 
 
 4-139 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 The flowery regions of the Poet afford a range which 
 Creation itself can scarcely circumscribe ; fertile as they 
 are vast, the beautiful and sublime present themselves 
 to his view as the brilliant Kaleidoscope of nature. 
 
 If his intellect be vigorous, and his imagination vivid, 
 he goes forth a giant in thought, and with knowledge 
 for his torch-bearer, he dashes down the frigid bar- 
 riers that would oppose his progress, penetrates the 
 clouded past, the busy present, and points his inference 
 to the coming future. He basks on the green earth 
 and blue ocean ; enough for him that his eye and soul 
 may drink of the pleasures which they offer to him as 
 he passes along ; he stoops not to contend for the dust 
 from whence they arise and to which they return. His 
 enjoyments are of an higher order than those of sordid 
 sensuality. It is his to dwell amongst the sympathies 
 of our nature, and dilate on the beauties of Creation. 
 He sits in the green shade of ocean-caves and sings 
 the inhabitants of the deep. His winged wanderings 
 
 m ■
 
 I\ PREFACE. 
 
 are amid the galaxy of a thousand orbs ; and like the 
 bird of morning, he descends in song with the breath- 
 ings of adoration. In the animal and vegetable king- 
 doms, nature unfolds to him her inexhaustible treasures; 
 not an insect on the wing, nor leaf on the breeze, but 
 courts the caresses of his muse. These, with the no less 
 fertile province, the human heart, burst upon his mind 
 like a vision, and call into action the energies of his 
 soul. His warm imagination is the sun of each fanciful 
 region that his genius may call forth, whether from the 
 rude chaos of human incidents, or the sublime structure 
 of Creation. He may ransack nature, and revel in 
 ideality, but his sallies ought never to trample on truth, 
 nor violate the virgin-bloom of chastity. Amenable 
 to earth and heaven, he may clothe with verdure the 
 fair fields of virtue, but he ought not to blast their 
 beauties with any breathings of pollution. Such is the 
 Poet when possessed of the requisites essential to a 
 master mind ; such his province, and the objects of his 
 winged thoughts. That the following sheets may not 
 display the warblings of so warm a heart, nor develope 
 beauties belonging to such an high order, may appear 
 something excuseable, were the manner of their coming 
 into existence understood.
 
 PROE M . 
 
 Spirit of song - , why is thy shell 
 
 Mute in the halls of Portugal ? 
 
 Though her Alphonsos are no more, 
 
 There's prowess in the Labradore ! 
 
 Brave as was seen in days gone by ; 
 
 That saw the moslem fall or fly ; — 
 
 When that brave Prince, the flower of men, 
 
 Vanquished the haughty Saracen, 
 And fell, as broke the sable twine, 
 Last of the Abdoulrahman line; — 
 When from the wreck of empire vast, 
 Alphonso had his kingdom cast ; — 
 The noble chief, of a noble race, 
 Whose deeds thy warriors love to trace ; — 
 For still they live in song sublime,
 
 VI PROEM. 
 
 And glitter through the mist of time. 
 
 Alphonso ! with whose noble name, 
 
 Is interwcM e thy country's fame ; — 
 
 In peace pacifically good; 
 
 In battle plain, in fire, and flood ; — 
 
 And in the blaze, the smoke, and heat 
 
 Of war, heroically great ! — 
 
 This in the field, and in the state, 
 
 Might not Braganza imitate ?. 
 
 Bard of the south, whose rusty lyre 
 
 Might well thy country's cause inspire ! 
 
 Why hangs it by in silence yet, 
 
 On lofty Moorish minaret ? 
 
 Why pensive yet, thou child of song ? 
 
 Why sleeps thy country's muse so long ? 
 
 When minstrels of surrounding climes, 
 
 Are em'lous in their votive chimes, 
 
 And restless as the rolling sea ! 
 
 Has fame no tale to tell for thee ? 
 
 Is there no paean in her shell, 
 
 To speak for thee and Portugal ? 
 
 l|) minstrel, up, thy vine-clad hills;
 
 PROEM. VII 
 
 Be witness what thy reed reveals ! 
 And grotto green, and ruin grey, 
 Shall proudly echo back the lay ; — 
 Then sweeping o'er the light guitar, 
 Begin the song of love and war. — 
 Mute yet, and is thy lyre unstrung, 
 Upon the weeping willow hung, 
 And only sighs its symphony 
 On sorrow's emblematic tree ? — 
 Yet it must be, another reed 
 Shall warble forth the tragic deed ; 
 
 Although as powers and language fail, 
 
 So lose by telling must the tale, 
 
 The raptures of a southern clime, 
 
 To Saxon taste, and Saxon rhyme, 
 
 Must needs descend, but soft no more ! 
 
 The genius of the Labradore, 
 
 .May throw the mantle o'er the bard, 
 
 That strikes his harp in her regard ; 
 
 Enough ! the tale of love and war, 
 
 May yet awake the light guitar.
 
 CANTO I. 
 
 T H E R E T 11 O S P E C T 
 
 One night, ere 'woke the shell of strife, 
 Ere Don Miguel look'd on life ; 
 Ere known to fame, the scourge of sway, 
 That fated child of Corsica ; — 
 Ere rose to rule, and then be ruled, 
 In war's dark science deeply schooled, 
 That singular prodigy of men, 
 Who rose, but rose to fall again ; 
 With whom a crown was but a bribe ; 
 And if a minstrel might describe 
 A kingdom but a perquisite, 
 The guerdon of some savage hit;
 
 10 THE RETROSPECT. 
 
 That fallen chief, whose exiled dust 
 
 Is left as others' is, in trust ; 
 
 And scattered o'er, the like to shock, 
 
 St. Helen's solitary rock. — 
 
 Ere rose the red and frothy tide, 
 
 Of Gallic power and Gallic pride ; 
 
 Or ere that Minion-Chief, Junot, 
 
 To be forgiven, but not forgot, 
 
 Led on the fierce invading Gaul ; 
 
 Or crossed the moat, or scaled the wall ; 
 
 Or with proud plumes, as proudly tost, 
 
 The slightly guarded barriers cross'd ; 
 
 Or ere awoke with slaughtering shell, 
 
 The border plains of Portugal ; 
 
 And then, with scornful, vengeful fall, 
 
 Threw the red gauntlet of the Gaul. — 
 
 That memorable night, not worst, 
 
 Though in the minstrels song the first;— 
 
 Heaven, as it loves a goodly sight, 
 
 So smiled upon the naked night ; 
 
 Naked, because no cloud, nor even 
 
 A vapour, cross'd the arch of heaven.—
 
 THE RETROSPECT. 11 
 
 Monarch Fidalgo Labraclore, 
 
 Each, as his different toils were o'er, 
 
 Nature to all alike repaid 
 
 Her tributary serenade ; 
 
 In fitful gust the zephyrs fell, 
 
 With murmur low and deeper swell ; 
 
 The Zera's streams, a winding zone, 
 
 Like sheet of molten silver shone, 
 
 On which, as sweet the zephyrs play'd, 
 
 The moon-beams lit in splendid braid ; 
 
 And fairer far than fairy sheen, 
 
 Danced 'fore their mother moon and queen : — 
 
 Deep in the woods a sombre shade, 
 
 Contrasted with the moonlight braid 
 
 Of all around, a fabric stood ; 
 
 Yet, spared by earthquake, fire, and flood, 
 
 It stood ; — its moral seems sublime, 
 
 A bark upon the tide of time, 
 
 Anchored awhile * * * * 
 
 That pile whose venerable dom*', 
 
 Now sheltered with religious gloom ; 
 
 For better motives now revered,
 
 12 THE RETROSPECT^ 
 
 To Alia and the prophet reared ; — 
 
 This the swart Moor in days gone by, 
 
 Reared with his falchion on his thigh, 
 
 Uncouthly carved along the wall, 
 
 Where stands the cannon's sacred stall ; 
 
 Texts from the Koran, forms grotesque, 
 
 And here and there the arabesque 
 
 Peeps through ; — enough, that quaintly spruce 
 
 Speaks out its origin and use. — 
 
 These days are past, another race 
 
 Supplants the turban'd Aga's place 5 
 
 Another power may rise to twine 
 
 The sceptre from Braganzas line j 
 
 Miguel from his kingdom sever, 
 
 Christian may be, Mahomed never • — 
 
 That eve, for so the calends ran, 
 
 The vigil was of St. Juan ; 
 
 And from that tow'r where peals the chimes, 
 
 So graceful 'mongst the spreading limes, 
 
 The convent bell, through grange and fold, 
 
 Th' Angelus Domini had toll'd : — 
 
 Juan, one of the brotherhood,
 
 THE RETROSPECT. 13 
 
 In sable tunic, cowl, and hood ; 
 And leathern girdle round his waist, 
 Slowly along the pathway paced ; — 
 Thus stedfast on devotion bent, 
 Saying his rosary as he went; 
 He pac'd in meditative mood, 
 Near what we Saxons term a rood ; 
 Where, reining in his reeking steed) 
 A mounted garcon curb'd his speed ; 
 But ere his hurried breath could tell, 
 What in his scatter'd thoughts might dwell; 
 Starting, he round him wildly threw 
 A glance that spoke of fear perdue ; — 
 Softly he dropp'd his sword and cloak ; 
 And ere his tongue had silence broke, 
 Again he spurred his stately steed, 
 Again the barb sprung into speed ; 
 Full fast along, with lowering ear, 
 He bore his uncouth chevalier; 
 And darting through the opening wood, 
 lie nobly dashed across the Hood, 
 Juan paced on, devotion ne'er 
 
 B
 
 14 THE RETROSPECT. 
 
 To ought of earthly hope or fear 
 Should preference yield — his rosary said, 
 He turn'd to where the mantle laid, 
 The cloak of some rich chevalier ; 
 (But whose ? no earthly proofs appear) 
 'Neath which the moonbeams bright reveal, 
 A sword of rich enamel'd steel ; 
 A bag of ruples, broad and bright, 
 Enough to mend the old man's sight : — 
 Strange circumstance ! exclaim'd Juan, 
 The whilst his bootless queries ran. — 
 As strange appearances are springs 
 That open unto stranger things 
 Wrapp'd in that cloak of costly dye, 
 What met the monk's astonished eye, 
 And fix'd in silence held it there ? — 
 A form as lovely and as fair; 
 A draught from nature's best design ; 
 A look, perchance, as near divine, 
 As man, so far from Eden driven, 
 Must ever see on this side heaven. — 
 Juan beheld on the cold sod,
 
 THE RETROSPECT. 
 
 The living image of his God. 
 Cradled beneath the night's pale lamp, 
 Bivouaced upon the world's wide camp, 
 This little stranger, who ere long 
 Must shine the hero of our song ; 
 Whose toga rich, and armour bright, 
 Bespoke him born no common knight. 
 Juan, with wildness in his mien, 
 Announced the stranger on the green ; 
 Forth went the brethren, monk, and friar, 
 And foremost Benedict the prior ; 
 Soon found, as Juan had announced, 
 Wrapt in a toga richly flounced, 
 As fine a cherub-cheeked boy 
 As ever smiled to mother's joy ; 
 And pillow 'd on a sword, as bright 
 As e'er was yet unsheathed in fight ; — 
 Punctured upon its little breast, 
 Appear'd the symbol of the blest 
 A Maltese cross, that might commend, 
 As passport, to some christian friend. 
 To such as can decypher signs, 
 
 B 2 
 
 15
 
 1G 
 
 TIH". TCF.TUOSPF.CT 
 
 By reading the unerring lines 
 
 Carved on each circumstance, 'tis clear 
 
 What garb the consequence must wear! 
 
 And though conjecture lent no clue, 
 
 As whence this stranger came, and who, 
 
 'Twas clear, the convent's sheltering dome 
 
 Must be our little hero's home. — 
 
 Upon this theatre of life, 
 
 With most mysterious movements rife, 
 
 A strange debut he makes, 'tis true; 
 
 Stranger th' unravelling of his clue; — 
 
 Yet would each child possess' d a sire, 
 
 Kind as our benedictine prior ! 
 
 Thus beckon'd near the pious few ; 
 
 Who well the works of mercy knew, 
 
 The fruits and gifts 'gainst mortal scath, 
 
 The armour of our holy faith. 
 
 That night, though late, in order due, 
 
 The blessed lights were lit anew; 
 
 And all that 'neath the roofiree dwelt, 
 
 Once more before the altar knelt ; 
 
 The choir their solemn music strung,
 
 THE RETROSPECT. 17 
 
 And the Laudate Deum sung. 
 These systematic orbs sublime, 
 The grand machine that measures time, 
 Revolving with an accurate scan, 
 Had nicely measured out to man 
 Some twenty-eight long summer days, 
 All vanished like a meteor's blaze; 
 All swept into the same dark sea 
 Of distant dim obscurity. 
 Gone by the crooked crab, the sun 
 Rode with the rampant lion dun ; 
 Again the moon had filled her horn, 
 The ocean-tide made due return ; 
 All nature, with a log-book clear, 
 Stretch' d on its steady calm career, — 
 Save man, permitted for a time, 
 To weave the subtle web of crime ; 
 Commit the deed, and then conceal, 
 Till comes the hour that must reveal. — 
 All this in that brief moon had been, 
 Since Juan cross'd the convent green ; 
 And with a look of wonder wild,
 
 IS THE RETROSPECT, 
 
 So strangely found the stranger child. — 
 All this had past, but not a word 
 To solve the mystery had occurr'd. — 
 In life we have presumption strong, 
 That secrets only seal what's wrong; 
 Darkness may suit the savage race, 
 The fit associate of the base ; 
 While heaven-born truth in bright array, 
 May proudly court the test of day. — 
 On this conjecture brings no proof, 
 Then busy thought retire aloof ; 
 For charity, like one from heaven, 
 To pity more than censure given, 
 Steps forth, and with a look benign, 
 Whispers, beware ere we malign, 
 Couch in the least offensive form, 
 The foibles of a brother worm. 
 Whether from want, or guilt, or shame, 
 This innocent intruder came ; 
 Whether as yet may seem to be, 
 The child of some strange destiny 
 No secret is, but that it lies,
 
 THE RETROSPECT. 19 
 
 Not to be read by mortal eyes. 
 Enough ! or high, or lowly born, 
 Its innocency came forlorn; 
 A treble plea, this with its want, 
 Was passport good as king could grant ; — 
 In its first voyage cross'd with strife, 
 Wreck'd on the beaten shore of life, 
 The convent from life's ocean-sport, 
 Timely became its friendly port. 
 Found on the eve of St. Juan, 
 As first we said the calends ran ; 
 Hence, reader, this may thee acquaint, 
 Juan his name, and patron saint; 
 , And his humane protector mild, 
 Pronounc'd him his adopted child ; 
 For whom the good kind-hearted friar, 
 Perform'd the duties of a sire. 
 Hence we premise, as fit we should, 
 By Juan must be understood, 
 The young mysterious stranger child, 
 In all his wayward wanderings wild; 
 To whom in favour's fondest claim,
 
 20 THE "RETROSPECT. 
 
 His foster father yields his name. 
 We pass the wild flowers at our feet, 
 The artless wood-notes warhl'd sweet ; 
 Perverted and fastidious taste ! 
 Why trample on the humble waste ? 
 Nature, munificent and mild, 
 Hath deek'd with gems her native wild ;- 
 Why seek to revel in the rays, 
 Thrown from an artificial blaze ? 
 When drinking in etherial charms, 
 The soul in richer relish warms ; 
 And nature from her stores immense, 
 Teems with luxurious competence ! — 
 What wild, but to the thinking soul, 
 Hath charms to cheer, and to console ? 
 What flower, but to the sense refined, 
 Presents a mirror to the mind ? 
 How apt the daisies' charms display, 
 Fair semblance of the eye of day ! 
 In this fair field, a soul that's fraught 
 With chaste desire and sober thought, 
 Might freely range, and fondly dwell,
 
 THE RETROSPECT. '21 
 
 To meaner charms insensible. 
 'Tis hard to leave one's sylvan reign, 
 Compell'd to cater for the vain ; 
 But that the pamper'd mind it seems 
 Must revel in fictitious dreams; 
 On ennui rolls its listless eyes, 
 And languishes away in sighs; — 
 So must we pass those pleasing scenes, 
 That oft in childhood intervenes ; 
 Those hours with many a pleasure rife, 
 The happiest stage of human life ; — 
 For who but dearly loves to dwell, 
 On charms that never loose their spell ; 
 To which rememberance fondly strays 
 The charms of adolescent days. 
 We pass the hours in which Juan 
 First lisped, then prattled, walked, then ran ; 
 What gambols play'd upon the green ! 
 What antics on the hearth were seen ! 
 The urchin look of wit the braid, 
 The shrewd reply so archly made: — 
 How in the sunshine of his life, 
 
 c
 
 22 THE RETROSPECT. 
 
 Unchequer'd yet, uncross'd with strife ; 
 
 The indications that he gave, 
 
 Spoke him not born to be a slave ; 
 
 For in his veins there heaved a flood 
 
 Of no base-born ignoble blood: — 
 
 Oft would he question monk and friar, 
 
 Who might his mother be and sire; — 
 
 Oft would he range through field and farm, 
 
 LimVd in his foster father's arm ; 
 
 And bootless thus the theme debate, 
 
 The cloud that sat upon his fate. 
 
 'Twas thus his vigorous frame shot forth, 
 
 Like cedar young, in younger earth ; 
 
 And boundless as the unconfin'd, 
 
 Burst forth his bright expansive mind. 
 
 When in the orangeries near, 
 
 The bird of night sung sweet and clear ; 
 
 Pensive as grief itself he stray'd, 
 
 Beneath the spreading myrtle's shade; 
 
 And sought from Philomela's lay, 
 
 The requiem of a better day, 
 
 With her who best his grief could paint,
 
 THE RETROSPECT. 23 
 
 The fellowship of lone complaint. 
 Oft when the moon rode high and fast, 
 The silent witness of the past; 
 On her pale face would fix his eye, 
 As if his inmost soul would pry 
 Where none but sister spirits peep, 
 And read the secrets she may keep. 
 Oft would he lean him 'gainst that rood, 
 Where he first slept in warriorhood; 
 And speak of that mysterious night, 
 That darkly brought him forth to light : — 
 Oft would he stand and fondly pore 
 On the habiliment he first wore; 
 Even which, almost with bended knee, 
 He reverenced to idolatry. 
 Wrapt in that toga, what an air 
 Of rising nobleness was there; 
 When thus he drew, and ere assay'd, 
 Try'd its keen edge, and kiss'd the blade ; — 
 From this, while yet in life's young morn, 
 Win) knew him, but conceived him born 
 To some strange fate; for in his mien 
 
 c 2
 
 24 1IIK RETROSPECT. 
 
 Was something like foreboding seen. 
 We see the infant form and face 
 ModePd to symmetry and grace; 
 Angelic semblance ! lovely thing ! — 
 But soft, that form is on the win"- 
 
 That sweetness bland must yield, ere long, 
 
 To lines and looks more deep and strong — 
 We can't conceive the shape and bloom 
 
 The unblown bud may yet assume ; 
 
 Expanding man's contour appears, 
 
 Completed in maturer years. 
 
 'Twas thus Juan that germe display'd ; 
 
 While nurtur'd in the convent's shade, 
 
 Shot brightly up in manly scope, 
 
 The radicle of future hope, 
 
 And stood, with all that conscious pride 
 
 That soberer years could scarcely chide — 
 
 Conceive his fine herculean form ! 
 
 His frown that darken'd like a storm ! 
 
 But ne'er till deeds of foulest glare 
 Had roused the lion in his lair ; — 
 'Twas there his looks on red-wing flew ;
 
 THE RETROSPECT. 25 
 
 Those bolts of terror that he threw, 
 
 Might pierce the conscious shield of guilt, 
 
 And wound, ere one red drop was spilt. 
 
 Beneath an arch of ebon fringe, 
 
 In love to melt, in hate to singe, 
 
 His was an eye that might disarm 
 
 Assassins bent on deadly harm — 
 
 He had been school'd, but his truant mind 
 
 Brook'd not the lore of loftiest kind; 
 
 For he had read of tilt and tourn, 
 
 Till his warm soul would rising burn ; 
 
 Then would he seek the sun-set tree, 
 
 With noble proof of chevalry . 
 
 'Twas said, some province near had fled, 
 
 Before the torch of carnage red ; 
 
 'Twas known the foe had ta'en the field, 
 
 ♦Gainst whom he fondly long'd to wield 
 
 That sword, with which, perchance, his sire 
 
 Had hewn his way through Hood and fire: — 
 
 Oft had he read his country's wrong, 
 
 In legendary lay and song ; 
 
 And ho had hoard another talo,
 
 26 THE RETROSPECT. 
 
 When victory sprung upon the gale, 
 And told of fort, and fortress storm'd, 
 The feats his countrymen perform'd ; 
 How turn'd the tide of war, or fell, 
 Proving their country's honor well ; 
 Where, rushed to conquest, or to die, 
 Braganza's noblest, best ally: — 
 Oft would he vent his soul in spleen, 
 With all the warrior in his mien; 
 'Gainst, as he call'd, each gallic clan, 
 The cormorants of the corsican; 
 And oft he long'd to quench his hate — 
 'Twas not to be, he yet must wait. 
 Bootless the sage advice and grave, 
 The faithful beuedictines gave; 
 His was that impetus of soul 
 That deem'd advice like this, controul ; 
 A different wreath than this to gain, 
 He sought, nor sought he long in vain.
 
 ^ 
 
 CANTO II. 
 
 THE INVASION 
 
 He to whom ere rung his knell, 
 The two extremes of fate befel ; 
 To whom, a thing but rarely known, 
 The flood of fortune brought a throne. 
 And whom the next capricious tide, 
 Humbling the idol of its pride ; 
 Quenching that meteor blaze of day, 
 Swept in its ebb the wreck away — 
 While pinnacled above the range, 
 Prescribed for mortal interchange — 
 For that he climb'd upon a cloud, 
 Where the thunderer thunders loud;
 
 'JN THE INVASION. 
 
 And proudly o'er the swimming base, 
 
 Reveled in that airy space, 
 
 Scaning this earth, with greedy strain, 
 
 That turn'd at once his giddy brain ; 
 
 As headlong on a rock he fell, 
 
 Betwixt a friendly laugh and yell, 
 
 Envy let loose its vulgar roar, 
 
 That prodigy of men no more ; — 
 
 Whilst sporting crowns, which a long line 
 
 Of mighty Capets held divine ; 
 
 That child of fate, whose memory still 
 
 Lives, and, perhaps, for ages will — 
 
 The whilst enthron'd in burnished sheen, 
 
 When spirits of royal blood were seen ; 
 
 Had eyed that decorated thing, 
 
 Worn on the head of murder'd kins: : 
 
 For which, and high imperial sway, 
 
 Had hewn through flesh and blood his way- 
 
 But glory's bright refulgent glow, 
 
 Pales when before a broken bow ; 
 
 Even as our nature fell 'midst woes, 
 
 When Lucifer the fallen rose ; —
 
 THE INVASION. 29 
 
 As woe awaits the syren's song', 
 
 Illicit pleasures last not long- ; 
 
 As joy, when low desire intrudes, 
 Its fond pursuer's grasp eludes ; 
 Or vanishing, those charms once fair 
 Turn into disembodied air — 
 As the fair laurel's drooping seen, 
 While fades its hue of ever-green, 
 And leaf by leaf falls fast and low, 
 When wove to wreathe a tyrant's brow ; 
 So pilfer' d booty thrives not well, 
 The charm dissolves ere laid the spell. 
 The corsican, perchance not worst, 
 Though in the list of fate the first ; 
 In history's page almost alone, 
 Ambition marked him for her own — 
 la his capacious mind o'ercast, 
 Revolv'd the fate of empires vast; 
 His armed legions had gone forth, 
 His conquests compassed half the earth ; 
 Again he had the gauntlet toss'd, 
 His armies had the simplon cross'd, 
 
 u
 
 yO THE INVASION. 
 
 The towering- Pyrennecs were past, 
 War still must rage, the die was cast ; 
 The realms of Portugal and Spain 
 Must be but one vast battle plain. 
 The war-fiend in his blazing car, 
 Roll'd on the theatre of war, 
 From its dark den, the Hecatomb, 
 To cater o'er the world, for whom 
 Ambition and the vultures, hence 
 The mingled mass of men immense, 
 Hurried, the friend, the sire, and son, 
 Devoted to destruction on — 
 To mar that workmanship divine, 
 Heaped on the red and reeking shrine, 
 Whc.se impious incense rises fraught — 
 But stay, we sicken at the thought — 
 Amidst of men, that dread array 
 Whose numbers almost darken'd day ; 
 Who could the sober reason scan, 
 Of man set on his fellow man — 
 What deadly hate existed 'twixt, 
 Those men on either's spear transfixt ;
 
 THE INVASION. 31 
 
 Not one poor jot of that I deem, 
 They had shook hands o'er the same stream — 
 In that brief interval of scathe, 
 The awful pause, 'twixt life and death, 
 Where they together quench'd their thirst; 
 While tears from either foe-man burst, 
 And wonder'd why that deadly spite, 
 Urged on, when all within was right — 
 They could do this, and even more, 
 Together mourn the waste of gore, 
 And though deeui'd enemies, while there 
 Breathed for each others' good a prayer ; 
 Then dashed away the soldier's tear, 
 When call'd to onslaught move severe- 
 Say, find we not, as thus we scan, 
 A strange fatuity in man; 
 And where ? for 'mougst this fated throng, 
 Something is somewhere strangely wrong — 
 For all this waste of human life, 
 This setting to in mortal strife, 
 This sweeping of th' untimely swept, 
 Much, if no reckoning book is kept. 
 
 d 2
 
 32 
 
 THE INVASION, 
 
 Thus went the fierce and ruthless Gaul, 
 To forge another nation's thrall ; 
 Junot and Soult, those minions hot, 
 Of him whose fame sustains a blot, 
 The Gallic chief's devoted slave, 
 Massena stern, but sternly brave ; 
 Who, through the front of steel and brass, 
 Made the tremendous, desperate pass ; 
 And with him who the gauntlet toss'd, 
 The far famed bridge of Lodi cross'd — 
 Moreau, who rarely bow'd or bent, 
 Save where the brave Suwarrow went ; 
 Marmont, in principle, perchance, 
 As sound as all the chiefs' of France — 
 Victor, Joubert, Suchet and Ney, 
 With veterans no less brave than they, 
 All schooled in battle, and in brief, 
 Link'd in the destiny of their chief — 
 But soar'd, the genius of the Gaul, 
 Too high, from whence she needs must fall; 
 For drunk with madness, she had qua ft 
 Of mental froth, a deadly draught;
 
 THE INVASION. 33 
 
 That genius burned, her very soul 
 
 Burst out in flames and fir'd the Gaul; 
 
 By that, her revolutions lit, 
 
 'Twere burning then, 'tis smouldering yet! 
 
 That wild-fire, whose bewitching name 
 
 Perchance may spread too far its flame — 
 
 * What says yon herald; does his shell 
 
 Again of war and slaughter tell ? — 
 
 " Land of the Gaul," thou rests not long, 
 
 Is then my too prophetic song, 
 
 So late pronounced, so soon fulfili'd ? 
 
 It i3, thy Phrensy's yet unchill'd — 
 
 Unhappy Gaul ! how keen thy sting ! 
 
 And thou her more unhappy king ! 
 
 What if thou erred, 'twere human, who 
 
 That brauds thee, vilest, errs not tuo ? — 
 
 But turn we to the invading Gaul, 
 
 Scowering the plains of Portugal ; 
 
 As hungry dogs let loose to prowl, 
 
 As fiends, in quest of some stray soul, 
 
 * The Revolution of three days was made known here 
 when the Author was writing the preceding lines.
 
 34 THE INVASION. 
 
 Or hell itself, from chains releas'd, 
 Like Vampyres to their reeking feast ; 
 So rush'd the ruthless Gaul to war, 
 Creations noblest work to mar, 
 To send, uncall'd for, 'fore high heaven, 
 In their warm blood, perchance, unshriven, 
 Ten thousand spirits, what a crowd ! 
 If seen by man, an awful cloud ! 
 Well might our conqueror drop a tear, 
 
 Victor of victories thus dear. 
 
 I know not that the Gaul ere sigh'd, 
 
 However red the reeking tide ; 
 
 Or that his too ambitious mien, 
 
 Turn'd pale before so sad a scene. 
 
 How felt the peaceful Portuguese, 
 
 Flying before sucIj scenes as these ; 
 
 The good man's time, the live-long day, 
 
 Came, but with sounds of sad dismay ; 
 
 The peasant's boon, night's balmy rest, 
 
 Came too, but came, alas ! unblest, 
 
 When the rude winds wafted the orphan's tale, 
 
 And murmur'd more deep the widow's wail.
 
 '! ! I E I N V A SI O N • 35 
 
 This was the great Napoleon's cue, 
 Or that his followers had been few, 
 License to live by means undue — 
 Hence 'twere half madness and excess, 
 From revels almost mentionless, 
 He had that superficial fire, 
 Would blaze a moment then expire ; — 
 Such was, and is, and runs through all, 
 The national genius of the Gaul ; 
 A desperate and tremendous rush, 
 A mighty impulse, meant to crush 
 Where all of sinew, soul, and tact, 
 Were in one focus brought to act — 
 From this, their fate, in field and flood, 
 Upon the spur of action stood ; 
 From numbers which that impulse lent, 
 Of energy the utmost, bent, 
 Manoeuvr'd with their ruse of yore, 
 Of cunning subtlety, the core; 
 A firy impetus of soul, 
 That sits not well beneath control, 
 Their war-woop now, the ])eo])lr, raised
 
 :](> TUT. INVASION. 
 
 One half the world may stand amaz'd — 
 
 With this, ere sought the chance of war, 
 
 Reckless of what might mend or mar ; 
 
 Their fort, a ruse, and onslaught dread, 
 
 'Mid havoc, death, and carnage red : — 
 
 All must succumh, not even free, 
 
 That sacred seat, the holy see ; 
 
 The patriot with the martyr bled, 
 
 For high th' oppressor's hand and red ; 
 
 The holy altars plunder'd — sack'd — 
 
 The sacred chalice hew'd and hack'd, — 
 
 Before the men that mock'd then slew, 
 
 For life, the dignitaries flew ; 
 
 The holy lights that illumed the nave, 
 
 Exchang'd for the damps of the lonely cave. 
 
 'Midst this, an army swept the main, 
 
 One whose fair flag permits no stain, 
 
 It went, as free to give as take, 
 
 And victory followed in its wake ; — 
 
 Upon the Lusitanian coast, 
 
 Where, disembark'd, that dauntless host, 
 
 Soldiers, who fear'd no foemans stroke,
 
 THE INVASION. 37 
 
 At once the willow and the oak, 
 Britons, Braganza's friends long try'd; 
 Old Scotia's hopes and Erin's pride. 
 Foremost in that brave phalanx rode, 
 On war-horse oft in battle strode, 
 Arthur, the almost only man, 
 Fear'd by the fearless Corsican ; 
 Whilst followed in his splendid train, 
 The noblest of the Georgian reign, 
 A Moore, his country's pride and trust, 
 Corunna keeps that heroe's dust ; 
 For there he lies in his warrior grave, 
 As he wish'd to be laid wilh the fallen brave. 
 To swell the list of heroes great, 
 Were seen equipt for war complete, 
 A Picton, whose enobled name 
 Stands carved upon the crest of fame ; — 
 A Paget, generous and brave 
 As king could wish, or country crave, 
 Of whom, with acclamations loud, 
 England and Anglesea are proud ; 
 Nor less devoted Erin's smile, 
 
 E
 
 :{N THE INVASION. 
 
 Endear' (1 to him the Emerald Isle — 
 A Hope, a Anson, and a Baird, 
 Who long had lasting laurels shar'd; 
 And Wilson, who with one to ten, 
 Bearded the war-fiend in his den, 
 And who, amidst th' exploding shock, 
 Hode the raveline of St. Roque, — 
 Thus went the chiefs in arms allied, 
 The stem and flower of British pride, 
 These led their little army forth ; 
 Little ! but of no little worth ! 
 Their valour England needs not puff, 
 That they were English were enough ; — 
 Allied and linked in arms with these, 
 Went forth the cheval'rous Portuguese : — 
 The Gaul gave battle, and beheld 
 His favourite cue, attack repell'd ; 
 Again bade charge, with rage convulsed, 
 But charge on charge was ere repulsed ; 
 For rang'd before him stood such lines, 
 As backwards read, his red designs, 
 An army which, from morn to night,
 
 THE 1NVAS1U N . 
 
 Would dare the battle, do its spite ; 
 Could warmly face, or cooly brook, 
 As hot a fire, as dense a smoke ; — 
 As saw the Gaul, when his heel turn'd, 
 As red the Russian's hovel burn'd ; 
 And Moscow, from each tow' ring dome, 
 Lit up her lamps to light him home. 
 So stood the allies, firm and fast, 
 All cool before the showering blast, 
 On either hand presenting aye, 
 A line that let its thunder play ; 
 And for each charge a front of steel, 
 From which the Gaul was wont to wheel. 
 Thus would the dauntless Arthur let 
 The foe be charging, charging yet ; 
 Thus waiting, watched, with marshal glance, 
 'Till come his hour, then cry'd advance. 
 Dreadful was the carnage then, 
 For 'midst the slaying and the slain, 
 Havoc let its fury fly, 
 Then the tide of war rose high. 
 On the battle-field were seen, 
 
 k -1 
 
 39
 
 -JO IMF. INVASION. 
 
 Marshall'd in their war-like sheen, 
 
 The contending hosts opposed, 
 
 Rallying-, charging-, fiercely closed ; 
 
 Retreating then, advancing now, 
 
 Like troubled ocean's ehb and flow. 
 
 Thus roll'd the shifting tide of war, 
 
 O'er many a plain extending far ; 
 
 Thus many a battle lost and won, 
 
 Where many a mother mourns her son, 
 
 Where, strew'd with carnage reeking red, 
 
 The fallen, the dying, and the dead ; 
 
 What a sad sight ! all lost and gone ! 
 
 Was this for heaven to look upon ! 
 
 For oft the unearthed bones of the slain, 
 
 Were left to bleach on the battle-plain, — 
 
 Amidst this universal scathe, 
 
 This havoc, and untimely death, 
 
 A chosen band of Portugues, 
 
 Grown desperate 'midst such scenes as these, 
 
 'Tween glimpse of hope, and cloud of grief, 
 
 Had chosen their Guerella Chief; 
 
 And thus, these hopes to mend or mar,
 
 THE INVASION. 41 
 
 Commenc'd a fierce Guerella tear. 
 
 Oft as the soldier sought respite, 
 
 In that calm hour with silence fraught, 
 
 That here led his brave brigand, 
 
 Near where the foe might take his stand 
 
 And in this brave Guerella Chief, 
 
 Fidalgo of a living fief, 
 
 Though in our story lost full long, 
 
 We find the hero of our song. 
 
 Thus Juan led his brave brigand, 
 
 A little, but a chosen band ; 
 
 Who wielded — 'twas no common clay — 
 
 An unseen arm by night and day; — 
 
 Who left the camp that ere returned, 
 
 In vain with rage the foe-men burned ; 
 
 What picquet took their nights sojourn, 
 
 But slept in their long sleep ere morn ? 
 
 What troop on brief foray went forth, 
 
 That mix'd not with their mother earth ? 
 
 What courier, scouring to and fro, 
 
 With garbled tale of joy or woe, 
 
 Hul doorn'd awhile to halt and quail,
 
 42 THE INVASION. 
 
 And ne'er arrive to tell his tale ? 
 What out-post gained, or weak or strong, 
 That burst not out in flames ere long ? 
 Harassed the foe, the brave brigand, 
 Such havoc done by unseen hand 
 Puzzled the Gaul ; the head and tail 
 Of his army could not help but quail. 
 Amidst this panic and surprise, 
 All that the foe could do, surmise, 
 Till that he bribed some dastard slave, 
 Who note of all occurrence gave ; — 
 An eye of envy then, and hate, 
 One whom revenge could scarcely sate, 
 Hover' d on Tomar, and a vow 
 Was made, its glory should lie low.
 
 CANTO III. 
 
 THE BRIDAL 
 
 We find the hero of our song, 
 
 From whom we wander 1 d somewhat long- ; 
 
 Not where the "front of battle" rajr'd. 
 
 But in its van as fierce engag'd ; 
 
 Pledg'd with his brave brigand, to lend 
 
 Their service to their common friend, 
 
 Their country ; and to rid her foe, 
 
 Or perish in her overthrow. 
 
 'Twere thus as seen before they went, 
 
 And no mean sort of service lent, 
 
 This 'vantage theirs, no forc'd march far, 
 
 Attended the Guerel/a war;
 
 44 THE BRIDAL. 
 
 Had ne'er, what else, to lose or gain, 
 'T encamp, or bivouac on the plain; 
 Nor like the common soldier roam, 
 Their battle-field was oft near home ; 
 And often too, 'tween bed and gun, 
 Were some domestic duties done ; 
 For they a double watch could keep, 
 The foe, their frighted herds and sheep ; 
 And save when torn 'tween war and cares, 
 Daily, at least, attended prayers. 
 War and devotion almost seem 
 At variance, but we justly deem 
 The urgent plea of self-defence, 
 By far the fairest, best pretence. 
 Think not, but in these peaceful groves, 
 There were that had afhanc'd loves ; 
 Chaste daughters some, and faithful wives, 
 Dear to their bosoms as their lives ; 
 These to protect form that vile scathe, 
 Dishonor — woman's double dealh ; 
 These to defend with sword in hand, 
 Call'd up in arms the brave brigand.
 
 THE BRIDAL. 
 
 In each courageous, varying scene, 
 Our hero had no idler been ; 
 Well had he earn'd that title brief, 
 The dauntless, brave, Guerella Chief/ 
 Full many a laud from sire and son, 
 These proofs of nobleness had won, 
 And house-wife kind, and matron grave, 
 Extoll'd him bravest of the brave ; 
 While many a look from maidens fair, 
 Spoke him to their affections heir. 
 Amidst these warm receptions, found 
 On friendly and contested ground, 
 Another passion, just as warm, 
 Came on him, like another storm ; 
 Oft had he, when at Tomar been, 
 The lovely Madelino seen, — 
 But that fine passion softly bland, 
 That often needs a bridled hand, 
 In that warm country, virtuous shade, 
 Wears not that open flirtish braid; 
 Nor has that freedom in its chimes, 
 That's met with in these colder climes; 
 
 T 
 
 4o
 
 46 THE BRIDAL. 
 
 Simple, yet amiably discreet, 
 
 And when — for lovers rarely meet — 
 
 Meet with that purity of heart 
 
 With which the vestals meet and part. 
 
 Pride of the barony, Juan, 
 
 For so his fame already ran, 
 
 And deem'd, in Covent-Castle-Grange, 
 
 As noble as his birth was strange. 
 
 And were there one above the rest, 
 
 With all a woman's graces blest, 
 
 That one was Madelino ! she 
 
 Might have adorned a regency. 
 
 Her fine dark eyes, of lustre bright, 
 
 Seem'd in themselves a source of light: 
 
 Bright ! but not like erratick star, 
 
 That wanders in its sphere too far ; 
 
 That double index of the soul, 
 
 She well could keep within control ; 
 
 The notions that she had of love, 
 
 More pure than that of faithful dove, 
 
 And these, with studied grace improved, 
 
 That she more like an angel loved.
 
 THE BRIDAL. 
 
 Her features fine, to nature true, 
 Though somewhat of an olive hue, 
 The contour form'd, and taught to please, 
 Approach'd the noble Milanese. 
 He who himself full freely lends, 
 And at the shrine of folly bends, 
 Smit with that glare that might disgust, 
 The flimsy furniture of dust; 
 With an ill grace, in scorn, or spite, 
 May taunt a brother moon-struck wiglit :- 
 He who a willing slave may fall, 
 The worst idolatry of all ! 
 His idol some imprudent wile, 
 Lascivious look and furtive smile ; 
 Betrays a passion that may prove 
 Much more allied to lust than love; — 
 To feel and own that deeper spell, 
 That o'er our heroine's features fell, 
 Is human, though of that frail kind, 
 That flit and leave no trace behind : — 
 But to admire, to woo, and win, 
 What's rich beyond imagining, 
 
 F 2 
 
 47
 
 48 THE BRIDAL. 
 
 A creature, chaste as she is kind, 
 
 With such fine features, soul, and mind, 
 
 As statnp'd that fair, unfading charm, 
 
 On Madelino's lovely form ; 
 
 Is that fine passion felt uncross'd, 
 
 The love the fallen angels lost. 
 
 Nature full oft with tempered zeal, 
 
 Together hlends her good and ill, 
 
 The common blessings of mankind, 
 
 If ever are from few confin'd, 
 
 Yon bird that dusky seems and plain, 
 
 Warbles a note of sweetest strain, 
 
 Whilst others, like the prating jay, 
 
 Display a plumage truly gay. 
 
 The dwarf, with form but ill defin'd, 
 
 May boast a fiuely cultured mind ; 
 
 Whilst he with less of genius bless'd, 
 
 With lusty limb o'ertakes the rest : — 
 
 Thus wisely weigh'd, the boon of heaven 
 
 Is kindly, mercifully given ; 
 
 In various forms these favours run, 
 
 Though rarely all possessed by one ;
 
 THE BRIDAL. 4.9 
 
 True, some exceptions life affords, 
 
 And such our minstrelsy records, 
 
 The lovely Madelino came, 
 
 Heiress of undisputed fame. 
 
 Love lives, and sometimes smothering burns, 
 
 Even then, it sighs, and smiles by turns, 
 
 Though silence ne'er one secret slips, 
 
 But puts her seal upon her lips ; 
 
 The eye speaks out, and looks scarce seen, 
 
 In that fine passion steal between; 
 
 These silent messengers, the soul 
 
 Commissions to reveal the whole, 
 
 To trust, aud speed of pinion due, 
 
 The carrier dove is not more true ; — 
 
 Though with that guarded, modest grace, 
 
 That heaven has stamp'd on virtue's face ; 
 
 Each of our lovers wore this mien, 
 
 These messengers had pass'd between. 
 
 Of him, the hero of our scene, 
 
 Leading our lovely heroine 
 
 To hymen's hallow'd shrine, which soon 
 
 Shall bless (hem twain with better boon;
 
 50 THE BRIDAL. 
 
 What mystery may awhile conceal, 
 The coming hour may yet reveal. 
 Of her whose hopes of earthly bliss, 
 Were finely interwoven with his, 
 Sole daughter, once the hope and pride 
 Of one chaste knot, as ere was ty'd ; 
 As faithful and devout a pair 
 As fell to one fair daughter's share ; 
 The Donna Avis, Don Algarde, 
 Deceased, had left that hope a ward, 
 From whom she had that blessing given, 
 Their all of earth and all of heaven. 
 We pass the evening seranade, 
 When Juan to mistress play'd 
 His light guitar, in those soft airs 
 That suited best such loves as theirs; — 
 But note how Juan came to heir 
 A heart so kind, a hand so fair. 
 Embosom'd in that southern clime, 
 Manners outlive the change of time ; 
 And that warm passion there we see, 
 Breathing its dreams of chevalry ;
 
 THE BRIDAL. 51 
 
 Then softly languishing away, 
 Unravel'd in the minstrel's lay ; 
 Juan, well read in tilt and tourn, 
 Rode foremost with the nobly born, 
 To throw a lance or break a spear, 
 Confess'd, the first brave chevalier. 
 No swain would dare to stretch a limb 
 In strife, to breast the wave with him ; 
 His hound and hawk, with cap and bell, 
 Could other hawks and hounds excel. 
 But this his too mistaken zeal, 
 He dreamt that fire, and flood, and steel, 
 Were things that led to glory ; and 
 He scorn' d on other ground to stand. 
 Bootless his foster father's care, 
 That was an unavailing prayer ; — 
 The cloister, cell, the hood, and coul, 
 Sat ill on Juan's restless soul ; 
 Had he wip'd off that little taint, 
 And brook'dthe hand of mild restraint, 
 For a rich flow of feelings fine, 
 The brightest gem in nature's mine,
 
 52 THE BRIDAL. 
 
 The like that land had witnessed never, 
 Since first roll'd on the Guadalquiver. 
 But sought that fame, come death, or scar, 
 The chief of the Guerella war ; 
 That was his field, his hope, to see 
 His king belov'd — his country free ; 
 On wings of wayward tempests born, 
 'Tween two contending passions torn, 
 Love, and that noblest sort of pride, 
 The patriots, turn'd to " virtue's side:" — 
 Such was, for so his fair fame ran, 
 The pitied, lov'd, ador'd, Juan ; 
 While many a monk, and many a friar, 
 Wept o'er a brand so full of fire : — 
 All this his somewhat wayward cue, 
 The Donna Madelino knew, 
 But more of good, prechance, than ill, 
 With " all his faults she loved him still." 
 The bridal-day was fix'd, it came, 
 Light were the hearts of each fair dame, 
 For mother, daughter, son, and sire, 
 As joy o'ertook their fond desire,
 
 THE BRIDAL. 
 
 45 
 
 In each courageous, varying scene, 
 Our hero had no idler been ; 
 Well had he earn'd that title brief, 
 The dauntless, brave, Guerella Chief/ 
 Full many a laud from sire and son, 
 These proofs of nobleness had won, 
 And house-wife kind, and matron grave, 
 Extoll'd him bravest of the brave ; 
 While many a look from maidens fair, 
 Spoke him to their affections heir. 
 Amidst these warm receptions, found 
 On friendly and contested ground, 
 Another passion, just as warm, 
 Came on him, like another storm ; 
 Oft had he, when at Tomar been, 
 The lovely Madelino seen, — 
 But that fine passion softly bland, 
 That often needs a bridled hand, 
 In that warm country, virtuous shade, 
 Wears not that open flirtish braid ; 
 Nor has that freedom in its chimes, 
 That's met with in these colder climes ; 
 
 F
 
 46 THE BRIDAL. 
 
 Simple, yet amiably discreet, 
 
 And when — for lovers rarely meet — 
 
 Meet with that purity of heart 
 
 With which the vestals meet and part. 
 
 Pride of the barony, Juan, 
 
 For so his fame already ran, 
 
 And deem'd, in Covent-Castle-Grange, 
 
 As noble as his birth was strange. 
 
 And were there one above the rest, 
 
 With all a woman's graces blest, 
 
 That one was Madelino 1 she 
 
 Might have adorned a regency. 
 
 Her fine dark eyes, of lustre bright, 
 
 Seem'd in themselves a source of light; 
 
 Bright ! but not like erratick star, 
 
 That wanders in its sphere too far ; 
 
 That double index of the soul, 
 
 She well could keep within control; 
 
 The notions that she had of love, 
 
 More pure than that of faithful dove, 
 
 And these, with studied grace improved, 
 
 That she more like an angel loved.
 
 THE BRIDAL. 47 
 
 Her features fine, to nature true, 
 Though somewhat of an olive hue, 
 The contour form'd, and taught to please, 
 Approach'd the noble Milanese. 
 He who himself full freely lends, 
 And at the shrine of folly bends, 
 Smit with that glare that might disgust, 
 The flimsy furniture of dust; 
 With an ill grace, in scorn, or spite, 
 May taunt a brother moon-struck wight : — 
 He who a willing slave may fall, 
 The worst idolatry of all ! 
 His idol some imprudent wile, 
 Lascivious look and furtive smile ; 
 Betrays a passion that may prove 
 Much more allied to lust than love; — 
 To feel and own that deeper spell, 
 That o'er our heroine's features fell, 
 Is human, though of that frail kind, 
 That flit and leave no trace behind : — 
 But to admire, to woo, and win, 
 What's rich beyond imagining, 
 
 f 2
 
 4^ THE BRIDAL. 
 
 A creature, chaste as she is kind, 
 
 With such tine features, soul, and mind, 
 
 As stamp'd that fair, unfading charm, 
 
 On Madelino's lovely form ; 
 
 Is that fine passion felt uncross'd, 
 
 The love the fallen angels lost. 
 
 Nature full oft with tempered zeal, 
 
 Together blends her good and ill, 
 
 The common blessings of mankind, 
 
 If ever are from few confin'd, 
 
 Yon bird that dusky seems and plain, 
 
 Warbles a note of sweetest strain, 
 
 Whilst others, like the prating jay, 
 
 Display a plumage truly gay. 
 
 The dwarf, with form but ill defin'd, 
 
 May boast a finely cultured mind; 
 
 Whilst he with less of genius bless'd, 
 
 With lusty limb o'ertakes the rest ; — 
 
 Thus wisely weigh'd, the boon of heaven 
 
 Is kindly, mercifully given ; 
 
 In various forms these favours run, 
 
 Though rarely all possessed by one;
 
 Tilt: BRIDAL. 4!) 
 
 True, some exceptions life affords, 
 
 And such our minstrelsy records, 
 
 The lovely Madelino came, 
 
 Heiress of undisputed fame. 
 
 Love lives, and sometimes smothering' burns, 
 
 Even then, it sighs, and smiles by turns, 
 
 Though silence ne'er one secret slips, 
 
 But puts her seal upon her lips; 
 
 The eye speaks out, and looks scarce seen, 
 
 hi that fine passion steal between; 
 
 These silent messengers, the soul 
 
 Commissions to reveal the whole, 
 
 To trust, and speed of pinion due, 
 
 The carrier dove is not more true ; — 
 
 Though with that guarded, modest grace, 
 
 That heaven has stamp'd on virtue's face ; 
 
 Each of our lovers wore this mien, 
 
 These messengers had pass'd between. 
 
 Of him, the hero of our scene, 
 
 Leading our lovely heroine 
 
 To hymen's hallow'd shrine, which soon 
 
 Shall bless them twain with better boon ;
 
 50 THE BHI DAL. 
 
 What mystery may awhile conceal, 
 The coming hour may yet reveal. 
 Of her whose hopes of earthly bliss, 
 Were finely interwoven with his, 
 Sole daughter, once the hope and pride 
 Of one chaste knot, as ere was ty'd ; 
 As faithful and devout a pair 
 As fell to one fair daughter's share ; 
 The Donna Avis, Don Algarde, 
 Deceased, had left that hope a ward, 
 From whom she had that blessing given, 
 Their all of earth and all of heaven. 
 We pass the evening seranade, 
 When Juan to mistress play'd 
 His light guitar, in those soft airs 
 That suited best such loves as theirs ; — 
 But note how Juan came to heir 
 A heart so kind, a hand so fair* 
 Embosom'd in that southern clime, 
 Manners outlive the change of time; 
 And that warm passion there we see, 
 Breathing its dreams of chevalry ;
 
 THE BRIDAL. 51 
 
 Then softly languishing away, 
 Unravel'd in the minstrel's lay ; 
 Juan, well read in tilt and tourn, 
 Rode foremost with the nobly born, 
 To throw a lance or break a spear, 
 Confess'd, the first brave chevalier. 
 No swain would dare to stretch a limb 
 In strife, to breast the wave with him ; 
 His hound and hawk, with cap and bell, 
 Could other hawks and hounds excel. 
 But this his too mistaken zeal, 
 He dreamt that fire, and flood, and steel, 
 Were things that led to glory; and 
 He scorn'd on other ground to stand. 
 Bootless his foster father's care, 
 That was an unavailing prayer ; — 
 The cloister, cell, the hood, and coul, 
 Sat ill on Juan's restless soul; 
 Had he wip'd off that little taint, 
 And brook'd the hand of mild restraint, 
 For a rich flow of feelings fine, 
 The brightest gem in nature's mine,
 
 52 THE BRIDAL. 
 
 The like that land had witnessed never, 
 Since first roll'd on the Guadalquiver. 
 But sought that fame, come death, or scar, 
 The chief of the Gucre/la war ; 
 That was his field, his hope, to see 
 His king belov'd — his country free ; 
 On wings of wayward tempests born, 
 'Tween two contending passions torn, 
 Love, and that noblest sort of pride, 
 The patriots, turn'd to " virtue's side:" — 
 Such was, for so his fair fame ran, 
 The pitied, lov'd, ador'd, Juan ; 
 While many a monk, and many a friar, 
 Wept o'er a brand so full of fire : — 
 All this his somewhat wayward cue, 
 The Donna Madelino knew, 
 But more of good, prechance, than ill, 
 With " all his faults she loved him still." 
 The bridal-day was fix'd, it came, 
 Light were the hearts of each fair dame, 
 For mother, daughter, son, and sire, 
 As joy o'erlook their fond desire,
 
 THE BRIDAL. 
 
 5:3 
 
 Had vow'd the bridal-day should be 
 Devoted to festivity. 
 So vow'd the brave Guerella band, 
 That morn they came with glove on hand, 
 Mounted upon those mules that seem, 
 For speed, fine form, and strength of limb, 
 Round precipice of height sublime, 
 Peculiar to that southern clime. 
 They came, a numerous troop, and fair, 
 Their white plumes waving in the air, 
 With spur on heel, and sword on thigh, 
 The warrior glancing in each eye, 
 And mantles flutt'ring in the breeze, 
 A fine and chivalrous escort these ; 
 The brave brigand, for such the Gaul, 
 'Tween spite and fear was wont to call. 
 The grapes might hang upon the vine, 
 The vintager might drink his wine, 
 Enough, Fidalgo proud to vex, 
 For young and old of either sex, 
 Suspended, 'midst the vintage, all 
 Those pleasing tasks vindemial; 
 
 G
 
 • r )4 THE BRIDAL. 
 
 St Cyprian's and the bridal-day, 
 
 Sacred to saint and hymen-fay. 
 
 Thus went the brave brigand, with whom 
 
 Patrician pride plebian bloom, 
 
 To Juan's bridal sallied forth, 
 
 With mingled meed of festive mirth. 
 
 Assembled soon that marshall'd throng, 
 
 And stood a splendid line and long ; 
 
 Where, 'midst an orange-grove was seen, 
 
 Half hid beneath its foliage green, 
 
 An ancient edifice that stood, 
 
 A crescent with its wings of wood, 
 
 Walnut and linden, whose cool shade 
 
 The summer-sun could scarce pervade ; 
 
 Its silver fringe the river broad, 
 
 Meander'd round that calm abode, 
 
 So pleasant all, and free from din, 
 
 Might e'en the fawns and wood-nymphs win. 
 
 Whilst waited 'fore this fair domain, 
 
 Gay festive groups and splendid train, 
 
 Forth from her own fair domicile ; 
 
 While eyes of pleasure drank tleir fill,
 
 THE BRIDAL. 55 
 
 That amaranth of beauty came 
 To mount her harness'd mule with them, 
 This fair, our heroine and bride, 
 And in her train, and at her side, 
 Twice twenty Donnas there were seen, 
 Like her, adorned in bridal sheen. 
 In modest folds from each fair form, 
 Form'd not so much to tempt as charm, 
 Their sable, silken, dresses fell, 
 With nothing of the bagatelle ; — 
 For that strange shape, and dazzling glare, 
 That too much Frenchifies our fair, 
 A month or two the vain to please, 
 Obtains not with the Portuguese. 
 Thus pendent at each ear was seen, 
 A jewel of the fairest sheen, 
 And round each wrist one might behold 
 A bracelet of the finest gold ; 
 Rich needlework about the breast, 
 Set off the gold embroider'd vest; 
 But there the charm that dazzles eyes, 
 In a neat foot and ankle lies. 
 
 c 2
 
 5G THE BK1DAL. 
 
 Thus came the bridegroom and the bride, 
 Estramadura's hope and pride, 
 But as she stood upon the stair, 
 Attended by her Donnas fair, 
 Herself so graceful did infold, 
 In her rich cloak of silk and gold, 
 That all her charms, from head to toe, 
 Shone out, and might have quell'd a foe. 
 The brideman held her harnass'd mule, 
 And there, as it might be the rule, 
 Both hands engaged, and not in vain, 
 This held the bridle by the rein, 
 And that beneath the stirrup put, 
 Extended for the Donnas foot. 
 Thus safe, as from his hand she sprung, 
 Herself upon the saddle flung, 
 With that tranquility of mind 
 That conscious rectitude can find ; 
 She sat her left towards the reins, 
 As still the custom there obtains. 
 Mounted, Guerella, Donna, Don, 
 The splendid cavalcade moved on ;
 
 THE BRIDAL. 57 
 
 In truth they were a chivalrous throng, 
 As gaily thus they pranced along, 
 And lovely looked each fine brunette, 
 With lips of coral, eyes of jet; 
 But loveliest bridegroom looked and bride, 
 As on they cauter'd side by side. 
 Then as the custom was of yore, 
 Each Don his sword and mantle wore ; 
 Juan, amongst the rest, display'd 
 A bridal dress of costly braid, 
 And what most graced his manly form, 
 Like spell of some mysterious charm, 
 Upon his fine broad shoulders hung, 
 The cloak that first around him flung ; 
 And glittering at his side so bright, 
 The sword that pillow'd his first night, 
 Which, with a benediction given, 
 Resigning up his charge to heaven, 
 As his last boon from the old friar, 
 His first kind friend and foster sire, 
 And which he call'd in mirth so free, 
 The heir-loom of his ancestry.
 
 58 
 
 THfc BKI I) A I.. 
 
 Thus gaily past a short hour's ride, 
 
 Along the rolling Zera's side; 
 
 When Tomar's convents, church, and spire, 
 
 Where burn the lamps of holy fire, 
 
 So beautiful their parian hue, 
 
 Beneath a sky so softly blue, 
 
 And tow'ring in their sunny sheen, 
 
 Above the orange-groves were seen. 
 
 All nature burst in roseate bloom, 
 
 The myrtles lent their sweet perfume, 
 
 For myrtles there in their full pride, 
 
 Adorn the common pathway side ; 
 
 And yearly flowers that aloe there, 
 
 That blooms but in a century here ; 
 
 'Twas thus such shrubs and flowers as these, 
 
 Incens'd the odoriferous breeze. 
 
 And, suited to that sylvan scene, 
 
 That shone with more than bridal sheen, 
 
 Love's monitors, amidst the groves, 
 
 The billing turtles, coo'd their loves. 
 
 Thus trooping, the gay cavalcade 
 
 Alighted on the esplanade ; —
 
 THE 11R1DAL. 
 
 For them the flag of Portugal 
 
 Waved high on the old citadel ; 
 
 And numerous groups were there, and gay, 
 
 St. Cyprian's and the bridal-day 
 
 Came not unlooked for, and they strove 
 
 Who most could fond attachment prove : — 
 
 That beautiful old church, St. Maurs, 
 
 Received them with unfolded doors ; 
 
 And thus to greet the fair and brave, 
 
 The blessed lights illumed the nave, 
 
 And fill'd th' orchestra and the choir, 
 
 With incense from the holy fire. 
 
 Fair flowers enwreathed in laurel green, 
 
 To decorate the rood-loft seen, 
 
 In honour of the brave and fair, 
 
 About to be united there. 
 
 The sacred rites were said and signed, 
 
 The vine around the myrtle twined, 
 
 The holy hymn was raised to heaven, 
 
 Lastly, the benediction given. 
 
 The bells announced their sanction' d loves, 
 
 Tol 1 the steep 1 ills — the hills, the groves — 
 
 59
 
 GO THE BRIDAL. 
 
 All was a scene of festive joy, 
 
 The tide of mirth ran broad and high. 
 
 The concourse gay, that lined each street, 
 
 Received them with a welcome greet ; 
 
 Congratulations loud and long, 
 
 Were echoed from th' assembled throng, 
 
 As side by side they went to share 
 
 Their bridal joy, with bridal fare ; 
 
 Perchance, so fine and fair a train, 
 
 Tomar must never see again. 
 
 A splendid troop, all heart and hand, 
 
 First went the brave Guerella band, 
 
 Marshall'd and mounted side by side, 
 
 Lastly, the bridegroom and the bride, 
 
 With many a friend in life well try'd ; 
 
 All now on festive pleasure bent, 
 
 Beneath a Moorish archway went, 
 
 And as 't unfold each former scene, 
 
 Alighted on that convent green, 
 
 And round that rood, 'neath which time past, 
 
 Our hero was a stranger cast. 
 
 The good old monk, and older prior,
 
 THE BRIDAL. ()[ 
 
 In whom was gleaming life's faint fire, 
 
 Received them with a blessing, and 
 
 A cordial welcome waved the hand. 
 
 Within the convent garden green, 
 
 The groups sat down, a festive scene 
 
 Served the repast, desert more sweet, 
 
 A sober, but delicious treat ; 
 
 And for the Fair, who wine debars, 
 
 Iced waters stood in porous jars, 
 
 In spite of English prejudice, 
 
 That land may rank as high as this, 
 
 Sober, hospitable, chaste, 
 
 Though with some other faults defaced. 
 
 The village lent its meed of mirth, 
 
 On the light toe all sallied forth; 
 
 The Donna left her rock and reel, 
 
 For Donnas there can turn the wheel, 
 
 And with their household guests and Don, 
 
 Mix'd with the laughing lookers on; 
 
 While 'neath the lofty Linden's shade, 
 
 Self-chosen pairs, in modest braid, 
 
 Rose up with eye of wistful glance, 
 
 H
 
 (52 THE BRIDAL. 
 
 To join the gay Fandango dance, 
 The minstrel with his lit cigar, 
 Was fingering fine the light guitar, 
 When lo ! was heard the din of war.
 
 CANTO IV. 
 
 THE HONEY-MOON 
 
 Ah ! many a moon comes in all bright, 
 Calm, and with beams of silver light, 
 That past her wax, and in her wane, 
 Goes out in thunder and in rain ; 
 And many a moon, 'mid fearful din, 
 Comes with red lightning usher'd in, 
 That past her full, in calm return, 
 Serenely empties out her horn : 
 Thus comes the honey-moon we sing, 
 That storm must have its gathering ; 
 But then, ere long, the tempest-sprite, 
 Will plume its dusky wing for flight. 
 
 ii 2
 
 (•! THE HONEY-MOON. 
 
 Suspended was the dance, the song 
 Cut short, that had not warhled long, — 
 Of bridal joy that key-note sweet, 
 That strikes us with a welcome greet, 
 And o'er our senses lightly trips, 
 Had scarcely left the minstrel's lips. 
 'Twas said, for bribe, some recreant slave 
 Had barter'd the Guerella brave, 
 And now, 'twere thought the wily Gaul, 
 Sought chance to crush them, one and all; 
 It seem'd so, for the carrion-kites 
 Were hovering o'er the mountain heights, 
 Foreboding as the hungry shark, 
 Ominous haunts the sickly bark ; — 
 *Twas so, for seen in armour bright, 
 And belt, and baldric buckled tight, 
 And helmet high, and plumes too gay, 
 E'en for the good St. Cyprian's day ; 
 The Gaul, like moving forest wide, 
 Sweeping along the mountain side, 
 Their armour glittering in the sun, 
 Whose glare an eagle's eye might stun,-*—
 
 THE HONEY-MOON. 65 
 
 The Cuirassiers ! and on they came, 
 Seen like a gleaming flood of flame ; 
 And clear it was, their cue were soon 
 To mend or mar the honey-moon. 
 A moment on the convent green, 
 Amazement riveted each mien, 
 Our hero and our heroine 
 Like oriental king and queen, 
 Presiding o'er that festive throng, 
 Whose mirth was doom'd to last not long, 
 Seated in elevation high, 
 On Ottoman of crimson dye, 
 The rest in flowing veils so fair, 
 And white plumes nodding in the air, 
 On cushions sat, and carpet floor, 
 As does the Mussulman and Moor : 
 But struck, as if the earth was cleft, 
 Alone that Ottoman was left, 
 The cushions too unoccupied, 
 Confusion flung its terrors wide: — 
 Broke up the gay Fandango dance, 
 Witli its light trip and lighter glance,
 
 66 THE HONEY-MOON. 
 
 While female fear and female love, 
 Enough to melt ! enough to move ! 
 And heaving sigh, and starting tear, 
 Fast gushing from their fountains clear ; 
 And hands in deepest anguish wrung, 
 Or round each hrave Guerella flung. 
 The Bridegroom softly stepp'd aside, 
 A moment soothed his trembling bride, 
 A fond embrace, a parting one, 
 The tenderest e'er the sun shone on, 
 His white plumes falling o'er her cheek, 
 (The kindest duty they could seek !) 
 Wiped from that lovely eye a tear, 
 That for a moment trembled there: — 
 Her fair broad brow, our hero smoothed, 
 The woman chid, the bride he soothed, 
 He heard her plea, it came, it went, 
 He could not, would not, give consent ; 
 His sword already on his thigh, 
 And fix'd upon the foe his eye, 
 He stood, another Hector he, 
 And she, his fair Andromache.
 
 THE HONEY-MOON. 67 
 
 Full many a hand was fondly shook, 
 
 And cast full many a longing look, 
 
 And many a wish, and many a sigh, 
 
 Broke from the lip and from the eye ; 
 
 'Twere bootless, each fair nymph, in vain, 
 
 Fondly conjured her arming swain, 
 
 Not to provoke the battle plain. 
 
 That must not be, Juan stepp'd forth, 
 
 By all that woman's love is worth ; 
 
 Yes, woman's love, and warriors pride, 
 
 He vowed the foe must be defied. 
 Never should it be said or sung, 
 The brave Guerella tamely flung 
 Their well earned laurels to the foe, 
 Perish the thought, or woe be woe ! 
 That must not be, the Gaul must ne'er 
 Hold undisputed footing there. 
 Sacred their homes, the humblest shed, 
 In Juan's eyes seem'd hallowed ; 
 So seern'd the ties that twined between 
 Those sacred links of faith and kin ; 
 But when he looked upon his bride,
 
 68 THE HONEY-MOON. 
 
 His scabbard rattled at his side, 
 He swore (that oath might be forgiven !) 
 By all the souls of earth and heaven, 
 And those between, that these forlorn 
 Should ne'er succumb to Gallic scorn ; 
 Then drew his weapon from his side, 
 Felt its keen edge, its temper tried ; 
 By the red wine that it had drank, 
 From the keen battle's rear and rank, 
 And by the more mysterious powers, 
 That gave him these in his first hours, 
 That cloak, that sword, and on his breast, 
 That sacred symbol of the blest ; 
 Thus looking up to heaven he said, 
 The whilst he kiss'd its yet cold blade, 
 Guerella ! say, shall Tomar fall ? 
 Never, echoed one and all ! — 
 Scarce closed this brief, but bold harangue, 
 When in the distance, heard the clang 
 Of clattering arms, and tramp of horse, 
 And seen their proud plumes proudly toss. 
 Swift to the friendly convent near,
 
 THE HONEY-MOON. (if) 
 
 Flew the disheartened, timid, fair, 
 Sisters of mercy ! these received 
 The fearful, and their fears relieved ; 
 A prayer from these, and a wish from those, 
 First for their friends, then for their foes, 
 And loud the blast of battle rose. 
 Closed the gates and thickly flanked, 
 Those who first in valour ranked ; 
 Upon the ancient citadel 
 Waved the fair flag' of Portugal; 
 For joy 'twas hoisted, — set that star, 
 As proudly then it waved for war, 
 All true to trust our hero most, 
 Took charge of that distinguished post. 
 Some at the moat the draw-bridge drew, 
 And others to the ramparts flew, 
 And through the embrasures of the wall, 
 These marked th' exasperated Gaul. 
 The signal to surrender brief, 
 Thus briefly answer'd by our chief, 
 Guerella, — young in arms have yet — 
 So sadly schooled — to learn to treat. 
 
 i
 
 70 THE HONEY-MOON. 
 
 The Gaul his ruthless war-note cried, 
 A storm of musquctry replied. 
 Thus commenced, the battle raged, 
 And war was ne'er so warmly waged ; 
 Nobly the Guerella fought. 
 Nobly the Gaul maintained his route, 
 Victory singling out the brave, 
 Seemed on either side to wave ; 
 Till on foot the numerous fve, 
 Forced the gates with axe and saw, 
 When, 'midst savage shout and yell, 
 Crash the huge portcullis fell. 
 'Twas then the tug of war began, 
 Fearful onset ! man to man ! 
 Loud, and louder yet, the clang, 
 Sabres gleamed and helmets rang; 
 Horses o'er their riders roll'd, 
 Riders up, nor bought, nor sold, 
 On their feet, and foot to foot, 
 Parrying the desperate lounge and cut, 
 Thickly, thus the battle sped, 
 Lightning of steel, and hail of lead,
 
 THE HONEY-MOON. 
 
 And thunder rolling o'er the dead, 
 Ere while on either side there seemed 
 A slackening-, which to have redeemed, 
 Rushed on each chief to lead his front, 
 As was our dauntless Arthur wont. 
 They might, could they such slaughter see, 
 lie glutted to satiety, 
 Who for, perchance, some idle jar, 
 Reckless commence the same of war. 
 Their dice of human bones to rattle, 
 In the Pandora-box of battle; — 
 The Gallic Chief unhors'd — his steed 
 Had fallen, but he was up and free'd. 
 Our hero and that veteran Chief 
 Encountered, but their tug was brief; 
 The Gaul was nearly Juan's height, 
 Had eyes as dark, and near as bright; 
 His hair the same, save but a few 
 Odd straggling ones of silver hue ; — 
 They paused, and resting on their swords, 
 Their eyes seem'd as exchanging words; 
 Strange feelings seemed to seize on each, 
 
 i 2
 
 rZ THE HON l.\-.MO(>.\. 
 
 E'en sucli as nature's self might teacl 
 
 Her erring- children, each did seem 
 
 As in some vision wrapp'd, or dream, 
 
 With' hasty glance before they spoke, 
 
 The Gaul eved Juan's sword and cloak, 
 
 As things he might have seen before, 
 
 Then ran his brimful feelings o'er : — 
 
 His sabre broad, with red drops stain'd, 
 
 Fell from his yet unvanquish'd hand; 
 
 He started back, perchance, a pace, 
 
 And with emotions in his face, 
 
 Exclaimed, while sinking on his knee, 
 
 What of the past bring'st thou with thee ? 
 
 See in thy foe, at least, a friend, 
 
 And say, ere one brief moment end, 
 
 Whence comes that sword of thine and cloak, 
 
 And bless, perchance, thou mayest, La Roque! 
 
 Juan replied, he argued well, 
 
 That was the hour would break the spell, — 
 
 " These are my boast, and which I love, 
 
 With my strange history, strangely wove; 
 
 But which f unravel, I could ne'er.
 
 THE HOjNEY-MOON. 73 
 
 The good man lives — can tell us where, 
 And how we came — hut as from whence, 
 That secret he could ne'er dispense. 
 Some twice ten years, Saint Juan's night, 
 Unswaddled, and just brought to light ; 
 Since in this cloak, and on this blade, 
 Upon yon convent green I laid, 
 This earth my cradle, yes, and even 
 No roof tree left for me, but heaven." 
 Is there a cross inked on thy breast, 
 For that may set my soul at rest ? 
 Eagerly this, La Roque expressed : — 
 Juan his manly bosom bared, 
 On which a Maltese cross appeared ; — 
 My son ! exclaimed the brave La Roque, 
 And thus the spell dissolved and broke. 
 What now remains, the minstrel's shell, 
 In brief review, may briefly tell. 
 The genuine spark of nature's fire, 
 All of of the son were there, and sire ; 
 And as they clasped in fond embrace, 
 Their feelings mantling o'er each face.
 
 74 THE HONliY-MOON. 
 
 Of those the finest, as they stood, 
 
 From either soul there rushed a Mood. 
 
 The nuns of mercy had, and soon 
 
 The duties of their order done, 
 
 The wounded, swathed, and soothed, and fod, 
 
 And decently removed the dead. 
 
 Again upon the convent green, 
 
 The strange assemblage soon was seen ; 
 
 And worthy of Saint Cyprian's day, 
 
 Guerella, Gaul, and bridal gay, 
 
 And Chieftains, who appeared in ire, 
 
 But met and went, the Son and Sire. 
 
 The good old Monk lived to restore, 
 
 The youth he almost could adore; 
 
 Told how he'd been his darling child, 
 
 Though somewhat for their rule too wdd ; 
 
 How he had lov'd him from his youth, 
 
 Had sought him grace, and taught him truth, 
 
 Which Juan, first, with monk and friar, 
 
 Attested to his long-lost sire ; 
 
 Untwined that wreath we first might weave, 
 
 The mystery of Saint Juan's eve.
 
 THE HONEY-MOON. 75 
 
 T,:i Roque explained that youth once lorn, 
 Though strangely, not ignobly born, 
 (And was so twined in fate's decrees !) 
 Half Gallic and half Portuguese ; 
 And mingling flowed in his red tide, 
 Some noble drops from either side. 
 Born on the high Estrella, where 
 He and the fair he loved so dear, 
 Benighted, and by guide misled, 
 Sought shelter in a goat-herd's shed ; 
 And in the hour of peril, when 
 Chasing the night-thief to his den, 
 The fierce brigand, who with rude din, 
 Broke in upon their lonely inn, 
 Pursuing whom ? 'twas said La Roque ! 
 As evidenced, his sword and cloak 
 Pick'd up, ere he return'd, was slain, 
 Fighting at odds upon the plain : — 
 That was a good, yet sad mistake, 
 As fate could send, or man could make ; 
 For whilst that night a captive slave, 
 In the bandittis 1 torch iif cave:
 
 70 1 H B HON EY-MOO N . 
 
 And ere at morn he sought his way, 
 
 Where his lorn Lady frantic lay, 
 
 That night Saint Juan's, 'twas save two, 
 
 Had wrought what was, but now seen through ; 
 
 In that lone hour of travail there, 
 
 The Dame brought forth that son and heir. 
 
 In raving fit of frantic grief, 
 
 Imagining all beyond relief, 
 
 She look'd upon her baby boy ; 
 
 No kindred left to save her joy ; 
 
 She took it in her last embrace, 
 
 And kiss'd its little lovely face ; 
 
 And as the goat-herd's good wife said, 
 
 She cross'd its little breast with red; 
 
 And while her heart was near half-broke, 
 
 She wrapped it in its father's cloak. 
 
 Scarce knowing what she did, so reft, 
 
 She called her only servant, left, 
 
 Bade him bring forth his master's mule, 
 
 And speed him to some convent-school; — 
 
 Well knowing there were fathers there, 
 
 Who would accept an orphan's prayer.
 
 THE HONEY-MOON. 77 
 
 Then from the wreck of fortune left — 
 From the bandittis' ruthless theft — 
 Gave while her eyes look'd strangely wild, 
 A premium with her hapless child; 
 Then bade him bear his charge away, 
 To mend that love, and fear and pray, 
 Or cold, ere long, might be its clay. 
 That servant born in Old Castile, 
 Though dull, for other's woe could feel ; 
 Full well that garcon sped his way, 
 Through whate'er land his journey lay; 
 So sped, and such his long sojourn 
 He went, but never made return. 
 That false alarm of La Roque slain, 
 Had almost turn'd the Lady's brain ; 
 Survived awhile that shock severe, 
 Hut yet, not long enough to hear 
 Ought of her bootless, sought-for, child, 
 Who now upon his Father smiled. 
 Unravel'd this mysterious cule, 
 Which fate had reel'd in fickle clue; 
 Tin' scene was changed, and promised soon 
 
 K
 
 78 [TllM-: HONEY-MOON. 
 
 An unembiUer'd Honey-Moon. 
 Lightly on " light fantastic toe," 
 All friendly danc'd, there was no foe, 
 The minstrel si rung his light Guitar, 
 And sweetly sung of love and war.
 
 I H E FUGITI V R 
 
 I. 
 
 Though doom'd to wander o'er the world's wide face, 
 Houseless and friendless as misfortune's child, 
 No kindly welcome, no ! nor resting place ! 
 The social day-star of my wanderings wild ; 
 Or born the solitaire of fate to trace, 
 For me no vestige past my native dell, 
 Far from society my lot t' embrace, 
 That ancient solitude that us'd to dwell, 
 With gloom o'ershadowing the hermit's cell. 
 
 k 2
 
 SO THE FUG IT IV K- 
 
 II. 
 
 Vet in my bosom there may haply blend, 
 Some kindred feelings gushing from my soul, 
 Such as may, aptly, harmonize and lend 
 To nature's frowardness, a mild control ; 
 Such as may constitute the man, the friend ; 
 Even though a fugitive, my range of thought 
 Has scope enough t' expand and t' extend ; — 
 This gives that dignity of man, unbought, 
 That soars triumphant o'er the meanly fraught. 
 
 III. 
 
 What of our destiny, ye gracious powers ! 
 Should man repine, however dark his way ? 
 Some pleasing day-dreams, some few golden hours, 
 Some gleams of sunshine gild life's gloomy day; 
 
 What if at intervals the tempest lowers ! 
 
 'Tis fit we should with some brief struggles cope ! 
 
 How wisely plann'd this pilgrimage of ours! 
 
 The age of man is but the age of hope, 
 
 The next enjoyment in its amplest scope.
 
 THE FUGITIVE. HI 
 
 IV. 
 
 For tranquil joys, aud ease, and happiness, 
 This brief mortality was ne'er designed; 
 But wherefore grieve, we most of us possess 
 Some goodly gift, or other-heaven is kind ; 
 The meanest serf that toils on the fair face 
 Of this our earth, may brighter promise shew, 
 Than he who rules and riots in excess ; 
 May live as tranquil, and for ought we know, 
 May die as easy on his bed of straw. 
 
 V. 
 
 What if but mean, my little stock of lore, 
 
 The simple gleanings of an humble life, 
 
 Gathered from hill and dale, and wood and moor, 
 
 Amid the intervals of toil and strife, 
 
 'Twill not altogether deem it poor, 
 
 Nor from its wise and useful counsels start; 
 
 Before me lie my studies, what a store ! 
 
 Created nature and the human heart, 
 
 'Tis well in life to learn life's chequer'd chart.
 
 82 THE IUG1T1VK. 
 
 VI. 
 
 I leave my domicile, the king- leaves his ! 
 We both love pleasure, and are both inclin'd 
 To taste what we would fain imagine bliss, 
 If king or subject such a thing could find; 
 Each has his sphere of action, mine is this, 
 To bid my thoughts, to guidance blest consigned, 
 Range through all space, whatever was, or is, 
 But chief, that field whose scope is unconfined, 
 The fertile province of the human mind. 
 
 VII. 
 
 To welcome chance as cheerfully as choice, 
 
 The barren wild, and the ambrosial bow'r, 
 
 And ever listen to that still small voice, 
 
 That's softly whisper'd from each fading flower; 
 
 To make my note-book here, and then rejoice, 
 
 That no bad precepts have my path perplex'd, 
 
 And in the lone and solitary hour, 
 
 Serenely moralize from some such text, 
 
 As what I have been, am, and may be, next.
 
 THE FUGITIVE. 83 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Heaven's holy handmaid, nature still unshorn, 
 Of the least glory glads the fleeting hour ; 
 She like a bride upon her bridal morn, 
 Presents her votaries with an ample dow'r ; 
 Thither the meditative mind may turn, 
 And muse on what creative goodness wrought, 
 The meanest weed that trails beside the bourn, 
 Presents a charm that's worthy of being sought, 
 Such a wide realm to revel in has thought ! 
 
 IX. 
 
 'Tis well to leave one's cares awhile, and stand 
 To look upon the present and the past, 
 As from some eminence or other; and 
 'Tis passsing sweet, too sweet almost to last, 
 When autumn widely waves her yellow wand, 
 And o'er her elder sister summer's tomb, 
 Scatters the sere-leaf with her ruddy hand, 
 And whispers mournfully, 'tis thus we roam, 
 And thus, and thus it is, we hasten home.
 
 84 THE FUGITIVE. 
 
 X. 
 
 The seasons have their morals, not a leaf, 
 But some kind hint or admonition gives ; 
 Autumn, of these sage monitors the chief, 
 What emblems of mortality she weaves ! 
 What weed, but 'ministers to man's relief, 
 And bears, at least, a monitory scrawl ! 
 Yes, and all transitory things are brief, 
 Whispers the shrivel'd sere-leaf in its fall, 
 'Tis the Divinity that runs through all ! 
 
 XI. 
 
 Who is he that can look into the shade, 
 Where the brown Philomot (sad semblance) lies, 
 The once inimitable golden braid, 
 Of days that never more must on us rise; 
 How sadly soil'd, alas ! and how decay'd, 
 All that was lovely once, and sweet, and kind, 
 And who can hear pathetically play'd, 
 Their doleful requiem in the keen shrill wind, 
 And feol no 'bodement flit across his mind.
 
 THE FUGITIVE. K5 
 
 XII. 
 
 The glebe whose glories are becoming hoar, 
 Hath often yielded to the unwearied toil 
 Of simpler tenantry in days of yore, 
 But these, where are they ? ceased from every moil, 
 And even remembrance mentions them no more ! 
 But where the yarrow so luxurious thrives, 
 They till themselves, perchance, a deeper soil, 
 Of whom scarce one brief circumstance survives, 
 As faint memorial of their humble lives. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 ' Tis fine t' emerge from one's secluded shade, 
 And with the partners of our happiest hours 
 To stroll in converse o'er the sunny glade, 
 And there expatiate on ambrosial flowers ; — 
 The softest, gentlest, of our race, 'tis said, 
 'Mid flowers or semblances thereof would live; 
 'Tis well to admire the charms therein display'd, 
 'Tis better, wiser, nobler, to receive 
 The pointed moral which they drooping give. 
 
 L
 
 ,s {» THE FUGITIVE. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 All nature is intelligent, and full 
 
 Of useful unsophisticated lore; 
 
 'Tis ours from her rich folios to cull, 
 
 Of useful knowledge, a sufficient store; 
 
 This world itself is nothing but a school, 
 
 Our lives a passing prelude to the next, 
 
 Wherein to learn one solitary rule, 
 
 With no strange dogmas needlessly perplex'd, 
 
 " Man, know thyself," the brief, but holy text. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Who studies man, that masterpiece of art, 
 Hath much to look upon, and much to learn; 
 Who notes the avenues of the human heart, 
 Where all the passions take a wily turn, 
 Like the throng'd alleys of some busy mart, 
 Delusive wiles seduce deciding sense, 
 A thousand vices play their deadly part, 
 And prompt to deeds of desperation ; hence, 
 The fearful, awful, dreadful, consequence !
 
 THE FUGITIVE. 87 
 
 \YI. 
 
 Most of the ills that mar our best repose, 
 The sad distilment of domestic strife, 
 The sighs, the tears, the sorrows, and the woes, 
 That fill with bitterness the cup of life ; 
 Would we their fatal origin disclose, 
 From our own foolish indiscretion springs 
 The drowning whirlpool of convulsive throes, 
 The sea of grief, the wilderness of stings, 
 The hell that ends but where the next begins. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 How finely and mysteriously combined, 
 Our intellectual and corporeal parts, 
 The several senses, centinels of the mind, 
 Each on its duty into action starts, 
 Each hath its own peculiar task assigned, 
 And each contribute to each others' aid, 
 For wisdom, strength, and ornament, designed, 
 Man, or of mightiest, or of humblest grade, 
 Alike how wisely, wonderfully made ! 
 
 l 2
 
 88 Till. FUGITIVE. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 What gives us pleasure or creates our pains, 
 What good or evil is, or right, or wrong, 
 Are soon acquired ; man acts, or he abstains, 
 Just as his judgment is, or weak, or strong, 
 Th' effects once known, the memory retains, 
 She keeps the record of what's fair or foul, 
 Her plastic tablet all the past contains ; 
 Hence, in decision, the discerning soul 
 Consults (or oughl to do) that sacred scroll. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 As thus transfix'd may be the sense of sight, 
 With some fair Cyprian beautiful to view, 
 A thing all formed for dalliance and delight, 
 Say some propensities, but is it true ? 
 The virtuous mind that legislates aright, 
 Consults her tables, sees what they contain ; 
 The lambent blaze is but a borrowed light, 
 A drop of pleasure in a sea of pain, 
 And thus the virtuous spurn it with disdain.
 
 THE FUGITIVE. 89 
 
 XX. 
 
 As some vile harridan of flesh and blood, 
 Fanning' the flames of an unholy fire 
 Willi flimsy promise, promising no good, 
 Deludes the victim of impure desire ; 
 So with a pleasing, but polluted flood, 
 Of what seems lovely to the eye withal, 
 The world with blandishments ill understood, 
 Despite the sad remembrance of the fall, 
 Would fain make Eves and Adams of us all. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 A little pleasure is a pleasing thing, 
 But even that little is alloy'd with pain ; 
 Too much is madness, — 'tis on that wild wing 
 Of giddy altitude, we rock the brain, 
 To steep our sense in that Lethean spring, 
 And of intemperance drink the frothy tide, 
 Is but to mount the dizzy height, and fling 
 Ourselves, all reckless, on that ocean wide, 
 Where few in safetv reach the other side.
 
 ,90 THE FUGITIVE. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 And what mere ornament, a worthless thing, 
 
 And all the charms that decoration lends 
 
 Is Ihe criterion daub'd upon the skin, 
 
 That guides our judgment in the choice of friends; 
 
 No ! 'tis that ornament that shines within, 
 
 On which our social happiness depends, 
 
 On the mere shell, I would not stoop to pin 
 
 My approbation, no ! my eye extends 
 
 A little further, ere its journey ends. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 And he's excused of vanity, who rears 
 
 For midnight revelries, a splendid dome, 
 
 Who safely reckons on an age of years, 
 
 And that hereafter, when that end shall come, 
 
 Will come unusher'd in with doubts and fears ; 
 
 But if not so, 'twere truly indiscreet, 
 
 A life so brief should waste itself with cares ; 
 
 But how to entertain, and how to meet, 
 
 Perchance, to part before the scheme's complete.
 
 THE FUGITIVE. 91 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 He who complains of solitude, and calls 
 
 Secluded shades intolerably dull ; 
 
 Who seeks divertisement in scenic halls, 
 
 Or chance provokes in folly's midnight school, 
 
 Frequents the tables where the night-thief strolls; 
 
 Whate'er his rank may be, with bosom riven, 
 
 He far beneath the poorest peasant falls, 
 
 And flies, the paradise of hope, self-driven, 
 
 The Cain of time a fugitive from heaven. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 From such a mind no pure desire proceeds, 
 
 Nor thoughts expand with narrow views repress'd; 
 
 Can virtue thrive beneath such noxious weeds, 
 
 As festering, rot in the polluted breast ? 
 
 Never! our nature very rarely bleeds, 
 
 When conscience seared, is from her watch-tower driven ; 
 
 And hope exists not 'midst unholy deeds, 
 
 But flies the bosom by distractions riven, 
 
 For 'tis a lamp that only lights to heaven,
 
 })2 THE FUGITIVE. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 All is not holy that is label'd pure, 
 Some joys are counterfeit (an idle name !) 
 The seeming great have something to endure, 
 The high, ambitious, burning thirst of fame; 
 Envy, as jealous as its hell is sure, 
 And pride that sits as easy as 'tis vain, 
 Toss'd off wilh all its marketable lure, 
 And other items, a distressing train, 
 With secret sad unmentionable pain. 
 
 XXV11 
 
 From lures relieved, the fugitive may find, 
 'Mid all his wanderiugs with privations rife, 
 Some holy thoughts to exercise his mind, 
 And timely smooth the steep descent of life; 
 The world may churlish be, but heaven is kind, 
 And man's best counsellor is ever nigh ; 
 Mount but some hill, the subject's unconfin'd ! 
 Morals, Divinity, in volumes lie, 
 And science courts his recreated eye.
 
 THE FUGITIVE. .0-1 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 The sea-beach view where ocean in its sheen, 
 
 Fair semblance of futurity recedes ; 
 
 The busy port-sketch of the present scene, 
 
 Where life is dancing its brief round of deeds ; 
 
 But more prophetic the secluded scene, 
 
 The lone church-yard, sad picture of the past ! 
 
 Adorn'd in sober, melancholy green, 
 
 On which, with some, 'tis natural to cast 
 
 A look as longing as if 'twere the last. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 The calm, ennobled, and reflecting mind, 
 In warmth expanding as the beams of morn, 
 Soars 'bove the common foibles of mankind, 
 And calls him brother, if of woman born, 
 Dealing, like heaven, its favours unconfined ; 
 And though misfortune for awhile may scowl, 
 The wanderer sometimes may associates find, 
 With whom to taste of that delicious bowl, 
 The flood of sentiment and sea of soul. 
 
 M
 
 J)4 THE FUGITIVE. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 The sun ne'er takes his joiu'ney down the west, 
 But. leaves a train of incidents behind, 
 When retrospection, from her sable vest 
 Presents her book to the reflecting mind, 
 And bids us balance e'er we beckon rest, 
 Or seek the sober luxury of repose; 
 Man may be pamper'd, and may be caress'd, 
 And scorn the day-book of his deeds to close, 
 Till an hereafter wakes him with its woes. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 The day may darken, and the tempest roar, 
 
 And age and toil bedim the sunken eye, 
 
 And chill adversity may freeze the poor, 
 
 And hollow hunger prompt the heaving sigh, 
 
 A thought, 'tis true, can't make the morsel more, 
 
 But thoughts may sometimes stem the tide of care; 
 
 Thus, what is now, that has not been before, 
 
 Even kings have sometimes left their thrones to share 
 
 A pilgrim's lodging, and a peasant's fare.
 
 THE FUGITIVE. !)5 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 What if at night-fall man may sometimes share 
 Some lonely barn, where owlets greet the moon ; 
 Soft may his slumbers be, and light his care, 
 The hand that gives can best secure the boon, 
 The holy incense of an hallowed prayer, 
 May call his guardian from among the blest ; 
 Angels, yes ! angels are not strangers there ! 
 The crib that cradled a more holy guest, 
 May shield the wanderer in the hour of rest. 
 
 m "2
 
 SONNET 
 
 TO A I\ IN F A N T 
 
 I. 
 
 Sleep baby, sleep, in thy cradle o' willow, 
 And soft as the eider-down, light be thy bed ; 
 While cherubs to lull thee descend on thy pillow, 
 And angels expand their white wings o'er thine head. 
 
 II. 
 
 Sleep baby, sleep, for in gentlest numbers, 
 Some hovering seraph shall hymn thee to rest ; 
 Then smile baby, smile, in thy innocent slumbers, 
 Permitted in visions to look on the blest.
 
 SONNET TO AN INFANT. 97 
 
 III. 
 
 Sleep baby, sleep, thou fair impress of heaven, 
 Unsullied with sin, and untouch'd by our woes ; 
 But little thy stain, and that little forgiven, 
 Since ransom'd by him who hath bless'd thy repose. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Sleep baby, sleep, and smile on in those visions 
 That roll o'er thine eyelids so tranquil and deep ; 
 Unmoved and aloof from life's stormy divisions, 
 Secure in thy willow-bed, sleep baby, sleep.
 
 THE WHITE DOVE OF EBOR. 
 
 I. 
 
 Here on this earth, though kept in mercy's eye, 
 
 In such relationship to woe we stand, 
 
 We note, to cloud our sunny dreams of joy, 
 
 The interference of an unseen hand ; 
 
 Then dash'd aside the hope once lifted high, 
 
 Full soon succeeding, unexpected grief, 
 
 And bootless tear, and unavailing sigh, 
 
 'Till heaven some angel, with that solace chief, 
 
 Commissions to administer relief.
 
 THE WHITE DOVE OF EBOR. 99 
 
 II. 
 
 Twas thus in Ebor, for to Ebor dear, 
 The fair abode of fairer hopes were seen, 
 These hopes went forth all in their bloom, but ne'er 
 Return'd t' enliven that once social scene; 
 'Twas then sad grief, 'twin sister of despair, 
 Sat unconsoled and mantled in its woe, 
 And o'er the many vacancies seen there, 
 Oft a long look of languishment would throw, 
 Then heave a sigh as sunk its spirits low. 
 
 III. 
 
 To calm of grief the inefficient wail, 
 'Twas kindly done, the ministers of heaven, 
 And Ebor gave what solace might avail, 
 To soothe the anguish felt in bosoms riven ; 
 But bootless all, grief spread its sable sail ; 
 Like some frail bark toss'd on the briny flood, 
 In murmuring gusts its sighs upon the gale, 
 Were often heard, until the great and good 
 Spoke in a voice the troubled understood.
 
 ] 00 T II R Will I R n < ) v E O F E B K . 
 
 IV. 
 
 With that bright beam that winged from heaven its way, 
 
 On holy mission, and with blessings fraught, 
 
 To cheer those bosoms with its kindlier ray, 
 
 And give a brighter, better, turn to thought ; 
 
 To that abode of mourning, day by day, 
 
 A white dove came, its fondness did not cease, 
 
 And at the casement oft and long would stay ; 
 
 Herald of hope ! and messenger of peace ! 
 
 It came, and stay'd, and sued not for release. 
 
 V. 
 
 Infinite wisdom ! written on the page 
 Of this blue universe, none may divine, 
 But boundless mercy, beaming through all age, 
 Is thine own blessing man, the duty thine 
 To read and reconcile, nor dare to wage 
 Unmeaning murmurs 'gainst the wise decree; 
 This in devotion might thy soul engage, 
 And thou may'st own upon thy bended knee, 
 This boundless boon extends to thine and thee.
 
 ODE TO AUTUMN. 
 
 I. 
 
 Of all the frail months in the fast fleeting year, 
 The verdant, the blooming, the hoary, and drear, 
 I love the sweet month of October the best, 
 So gravely impressive, so soberly chaste. 
 
 II. 
 
 The sunshine and shade softest visions unfold, 
 So mellow, deliciously tinctured with gold; 
 Though charmingly pencill'd the year's varying vest, 
 But Autumn's the softest, the loveliest, and best. 
 
 N
 
 102 ODE TO AUTUMN. 
 
 III. 
 
 1 watch with regret each fair tint and bright hue, 
 That shadow away like a shade from my view; 
 As joy into sorrow, they merge into grey, 
 Like man, who, to-morrow, may wither away. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The year's in her sere-leaf, now drooping and chill. 
 There's mist on the mountain, and dew on the hill; 
 While winds whistle shrill through leafless woods drear, 
 Where the yellow leaf rustles all shrivell'd and sere. 
 
 But these are not all, while my eye drinks up these, 
 There is something beside which ray soul only sees, 
 This truth she can read on each yellow leaf sere, 
 Mutation began, and mortality near.
 
 SONNET 
 
 TO THE W OODLARK, 
 
 Sing on sweet bird, thy plaintive strain 
 
 Of sadness seems to tell, 
 Thy mournful song, durst I complain, 
 
 Befits my feelings well. 
 
 II. 
 
 Thy plaintive airs consoling heard, 
 When adverse tempests scowl, 
 
 Is mellow to mine ear, sweet bird, 
 And soothing to my soul. 
 
 N 2
 
 104 SONNET TO THE WOODLARK, 
 
 111. 
 
 But say, sweet bird of modest worth, 
 
 If some sad grief is thine, 
 Or is it heaven that sends thee forth, 
 
 To sooth such woes as mine. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Perchance, 'tis both, our mingled cares 
 May need a soothing strain ; 
 
 Then warbler, tune thy plaintive airs, 
 I'd learn thy song full fain.
 
 STANZAS TO GOODNESS, 
 
 FOR A LADY'S ALBUM. 
 
 I. 
 
 Goodness, I woo thee in whatever form 
 Thou deign'st to come in, beautiful thou art! 
 Lovely in nature — chaste as thou art warm ! 
 But chief, when reigning in the human heart ; 
 Serenely seated, silencing each storm, 
 Upon thy white and unpolluted throne, 
 Steering from peril, free, and scathe, and harm, 
 The soul's fair helmsman, round thy head a zone, 
 A glory bland, peculiarly thy own.
 
 10(5 STANZAS TO GOODNESS. 
 
 II. 
 
 Fair as this spotless, and unwritten page, 
 Or vestal snow-flake, gem of hoary rime, 
 Ornature of youth, bright emerald of old age ; 
 A holy blaze lit up by the sublime; 
 The grace that cans't our angry thoughts assuage, 
 And sooth with airs of heavenly symphony; 
 Man's best companion in life's pilgrimage. 
 Goodness, I woo thee with a bended knee, 
 And fain would fondly twine myself with thee.
 
 EVENING TIDE. 
 
 I. 
 
 The moon rides high, and throws her sheen 
 
 On mountain, dell, and tow'r; 
 And nature's self with smiles serene, 
 
 Begilds the peaceful hour. 
 
 II. 
 
 The dove hath told her plaintive talc, 
 
 The owl begins to glide, 
 And sweetly sings the nightingale, 
 
 The song of evening tide.
 
 108 EVENING TIDE. 
 
 III. 
 
 The sun gone down the western hills, 
 Hath closed the toils of day ; 
 
 The sober scene that on me steals, 
 Awakes my simple lay. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The hinds have left the herded plains, 
 And thrown their cares aside ; 
 
 And rural nymphs, and rustic swains, 
 Enjoy the evening tide. 
 
 V. 
 
 Well met, the sire of sober age, 
 His hopeful offspring sees, 
 
 And turning o'er the hallow'd page, 
 Points out the paths of peace. 
 
 VI. 
 
 And silent is the peaceful vale, 
 And calm the mountain side, 
 
 When timely peals the curfew bell, 
 To close the evening tide.
 
 EVENING TIDE. 109 
 
 VII. 
 
 'Tis in that calm and tranquil hour, 
 
 The soul her vigil keeps ; 
 'Tis there a flood of thought she pours, 
 
 And then her solace reaps. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 I heed not if this heaving breast 
 
 With grief is sometimes try'd ; • 
 If bright my hopes of balmy rest, 
 
 In life's calm evening tide.
 
 M Y N A T I V JR HOME 
 
 1 would not leave my native plains, 
 My king, my country, and their cause, 
 For all that rich Peru contains, 
 Nor all the mighty Mogul knows. 
 The clear, dear spot, that gave me birth, 
 And those bright hopes of joys to come, 
 That prattle round my humble hearth, 
 Shall tie me to my native home.
 
 MY NATIVE HOME. HI 
 
 H. 
 
 My country ! first aflianc'd bride, 
 Whom years have wedded to my soul ; 
 I lov'd her in her summer pride, 
 And will do when her winters scowl : — 
 Then paint me not some clime serene, 
 Where pleasure bids me freely roam ; 
 Its spicy breath, and flow'ry scene, 
 Are nothing to my native home. 
 
 o 2
 
 SONNET 
 
 T () \ Y () I N G L A D Y. 
 
 I. 
 
 Believe me, fair Lady, ere thou art much older, 
 The world will look on thee a flow'r in its bloom ; 
 But Lady, beware of each wily beholder, 
 That grief may ne'er find in thy bosom a home. 
 
 II. 
 
 Believe me, fair Lady, thy minstrel hath told thee, 
 That all is not sterling that's flatt'ring and fair; 
 And let not, oh let not, the world ere behold thee 
 All reckless, unconsciously tread on the snare.
 
 SONNET TO A YOUNG LADY. 113 
 
 III. 
 
 Though lovely to look on, gay splendour will bring' thee 
 A life too much laden with sorrow and care; 
 A bee in thy bosom, fair Lady, would sting thee, 
 But let no such gossiping guests revel there. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The lily, fair semblance of beauty, all braided, 
 Is fair, but how brief is its pleasing perfume ; 
 The thorn may remain when the rose is all faded, 
 Then think not too much of the flow'r in its bloom. 
 
 'Tis sweet to be smil'd on, but Lady, believe me, 
 Sometimes a fair look's but the web of some wile ; 
 It may, or may not, either please or deceive thee, 
 So nearly allied is a tear to a smile. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Thy bosom, fair casket, where thought should abide in, 
 Let no vagrant eye there inquisitive roam ; 
 There's one, only one, thou can'st safely confide in, 
 Tor him let thv bosom be ever a home.
 
 THE WANDERER'S REQUIEM 
 
 [The melancholy catastrophe which occasioned this Poem, 
 occurred on the Evening of the 4th of February, 1831, during 
 a snow-fall on the bleak and solitary wilds of Black Nab, 
 near Haworth. Save a deficiency of mountain wildness, this 
 sad accident is almost the counterpart of that of Hellvellyn, 
 by Sir Walter Scott ; and of Fidelity, by Mr. Wordsworth. 
 In this, the Author has attempted to fall into the track of the 
 celebrated Baronet.] 
 
 I. 
 
 Alone on the top of yon dark frowning mountain, 
 The Oxen-Nab, seen in its wildness arryed ; 
 Aloof from all vestage of verdure or fountain, 
 That Cairn marks the spot where the wand'rer laid; — 
 Benighted and lost, the chill wintry-winds scowling, 
 Now shrill, and now hollow, his death-note was howling ; 
 The snow thickly drifting, his white shroud unrolling, 
 For ere he expired, his chill winding-sheet spread.
 
 THE WANDKIlF.li's REQUIEM. 116 
 
 II. 
 
 Not wilder, stern Heckla when frozen and fin , 
 
 Nor where that fair youth laid, a death-smitten lamh, 
 
 Where the wolf had her lair, and the eagle her eyrie, 
 
 The cloud-capt Hellvellyn, and Catchedicam ; 
 
 Than was the Black Nab, where the wild winds were 
 
 lashing, 
 And born on its red-wing, the red lightning flashing; 
 As struggled, bewilder'd, thro' icy pits crashing, 
 The fair child of nature — the cold earth his dam. 
 
 HI. 
 
 Beneath the deep drift as his steed lay extended, 
 With none but himself and his dog trembling by ; 
 As o'er him in sadness and sorrow he bended, 
 How sad must his heart have been — heavy his sigh ; 
 Hut oh ! how despairing, when all efforts thwarted, 
 The hist lingering hope of recovery departed; — 
 As stretched on the chill bosom'd snow, broken-hearted, 
 lb- laid himself down in its cold arms to die
 
 ]l(j THE WANDERER'S REQUIEM 
 
 IV. 
 
 So dear to his bosom his home was it never, 
 That beam'd with the last ray of hope on his mind ; 
 How poignant his anguish, when parted for ever 
 From all whom he loved as endearing and kind ; 
 Yet one better blessing might cheer the expiring, 
 That boon that is granted by earnest requiring, 
 When all of this earth is seen dimly retiring, 
 That boon might the sadly-lorn wanderer find. 
 
 How dismal that scene ! neither homestead nor haven, 
 Wherein the poor wanderer mighl peaceably die; 
 Too wild to be heard the sad shriek of the raven, 
 Save one faithful friend, his poor dog, nothing nigh ; 
 How bootless the wish of his friends then expressing, 
 How keen must his anguish have been, and distressing, 
 The cold icy finger of death on him pressing, 
 As burst from his sadly swoln heart the last sigh.
 
 T 1 1 I". W A N I) E H E R ' S R E o I 1 I". \I . 117 
 
 VI. 
 
 Upon the cold sheet of the mountain snow lying 1 , 
 
 The childjtkf misfortune look'd lovely in death ; 
 
 While round him the vultures were screaming and flvin». 
 
 His dog hovered o'er him devoting his breath ; 
 His dirge was the howl of that one faithful lover; 
 His requiem, the scream of the grey-winged plover; 
 The wild rites of nature, these obsequies over, 
 In peace rest the shade of that victim of scath. 
 
 VII. 
 
 That rudely-piled Cairn o'er the mountain-crest nodding, 
 As sacred memorial, may silently tell 
 The way-wearied hunter, the traveller plodding, 
 That rest at its foot, how the wanderer fell ; 
 The wild winds shall sigh there till nature dissemble, 
 The green rushes quiver, the heather-bells tremble ; 
 And gray mists shall hover, and dark clouds assemble, 
 Like mutes at the dirge, and like dole at the knell. 
 
 p
 
 E \ E N I N G ii E I. L S. 
 
 I. 
 
 The Evening Bells with mingling tones, 
 
 So mellow, sweet, and clear, 
 When done the toils, the good man owns, 
 
 'Tis holiday to hear; 
 One hour, at least, the evening tide, 
 
 The day diurnal tells, 
 And sweet that hour when moils aside, 
 
 Of pastoral life the rural pride, 
 When heard the Evening Bells.
 
 EVENING BELLS. 1 If) 
 
 11. 
 
 There's joy in yon melodious airs, 
 
 That come the soul to sooth, 
 There's pleasure in those hours of theirs, 
 
 That timely come to smooth ; 
 Enliven'd thus the sober scene, 
 
 Where tranquil quiet dwells, 
 When heard amid the calm serene, 
 
 Deep echo in her grotto green, 
 Chime to the Evening Bells. 
 
 III. 
 
 The sadness that beclouds the mind, 
 
 Like mists on mountains drear, 
 And drooping thoughts too low confin'd, 
 
 These soothing sounds can cheer ; 
 Sadness herself might sit and smile, 
 
 And catch the peal that swells, 
 To heavenly chimes that griefs beguile, 
 
 With sweet consoling thoughts, the while 
 She hearB the Evening Bells. 
 
 p 2
 
 I2Q I \ 1 ,\ IM, BELLS. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Just like life, the fitful sound 
 
 Now peals upon mine ear, 
 Now dies away in murmurs round, 
 
 Like sighs above the bier; — 
 Just like joy and sorrow, these 
 
 Soft airs and deepest swells, 
 Rising, failing, with the breeze, 
 
 Such sweet, such soothing symphonies, 
 (iive out the Evening Bells. 
 
 The livening Bells my rares control, 
 
 In these sequester'd hours, 
 And in mine ear, and on my soul, 
 
 A flood of music pours ; — 
 I'll leave the haunts the vain admire, 
 
 Where thoughtless pleasure dwells, 
 And wrapp'd in heaven's own holy fire. 
 
 I'll sit and hear (and never tire) 
 The soothing Evening Bells.
 
 EVENING BELLS 121 
 
 VI. 
 
 So let my few remaining sands 
 
 In tranquil quiet run ; 
 Enough ! if innocent these hands, 
 
 What else I miss or shun ; — 
 My soul when quenched these mortal fires, 
 
 Where sorrow never dwells, 
 May she but join the eternal choirs, 
 
 And heavenly airs, and holy lyres 
 Succeed the Evening Bells.
 
 THE BENEDKITE DAUGHTER. 
 
 i. 
 
 She had seen the gay world in its morning smiles, 
 
 In gaiety splendidly beaming ; 
 She had seen it again, the poor victim of wiles, 
 
 In its evening tears all streaming. 
 
 11. 
 
 She turn'd her to heaven and her orisons made, 
 When her guardian angel caught her, 
 
 And rescued the lovely, the destitute, maid, 
 The fair Benedicite daughter.
 
 THE BENEDICITE DAUGHTER. 123 
 
 III. 
 
 She hath put on her veil, she hath made her vows, 
 In vain the rude world may assault her ; 
 
 She hath virtuous sisters, and daily with those 
 Devoutly she kneels at the altar. 
 
 IV. 
 
 She is studying that chaste and holy life, 
 That her virgin-mother hath taught her; 
 
 She is chaste as the dew drops, unsullied with strife, 
 The fair Benedicite daughter. 
 
 V. 
 
 The beautiful vestals that kneel to the sun, 
 
 More zealous, but yet not devouter ; 
 (The sum of her earthly hopes but one, 
 The fair Benedicite daughter.) 
 
 VI. 
 
 To gather a boon in ghostly need, 
 
 Timely and oft besought her ; 
 Daily the sisters devoutly lead 
 
 The fair Benedicite daughter.
 
 MAGD A L E N E - 
 
 I. 
 
 Clad in her sable penitence, she seem'd 
 Lovelier to look upon, and sweeter far 
 Than when of softest dalliance she dream' d, 
 And reckless revel'd, a frail fallen star, 
 Timely reclaim'd in time to be rcdeem'd, 
 Farewell that glare that sat upon her charms, 
 Like some foul stain on jewel most esteetn'd ! 
 That holy fire which the chaste bosom warms, 
 Melted her soul, now amiable deem'd, 
 For in her eves an heavenly lustre beam'd.
 
 MAGDALENE. 125 
 
 II. 
 
 Prostrate she fell before her injured lord, 
 And bathed his feet in penitential tears ; 
 She sigh'd, and wept, then worshipp'd and adored, 
 Till like sweet music whispering in her ears, 
 She heard a voice that bid her be restored; 
 Thus did she come, and go, and come again, 
 Hearing forgiveness from th' eternal word ; 
 Heaven suffered for her, and she soothed its pain, 
 And bent, and kneel'd, and fervently implored, 
 And grateful thus her holy unction poured. 
 
 III. 
 The world grew dull to her — its lures and wiles 
 
 No longer luring were, nor sought, nor given, 
 And its soft blandishments and artful smiles, 
 With soul half-raptured, but to be half-riven ; 
 All this, the phantom that at best beguiles, 
 No longer known to her, for she had striven, 
 And striven well, to think of them no more, 
 Save in her sorrowing penitence when shriven, 
 She had set foot upon a better shore, 
 Nor looked she back like one inconstant driven, 
 
 But kept her eye devoutly fixed on heaven. 
 
 Q
 
 THERESA'S ODE TO THE MOON. 
 
 I. 
 
 Lady of the dark deep blue, 
 O'er the high Sierra beaming - , 
 
 Shedding beams of silvery hue, 
 On the Gaudalete teeming. 
 
 II. 
 
 Lady-Moon, thy tranquil hours 
 Full often woo me forth to wander 
 
 'Neath the shade of myrtle bow'rs, 
 
 Where these noiseless streams meander.
 
 Theresa's ode to the moon. 127 
 
 III. 
 
 Could I wing my way with thee, 
 
 Then, perchance, I might discover 
 (Where the Galleys track the sea,) 
 
 Alonzo, my affianc'd lover ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 What to me Alharabra's towers ! 
 
 Where the vain to please are panting ; 
 Dungeon-cells and gloomy hours, 
 
 If my galley-slave is wanting. 
 
 V. 
 
 No more I hear his light guitar, 
 
 Beneath my window serenading, 
 As when my casement stood a-jar, 
 
 I listen' d to his sweet upbraiding. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Alonzo loved, it was not lost ; 
 
 He knew it, and his love grew stronger ; 
 But cruel fate, that love was cross'd, 
 That lives, though we must meet no longer. 
 Q 2
 
 I*2fi Theresa's ode to tiif. moon. 
 
 VII. 
 
 'Tis mine to pine where pleasures smile, 
 Round which my heart no more can rally ; 
 
 'Tis his to stoop to slavery vile, 
 To sigh to me and tug the galley. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Lady-Moon, the thought is sweet, 
 Though sever'd and assunder driven, 
 
 In thee our longing looks may meet, 
 As do our orisons in heaven.
 
 ODE TO FAITH 
 
 I. 
 
 Come meek eyed faith, bright apostolic guest ! 
 Mantled in thy divinity, descend ; 
 Thou that dost keep the armory of the blest, 
 Daughter of heaven ! thine aid and succour lend ; 
 Give me thy buckler, buckled to my breast, 
 Cas'd in that bright invulnerable mail, 
 Secure and proof to all assaults I'll rest; 
 Though principalities and powers assail, 
 Thine holy armour must o'er these prevail.
 
 130 ODE TO FAITH. 
 
 II. 
 
 Thou heaven-bora faith, with victory on thy wing, 
 Thou best can'st waft me o'er life's troubled sea; 
 From peril safe, where fallen angels sing, 
 Charmers that charm, but not enough for thee ; — 
 Then to thy standard let me safely cling, 
 The storm may rage, it shall not overwhelm ; 
 Earth take thy due, to thee thy own I fling, 
 Whilst thou fair faith, my pilot at the helm, 
 Shall steer my bark to a more peaceful realm !
 
 ODE TO HOPE 
 
 Celestial light ! thy rays shot forth, 
 Pervade the gloomy shades of earth ; 
 Let darkness dim this mortal fire, 
 And quench each earthly vain desire ; 
 Enough ! thou hallow'd light, if thou 
 Throw thy rich halo o'er my brow, 
 And burn within my bosom bright, 
 A sacred lamp of holy light. 
 White be thy beams, and bright, and fair, 
 As the chaste eyes of angels are, 
 Fairer than sun, or moon, or stars, 
 That glitter in their a/ure cars; 
 These might have paled before a scene 
 Where guilt and crime have long been seen. 
 Lamp of the blest, my path illume, 
 And let the world increase its gloom ;
 
 [32 ODE TO HOPE. 
 
 Whilst in this mortal wildernes, 
 
 Beam in my bosom's deep recess ; 
 
 The bright warm cloud that guides my way, 
 
 Through the sad turmoils of the day, 
 
 And nightly shine, and ne'er expire, 
 
 The pillar of eternal fire. 
 
 Shine on, bright hope, while tempests scowl, 
 
 And lend thy guidance to my soul, 
 
 Beaming through rents (by sorrow riven) 
 
 Warm with divinity from heaven. 
 
 A pilgrim on life's pilgrimage, 
 
 Grown hoar in crime if not in age, 
 
 Oh let me share thy brighter scope, 
 
 And lean upon thine anchor, Hope ! 
 
 Thou who the pilgrim's path reveals, 
 
 Standing upon th' eternal hills, 
 
 A beacon bright, whose beck'nings bless, 
 
 With warm assurance of success; 
 
 Through all my moils, with trouble rife, 
 
 The dark entanglement of life; 
 
 Throw, heavenly Hope, thy radiance far, 
 
 And thou shall be my polar star.
 
 ODE TO CHARITY 
 
 I. 
 
 Come thou of heavenly origin ! bright guest ! 
 Thou who sometimes dost make thy brief abode 
 In the frail lodgment of the human breast, 
 And points our nature out a better road; — 
 Heaven's holy Almoner ! what if possess'd 
 Of treasures inexhaustible and rich ! 
 I still am poor ! am nothing ! and unblest, 
 Save that I practise what thou best might teach, 
 And what without thee I must never reach. 
 
 R
 
 134 ODE TO CHARITY. 
 
 II. 
 
 Teach me, thou handmaid of the blest, to use 
 The little talent of a gracious loan ; 
 Shall want entreat, and nature still refuse? 
 Flesh of my flesh, and bone too of my bone, 
 These too are heaven's, the common good diffuse, 
 It hath its recompense, but teach me more, 
 For oh, the lender may not this excuse ! 
 Then for thy precepts, this must be my lore, 
 Or bootless knowledge, yet in knowledge poor.
 
 b l: still 
 
 i. 
 
 Be still ! for our thoughts are unfolded to view, 
 
 Let the eye and the ear be all heed, 
 
 And calm as a zephyr, and chaste as the dew, 
 
 In thought, and in word, and in deed; 
 
 And let not the air with our revels be riven, 
 
 Be still, for they hear us, and see us in heaven. 
 
 II. 
 
 Be still ! for, perchance, from the land of the blest, 
 With ministering shades soaring forth, 
 The souls of our friends gone before us to rest, 
 May sometimes have leave to re-visit this earth, 
 May look on ench kindred survivor that's here ; 
 Be still then, perchance, they are hovering near. 
 
 r 2
 
 I'W BE SI ILL. 
 
 111. 
 
 lie still ! the dark vault of the lowly laid dead, 
 
 Where the spectre is said to be seen, 
 
 Has nothing about it more fearful or dread, 
 
 Than the princely superb, or the gravely serene ; 
 
 A spirit is there too, 'tis fluttering about — 
 
 It is hearkening the whisper, and watching the thought. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Be still ! and the fond, and vain notion suppress, 
 
 The thought of ambition and show ; 
 
 'Tis the moonshiue attire, and the specious address, 
 
 Of hypocrisy's self, 'tis our nature's worst foe; 
 
 Its pitiful show and its broken rest, 
 
 Is the gloom of the damn'd, to the light of the blest. 
 
 V. 
 
 Be still, at the most let us measure our mirth, 
 
 Nor fill up that measure too fast; 
 
 That the mind in its retrospect view looking forth, 
 
 May find an agreeable, beautiful past ; 
 
 The day should appear to the evening all bright, 
 
 And the morn should look back with a smile on the night.
 
 ODE TO THE OCEAN. 
 
 I. 
 
 Thy bosom unbared, that rolls on in commotion, 
 And open to vision thy dark heaving' breast ; 
 What might we behold in thy womb mighty ocean, 
 What mortals ne'er witness'd, nor language express'd ! 
 Beneath the huge waves to the moon madly heaving, 
 Like sighs from th' abyss that beholds no retrieving, 
 A charnel-house vas f , where the dead and the living" 
 Are rolling about in that horrible waste !
 
 138 ODE TO THE OCEAN. 
 
 II. 
 
 'Tis there the sad remnant of manhood and heauty, 
 Liebleach'd and dismember' d, 'mid sea-weed and slime, 
 IJnshrouded and reft of the last pious duty, 
 Consign'd to this vast dark sepulchre of time ; 
 There lie on the hard-beaten floor of the ocean, 
 The sum of the sad-sunken wreck of commotion, 
 Enough that might turn the hard heart to devotion, 
 The awfully grand ! an assemblage sublime ! 
 
 III. 
 
 Around the black rocks where the soa-weed is dripping, 
 The dark and dank foliage that floats in the deep, 
 There are the crab and the lobster-tribes creeping, 
 And fastening on frailty in untimely sleep ; — 
 'Midst pearls and corals, rich mines for the lover! 
 In goggle-eyed greediness sea-monsters hover, 
 To dart on what man might not wish to discover, 
 "What nature recoiling and shuddering might weep.
 
 ODE- TO THE OCEAN. 139 
 
 IV. 
 
 Around the green caves (there the shell tribes are roll- 
 ing) 
 Dark halls, where the mermaids and dolphins perform, 
 The song of the gorgons, there listening and scowling, 
 The ominous prelude of tempest and storm ; 
 Whilst in their dark orgies the sea-monsters dancing, 
 Black porpuses tumbling and walruses prancing, 
 Their eyes on the deep troubled caldron glancing, 
 That boils in the madness of fury and form. 
 
 V. 
 
 And coil'd like a cable, all basking and sporting, 
 The sea-serpent hid in its folds, head and tail; 
 And light o'er the sand-banks the sea-horses snorting, 
 And shaking their manes o'er (heir thick coats of mail. 
 Vast shoals, like a fleet, on their finny oars lying, 
 Whilst sea-gulls and herons are screaming and flying, 
 Then pounce on the straggler they long have been eyeing, 
 A nd beak him despite his thick armour of scale.
 
 140 ODE TO THE OCF.AN. 
 
 VI. 
 
 But chief, where this dark womb of wonders is teeming 1 , 
 A black sea-bank seen on thy bosom of green, 
 There stretch'd in the pride of his majesty dreaming, 
 That monarch of monsters, the crakene is seen ; 
 And round him the whales, sturdy lords of the ocean, 
 Gulp down their huge goblets of brim, brackish potion, 
 Then flap their black fins like the wings of commotion. 
 And blowing, spout froth to the azure serene. 
 
 VII. 
 
 But note we, of man's blighted hopes a sad token, 
 For luxury fashion'd, for use and for ease, 
 All squander'd — the fragments of furniture broken, 
 How rusted, how canker'd the polish of these ! 
 Were these not enough for that vortex to swallow, 
 That yawn'd for dark hecatombs, dismal and hollow ? 
 Ah no ! it were fated, their owners must follow, 
 Who, frantic, went down, the red wrath to appease !
 
 ODK TO THE OCEAN. 141 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And there one might see, sadly stript of their glory, 
 What fury of faction, and tempest might mar, 
 Huge hulks of the past which have figur'd in story, 
 Have sported in traffic, and thunder' d in war; 
 No more on thy bosom seen riding or anchor'd, 
 AVhere sharks and where pilot-fish greedily hanker'd, 
 All mute as thy womb, for their cannon lies canker'd. 
 The pride of the world that were bound from afar. 
 
 IX. 
 
 No more from their port-holes the heavy shot starting, 
 All still enough now, as they rot and decay ! 
 But fast, in and out, there, the fishes are darting, 
 That flounce round their hulks in their frolic and play: 
 That windowless cabin and carpetless flooring, 
 Is free from (of mirth and loud laughter) the roaring, 
 But there lie the sea-monsters sleeping and snoring, 
 So alter'd what once were so splendid and gay !
 
 ]42 ODE TO THE OCEAN. 
 
 X. 
 
 But soft ! mighty ocean, that hour is approaching, 
 Whose dawn shall unbosom the green sea and red ; 
 Then shall thy proud waves be no longer encroaching, 
 Tor thou shalt recoil o'er thy death-smitten bed. 
 'Midst of rocks— the deep rending— of lightning— the 
 
 flashes — 
 Of tombs, and of sepulchres opening— the crashes — 
 At the last, loud, and triumphant gathering of ashes, 
 Thou sea, shalt disgorge and shalt give up thy dead 
 
 i
 
 THE SNOW-WREATH. 
 
 I. 
 
 I saw that white speck on the brow of the mountain, 
 The last ling'ring snow-wreath, a beautiful one ! 
 It glistened like drops o'er the jet of the fountain, 
 That frolic and sport in the blaze of the sun ; 
 Dissolved in its beauty I looked there anon, 
 And green was the spot, but the snow-wreath was gone. 
 
 II. 
 
 Ah nature ! how gently thou touchest the soul ! 
 Reminding of frailty, of life, and its duty, 
 On brows that were fair, as their canker was f ul; 
 I too have beheld the white snow-wreath of beauty, 
 Have seen it dissolve like the gush of a tear, 
 And looked till its beauty no longer was there.
 
 144 THE SNOW-WREATH. 
 
 III. 
 
 I saw the green spot where the snow-wreath had 
 
 wasted 
 And melted, to mingle with drops more refined, 
 And sweet was the unsullied pleasure I tasted, 
 From that bright reflection that beam'd on my mind ; 
 It came, the dark tide of regret to control, 
 And burst, like the visions of hope, on my soul. 
 
 ERRATA. 
 
 Page 14, line 8, note : for ruples, read ducats. 
 28, line 6 : for friendly, read fiendly. 
 — line 20 : for bow, read vow. 
 41, line 2 : for sought respite read respite sought. 
 101, line 1 : for frail, read brief. 
 
 C. CRABTREE, PRINTER, CHANGE-GATE, KEIGHLEY.
 
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