UC-NRLF SB ISfl MM? THE POETICAL AUH7M ; REGISTER Jfugtttoe BY AL.ARIC A. WATTS. See I have culled the flower that promised best, And where iiot sure perplexed, but pleased I guessed At such as seemed the fairest. BYRON. BOSTON: WELLS AND LILLY, COURT-STREET. 1828. 111? PREFACE. THE present collection will be found to contain a very large proportion of the most beautiful fugitive poetry of the day ; se- lected from a great variety of sources. It differs in the plan of its arrangement from other volumes of the same class, which have preceded it ; inasmuch, as every poem is scrupulously referred to the work from which it has been derived. PREFACE. The delay, which has occurred in the publication of the Poetical Album (it hav- ing been printed nearly four years) has con- duced to defeat more than one of the ob- jects contemplated by its Editor. It was originally proposed by him, that no poem should be transplanted into its pages, which had either appeared, or was likely to ap- pear among the collected works of its Author. He had also intended that a con- siderable portion of its contents should have been original. Since it was prepar- ed for the press, however, most of the then unpublished articles have from time to time crept into print, and it can now mere- ly claim to be regarded as a selection of the fugitive gems of our modern poetical lite- rature. Some few of the pieces have also been republished by their authors ; but of PREFACE. these the number is very insignificant. The greater part have never before appear- ed in any collected form, and (considering how often good poetry is overlooked in the columns of magazines and newspapers) may be pronounced, to apply Mr. Cole- ridge's phrase, " almost as good as manu- script." The work has been printed in a small, though clear type, with a view to compres- sion ; and will be found to contain a much larger quantity of matter, than any other collection of the kind. Those who may look for fugitive poetry of merit, of a late date, will be pleased to remember, that nearly the whole of the book was committed to the press as early as 1824. Why it was not published in A* VI PREFACE. 1826, the assignees of the estate of Messrs. Hurst, Robinson and Co., in whose pos- session it has remained, can best explain. A second series of the Poetical Album, comprising some of the best fugitive poe- try, which has appeared from 1823 to the present time, is now preparing for publica- tion, uniform with the present volume. CONTENTS. PAGE PREFACE . . . . . . iii Sketches taken from Dover Castle during a Storm. By William Read, Esq. : 1. The Coming on of the Storm . 1 2. The Progress of the Storm . 4 3. The East Indiatnan . . 7 4. The Morning after the Storm . 14 Sonnet on Parting with his Books. By William Roscoe, Esq. . . . .17 The Artist's Studio. By L. E. L. . . 17 Sonnet. By the Rev. W. Lisle Bowles . . 22 To Mont Blanc . . 22 Ode, written for Recitation at the Farewell Dinner in Honour of John Kemble, Esq. By Thomas Campbell, Esq. . . . .25 The Last Tear ... 28 Address to the Alabaster Sarcophagus deposited in the British Museum. By Horace Smith, Esq. . . . . .28 To the Dying Year . . .31 The Last Day. By William Beckford, Esq. . 40 The Hall of Eblis. By Barry Cornwall . 36 A Reflection . . . .40 Stanzas written in the Church-yard of Richmond in Yorkshire. By Herbert Knowles. . 38 Epitaph on an Idiot Girl . . .95 The Mossy Seat. By D. M. Moir, Esq. . 41 Sonnet. By William Wordsworth, Esq. . 42 A Farewell to England. By Joseph Ritchie, Esq. 43 The Exchange. By S. T. Coleridge, Esq. . 44 On Painting. By Thomas Campbell, Esq. . 45 Night. By James Montgomery, Esq. . 47 From the Arabic . . . .48 Ode to France. By Lord Byron . . 4i) Mil CONTENTS. PACE A Fragment. By L. E. L. . .51 The Parting. By the Rev. George Croly . 52 Hero and Leander. By L. E. L. . . 54 Lines written on the Field of Waterloo . 58 A Farewell. By Lord Byron . . CO {Stanzas addressed to a Lady on reading Romeo and Juliet. From the German . 61 To the Spirit of Poesy. By J. S. Clarke, Esq. . (>3 Evening. By the Rev. George Croly . 65 The Kitten. By Joanna Baillie . . 66 Song. By William Smith, Esq. . . 69 To the Rainbow. By Thomas Campbell, Esq. . 70 Comparison . . . .71 Sappho. By L. E. L. . . . 72 Sappho's Song. By L. E. L. . . 74 The Egyptian Tomb. By the Rev. W. Lisle Bowles 75 Stanzas . . . .76 Helvellyn. By Barry Cornwall . . 77 Inscription for a Village Spring . . 78 My Brother's Grave. By the Rev. J. Moultrie . 79 On the Receipt of a Letter. By the Rev. George Crab be . . . .84 On a Child Playing. By Thomas Doubleday, Esq. 85 On an old Engraving of a Nun . . 86 Lord Byron's latest Verses . .87 Sappho. By the Rev. George Croly . . 88 Lines written on a first View of Fonthill Abbey. By the Rev. W. Lisle Bowles . . 89 A Sketch. By L. E. L. . . . 90 Reproach me not . . . .92 From Anacreon . . .93 The Burial of Sir John Moore. By the Rev. Charles Wolfe. ... 94 Virgil's Tomb. By the Rev. George Croly . 95 The Moslem Bridal Song. By the Rev. George Croly . . . .96 Thermopylae. By Lord Byron . . 97 Belshazzar. By the Rev. George Croly . -08 Withered Violets. By William Read, Esq. . 99 CONTENTS. IX PA OR The Dead Sea. By the Rev. George Croly . 100 Song, written for an Indian Air. By Percy Bysshe Shelley ... 101 Stanzas written on the back of a Letter. By Is- mael Fitzadam . . . 102 A Drinking Song. By Lord Byron . 104 Epitaph on Joseph Atkinson, Esq. By Thomas Moore, Esq. .... 105 A Recollection. By John Malcolm, Esq. . 100 Inscription for a Bust of Tasso, from the Italian of Matthias. By the Venerable the Archdea- con Wrangham .... 107 Richmond Hill . . .108 A Sketch. By L. E. L. . . . ]09 The Tournament . . .110 Epitaph . . . . .112 The Treasures of the Deep. By Mrs. Hemans 113 Magdalena. By II. A. Driver, Esq. . 114 Rosalia. A Poetical Sketch. By L. E. L. .115 The Village Church. By the Kev. J. W. Cunning- ham .... 116 Address to the Egyptian Mummy exhibited in Bel- zoni's Exhibition. By Horace Smith, Esq. 119 The Forsaken Heart . . .121 Gypsies. By the Rev. J. Beresford . 122 Impromptu. By the Rev. C. C. Coltori . 123 Jemima, Rose and Eleanore. By Thomas Camp- bell, Esq. . . . .124 Love's Philosophy. By Percy Bysshe Shelley 125 The Storm . . .126 Lines on leaving Landogo, a Village on the Banks of the Wye . . . .128 Stanzas written on the Anniversary of the Birth- day of Robert Burns. By James Montgome- ry, Esq. .... 129 Epitaph on an Infant. By S. T. Coleridge, Esq. 130 Mary's Mount. By D. M. Moir, Esq. . 131 Bellutor Moriens. By the Rev. George Croly . 133 The Spirit of Poesy . . .134 CONTENTS. . . . . .135 A < Mmrrh-yard Scene. By Professor Wilson 136 A Grecian Eden. Bv Percy Bysshe Shelley . 138 Ton Child. By Miss Baillie . . 139 Viola. A Fragment . . . 140 To the Ivy. By Mrs. Hemans . 141 The Return from India . . . 143 Son-. By L. E. L. . . 144 To the Planet Jupiter. By the Rev. George Croly 145 Stanzas on receiving from Dr. Rush of Philadel- phia, a piece of the Tree under which Wil- liam Penn signed his Treaty with the Indians, converted to the purposes of an Inkstand. By William Roscoe, Esq. . . 146 Lines on a Skull . . . 147 The Ground-Swell. By N. T. Carrington . 148 Mirkwood-Mere. By Sir Walter Scott . 149 A Prayer. By William Beckford, Esq. . . 150 The Contrast. Written under Windsor Terrace, 17th February 1820. By Horace Smith, Esq. 151 Fragment . . . 152 Ballad. By Thomas Pringle, Esq. . . 153 Lines written under the Hebe of Canova . 154 The Past. By Professor Wilson . . 155 Stanzas. By the Rev. J. Moultrie . 156 An Arabian Song. By Barry Cornwall . 158 A Portrait from Real Life . . 159 Kl Hypocondriaco. By the Rev. George Croly 160 Written at Spithead. By the Rev. George Croly 161 A Night Storm among the Mountains of Snowdon 162 Sonnet composed on the Sea Coast. By S. T. Cole- ridge, Esq. . . . .164 A Country Wedding . . . 165 Sonnet to Ailsa Rock. By John Keats . 166 To a Girl Thirteen Years of Age . .167 Love. By Robert Southey, Esq., Poet Laureate . 169 To a Sister. By W. Read, Esq. . . 169 To Louisa .... 170 The Painter. By L. E. L. . . 171 CONTENTS. XI PACK Ten Years Ago. By Alaric A. Watts . .175 Lines sent with an flour Glass to a Lady on New Year's Day. By Miss M. J. Jcwsbury . 177 The Covenanter's Heather Bed. By D. M. Moir, Esq. . . . . .178 Love .... 179 Stanzas written by the Sea Shore. By Miss M. J. Jewsbury .... Impromptu to Lady Holland, on Napoleon's Lega- cy of a Snuff" Box. By Thomas Moore, Esq. 181 The Dying Poet's Farewell . . .182 Imitation of a Greek Epigram The Dead Bird . . . .184 Sonnet, written in the Woods of Bolton Abbey. By Barry Cornwall . . .185 The Last" Man. By Thomas Campbell, Esq. The Genius of Spain. By Lord Holland A Farewell. By Ismael Fitzadam . 189 Lines written among the Ruins of Ampthill Park. By J. H. Wiffen, Esq. . .190 Spanish Romance. By the Rev. George Croly . 191 The Vision. By D. M. Moir, Esq. . *. 192 The Michaelmas-Daisy . . . 11)3 Stanzas written beneath a Picture. By Alaric A. Watts . . . .194 The Happy Isle. By L. E. L. The Falling Leaf. By James Montgomery, Esq. 198 Song. By Josiah Conder, Esq. . . 199 To Lady Holland, on the Snuff' Box bequeathed to her by Bonaparte. By the Earl of Carlisle 200 Sonnet on the Death of the Poet Keats . . 201 A Farewell .... 202 Palmyra. By John Malcolm, Esq. . . 203 Impromptu, on the Blindness of Milton . 204 Dreams . . . . .205 The Charm. From the Spanish . . 206 Stanzas ..... 207 Evening Thoughts . . . 2)8 The Northern Star . 210 Xll CONTENTS. PAOE The Incognita . . . .211 To a Butterfly resting on a Skull. By Mrs. He- inans . . . .212 Where is He ? By Henry Necle, Esq. . . 213 The War of the League . . . 214 Stanzas. By Lord Byron . . . 216 Reconcilement .... 217 The Lot of Thousands. By Mrs. John Hunter . 218 Comparison. By R. B. Sheridan, Esq. . ib. A Poetical Sketch . . . .219 Sunset Thoughts. By D. M. Moir, Esq. . 221 There is a Tongue in every Leaf. By Miss Bowles, Author of "Solitary Hours" . . 222 From the Arabic .... 223 Stanzas. By Lord Byron . . 224 Music. By L. E. L. . . . 225 Sonnet on Contemplating the Miniature of a De- ceased Friend .... 226 Youth. By Miss M. J. Jcwsbury . . 227 A Farewell .... 228 Duty and Pleasure. By Mrs. Piozzi . 229 Ellen, a Fragment. By L. E. L. . . 230 Song of a German Troubadour. Translated by William Roscoe, Esq. . . . 232 The Bachelor's Dream . . . 233 Time's Swiftness. By the Hon. W. Spencer . 234 Lines written beneath the Bust of Shakspeare. By Henry Neele, Esq. . . . 235 Sonnet. By Charles Lamb . . 236 The Daisy in India. By James Montgomery, Esq. 237 Silent Love .... 238 The Cross of the South. By Mrs. Hemans . 239 Impromptu, with a White Rose . . 240 Stanzas. By J. H. Reynolds, Esq. . . 241 Epitaph . . . .242 The Banks of the Esk. By J. Richardson, Esq. . 243 Things to Come. By the Rev. George Croly 244 Night. By E. Elliott, Esq. . . .246 To his Daughter. By Horace Smith, Esq. . 247 Stanzas . . . 248 CONTENTS. Xlll PAGE Stanzas. By Barry Cornwall 249 On an Ivy Leaf brought from the Tomb of Virgil. By Mrs. Hemans . . .250 The Sigh. By S. T. Coleridge, Esq. . . 251 The Fountain. By Samuel Rogers, Esq. . 252 The Bird of Passage . 253 Lines suggested by a Portrait of the unfortunate Queen of France, taken on the last Examina- tion previous to her Execution. By Mrs. Hodg- son (formerly Miss Holford). . . 254 Sonnet . . . .255 Stanzas to an Old Friend. By Thomas Double- day, Esq. .... 256 An Arabian Song. By Mrs. Hemans . . 258 A Persian Precept. By Herbert Knowles . 259 Song of the Zephyrs ' .260 Stanzas on Burning a Packet of Letters . 261 Melancholy. By D. M. Moir, Esq. . . 262 The Passage through the Desert. By John Mal- colm, Esq. .... 263 From Plato. By Thomas Moore, Esq. . 268 The Broken Heart . . . .269 To a Dying Infant. By Miss Bowles . 271 From the Greek of Julian . . .274 To Helen .... 275 Song . . . . .276 Lines suggested by the Sight of some late Autumn Flowers. By Miss Bowles . . 277 To the Memory of the Poet Cowper. By Mrs. John Hunter . . . .278 Stanzas on the Loss of His Majesty's Ship, Saldan- hah. By Thomas Sheridan, Esq. . . 279 An Apologue. By Thomas Gaspcy, Esq. . 281 Epigram . . . ... 282 The Ship. By John Malcolm, Esq. . 283 Love : in Five Sonnets. By Ismael Fitzadam . 284 Stanzas for Music. By James Montgomery, Esq. 286 Lines written on the Platform, at fierne. By Miss Porden . 287 XIV CONTENTS. PAGE The Spartan's March. By Mrs. Hemans . 289 Song. By L. E. L. . . . 290 Lines on a Portrait, supposed to be that of Nell Gwyn. By Sir Peter Lely, in the possession of R. Cracroft, Esq. By Alaric A. Watts . 291 To Jessy. By Lord Byron . . 293 The Nymph of the Stream. By Mrs. John Hunter 294 Italy. A Fragment . . . 295 Lines written in the Bay of Naples. By Percy Bys- she Shelley . . .296 Inscription for a Grotto near a Deep Stream . 297 The Contrast. By L. E. L. . . 298 Song. By L. E. L. . . . .299 The^Sleeping Child. In two Sonnets . 300 Stanzas. By the Hon. St. George Tucker .301 The Merry Heart. By the Rev. H. H. Milman 302 Song. By Thomas Moore, Esq. . . 303 The Return. By L. E. L. . . 304 Parting. By Ismael Fitzadam . . 306 The Battle of Roslin. By D. M. Moir, Esq. . 307 Epitaph on Cowper. By Leigh Hunt . . 309 The Pythoness. By L. E. L. . . 310 The Winter Rose . . . .311 The Drinking Song of Munich. By Thomas Camp- bell, Esq. . . .312 Lines written beneath the Head of Tyrtaeus. By L. E. L. . . . . 313 Balak and Balaam . . .314 The Eye . . . . . 316 The Cup of Circe . . . 317 Lines written in an Album. By Walter Paterson, Esq 318 Amor Patriae ..... 319 The White Horse of Wharfdale 320 On a Time-Piece ornamented with a Bust of Thom- son . " . . .322 Consolation to a Friend on the Loss of his Child 323 Melrose Abbey .... 324 Marius among the Ruins of Carthage . 325 CONTENTS. XV PAGE Love's Last Words. By L. E. L. . 328 Erato. From a Painting, by T. Stothard, R.A. By L. E. L. . . . .329 Comparison. By Mrs. John Hunter . 330 The Caves of Yorkshire. By William Wordsworth, Esq. In Three Sonnets . . . 331 Fragment. By L. E. L. . . . 332 He never Smiled Again ! By Mrs. Hemans Stanzas. By Lord "Byron . . . 334 Dervvent-Water and Skiddaw. By Barry Cornwall 335 Stanzas for Music. By L. E. L. . 337 Stanzas . . . . .338 Epitaph .... 339 To the Moon. By Jane Taylor . . 340 On the Royal Infant, still-born, Nov. 6, 1817. By James Montgomery, Esq. . . 341 The Pluvian Jupiter. From a Picture, by Gandy. By Barry Cornwall . . .342 Greece . . . .343 Love . . 345 The Beech Tree's Petition. By Thomas Camp- bell, Esq. . . . .346 Elegy. By Charles A. Elton, Esq. . 347 Time . . . . .348 Song. By Henry Neele, Esq. . 349 Stanzas written in a Highland Glen. By Profes- sor Wilson . . . .350 Celano. By L. E. L. . . 351 The Flower of Malhamdale . . .352 Ballad. By Mrs. C. B. Wilson . . 353 A Byronian Gem .... 354 Awake rny Love. By Allan Cunningham . 355 The Pirate's Cave. By L. E. L. . . 356 The First Tear. By the Rev. R. Polwhele 357 The Widowed Mother. By Professor Wilson 358 Stanzas. By Barry Cornwall . . . 359 Lines written by the Sea Side. By William Jer- ri an, Esq. . . . 360 Comparison .... 362 Xvi CONTENTS. PACK On a New-made Grave, near Bolton Priory 363 To Ida. By D. M. Moir, Esq. . . 365 The Moss Rose. From the German . 367 Time arresting the Career of Pleasure. By L. E. L. 368 The Spanish Maiden's Farewell. By Matilda Be- th am . . . .369 The Cairngorm .... 370 The Poet. By L. E. L. . . . 371 The Memory of Ida. By D. M. Moir, Esq. Fragment. By L. E. L. . . . 374 Lines on leaving a Scene in Bavaria. By Thomas Campbell, Esq. . . 376 The Hour-Glass . . .380 The Marriage of Peleus and Thetis. By Barry Corn wail . . . .381 Moonlight . . . .385 Stanzas to a Lady. By T. K. Hervey, Esq. 387 Memory. By W. Leggett, Esq. Napoleon Moribundus . . . 390 Notes . . 391 THE POETICAL ALBUM. SKETCHES TAKEN FROM DOVER CASTLE DURING A STOP.M* BY WILLIAM READ, I. THE COMING ON OF THE STORM. Threescore and ten I can remember \vcil, "Within the volume of v.hir'n tJM< Hours dreadful, and thin:;:- sore nigjit Hath trifled former knowing*. MACBETH. THE sun went down in splendour ; as lie went, A crimson glory streaked the Occident. Lingering like hope ; the clouds were floating, bright As ruby islands in a sett of light; - Awhile they wore all hues then wavering 1 , weak. Waned like the blush that warms a virgin's cheek, Till all were lost. Then Twilight drexv her hood, Dropped with pale stars ; and scowling Darkness stood, Like a dim spectre, on the eastern hill, Vestured in clouds, and lingering there until His hour was come. Then sobbing gusts plained by ; The vexed wave flung its silver crest on high ; The sea-gull shrieked on rapid-wheeling wing ; The steed pricked up his ear, as hearkening Z THE POETICAL ALBUM. To far, far sounds neighed, started, tossed his head, Then bounding off, gazed fierce and spirited ; The watch-dog bayed ; the patient steer drew nigh There was a calm petition in his eye ; Unsocial birds forsook the wild woods far And pecked and fluttered at the lattice bar: Nought breathed untroubled. Hark ! the ruffian squalls Rock to their base those bastion-circled walls., Whose towery crown, by time or siege unbowed, Frowns on the deep, and stays the passing cloud. How baleful dark ! though scarce an hour be gone Since, through the bright-edged rack that hurried on, The Moon looked out unsullied : while I gazed, Athwart her path the vivid meteor blazed; And, as that herald of the brooding gale Winged noiseless on, her crescent brow waxed pale: She heard the rebel deep disown her sway, And, like offended Beauty, turned away. Then swooped the winds that hurl the giant oak From Snowdon's altitude ; the thunder broke In deep, percussive, peals so near, that earth Shook as it threatened a volcano's birth ; And while the angled lightning quivered by (Like types of a celestial tongue) the eye Recoiled within itself oppressed and awed As though it saw the written wrath of God Gleam on the black and cloud-leafed book of night, In letters of unutterable light! It seemed as Ocean, weary of repose, With all his storms, in bold rebellion rose, To bow that Flag, obeyed where'er it veers, Which braved their fury for a thousand years ! Yet, Ocean ! thou hast been our friend though thus Convulsed with rage, the eye grows tremulous That gazeth on thee ; as might one, whose skill Had wrought by spells some spirit to his will, THE POETICAL ALBUM. 3 Start each deep wish indulged to find it turn In wrath upon himself, and fiercely spurn The bondage it had brooked. Thy mighty arm Was stretched between us and the locust-swarrn That made all earth an Egypt ! Our ally, When none beside was our's and Destiny Had doomed us IshmaePs lot, opposing thus Our hand to all, and every hand to us ! And thou hast borne us through triumphant borne The sun of glory spotless and unshorn ! Those days of strife though not their memory cease, And all, but only thou, repose in peace. Alas ! ere ebbs this barrier-trampling tide, The throb of many a temple shall subside ; And beating hearts, that sicken at thy roar, Be hushed to rest and palpitate no more ! Now faint, and far, comes on the wail of death Heard as the tempest seems to pause for breath ; And now the sheeted levin glares upon A peopled deck, that idly hopes to shun Those ambushed banks o'er which the breakers rave A crash ! a shriek ! The ocean is their grave ! Would that one victim might appease the blast ! Ah no ! the cry of death is deepening fast ; And minute-guns, above the surging swell, Boom on the gale the Pilot's passing-bell ! And there be some to whom this morning's sun Revealed the cliffs their thoughts had dwelt upon Through exiled years ; and bade, all peril past, The warm heart hail its native hills at last ! As fair to-morrow's sun those hills may greet, But then the surf shall be their winding-sheet! And there be others struggling with the spite Of warring elements, whose souls were bright To mark, at evening's close, the little space Which but delayed Affection's bland embrace ; And now they roll the aching eye-ball round And meet but death the drowning and the drowned: Yet fond, fair arms shall yield the clasp they sought Yea, wildly clasp but they shall heed it not ! POETICAL ALBUM* It THE PROGRESS OF THE STORM. O, I have suffered V.'ith those that I saw suli-v ! a l>: -avi % vessel, \Vho hafi, no doubt, some noble creatures in her, P.i.-lied all to pieces. O, the cry did knock Against my very heart ! Poor souls, they perished ! TK M PEST, ITow many now are pondering 1 o'er the lot Of friends afar ! Unthought of, half forgot, Till this com passion -waking moment brings Their image back, with all their sufferings! The haughty maid recalls the youth she drove To seek a grave for ill-requited love Sees all the worth she would not see before, And bears in turn the agonies he bore. A Father brings the outcast boy to mind His sternness forced to brave the waves and wind ; Alas, too late, compunction wrings his breast, His child hath rested where the weary rest! Yes, though while present those we loved might err In many actions though the mind prefer A stranger at the moment, for some boon Of nature, chance, or art, which falls in tune With passing whim yet, like the butterfly (Whose wings grow dim with handling) presently Thtir gloss is gone; and then our thoughts recall Worth overlooked, and let each failing fall To deep oblivion. Yes, the sun that parted In clouds, will shine when we are softer-hearted ; And absence softens hearts; and time hath power clear those clouds, which stained a peevish hour ;- Call recollections from their pensive gloom, Like kind, but injured spectres from the tomb Accusing with their smiles. Oh, this should move, The soul to those it loves or ought to love ! THE POETICAL ALBUM. 5 'Twould bar reproach. Yet, 'tis not always fair To read the bosom through the eye for there A sleepless, an untold of worm may lurk, And do, although it 'plain not, deadly work; And make men seem unkind to those whom heaven Hath heard them plead for, when the heart was riven With its own griefs. If such are breathing, sure Life lends no joy ? they live not they endure And (were there not a world beyond this scene) Than thus to be 'twere better not have been ! Flash courses flash ! the war-ship's mast is shivered Smote by the cloudsped bolt that o'er it quivered! A broader flame the midnight blackness broke Her magazine receives the thunder-stroke, And fires that vault, which stars no longer pave, As though a SUN were bursting from the wave! Bewildering, giddy glare ! The echoes reel From cliff to cliff, replying to the peal That red explosion rang along the sky ; It seemed as if its cloud-voiced potency Surprised the rocks to utterance ! The bay Heaved liquid flame beneath the sudden day, Whose dawn was death; and some, who cursed the night, Hid their pale eyes from that appalling light. Sped by her star, a gallant ship drew near The signal-shot flashed frequent from her tier She struck, and staggered, in her mid career ; Then, swift as thought, her fragments strewed the spray, As some enchanted castle melts away ! A crowded skiff was labouring for the land The wreck they fled drove mastless and unmanned ; Bold the attempt, but fruitless, to elude The swiftly-rolling billows that pursued. Their bark had rubbed the sand, but failed to reach Ere mountain waves broke o'er it on the beach, (t THE POETICAL ALBUM. And dashed them to the earth : they rise they spring Vain as the wounded plover's fluttering! For oh! as if some sea-Iicnd mocked their toil, The big wave caught them in its swift recoil. One youth was left the lightning as it sped .Showed those who baulked the Sea-dog of the dead, Fling forth the coil !,e shivering grasped and now, While some shade hark the tangle from his brow, An age- worn man that free/ing eye surveys, Where life late playe.! alas no longer pl-ys! [speak Smites his scathed breast and cries (in tones which The heart's last burst of anguish ere it break) ' How have I sighed to hail thy wanderings done* * And meet we thus at last my son ! my son !' The storm relents not as the tiger's mood Becomes blood-thirsty by the taste of blood, It growls for other victims ! Hast thou been The near spectator of a shipwreck scene? Heard the unanswered cry of sore distress, Marked the strong throes of drowning -eagerness, The body maddened by the spiritVpain, The wild, wild, working of the breast and brain, The haggard eye that, horror- widened, sees Death take the start of sorrow and disease ? For such Were heard and seen so close at hand, A cable's length had reached them from the land ; Yet farther off than ocean ever bore ; Eternity between them and the shore ! Some sought the beach with many a sob and strain, But felt each sinew fettered by a chain Which dragged them writhing down : a secret hand Buoyed others up, and cast them on the land- Miraculously saved ! A few were there Who prayed with fervent, and confiding prayer Alas, too few ! The many still would cling To toil and tears to life and suffering. And some, whose anguish might not brook to wait That shunless doom, plunged headlong to their fate ; THE POETICAL ALBUM. Yet nature struggled to the last thick gasp ; It was a misery to see them grasp The sliding wares, and clench the hand, and toil Like a spent eagle in the whirlwind's coil Till dashed against some floating spar or mast, On Ocean's rocking couch they slept at last. Tale, panic-struck, the youth falls prostrate reft Of senses th;it bad maddened were they left; The hardened fool, whose life of enterprise Long verged on death, in drunken frenzy dies; And helpless woman's wail, upon the wave, Pleads at the heart, which yearns in vain to save. JJiit there were some, in hopelessness of soul, Who pined at heart to reach the destined goal; Yes, long had spurned the load of life, unawcd, But dared not rush, uncalled, before their God ; Or, haply, pride that tremhled at a stain, Or, haply, love for those they would not pain, Had moved to give the fatal purpose up- Unedged the steel, and spilled the poison-cup : These, hitter days, soul-racking nights had tried And scaped, perchance, the curse of suicide. III. THE EAST-INDIAMAN. How like a )'ounkcr, or a prodigal, The scarfed bark puts from her native bay, Hugged and embraced by the strumpet wind ! How like the prodigal dotTi she return; With over-weathered ribs, am! ragged sails, Lean, rent, and beggared by the strumpet wind ! MERCHANT OF VENICE. AN anxious, lingering, perilous voyage past, An India ship hailed Albion's land at last ! 8 THE POETICAL ALBUM. Moored in the Downs, her mighty pinions close Like some far flying bird that seeks repose; While, crowding on the deck, a hundred eyes Turned shoreward flashed with pleasure and surprise. That eve they anchored, from the horizon's hem The virgin Moon, as if to welcome them, Rose from her rcsi hut would no more reveal Than the faint outline of her pale profile: Though soon (as maids forego their fears) she gave Her orbed brow to kiss the wanton wave : Till like a scornful lover, swoll'n with pride, Because too fondly loved to be denied, The rude wave spurned her off, and raised that loud And angry blast that screamed through sail and shroud, The live-long night on which my harp is dwelling. Meanwhile, the swarthy crew, each care dispelling, Had sported thrice three summer suns away Since they had cast their anchor in that bay. O, none save Fortune's step-sons, doomed to roam The deep, can prize a harbour and a home ! [ing The temperate breeze their sun-bronzed temples bless- A native shore the gladdened eye refreshing The painted pinnace dancing from the land Freighted with friends the pressure of the hand Whose pulse throbs happy seconds the warm gush Of blood into the cheek, as it would rush With the heart's welcome ere the tongue could half Perform its office feeling's telegraph ! Impassioned smiles, and tears of rapture starting Oh, how unlike the tears, which fell at parting ! And all were their's that good ship's gallant crew As though each joy, which absence rendered due Were paid in one bright moment : such are known To those long severed, loving, loved, alone ! A gorgeous freight that broad-sailed vessel bore The blazing diamonds and the blushing ore ; Spices that sighed their incense, till the sails Were fanned along on aromatic gales THE POETICAL, ALBUM. From Orient lands. Then marvel not if he Who there is Chief should look exultingly Back on the storms he baffled, and should know The bosom's wannest wildest overflow While gazing on the land, which laughed before him The smooth sea round the blue pavilion o'er him! Yet felt he more than ever sprang from these, For love demanded deeper sympathies ; And long in lonely bower had sighed lor him A fond fair Bride, whose infant Cherubim Oft spirit-clouded from its playthings crept, To weep beside its mother while she wept. But O, they met at length ! And such sweet days Already proved as leave a light that plays Upon the memory when their warmth is gone The fount thus treasures sun-beams, and shines on Through dusk and darkness. Like some happy mother, Joy marked the hours pursuing one another A wreath of buoyant angels ! Yet as they Wheeled laughing round, oft sighed to make them stay! This was a day of banqueting on board ; And swan-winged barks, and barges many-oared Came crowded to the feast. The young the gay The beautiful were there. Right merrily The pleasure boats glide onward ; with swift prow The clear wave curling, till around each bow, With frequent flash, the bright and feathery spray Threw mimic rainbows at the sun in play. The ship is won, the silken chair is lowered Exulting Youth and Beauty bound on board; And, while they wondering gaze on sail and shroud, The flag flaps o'er them like a crimson cloud. Young Pleasure kissed each heart ! From Persia's loom An ample awning spread its purple bloom To canopy the guests ; and vases, wreathed With deep-hued flowers and foliage, sweetly breathed Their incense, fresh as zephyrs when they rove Among the blossoms of a citron grove ; 10 THE POETICAL ALBUM. Soft sounds (invisible spirits on the wing) Were heard and felt around them hovering ; In short, some magic seemed to sway the hour, The wand-struck deck becomes an orient bower ! A very wilderness of blushing roses, Just such as Love would choose when he reposes. The pendant orange from a lush of leaves, Hangs like Hesperian gold ; and, tied in sheaves, Carnations prop their triple coronals ; The grape, out-peeping from thick foliage, falls Like clustered amethysts in deep festoons ; And shells are scattered round, which Indian moong Had sheeted with the silver of their beams ; But O, what, more than all, the scene beseems, Fair,faultless forms,glide there with wing-like motion ! Bright as young Peris rising from the ocean ! Eve darkened down and yet they were not gone ; The sky had changed, the sudden storm came on ! ONE waved on high a ruby sparkling bowl (Youth, passion, wine, ran riot in his soul) " Fill to the brim," he cried, " let others peer Their doubtful path to heaven ; my heaven is here ! This hour is mine, and who can dash its bliss ? Fate dare not darken such an hour as this !" Then stooped to quaff; but (as a charm were thrown) His hand, his lips, grew motionless as stone ; The drunkness of his heart no more deceives The thunder growls, the surge-smote vessel heaves ; And while aghast he stared, a hurrying squall Rent the wide awning, and discovered all ! Across their eyes the hissing lightning blazed The black wave burst beside them as they gazed ; And dizzily the thick surf scattered o'er them ; And dim and distant loomed the land before them ; No longer firm the eternal hills did leave Their solid rest, and heaved, or seemed to heave. O, 'twas an awful moment ! for the crew Had rashly, deeply drank, while yet they knew No ruling eye was on them and became Wild as the tempest ! Peril could not tame THE POETICAL ALBUM. 11 Nay, stirred their brutal hearts to more excess ; Hound the deserted banquet-board they press, Like men transformed to fiends, with oath and yell ! And many deemed the sea less terrible Than maniacs fiercely ripe for all, or aught, That ever flashed upon a desperate thought! Strange laughter mingled with the shriek and groan Nor woman shrank, nor woman wept alone. Some, as a bolt had smote them, fell ; and some Stared haggard wild : dismay had struck them dumb. There were of firmer nerve, or fiercer cast, Who scowled defiance back upon the blast Half scorning in their haughty souls to be Thus pent and buffeted. And tenderly, Even then, to manly hearts fair forms were drawn, Whose virgin eyes had never shed their dawn Before soft, beautifully shy to flush A lover's hope ; but as the dove will rush Into the school-boy's bosom to elude The swooping goshawk woman thus subdued, Will cling to those she shunned in lighter mood The soul confess emotions but concealed Pure, glowing, deep, though lingeringly revealed ; That true camelion, which imbibes the tone Of every passion-hue she pauses on ! O, 'tis the cheek that's false so subtly taught It takes not of its colour from the thought; But like volcanic mountains veiled in snow, Hides the heart's lava, while it works below ! And there were two who loved, but never told Their love to one another: years had rolled Since Passion touched them with his purple wing, Though still their youth was in its blossoming. Lofty of soul, as riches were denied, He deemed it mean to woo a wealthy bride ; And (for her tears wore secret) coldly she Wreathed her pale brow in maiden dignity ; Yet each had caught the other's eye reposing, And, far as looks disclose, the truth disclosing ; 12 THE POETICAL ALBUM. But when they met, pride checked the soul's warm sighy And froze the melting spirit of the eye: A pride in vulgar hearts that never shone. And thus they loved, and silently loved on ; But this was not a moment when the head Could trifle with the heart ! The cloud that spread Its chilling veil between them, now had past Too long awaking hut they woke at last ! He rushed where clung the fainting fair one sought To soothe with hopes he felt not, cherished not ; And while in passionate support lie prcst, She raised her eyes then swiftly on his breast Hid her blanched cheek as if resigned to share The worst with him ; nay, die contented there ! That silent act was fondly eloquent; And to the youth's deep soul, like lightning, sent A gleam of rapture exquisite yet brief, As his (poor wretch) that in the grave of grief Feels Fortune's sun burst on him, and looks up With hope to heaven forgetful of the cup, The deadly cup his shivering hand yet strained A hot heart-pang reminds himit is drained ! Away with words ! for when had true love ever A happy star to bless it ? Never, never ! And oh, the brightest after-smile of Fate Is but a sad reprieve, which comes too late ! The riot shout pealed on ; but deep distress Had sunk all else in utter hopelessness ! One marked the strife of frenzy and despair The most concerned, and yet the calmest there; In bitterness of soul beheld his crew He should have known them, and he thought he knew J The blood-hound on the leash may fawn, obey He'l! tear thee. shouklest thou cross him at his prey 1 One only trust survives a doubtful one But O, how cherished, every other gone ! " While hold our cables, fear not" As he spoko A sea burst o'er them, and their cables broke ! THE POETICAL ALBUM. 13 Then like a lion bounding from the toil, The ship shot through the billow's black recoil ; Urged by the howling blast all guidance gone They shuddering felt her reeling, rushing on Nor dared to question where ; nor dared to cast One asking look for that might be their last ! What frowns so steep in front a cliff? a rock ? The groaning vessel staggers in the shock ! The last shriek rings. Hark ! whence that voice they hear Loud o'er the rushing waters loud and near ? Alas ! they dream ! 'tis but the ocean roar ! Oh no ! it echoes from the swarming shore ! Kind Heaven, tlty hand was there. With swelling bound The vast waves heaved the giant hull aground ; And, ebbing with the turning tide, became, Like dying monsters, impotent and tame ; Wedged in the sand their chafing can no more Than lave her sides, and deaden with their roar The clamorous burst of joy. But some there were Whose joy was voiceless as their late despair Whose heaven-ward eyes, clasped hands, and streaming cheeks, Did speak a language, which the lip ne'er speaks ! O, he were heartless, in that passionate hour, Who could riot feel that weakness hath its power, When gentle woman, sobbing and subdued, Breathed forth her vow of holy gratitude, Warm as the contrite Mary's, when forgiven An angel smiled, recording it in heaven ! 14 THE POETICAL ALBUM. IV. THE MORNING AFTER THE STORM. O heavens ! is't possible a young maid's wits Should be as mortal as an old man's life ? Nature is fine in love : and where 'tis fine, It sends some precious instance of itself After the thing it loves. HAMLET. 'Tis midnight. Eyeless Darkness, like a blind And haggard witch, with power to loose and bind The spirits of the elements at will, Draws her foul cloak across the stars, until Those Demons she invoked to vex the waves Have dived and hid them in their ocean-caves: And they are fled ; though still the mighty heart Of Nature throbs. And now that hag doth start (Her swarth cheek turning pale in bitter spite) For through her brow she feels the cold moonlight Shoot like a pain, as on a western hill The setting planet of the night stood still, Just parted from a cloud. No more the blast Wailed, like a nnked spirit rushing past, As though it sought a resting place in vain. The storm is lulled ; and yet it is a pain To tell what wreck and ruin strewed the shore ! Each wave its freight of death or damage bore. Here, stained and torn, a royal flag was cast ; There lay a broken helm, a shattered mast; And oh, the saddest relic of the storm, Yon wave conveys a seaman's lifeless form ! 'Tis morn the waning mists, with shadowy sweep, Draw their cold curtains slowly from the deep. 'Tis morn but gladness comes not with her ray ! The bright and breathing scene of yesterday THE POETICAL ALBUM. 15 Is gone, as if that swift consuming wing Had brushed the deep, which smote Assyria's King, And left his Host, like sear leaves, withering ! The sea swells full, but smoothto Passion's thrill, Though spent her tempest, heaves the young heart still ; A bleakness slumbers o'er it here and there Some desolate hull, forsaken in despair, Drives idly, like a friendless outcast thing Which still survives the world's abandoning. Where are her sails her serried tiers' display Her helm her wide flag's emblemed blazonry ? Her crew of fiery spirits, where are they ? Far scattered groups, dejected, hurried, tread The beach in silence, where the shipwrecked dead LiestifFand strained. Among them (humbling thought !) They seek their friends yet shrink from what they sought, As on some corse the eye, recoiling, fell Though livid, swoll'n but recognized too well ! Apart, disturbed in spirit, breathless, pale Her unbound tresses floating on the gale A Maiden hastened on ; across her way, As though he slept, a lifeless sailor lay. She paused, and gazed a moment shuddered, sank Beside that victim on the wave-washed bank Bent shivering lips to press his haggard cheek, But started backward with a loathing shriek! Fond wretch ! thy half-averted eyes discover The cold and bloodless aspect of thy Lover ! Their tale is brief. The youth was one of those Who spurned the thought of safety or repose Whilst Peril stalks the deep: where'er displayed, The flag, which sues for succour has their aid The foeman's or the friend's; no pausing then To question who implore them they are men ! A noble race and, though unfamed, unknown, A race that England should be proud to own ! 16 THE POETICAL ALBUM. lie, with a few as generously brnve, Had heard the death-wail rising from the wave, And, in an ill-starred moment, sought to save. The lifehoat readied the foundering ship her crew AVith greedy haste secured the rope it threw, And in the wild avidity for life, Rushed reeling in. Alas ! that fatal strife But sealed their doom ! the flashing billows roar Above their heads one pang they strove no more ! He did not love unloved ; for she who prest That clay-cold hand so madly to her breast, Believ'd his vows ; and but for Fortune's scorn Young Love had smiled on this their bridal morn ! But oh, his years are few who hath not felt That, while we grasp, the rainbow bliss will melt; That hopes, like clouds, which gleam across the moon, Soon pass away, and lose their light as soon ! The weltering mass she folds, but yesternight Heaved warm with life his rayless eye was bright : And she whose cheek the rose of rapture spread, Raves now a maniac widow'd, yet unwed, And reckless wanderings take the place of woe ! She fancies joys that glow not, nor can glow; Breathes in a visionary world, and weaves A web of bliss scarce falser than deceives The reasoning heart; oft sings and weeps ; and now Entwines a sea-weed garland for her brow, And says it is a marriage wreath. Meanwhile Her calm vague look will dawn into a smile, As something met her eye none else should see; She folds her hands, and bends imploringly To sue its stay ; with wilder gesture turns, And clasps her head, and cries " It burns, it burns!" Then shakes as if her heart were ice. Not long The soul, the frame, conld brook such bitter wrong : Beside her lover's that distracted head Rests calm and pale the grave their bridal bed. Literary Gazette. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 17 SONNET ON PARTING WITH HIS BOOKS. BY WILLIAM ROSCOE, ESft. As one, who destined from his friends to part, Regrets his loss, hut hopes again, erewhile To share their converse, and enjoy their srnile, And tempers as he may affliction's dart ; Thus, loved associates, chiefs of elder art, Teachers of wisdom, who could once beguile My tedious hours, and lighten every toil, I now resign you ! Nor with fainting heart ; For pass a few short years, or days, or hours, And happier seasons may their dawn unfold, And all your sacred fellowship restore ; "When, freed from earth, unlimited its powers, Mind shall with mind direct communion hold, And kindred spirits meet to part no more. Gentleman's Magazine. THE ARTIST'S STUDIO. Beauty should be around the beautiful, And these fine Arts live in an atmosphere Of light surrounded by thrice delicate shapes Of grace and love. THE light came dim but beautiful, through blinds Of the linked jessamine, which wooed the vine With its white kisses ; and the fragrant air, Bearing low music from the wind-touched harp, Came floating through the room. By glimpses seen, As o'er the lattices the moonlight played And lighted up its waters, shone the lake, With its white swans, like spirits, gliding on 2* 18 THE POETICAL ALBUM. Its isles of floating lilies ; and its banks, AVhere swept the graceful willows and the turf, Silvered with dew and star-light spread beneath, Dotted with clumps of gloomy cypresses, Mixed with the fairer blossomed orange trees. And far beyond, like shadowy thunder-clouds, Rose high but distant hills; and over all A soft and blue Italian sky, the blue That painters and that poets love, the blue The lover worships in the maiden's eyes, Whose beauty is their power and spell. And, like Sweet incense to sweet shrines, dew-scented flowers Filled up the casements ; roses, on whose leaves The summer had just breathed ; the buds of pearl That are the myrtle's dower ; carnation stems, Rich in their perfumed blushes all were there Looking and breathing June. The marble floor Had not a spot, save two or three rich stains Cast from the pictured roof, on which was told The history of Aurora and her love, The earthly Youth she wooed, and wooed in vain. Oh, love is very constant ! 'Tis most cold, Untrue, and heartless raillery, to say That love's life is not longer than those flowers Whose sunrise beauty is by noontide past ; That it should ever change, is but the curse Shadowing our every earthly happiness ; But, for one record of its fickleness Are thousand memories of its deep, deep truth, Its entire faith, its self-devotedness. On one side of the roof a golden blaze, Curtained by crimson clouds, told that the Sun, Heralded by her star, had met his bride, The sweet young Morning ; and around, a ring Of radiant shapes were gathered ; in the midst Was one, a very dream of loveliness, Her hair streamed on the wind, a shower of gold Hung from a crown of stars, and four white steeds Were harnessed by spring blossoms to the car Whereon she stood. Her eye was on a youth, THE POETICAL ALBUM. 19 Graceful as young Endymion when the moon Shed her pale smile upon his innrble brow And thick and raven curls : he stood beneath A green beech tree, two hounds were by his side, Impatient of his idleness, while he Leant on his useless spear, watching the sleep Of his young bride. He had just heard his name Murmured, in tones low as a bird's first song From her half opened lips, which like spring flowers Drank the fresh air, then sighed it forth again With added fragrance. There was shade around ; The laurel, and the darker bay, the oak, All sacred as the crowns of fame. The first Bound round the Poet's tuneful lyre ; the next Around the Warrior's hclrn, mixed with the pine And with the waving poplar. In the midst, As in a favourite haunt, were flowers entwined ; And there the sleeper lay: one pearl white hand The violets rose to kiss its azure veins, Coloured with their own purity, beneath One cheek was as a pillow, and that one Was flushed with crimson, while the other wore A tint less warm, but not less beautiful Two shades of blushing on the self-same rose ; And through the tremulous shadow of the leaves Came two or three bright kisses from the sun, Wandering in light o'er her white brow ; a shower Of rose leaves lay amid the raven curls Of her long hair and on her neck. That morn Around her slender waist and graceful head She had bound new-blown buds. But all fair things Are very fragile, and each scattered bloom Had fallen from the loosened braid: even those Prisoners in the soft hand, which lay like snow Upon the grass, had half escaped ; and there She slept amid the roses she had gathered. And round the walls were pictures: some, calm scenes Or' earth's green loveliness ; and some, whose hues Were caught from faces in whose smile our life Is one of Paradise ; and statues, whose white grace 20 THE POETICAL ALBUM. Is as a dream of poetry. But, hung Apart from all the rest, as if too dear For aught but solitude, was one, it was The portrait of a lovely girl ; the lips Were such as Summer kisses, when he first Touches the pure and rosy mouth of Spring ; A languid smile was on them, as just curled By some soft thought, which spoke too in her eyes, Dark and bewildering, with light like that Of an Italian midnight, when the clouds Send forth their summer lightning, but yet filled With woman's tenderness. Those lips, those eyes, Had been voluptuous, melting as they were, But for the pale cheek, o'er which e'en a "blush Had scarcely passed, it looked so innocent ; And the white brow, with its dark parted hair Shading its purity ; and the clear temples, Whose blue veins were half hidden by the braids Of the thick tresses, which, unfastened, fell Over the veiled bosom. The white dress Just left the slender throat exposed, as fair, As graceful, as the cygnet's. Neither gems Nor gold, marred youth's sweet sirnpleness; but one Slight flower lay on her neck, a green rosebud, Tinged with faint promise of its future bloom; And near it the young Painter leant his head, Bowed, as in bitter thought upon his hand ; Over his cheek there was a burning, red, Half passionate emotion, half disease, And the damp lay on his white brow, and hung On his thick curls of auburn hair ; his eyes, Blue as his native sky when it shines forth Amid the pauses of an April shower, Seemed as they drank the Moon's light, with such bright And such wild glance they turned towards her ray. He was a stranger in fair Italy : He sought her kingdom, for it was a home For genius and for beauty ; it had been His land of promise through the sunny dreams THE POETICAL ALBUM. 21 Of his impassioned boyhood ; he had come With a rich store of burning thoughts, of hopes Like sunrise, vivid fancies, feelings wild, High energies, all that young talent lias ; And he had nourished them amid those shades Hallowed by memories of old, and still Kept sacred by their own green pleasantness, Amid the glorious works of glorious men, Pictures alive with light, and stately domes Built for eternity, music like hope, So very sweet, and poetry, whose songs Are Love's own words, until he dreamed that fame Was a reality that he might win. He dreamed but to awake with withered heart And wasted health, and hopes like fallen stars, Crushed and stained with the earth to which they fell. Oh Genius ! fling aside thy starry crown, Close up thy rainbow wings, and on thy head Heap dust and ashes, for, this cold drear world Is but thy prison-house. Alas ! for him Who has thy dangerous gifts, for they are like The fatal ones that evil spirits give,- Bright and bewildering, leading unto death ! Oh, not amid the chill and earthly cares That waste our life, may those fine feelings live That are the Painter's or the Poet's light. Amid the many graves, which in the shade Of Rome's dark cypresses are graved with names Of foreign sound to Italy's sweet tongue, Was one, an English name was on the stone ; There that young Painter slept : around the sod Were planted flowers and one or two green shrubs. 'Twas said that they were placed in fondness there By an Italian Girl whom he had loved ! Literary Gazette. L. E. L. 22 THE POETICAL ALBUM. SONNET. BT THE REV. W. L. BOWLES. WHEN last we parted thou wert young and fair ; How beautiful, let fond remembrance say ! Alas ! since then, old Time has stol'n away Full thirty years, leaving my temples bare. So hath it perished like a thing of air, The dream of Love and Youth ! Now both are gray, Yet still remembering that delightful day, Though Time with his cold touch hath blanched my hair, Though I have suffered many years of pain Since then ; though I did never think to live To hear that voice or see those eyes again, I can a sad, but cordial greeting give, And for thy welfare breathe as warm a prayer, Lady, as when I loved thee young and fair ! Leeds Intelligencer. TO MONT BLANC. MOUNTAIN, who reignest o'er thine Alpine peers Transcendently, and from that massive crown Of arrowy brightness dartest down thy beams Upon their lesser coronets, all hail ! Unto the souls in hallowed musing rapt, Spirits in which creation's glorious forms Do shadow forth and speak the invisible, The ethereal, the eternal, thou dost shine With emblematic brightness. Those untrod And matchless domes, though many a weary league Beyond the gazer, when the misty veil Dies round them, start upon his dazzled sight In vastness almost tangible ; thy smooth And bold convexity of silent snows Raised on the still and dark blue firmament ! THE POETICAL ALBUM, 23 Mountain, Thou image of eternity! Oh, let not foreign feet, inquisitive, Swift in untrained aspirings, proudly tempt Thy searchless waste ! What half-taught fortitude Can balance unperturbed above the clefts Of yawning and unfathomable ice That moat thee round ; or wind the giddy ledge Of thy sheer granite ! Hath he won his way, That young investigator ? Yes ; but now, Quick panting on superior snows, his frame Trembles in dizziness ; his wandering look Drinks pale confusion ; the wide scene is dim; Its all of firm or fleeting, near or far, Deep rolling clouds beneath, and wavering mists That flit above him with their transient shades, And storm-deriding rocks, and treacherous snows, And blessed sun-light, in his dying eye Float dubious ; and 'tis midnight at his heart! Mountain, That firm and ardent Genevese, The enthusiast child of science, whose bold foot Bounded across thine ice rents, who disdained The frozen outworks of thy steep ravines, And through a labyrinth of crystal rocks Pressed his untired ascent, e'en he, and all His iron-band of native mountaineers, While scaling the aerial cupola Of Nature's Temple, owned a breathless pang. Thy most attenuate element is fit For angel roamings. True, his zealous mind Achieved its philosophic aim, and marked And measured thee; but turned to earthly climes Full soon, and bent in gladness toward the vale. Mountain, The sons of science or of taste Need not essay such triumph. 'Tis more wise And happier till a fiery chariot wait, To scan from lesser heights thy glorious whole ; To climb above the deep though lofty plain That wrongs thee ; pass its line of envious peaks, 24 THE POETICAL ALBUM. And stationed at thy cross, sublime Flegero! Thence meditate the monarch's grandeur ; while His host of subject hills are spread beneath ; For scarce, till then, his own colossal might Seems disenthralled ; and mute astonishment, Unquenched by doubt or dread, at each new step, Shall own his aspect more celestial still. There, in some hollow nook reclining, whence The bright-eyed chamois sprang; with tufted bells Of rhododendron blushing at my feet ; The unprofaned recess of Alpine life Were all my world that hour ; and the vast mount In his lone majesty would picture heaven. Bright mountain, Ah ! but volumed clouds enwrap Thy broad foundations, curtain all thy steeps, And, rising as the orb of day declines, Brood on the vassal chain that flank thee round, Then thy whole self involve save, haply, when A quick and changing vista may reveal Some spotless portion of thy front, and show Thee not unstable, like the earth-born cloud, Brilliant though hid, abiding if unseen. Then, as the vale grows darker, and the sun Deserts unnumbered hills, o'er that high zone Of gathered vapour thou dost sudden lift Thy silver brow, calm as the hour of eve, Clear as the morning, still as the midnight, More beautiful than noon ; for lo ! the sun Lingers to greet thee with a roseate ray, And on thy silver brow his bright farewell Is gleaming : Mountain, Thou art half divine ! Severed from earth ! Irradiate from heaven ! Thus e'en the taught of heaven, with joyless eye Fixed on the sable clouds, which fear hath cast O'er all the landscape of his destiny, May fail to pierce them ; but, though legioned shapes Of nether evil, though the deep array Of stern adversities, and murky hosts THE POETICAL ALBUM. 25 Of dark illusions blot his upper skies, Yet, as they change, through that incumbent gloom Shall he catch glimpses of the hallowed mount, And weep that heaven is bright. And at the hour Of stillness, when e'en frightful shadows lade, When night seems closing o'er his latest hopes, And his sun set for ever, then, behold, Emerging in mid heaven, thy glistening top Oh, Zion ! and the God that ruled his day Hath not departed ; for he poureth now His radiance on thy summits, glancing back A thrilling flood into his servant's soul ! 4 Joy full of glory !' Was the noon-day dark? It was ; but eve is cloudless ; night is peace ; Rapture shall gild the never-ending morn 1 Sheffield Iris. S. ODE, WRITTEN TOR RECITATION AT THE FAREWELL DIN- NER IN HONOUR OF JOHN KEMBLE, ESQ. BY THOMAS CAMPBELL, KSa. PRIDE of the British stage, A long and last adieu ! Whose image brought the heroic age Revived to Fancy's view ; Like fields refreshed with dewy light, When the sun smiles his last, Thy parting presence makes more bright Our memory of the past; And memory conjures feelings up, That wine or music need not swell, As high we lift the festal cup To ' Kemble, fare-thee-well I' 3 26 THE POETICAL ALBUM. His was the spell o'er hearts Which only acting lends, The youngest of the sister arts, Where all their beauty blends : For ill can Poetry express Full many a tone of thought sublime, And Painting, mute and motionless, Steals but one glance from Time ; But, by the mighty actor brought, Illusion's wedded triumphs come, Verse ceases to be airy thought, And Sculpture to be dumb. Time may again revive, But ne'er efface the charm, When Cato spoke in him alive, Or Hotspur kindled warm. What soul was not resigned entire To the deep sorrows of the Moor ? What English heart was not on fire With him at Agincourt ? And yet a majesty possessed His transport's most impetuous tone ; And to each passion of his breast The Graces gave their zone. High was the task, too high Ye conscious bosoms here, In words to paint your memory, Of KEMBLE, and of Lear. But who forgets that white discrowned head, Those bursts of Reason's half extinguished glare, Those tears upon Cordelia's bosom shed, In doubt, more touching than despair ; If 'twas reality he felt Had SHAKSPEARE'S self amidst you been, Friends, he had seen you melt, And triumphed to have seen ! And there was many an hour Of blended kindred fame, THE POETICAL ALBUM. 27 When SIDDON'S auxiliar power, And sister magic came ; Together at the Muse's side, Her tragic paragons had grown ; They were the children of her pride, The columns of her throne ! And undivided favour ran, From heart to heart, in their applause Save for the gallantry of man, In lovelier woman's cause. Fair as some classic dome, Robust and richly graced, Your Kemble's spirit was the home Of genius and of taste. Taste, like the silent dial's power, That when supernal light is given, Can measure inspiration's hour, And tell its height in heaven. At once ennobled and correct, His mind surveyed the tragic page, And what the actor could effect, The scholar could presage. These were his traits of worth ; And must we lose them now ! And shall the scene no more show forth His sternly pleasing brow ? Alas ! the moral brings a tear, 'Tis all a transient hour below ; And we that would detain thee here, Ourselves as fleetly go. Yet shall our latest age This parting scene renew: Pride of the British stage ! A long and last adieu! Literary Gazette. 28 THE POETICAL ALBUM. THE LAST TEAR. SHE had done weeping, but her eyelash yet Lay silken heavy on her lilied cheek, And on its fringe a tear, like a lone star Shining upon the rich and hyacinth skirts O' the western cloud that veils the April even. The veil rose up, and with it rose the star, Glittering above the gleam of tender blue, That widened as the shower clears off from heaven. Her beauty woke, a sudden beam of soul Flashed from her eye, and lit the vestal's cheek Into one crimson, and exhaled the tear. Literary Gazttte. ADDRESS TO THE ALABASTER SARCOPHAGUS, DEPOSITED Ilf THE BRITISH MUSEUM. BY HORACE SMITH, ESa. THOU Alabaster relic ! while I hold My hand upon thy sculptured margin thrown, Let me recall the scenes thou couldst unfold, Might'st thou relate the changes thou hast known ; For thou wert primitive in thy formation, Launched from the Almighty's hand at the creation. Yes thou wert present when the stars and skies And worlds unnumbered rolled into their places ; When God from chaos bade the spheres arise, And fixed the blazing sun upon its basis, And with his finger on the bounds of space Marked out each planet's everlasting race. THE POETICAL ALBUM. How many thousand ages from thy birth Thou slept'st in darkness it were vain to ask, Till Egypt's sons upheaved thee from the earth, And year by year pursued their patient task, Till thou wert carved and decorated thus, Worthy to be a king's sarcophagus ! What time Elijah to the skies ascended, Or David reigned in holy Palestine, Some ancient Theban monarch was extended Beneath the lid of this emblazoned shrine, And to that subterraneous palace borne Which toiling ages in the rock had worn. Thebes, from her hundred portals, filled the plain, To see the car on which thou wert upheld. What funeral pomps extended in thy train, What banners waved, what mighty music swelled, As armies, priests, and crowds bewailed in chorus, Their King their God their Serapis their Orus ! Thus to thy second quarry did they trust Thee, and the lord of all the nations round, Grim king of silence ! Monarch of the dust ! Embalmed, anointed, jewelled, sceptered, crowned, Here did he lie in state, cold, stiff and stark, A leathern Pharaoh grinning in the dark. Thus ages rolled ; but their dissolving breath Could only blacken that imprisoned thing, Which wore a ghastly royalty in death, As if it struggled still to be a king ; And each dissolving century, like the last, Just dropped its dust upon thy lid, and passed. The Persian conqueror o'er Egypt poured His devastating host a motley crew ; The steel-clad horseman, the barbarian horde, Music and men of every sound and hue, Priests, archers, eunuchs, concubines, and brutes, Gongs, trumpets, cymbals, dulcimers, and lutes. 30 THE POETICAL ALBUM. Then did tlic fierce Cambyses tear away The ponderous rock that sealed the sacred tomb ; Then did the slowly penetrating ray Redeem thee from long centuries of gloom, And lowered torches flashed against thy side, As Asia's king thy blazoned trophies eyed. Plucked from his grave, with sacrilegious taunt, The features of the royal corse they scanned ; Dashing the diadem from his temple gaunt, They tore the sceptre from his graspless hand ; And on those fields, where once his will was law, Left him for winds to waste and beasts to gnaw. Some pious Thebans, when the storm was past, Upclosed the sepulchre with cunning skill, And nature, aiding their devotion, cast Over its entrance a concealing rill ; Then thy third darkness came, and thou didst sleep Twenty-three centuries in silence deep. But he from whom nor pyramids nor sphynx Can hide its secrecies, JBelzoni came ; From the tomb's mouth unloosed the granite links, Gave thee again to light, and life, and fame, And brought thee from the sands and deserts forth, To charm the pallid children of the North ! Thou art in London, which, when thou wert new, Was what Thebes is, a wilderness and waste, Where savage beasts more savage men pursue ; A scene by nature cursed, by man disgraced. Now 'tis the world's metropolis ! The high Queen of arms, learning, arts and luxury ! Here, where I hold my hand, 'tis strange to think What other hands, perchance, preceded mine ; Others have also stood beside thy brink, And vainly conned the moralizing line! Kings, sages, chiefs, that touched this stone, like me, Where are ye now ? Where all must shortly be. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 31 AH is mutation ; he within this stone Was once the greatest monarch of the liour. His bones are dust his very name unknown ! Go, learn from him the vanity of power ; Seek not the frame's corruption to control, But build a lasting mansion for thy soul. JVew Monthly Magazine. TO THE DYING YEAR. THOU desolate and dying year ! Emblem of transitory man, Whose wearisome and wild career, Like thine, is bounded to a span ; It seems but as a little day Since nature smiled upon thy birth, And spring came forth in fair array, To dance upon the joyous earth. Sad alteration ! Now how lone, How vcrdureless is nature's breast; Where ruin makes his empire known, In autumn's yellow vesture drest : The sprightly bird, whose carol sweet Broke on the breath of early day The summer flowers she loved to greet The bird the flowers oh where are they ? Thou desolate and dying year! Yet lovely in thy lifelessness, As beauty stretched upon the bier In death's clay -cold and dark caress ; There's loveliness in thy decay, Which breathes;, which lingers round thee still, Like memory's mild and cheering ray Beaming upon the night oi ill. 32 THE POETICAL ALBUM. Yet yet the radiance is not gone Which shed a richness o'er the scene, Which smiled upon the gulden dawn When skies were brilliant and serene Oh ! still a melancholy smile Gleams upon nature's aspect fair, To charm the eye a little while, Ere ruin spreads his mantle there ! Thou desolate and dying year ! Since Time entwined thy vernal wreath, How often love hath shed the tear, And knelt beside the bed of death: How many hearts, that lightly sprung When joy was blooming but to die, Their finest chords by death unstrung, Have yielded life's expiring sigh. And pillowed low beneath the clay, Have ceased to melt to breathe to burn, The proud, the gentle, and the gay, Gathered unto the mouldering urn ! Whilst freshly flowed the frequent tear For love bereft affection fled For all that were our blessings here, The loved the lost the sainted dead ! Thou desolate and dying year ! The musing spirit finds in thee Lessons impressive and severe Of deep and stern morality ! Thou teachest. how the germ of youth, Which blooms in being's dawning day, Planted by Nature reared by Truth Withers like thee in dark decay. Promise of youth ! Fair as the form Of heaven's benign and golden bow, Thy smiling arch begirds the storm, And sheds a light on every wo : THE POETICAL ALBUM. Hope wakes for thee, and to her tongue, A tone of melody is given, As if lier magic voice were strung With the empyreal fire from heaven ; And love, which never can expire, Whose origin is from on high, Throws o'er thy morn a ray of fire From the pure fountains of the sky That ray, which glows and brightens still Unchanged eternal, and divine Where seraphs own its holy thrill, And how before its gleaming shrine. Thou desolate and dying year, Prophetic of our final fall! Thy buds are gone, thy leaves are sere, Thy beauties shrouded in the pall ; And all the garniture that shed A brilliancy upon thy prime, Hath, like a morning vision, fled To the expanded grave of Time. Time ! Time ! In thy triumphal flight How all life's phantoms fleet away ! The smile of Hope and young Delight Fame's meteor beam and Fancy's ray ; They fade and on thy heaving tide, Rolling its stormy waves afar, Are borne the wrecks of human pride, The broken wrecks of Fortune's war. There, in disorder dark and wild, Are seen the fabrics once so high, Which mortal vanity had piled As emblems of Eternity ! And deemed the stately domes, whose forms Frowned in their majesty sublime, Would stand unshaken by the storms That gathered round the brow of Time. 33 54 THE POETICAL ALBUM. Thou desolate and dying year ! Earth's brightest pleasures fade like thine; Like evening shadows disappear, And leave the spirit to repine. The stream of life, that used to pour Its fresh and sparkling waters on While Fate stood watching on the shore And numbered all the moments gone Where hath the morning splendour flown Which danced upon that crystal stream ? Where are the joys to childhood known, When life is an enchanted dream ? Enveloped in the starless night Which destiny hath overspread Enrolled upon that trackless flight, Where the dark wing of Time had sped. Oh ! thus hath life its even tide Of sorrow, loneliness and grief; And thus, divested of its pride, It withers like the yellow leaf! Oh ! such is life's autumnal bower, When plundered of its summer bloom! And such is life's autumnal hour, Which heralds man unto the tomb. JYeu>- York Advertiser. THE HALL OF EBLTS.* BY BARRY CORNWALL. THEY took their way (Vatliek and his young bride, The sweet Nouronihar) through summer fields Of flowers by sparkling rivers fountains that Splash'd o'er the turf by palm and tamarisk trees- Vide, Beckford's History of the Caliph Vatliek. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 35 And whore the dark pines talked to solitudes; And oft beguiled the way with amorous songs, Kisses and looks voluptuous ; and they quaffed At mid-day iced waters, which had grown Cool in the valley of Roenabad : One thing Did intervene to mar those quiet hours ; Which was ambition. But these days passed by: And then they journeyed among perilous sands, Which the hot blast of the desert swept at times To figures columnar ; these subsiding, left Open to view the wide horizon, where Lifting their heads, like mountains, to the skies, 'Rose the dark towers of Jstakar. The moon Hid her pale face eclipsed, and sore afraid Lest that the baleful atmosphere might shroud Her light for ever ; and interlunar stars Shrank and grew dim, as when the morning shows His gray eye in the East. Forward they passed 'Midst crumbling walls, and shaking minarets, Where even the ivy grew not, and at last Stood 'neath the mighty palace of those kings Who ruled before the flood. It seemed as built For all eternity; and its pillars threw On the black platform, long, large lines of shadow, That lay upon the marble, like to things Substantial Countless and sky-touching towers (' Whose architecture was unknown amidst The records of the earth') stood there, like that Vast pile our ancestry once dared to raise In old Chaldea, whence they met the wrath Of God, and nature's own sweet language fled The lips of men for ever. Silence reigned ; And glimmering darkness in the middle air Brooded, but shifting aye her shadowy wings, Let horror creep between, and doubtful light; And chill, sepulchral airs, that had no sound, Touched the pale cheek of young Nouronihar : And Vathek felt his heart grow cold, and stayed 36 THE POETICAL ALBUM. His breath to listen, and he grasped hard Her trembling hand for mere companionship. The stars now shone anew ; and right against The palace, carved curiously, were seen Leopards and winged hypogrifTs, and shapes Unknown but to the bottoms of the deep, And there, by all sea-monsters that we fear, Dreaded, and left alone ; above these forms Were traced mysterious characters, that did yield A welcome to the pair. Scarce had they read When from amongst the ruins came a sound Like anguish, and the yawning ground gave out Blue subterranean fires, that showed a door Whose barred labyrinths led to Hell. There stood The dwarfed Indian, grinning like a fiend: ' Welcome !' he cried, * Both welcome ! Ye are come To see the Prince of morning ! Ye deserve To see, and ye shall see him.' Then he touched The charmed lock, 'round which, invisibly, A hundred watchful demons wheeled, and kept Sacred the homes of starry Eblis. Wide Jt opened with a horrid sound, and shut (When Vathek and his bride had entered there) 'Midst laughs, and shrieks exulting, like the noise Of mountainous thunder, or the withering voice Of him who from Vesuvius calls abroad In madness, and casts out his blazing foam Like rivers toward the sea. At last they saw The Hall of Eblis: vaulted 'twas and high So none might mark the roofs! The pillars that Stood like supporting giants, verged away In long innumerable avenues, but Met at a point bright as the sun, when he Looks flaming on the sands of Palestine. Each column bore a different character, And by the lambent flames that played about Like snakes, and pointed their ethereal spires THE POETICAL ALBUM. 37 Towards the stupendous capitals (which seemed Wrought in the finer times of Greece, when men Struck armed Pallas from a senseless stone To life, and shaped those matchless Deities, Venus, and stern Apollo, and the rest) Strange letters might be seen their import known To none but the immortals. The sad pair Traversed a scene of luxury and wo ; They trod on gold and flowers, while from the ground Voluptuous odours steamed, whose breath was sweet As her's whom story fabled once the queen Of beauty; there saffron, and citron boughs, Cedar, and sweet perfuming sandal woods Were burning ; and distilled and fragrant waters Sparkled in crystal ; -but around them stalked Figures like men ^all silent with despair On every face, and each did press his hand Against his heart, and shunned his fellow wretch. Upon a globe of fire sat Eblis. He Was prince of all the spirits that rebelled 'Gainst God and met perdition. He was young Still ; and, but that some pride burned in his eye, You might have pitied him. His flowing hair, Streaming like sunbeams, told he must have been An angel once, and fair, and beautiful; Nay, in his fallen station, he retained A relic of his old nobility : And though he fell, you would have said he fell For aiming at >a world. ' Creatures,' he said, ' Creatures of clay ! I number ye amongst My subjects and adorers : Live ye here For ever, and for ever.' Then his orb, Receding from the presence of the damned, Shrunk to a point of light, and as it shrunk The hearts of his believers withered, and burned Internally (as he had left behind A portion of his fire) and on their souls Came darkness and dismay : arid all knew then The unconsuming flame was come ; and each 4 38 THE POETICAL ALBUM. Hated himself and fellow. Thus they lived For ages and for ages, a sad prey To fires perpetual and endless fear Sorrow although they loved not hot desires, That never could he quelled hunger and thirst Fierce jealousy and groundless doubt arid hate And blasting envy and ('midst other ills) Sense of contempt in others. Thus they lived: And not one creature ever after knew What 'twas to hope. Literary Gazette. STANZAS WRITTEN IN THE CHURCH-YARD OF RICHMOND, YORKSHIRE. BY HERBERT KNOWJ.ES. It i? good for us to be here : if thou wilt, let us make here three Tabernacles, one for thee, one for Moses, and one for Elias. ST. MATTHEW. METHINKS it is good to be here, If thou wilt let us build but for whom? Nor Elias nor Moses appear ; But the shadows of Eve that encompass with gloom The abode of the dead and the place of the tomb. Shall we build to Ambition ? Ah no ! Affrighted, he shrinketh away, For see, they would pin him below In a dark narrow cave, and, begirt with cold clay, To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a prey. To Beauty? Ah no ! she forgets The charms, which She wielded before ; Nor knows the foul worm that he frets The skin that but yesterday fools could adore, For the smoothness it held, or th tint which it wore. THE POETICAL ALBUM. Shall we build to the purple of Pride, The trappings, which dizcn the proud ? Alas! they are all laid aside, And here's neither dress nor adornment allowed Save the long winding-sheet and the fringe of the shroud. To Riches? Alas, 'tis in vain ; Who hid in their turns have been hid ; The treasures are squandered again ; And here in the grave are all metals forbid Save the tinsel that shines on the dark coffin lid. To the pleasures, which Mirth can afford, The revel, the laugh, and the jeer? All ! here is a plentiful board ! But the guests are all mute as their pitiful cheer, And none but the worm is a reveller here. Shall we build to Affection and Love ? Ah, no ! They have withered and died, Or fled with the spirit above : Friends, brothers and sisters, are laid side by side Yet none have saluted, and none have replied. Unto Sorrow ? The dead cannot grieve ; Not a sob, not a sigh meets mine ear, Which Compassion itself could relieve. Ah sweetly they slumber, nor love, hope, or fear, Peace ! peace ! is the watch word, the only one here. Unto Death, to whom monarchs must bow ? Ah, no ! for his empire is known. And here there are trophies enow ! Beneath the cold head, and around the dark stone, Are the signs of a sceptre that none may disown. The first tabernacle to Hope we will build, And look for the sleepers around us to rise ! The second to Faith, which ensures it fulfilled ; And the third to the Lamb of the great sacrifice, Who bequeathed us them both when he rose to the skies. Carlisle?* Grammar Schools. 40 THE POETICAL ALBUM. THE LAST DAY. BT WILLIAM BECKFORD, ESa. HARK ! Heard ye not that deep, appalling sound? Tremble ! for lo ! the vexed affrighted ground Heaves strong in dread convulsion, streams of fire Burst from the 'vengeful sky a voice of ire Proclaims, ' Ye guilty wait your final doom : No more the silent refuge of the tomb [reigns,- Shall screen your crimes, your frailties.' Conscience Earth needs no other sceptre ; what remains Beyond her fated limits, dare not tell ; Eternal Justice ! Judgment! Heaven! Hell! Britten's Fonthill Mbeij. A REFLECTION. LIKE some faint light that shines along the deep, Joy to the watchful peace to those who sleep Its blaze expanding, as each heart draws near The home where sparkles every smile that's dear, 'Till from its splendour, welcomed in at last Fades all reflection on the gloomy past ! So in its birth glows man's pale beam of life, The spark of sorrow, then the flame of strife Dazzling awhile, until its glare be spent On thoughts of madness, and of dark intent; Next, -a bright beacon on his troubled sea Bursting at length into Eternity ! THE POETICAL ALBUM. 41 THE MOSSY SEAT. BY J. M01R, ESQ. THE landscape hath not lost its look ; Still rushes on the sparkling river ; Nor, hath the gloominess forsook These granite crags, that frown for ever; Still hangs, around, the shadowy wood, Whose sounds but murmur solitude ; The raven's plaint, the linnet's song. The stock-dove's coo, in grief repining, In mingled echoes steal along ; The setting sun is brightly shining, And clouds above, and hills below, Are burning in his golden glow ! It is not meet it is not fit Though fortune all our hopes hath thwarted, Whilst on the very stone I sit, Where first we met, and last we parted, That absent from my soul should be The thought that loves and looks to thee ! Each happy hour that we have proved, While love's delicious converse blended, As 'neath the twilight star we roved, Unconscious where our progress tended,- St-ill brings my mind a soft relief; And bids it love ' the joys of grief.' What soothing recollections throng, Presenting many a mournful token, That heart's remembrance to prolong, Which then was blest but now is broken ! I cannot Oh ! hast thou forgot Our early loves this hallowed spot ? I almost think I see thee stand ! I almost dream I hear thee speaking ! 4* 42 THE POETICAL ALBUM. I feel the pressure of thy hand ! Thy living glance in fondness seeking, Here, all apart by all unseen Thy form upon my arm to lean ! Though beauty bless the landscape still, Though woods surround, and waters lave it, My heart feels not the vivid thrill, Which long ago thy presence gave it. Mirth, music, friendship, have no tone Like that, which with thy voice hath flown ! And Memory only now remains To whisper things that once delighted ; Still still I love to tread these plains, To seek this sacred haunt benighted And feel a something sadly sweet In resting on this MOSSY SEAT. Blackivood's Magazine. SONNET. BY WIL'LIAM WORDSWORTH, ESQ. NOT love, nor war, nor the tumultuous swell Of civil conflicts?, nor the wrecks of change. And duty struggling with afflictions strange, Not these alone inspire the tuneful shell ; But where untroubled peace and concord dwell, There also is the muse not loth to range Watching the blue smoke of the elmy grange Skyward ascending from the twilight dell ; Meek aspirations please her lone endeavour, And sage content and placid melancholy, She loves to gaze upon a chrystal river, Diaphonous, because it travels slowly : Soft is the music that would please for ever, The flower of sweetest smell is shy and lowly. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 43 A FAREWELL TO ENGLAND. BY JOSEPH RITCHIE, ESQ. THY chalky cliffs are fading from my view, Our bark is dancing gaily on the sea, I sigh while yet I may, and say adieu, Albion, thou jewel of the earth, to thee, Whose fields first fed my childish fantasy, Whose mountains were my boyhood's wild delight, Whose rocks, and woods, and torrents were to me The food of my soul's youthful appetite, Were music to my ear, a blessing to my sight. I never dreamt of beauty, but, behold, Straightway thy daughters flashed upon my eye ; I never mused on valour, but the old Memorials of thy haughty chivalry Filled my expanding soul with ectasy ; And when 1 thought on wisdom and the crown The muses give, with exultation high, I turned to those whom thou hast called thine own, Who fill the spacious earth with their and thy renown. When my young heart, in life's gay morning hour, At beauty's summons, beat a wild alarm, Her voice came to me from an English bower, And English were the smiles that wrought the charm: And if, when wrapt asleep on Fancy's arm, Visions of bliss my riper years have cheered, Of home, and love's fireside, and greetings warm, For one by absence and long toil endeared, The fabric of my hopes on thee hath still been reared. Peace to thy smiling hearths, when I am gone ; And mayest thou still thy ancient dowry keep, To be a mark to guide the nations on, Like a tall watch-tower flashing o'er the deep ; 44 THE POETICAL ALBUM. Still mayest thou bid the sorrowers cease to weep, And dart the beams of Truth athwart the night That wraps a slumbering world, till, from their sleep Starting, remotest nations see the light, And earth be blest beneath the buckler of thy might. Strong in thy strength I go, and wheresoe'er JMy steps may wander, may I ne'er forget All that I owe to thee ; and O may ne'er JMy frailties tempt me to abjure that debt ! And what, if far from thee my star must set, Hast thou not hearts that shall with sadness hear The tale, and some fair cheeks that shall be wet, And some bright eyes, in which the swelling tear Shall start for him who sleeps in Afric's deserts drear. Yet I will not profane a charge like mine, With melancholy bodings, nor believe, That a voice, whispering ever in the shrine Of iny own heart, spake only to deceive ; I trust its promise, that I go to weave A wreath of palms, entwined with many a sweet Perennial flower, which time shall not bereave Of all its fragrance, that I yet shall greet Once more the ocean queen, and throw it at her feet. London Magazine. THE EXCHANGE. BY S. T. COLERIDGE, ESQ. WE pledged our hearts, my love and I,- I in my arms the maiden clasping ; I could not tell the reason why, But oh ! I trembled like an aspen. Her father's love she bade me gain ; I went and shook like any reed ! I strove to act the man in vain ! We had exchanged our hearts indeed. THE POETICAL ALBUM. ON PAINTING. BY THOMAS CAMPBELL, ESQ. O, thou ! by whose expressive art Her perfect image Nature sees In union with the Graces, start, And sweeter by reflection please! In whose creative hand the hues Stolen from yon orient rainbow shine ! I bless thee, Promethean Muse, And hail thee brightest of the Nine ! Possessing more than mortal power ! Persuasive more than poet's tongue ! Whose lineage in a raptured hour, From Love, the lord of Nature, sprung ! Does Hope her high possession meet ? Is joy triumphant, sorrow flown ? Sweet is the trance, the tremour sweet, When all we love is all our own. But hush, thou pulse of pleasure dear; Slow, throbbing, cold, I feel thee part ; Long absence plants a pang severe, Or death inflicts a keener dart ; Then for a beam of joy, to light In Memory's sad and wakeful eye ; To banish from the noon of night Her dreams of deeper agony. Shall song its witching cadence roll ; Yea, even the tenderest air repeat, That breathed when soul was knit to soul, And heart to heart responsive beat ; What visions rise to charm, to melt! The lost, the loved, the dead are near ; Oh, hush that strain too deeply felt, And cease that solace too severe. 45 46 THE POETICAL ALBUM. But thou serenely silent art, By heaven and love both taught to lend A milder solace to the heart The sacred image of a friend ; All is not lost if yet possest For me that sweet memorial shine, If close and closer to my breast I hold the image all divine. Or gazing through luxuriant tears, IVlelt over the departed form, Till death's cold bosom half appears With life, and speech, and spirit warm ; She looks, she lives, this tranced hour Her bright eye seems a purer gem Than sparkles on the throne of power, Or Glory's starry diadem. Yes, Genius, yes ! thy mimic aid A treasure to my soul has given, When Beauty's canonized shade Smiles through the sainted hues of heaven. No spectre form of pleasure fled, Thy softening, sweetening tints restore ; For thou canst give us back the dead, Even in the loveliest garb she wore. Then blest be Nature's guardian muse, Whose hand her polished grace redeems ; Whose tablet of a thousand hues The mirror of creation seems ; From Love began thy high descent ; And lovers charmed with gifts of thine, Shall bless thee, mutely eloquent, And hail thee brightest of the NINE ! Literary Gazette. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 47 NIGHT. BY JAMES MONTGOMERY, ESQ. NIGHT is the time for rest ; How sweet when labours close, To gather round an aching breast The curtain of repose; Stretch the tired limbs and lay the head Upon our own delightful bed ! Night is the time for dreams ; The gay romance of life, When truth that is and truth that seems Blend in fantastic strife ; Ah ! visions less beguiling far Than waking dreams by daylight are! Night is the time for toil ; To plough the classic field, Intent to find the buried spoil Its wealthy furrows yield ; Till all is ours that sages taught, That poets sang or heroes wrought. Night is the time to weep ; To wet with unseen tears Those graves of memory, where sleep The joys of other years ; Hopes that were Angels in their birth, But perished young, like things on earth ! Night is the time to watch ; On ocean's dark expanse ; To hail the Pleiades, or catch The full moon's earliest glance, That brings into the home-sick mind All we have loved and left behind. 48 THE POETICAL ALBUM. Night is the time for care ; Brooding on hours mis-spent, To see the spectre of Despair Come to our lonely tent ; Like Brutus midst his slumbering host Started by Caesar's stalwart ghost. Night is the time to muse ; Then from the eye the soul Takes flight, and with expanding views, Beyond the starry pole ; Descries, athwart the abyss of night, The dawn of uncreated light. Night is the time to pray ; Our Saviour oft withdrew To desert mountains far away; So will his follower do ; Steal from the throng to haunts untroJ, And hold communion there with God. Night is the time for death ; When all around is peace, Calmly to yield the weary breath, From sin and suffering cease, Think of heaven's bliss and give the sign To parting friends. Such death be mine ! Mermann's ' Forget Me Not.' FROM THE ARABIC. THE morn that ushered thee to life, my child, Saw thee in tears, whilst all around thee smiled ! When summoned hence to thy eternal sleep, Oh may'st thou smile, whilst all around tbee weep. E. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 49 ODE, BY LORD BYRON. OH, shame to thee, Land of the Gaul ! Oh, shame to thy children and thee ! Unwise in thy glory and base in thy fall, How wretched thy portion shall be ! Derision shall strike thee forlorn, A mockery that never shall die ; The curses of Hate and the hisses of Scorn Shall burthen the winds of thy sky ; And proud o'er thy ruin, for ever be hurled The laughter of Triumph, the jeers of the World. Oh, where is thy spirit of yore, The spirit that breathed in thy dead, When gallantry's star was the beacon before And honour the passion that led ! Thy storms have awakened their sleep ; They groan from the place of their rest, And wrathi'ully murmur, and sullenly weep, To see the foul stain on thy breast ; For where is the glory they left thee in trust ? 'Tis scattered in darkness. 'Tis trampled in dust ! Go look through the kingdoms of earth, From Indus all round to the Pole, And something of goodness, of honour, and worth, Shall brighten the sins of the soul ; But thou art alone in thy shame ! The world cannot liken thee there ; Abhorrence and vice have disfigured thy name Beyond the low reach of compare; Stupendous in guilt, ihou shalt lend us, through time, A proverb, a bye-word, for treachery and crime. While conquest illumined his sword, While yet in his prowess he stood, o 50 THE POETICAL ALBUM. Thy praises still followed the steps of thy Lord, And welcomed the torrent of hlood ; Though tyranny sat on his crown, And withered the nations afar, Yet bright in thy view was that Despot's renown, Till Fortune deserted his car; T/ien, back from the Chieftain 'thou slunkest away The foremost to insult, the first to betray. Forgot were the feats he had done, The toils he had borne in thy cause ; Thou turnedst to worship a new rising sun, And to waft other songs of applause ; But the storm was beginning to lour, Adversity clouded his beam ; Then honour and faith were the boast of an hour, And loyalty's self but a dream ; To him thou hadst banished thy vows were restored, And the first that had scoffed, were the first that adored. What tumult thus burthens the air ! What throng thus encircles his throne ? 'Tis the shout of delight ; 'tis the millions that swear His sceptre shall rule them alone. Reverses shall brighten their zeal; Misfortune shall hallow his name ; And the world that pursues him shall mournfully feel How quenchless the spirit and flame [n*i'e, That Frenchmen will breathe when their hearts are on For the Hero they love, and the Chief they admire. Their hero has rushed to the field, His laurels are covered with shade, But where is the spirit that never should yield, The loyalty never to fade ! In a moment desertion and guile Abandoned him up to the foe ; The dastards that flourished and grew in his smile, Forsook and renounced him in wo ; THE POETICAL ALBUM. 51 And the millions that swore they would perish to save Behold him a fugitive, captive and slave. The savage, all wild in his glen, Is nobler and better than thou ! Thou standest a wonder, a marvel to men ! Such perfidy blackens thy brow. If thou wert the place of my birth, At once from thy arms would I sever ; I'd fly to the uttermost ends of the earth, And quiet thee for ever and ever ; And thinking of thee in my long after-years, Should but kindle my blushes and waken my tears. Oh, shame to thee, land of the Gaul ! Oh, shame to thy children and thee ! Unwise in thy glory and base in thy fall, How wretched thy portion shall be ! Derision shall strike thee forlorn, A mockery that never shall die : The curses of Hate and the hisses of Scorn Shall burthen the winds of thy sky ; And proud o'er thy ruin for ever be hurled The laughter of Triumph, the jeers of the World. Examiner. A FRAGMENT. Do any thing but love ; or, if thou lovest, And art a Woman, hide thy love from him Whom thou dost worship ; never let him know How dear he is ; flit like a bird before him, Lead him from tree to tree, from flower to flower; But be not won, or thou wilt, like that bird When caught and caged, be left to pine neglected, And perish in forgetfulness. L. E. L. Literary Gazette. 52 THE POETICAL ALBUM. THE PARTING. BT THR REV. G. CROLY. THE wind was wild, the sea was dark, The lightning flashed above ; the bark That anchored in the rocky bay, Bathed its top pennon in the spray : Hollow and gloomy as the grave, Rolled to the shore the mighty wave ; Then gathering wild, with thundering sweep, Flashed its white foam-sheet up the steep : The sight was terror but behind Shouts of pursuit were on the wind ; Trumpet, and yell, and clash of shield, Told where the human hunters wheeled Through the last valley's forest glen : Where, Bertha, was thy courage then ? She cheered her warrior, though his side Still with the gushing blood was dyed ; Up the rude mountain-path, her hand Sustained his arm, and dragged his brand, Nor shrank, nor sighed ; and when his tread Paused on the promontory's head, She smiled, although her lip was pale As the torn silver of his mail. All there was still. The shouts had past, Sunk in the rushings of the blast; Below, the vapour's dark gray screen, Shut out from view the long ravine ; Then swept the circle of the hill, Like billows round an ocean isle. The rays the parting sunbeam flung, In white, cold radiance on them hung ; They stood upon that lonely brow, Like spirits loosed from human wo, And pausing, ere they spread the plume Above that waste of storm and gloom. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 53 To linger there was death, but thore Was that, which master's death, Despair, And even Despair's high master, Love. Her heart was like her form, above The storms, the stormier thoughts that Earth Makes the dread privilege of birth. Passion's wild flame was past, but he Who pined before her burning eye, The numbered beatings of whose heart Told, on that summit they must part He was life, soul, and world to her : Beside him, what had she to fear? Life had for her nor calm nor storm While she stood gazing on that form, Arid clasped his hand, though lost and lone, His dying hand, but all her own. She knelt beside him, on her knee She raised his wan cheek silently : She spoke not, sighed not ; to his breast, Her own, scarce living now, was prest, And felt, if where the senses reel, O'er wrought o'er flooded we can feel The thoughts, that when they cease to be, Leave life one vacant misery. She kissed his chilling lip, and bore The look, that told her all was o'er. The echoes of pursuit again Rolled on ; she gazed upon the main ; Then seemed the mountain's haughty steep Too humble for her desperate leap ; Then seemed the broad and bursting wave Too calm, too shallow, for her grave. She turned her to the dead : his brow Once more she gave her kiss of wo ; She gave his cheek one bitter tear, The last she had for passion here Then to the steep ! Away ! Away ! To the whirlwind's roar, and the dash of the spray. JVVtc Time*. 5* 54 THE POETICAL ALBUM. HERO AND LEANDER. IT is a talc that many songs have told, And old, if tale of love can e'er be old ; Yet dear to me this lingering o'er the fate Of two so young, so true, so passionate ! And tliou, the idol of my harp, the Soul Of poetry, to me my hope, my whole Happiness of existence, there will be Some gentlest tones that I have caught from thee ! Will not each heart- pulse vibrate, as I tell Of faith even unto death unchangeable! LEANDER and his HERO! They should be, When youthful lovers talk of constancy, Invoked. Oh, for one breath of softest song, Such as on summer evenings floats along, To murmur low their history ! Every word That whispers of them, should be like those heard At moonlight casements, when the awakened maid Sighs her soft answer to the serenade. She stood beside the altar, like the Queen, The bright-eyed Queen that she was worshipping 1 . Her hair was bound with roses, which did fling A perfume round, for she that morn had been To gather roses, that were clustering now Amid the shadowy curls upon her brow. One of the loveliest daughters of thy land, Divinest Greece! that taught the painter's hand To give eternity to loveliness ; One of those dark-eyed maids, to whom belong The glory and the beauty of each song Thy poets breathed, for it was theirs to bless With life the pencil and the lyre's soft dreams, Giving reality to visioned gleams Of bright divinities. Amid the crowd That iu the presence of young HERO bowed, Was one who knelt with fond idolatry, As if in homage to some deity, THE POETICAL ALBUM. 55 Gazing upon her as each gaze lie took Must he the very last that intense look That none but lovers give, when they would trace On their hearts' tablets some adored lace. The radiant Priestess from the temple past ; Yet there LEANDKR staid, to catch the last Wave of her fragrant hair, the last low fall Of her white feet, so light and musical ; And then he wandered silent to a grove, To feed upon the full heart's ecstasy: The moon was sailing o'er the deep blue sky, Each moment shedding fuller light above, As the pale crimson from the west departs. Ah, this is just the hour for passionate hearts To linger over dreams of happiness, All of young love's delicious loveliness ! The cypress waved upon the evening air Like the long tresses of a beauty's hair; And close beside was laurel, and the pale Snow blossoms of the myrtle tree, so frail And delicate, like woman ; 'mid the shade Rose the white pillars of the colonnade Around the marble temple, where the Queen Of Love was worshipped, and there too was seen, Where the grove ended, the so glorious sea Now in its azure sleep's tranquillity. lie saw a white veil wave, his heart beat high ; He heard a voice, and then a low toned sigh. Gently he stole amid the shading trees : It is his love his HERO that he sees ! Her hand lay motionless upon the lute, Which thrilled beneath the touch ; her lip was mute, Only her eyes were speaking; dew and light There blended like the hyacinth, when night Has wept upon its bosom ; she did seem As consciousness were lost in some sweet dream : That dream was love ! Blushes were on her cheek, And what, save love, do blushes ever speak ? 56 THE POETICAL ALBUM. Her lips were parted, as one moment more And then the heart would yield its hidden store. 'Twas so at length her thought found utterance, Light, feeling, flashed from her awakened glance ; She paused then gazed on one pale star above, Poured to her lute the burning words of love ! LEANDER heard his name ! How more than sweet That moment, as he knelt at HERO'S feet, Breathing his passion in each thrilling word Only by lovers said, by lovers heard. That night they parted but they met again. The blue sea rolled between them but in vain ! LEANDER had no fear he cleft the wave. What is the peril fond hearts will not brave ! Delicious were their moonlight wanderings, Delicious were the kind, the gentle things Each to the other breathed ; a starry sky, Music and flowers, this is love's luxury : The measure of its happiness is full, When all around like it is beautiful. There were sweet birds to count the hours ; and roses, Like those, which on a blushing cheek reposes ; Violets as fresh as violets could be ; Stars over head, with each a history Of love told by its light ; and waving trees, And perfumed breathings upon every breeze : These were around them when they met. And day, Though each was from the other far away, Had still its pleasant memories ; they might Think what they had forgotten the last night, And make the tender thing they had to say More warm and welcome from its short delay. And then their love was secret ! Oh, it is Most exquisite to have a fount of bliss Sacred to us alone, no other eye Conscious of our enchanted mystery, Ourselves the sole possessors of a spell Giving us happiness unutterable ! THE POETICAL ALBUM. 57 I would compare this secrecy and shade To that fair island, whither Love conveyed His Psyche, where she lived remote from all : Life one long, lone and lovely, festival ; But when the charm, concealment's charm was known, Oh then farewell to Love, for Love was flown ! Love's wings are all too delicate to bear The open gaze, the common sun and air. There have been roses round my lute ; but now I must forsake them for the cypress bough : Now is my tale of tears. One night, the sky, As if with passion, darkened angrily, And gusts of wind swept o'er the troubled main Like hasty threats, and then were calm again ; That night, young HERO by her beacon kept Her silent watch, and blamed the night, and wept, And scarcely dared to look upon the sky : Yet lulling still her fond anxiety With * Surely in such a storm he cannot brave, If but for my sake only, wind and wave.' At length Aurora led young Day and blushed ; In her sweet presence sea and sky were hushed. What is there beauty cannot charm ? tier power Is felt alike, in storm and sunshine hour; And light and soft the breeze, which waved the veil Of HERO, as she wandered, lone and pale, Her heart sick with its terror, and her eye Roving in tearful dim uncertainty. Not long uncertain, she marked something glide, Shadowy and indistinct, upon the tide On rushed she in that desperate energy, Which only has to know, and, knowing, die It was LEA.NDER ! Literary Gazette. L. E. L. 58 THE POETICAL ALBUM. LINES WRITTEN ON THE FIELD OF WATERLOO. YE are gone to your narrow beds, Ye forms of the martyred Brave ! The green grass sod springs o'er your heads, And the wind blows round your grave. But the green turf that blooms above Is watered by the tears of love ; And the wild wind that wanders by, Is mingled with affection's sigh. Oh ! When ye sank on your bed of death, No gentle form hung over you ; No fond eye caught your parting breath, Or shrunk in anguish from the view ! But o'er you, in that hour of fate, Bent the dark Gaul's revengeful form ; And the stern glance of ruthless hate Gleamed, dreadful, 'mid the hurrying storm. No mourning dirge did o'er you swell, Nor winding sheet your limbs enclosed ; For you was tolled no passing bell ; No tomb was raised where you reposed, For your bed of death was the battle-ground, 'Twas there they heaped your funeral mound, And all unhallowed was your grave, Save by the ashes of the brave. Then to the warriors' memory, A monument of love we'll raise ; And veneration's heart-felt sigh Shall waft their fame to distant days. Daughters of Albion ! swell the strain ! More loudly raise the funeral song, And, wide o'er all the fatal plain, The record of their deeds prolong ! THE POETICAL ALBUM. 59 Ye fixed, oh ye brave ! when for us ye died, On every heart an endless claim ; When ye sank in the battle's blood-red tide, Ye bought by your death a deathless name ; More great than the warriors of ages gone, More great than the heroes of Marathon : They from one land, a tyrant hurled; Ye crushed the tyrant of the world. The hour that stayed your course for ever, Checked many a gay heart's joyous swell Sweet hopes were nipt to blossom never, When, smote in Glory's lap, you fell. The patriot to the hero's claim, Bows his proud soul, with grief opprest ; But there are those, with whom his name Is still more loved, more fondly blest ; For wheresoe'er we cast our eyes, This wide extended plain around, The Father, Brother, Husband lies Beneath the undulating mound. How many an eye, ye truly brave ! Has thanked you for the lives you gave ! Ye fondly loved ! how many a tear, Has witnessed to your virtues here ! Call not the warrior's grave unblest, Though 'mid this silent solitude, The gray stone rise not o'er his breast, Nor holy pile may here be viewed. There is a charm more sweet, more pure Than human art has ever thrown ; Yes, there are records more secure Than marble bust, or sculptured stone ; The gentle sigh of sorrowing love, The hapless mourner's silent tear, Shall here that better guerdon prove, That holier calm, shall whisper here. GO THE POETICAL ALBUM. When Egypt's tombs shall all be rent, And earth's proud temples swept away, Your deeds, a deathless monument ! Shall guard your glory from decay. Courier, A FAREWELL. BY LORD BYRON. My boat is on the shore, And my bark is on the sea; Yet ere I go, Tom Moore, Here's a double health to thee. Here's a sigh for those I love, And a smile for those I hate, And, whatever sky's above, Here's a heart for any fate. Though the ocean roar around me, It still shall bear me on ; Though a desert should surround me, It hath springs that may be won. Were it the last drop in the well, As I gasped upon the brink, Ere my fainting spirits fell, 'Tis to thee that I would drink. In that water, as this wine, The libation I would pour Should be Peace to thee and thine, And a health to thee, Tom Moore ! Morning Chronicle. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 61 STANZAS ADDRESSED TO A LADY, ON READING ROMEO AND JULIET. FROM THE GERMAN. OF love and sorrow, 'tis a peerless tale ! Then press it softly to thy gentle breast ; I'll share the fear that makes thy pure cheek pale ; I'll guess the wish that may not be confessed. Unhappy pair ! And yet to them was given That earthly joy, which tasteth most of heaven. Oh ! sweet and hitter, let our inixt tears flow, Where, on the grave of Love, the drooping violets grow. To mortals there is given a fleeting life : A life ! Ah ! no ; a wild, vain, hurrying dream ! A tempest of pride passion sin and strife ! A deep, dark, restless, ever-foaming stream ! When fortune lifts us high, or sinks us low, We feel the motion know not where we go ; Love only, like the oil upon the sea, Gives to man's tossing soul repose and liberty. 'Tis true, that they who love, are seldom born To a smooth destiny. Love buds in peace, But foulest wizards in the air have sworn To blast its beauty ere the leaves increase. The lovers dare not look fiends watch their eyes ; They dare not speak fiends intercept their sighs ; A spell is on them mute o'er mastering; [wing. Dumb sorrow o'er them waves her dark, depressing But let the faint heart yield him as he may, Danger sits powerless on Love's steady breast ; The lovers shrink not in the evil day ; They are afflicted but are not opprest. 6 62 THE POETICAL ALBUM. To die together, or victorious live That first and holiest vow, 'tis theirs to give ; United ! Though in fetters they are free ! [be ! They care not though the grave their bridal bed should It may be, that if love's expanding flower Is forced to close before the storm's keen breath, That closing may protract the blooming hour, Which is so short in all that suffers death. The silence, and the sorrow, and the pain, May nourish that, which they attack in vain. The lowly flame burns longest. Humble sadness Is kindlier to love's growth than free unvaried gladness. But oh ! how glorious shone their ruling star, Which carried them with budding loves to heaven ; Whom angels welcomed in bright realms afar, With a full cup, which scarce to taste was given, While any remnant of terrestrial sin Had power to stain the holy draught within ! They died: Young love stood by them calmly sighing, And fanned, with his soft wing, the terrors of their dying. Read not of Juliet, and her Romeo, With tragic trembling, and uplifted hair ; Be mild, fair maid, and gentle in thy woe, As in their death were that most innocent pair. Upon the tomb o' the Capulets there gleams No torch light but a moon of tender beams. Then hate not love, because a Juliet died, But seek to sleep, like her, by a true lover's side. Blackwood^s Magazine. A. W. 3. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 63 TO THE SPIRIT OF POESY. O, Holy Spirit ! oft when eve Hath slowly o'er the western sky Her gorgeous pall begun to weave Of gold and crimson's richest dye, I've thought the gentle gales thy breath, The murmuring of the grove thy voice And heaven above, and earth beneath, In thee seemed to rejoice. Sweet visions then, that sleep by day, Thy magic wand hath made mine own, As brilliant as the clouds that play Around the sun's descending throne ; And I have striven in many a song To pay my homage at thy shrine : A worthless offering, for a throng Of joys, by thee made mine. What though the idle wreath would fade By weak, though willing fingers twined, Soon gathered to oblivion's shade ; Not less the task would soothe my mind. Inspired by thee, I cease to pine, Nor thought on aught that crossed my bliss, And borne to other worlds of thine, Forgot the pangs of this. But this was all in earlier days, When boyhood's hopes were wild and high, And eaglet-like, I fixed rny gaze Where glory's sun blazed through the sky ; Put fate and circumstance forbade The noble, though presumptuous flight ; Those hopes are blasted and decayed JJy disappointment's blight, 64 THE POETICAL ALBUM. My soul is daring now, as then, Though fate denies its strong desire Still, still, I hear the voice within, The stirring voice that cries ' aspire !' It haunts me like the sounds that ring In dying guilt's distempered ear, When round his couch, dim, hovering, His crimes, like ghosts, appear. And, aye, some demon in my sight Displays what wreaths for others bloom, The fame that gilds their life with light, The halo that surrounds their tomb; 'And gaze, presumptuous fool!' he cries, 'Unhonoured blest thou ne'er shall be 'But pine for ever, there to rise ' Where springs no flower for thee.' Oh, Poesy! thou too hast now Withdrawn thy wonted influence, When most I need thy tender glow To renovate my aching sense. No more thy dreams before me pass In swift succession, bright and fair ; And when I would unveil thy glass, Thou show'st me but Despair. Whenever, now, I seek the bowers, Where fancy led my steps to thee, Before my eyes a desert lours, The cold reality I see. My gloomy bosom's joyless cell, No ray of thine illumines more, Which once could guide my spirit well O'er every ill to soar. By all the intense love of thee Which fires my soul, and thrills my frame ! THE POETICAL ALBUM. 65 By tears thou giv'st thy words to be, When struggling feelings have no name ! Return, return ! By thee upborne, And by a yet un vanquished will, The malice of my fate I'll scorn, In woe triumphant still. Literary Gazette. ZARACII. EVENING. BY THE REV. GEORGE CROLY. WHEN eve is purpling cliff and cave, Thoughts of the heart, how soft ye flow ! Not softer on the western wave The golden lines of sunset glow. Then all, by chance or fate removed, Like spirits crowd upon the eye ; The few we liked the one we loved ! And the whole heart is memory. And life is like a fading flower. Its beauty dying as we gaze ; Yet as the shadows round us lour, Heaven pours above a brighter blaze. When morning sheds its gorgeous dye, Our hope, our heart, to earth is given ; But dark and lonely is the eye That turns not, at its eve, to heaven. ./Yen? Times. 6* C6 THE POETICAL ALBUM. THE KITTEN. BY JOANNA BAILLIF. WANTON drole, whoso harmless play Beguiles the rustic's closing day, When drawn the evening lire about, Sit aged Crone and thoughtless Lout, And child upon his three-foot stool, Waiting till his supper cool ; And maid, whose cheek outhlooms the rose, As bright the blazing faggot glows, Who, bending to the friendly light, Plies her task with busy sleight ; Come, show thy tricks and sportive graces Thus circled round with merry faces. Backward coiled, and crouching low, With glaring eye-balls watch thy foe, The housewife's spindle whirling round, Or thread, or straw, that on the ground Its shadow throws, by urchin sly Held out to lure thy roving eye ; Then, onward stealing, fiercely spring Upon the futile, faithless thing. Now, wheeling round, with bootless skill, Thy bo-peep tail provokes thee still, As oft beyond thy curving side Its jetty tip is seen to glide ; Till, from thy centre starting far, Thou sidelong rear'st, with tail in air, Erected stiff, and gait awry, Like Madam in her tantrums high ; Though ne'er a Madam of them all Whose silken kirtle sweeps the hall, More varied trick and whim displays, To catch the admiring stranger's gaze. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 67 Doth power in measured verses dwell, All tliy vagaries wild to tell ? Ah, no ! the start, the jet, the bound, The giddy scamper round and round, With leap, and jerk, and high curvet, And many a whirling somerset, (Permitted be the modern Muse Expression technical to use) These mock the deftliest rhymester's skill, But poor in art, though rich in will. The nimblest tumbler, stage-bedight, To thee is but a clumsy wight, Who every limb and sinew strains To do what costs thec little pains, For which, I trow, the gaping crowd Requites him oft with plaudits loud. But, stopped the while thy wanton play, Applauses too, thy feats repay : For then, beneath some urchin's hand, With modest pride thou takest thy stand, While many a stroke of fondness glides Along thy back and tabby sides ; Dilated swells thy glossy fur, And loudly sings thy busy pur ; As, timing well the equal sound, Thy clutching feet bepat the ground, And all their harmless claws disclose, Like prickles of an early rose ; While softly from thy whiskered cheek Thy half-closed eyes peer mild and meek. But not alone, by cottage fire, Do rustics rude, thy tricks admire ; The learned sage, whose thoughts explore The widest range of human lore, Or, with unfettered fancy, fly Through airy heights of poesy, 68 THE POETICAL ALBUM. Pausing, smiles, with altered air, To see thee climb his elbow chair, Or, struggling oj) the mat below, Hold warfare with his slippered toe. The widowed dame, or lonely maid, Who in the still, but cheerless shade Of home unsocial, spends her , Arid rarely turns a lettered page; Upon her hearth for thee lets fall The rounded cork, or paper ball, Nor chides thee on thy wicked watch The ends of ravelled skein to catch, But lets thee have thy wayward will, Perplexing oft her sober skill. Even he, whose mind of gloomy bent, In lonely tower or prison pent, Reviews the wit of former days, And loathes the world and all its ways ; What time the lamp's unsteady gleam Doth rouse him from his moody dream, Feels, asthou gamboPst round his seat, His heart with pride less fiercely beat, And smiles, a link in thee to find That joins him still to living kind. Whence hast thou then, thou witless puss, The magic power to charm us thus ? Is it, that in thy glaring eye, And rapid movements, we descry, While we at ease, secure from ill, The chimney corner snugly fill, A lion, darting on the prey ? A tiger, at his ruthless play ? Or, is it, that in thee we trace, With all thy varied wanton grace, An emblem, viewed with kindred eye, Of tricksy, restless infancy? Ah ! many a lightly-sport'ive child, Who hath, like thee, our wits beguiled, THE POETICAL ALBUM. 69 To dull and sober manhood grown, With strange recoil our hearts disown. Even so, poor Kit ! must thou endure, When thou becomest a cat demure, Full many a cuff and angry word, Chid roughly from the tempting board. And yet, for that thou hast, I ween, So oft our favoured playmate been, Soft be the change, which thou shalt prove, When time hath spoiled thee of our love ; Still be thou deemed, by housewife fat, A comely, careful, mousing cat, Whose dish is, for the public good, Replenished oft with savoury food. Nor, when thy span of life be past, Be thou to pond or dunghill cast ; But gently borne on good man's spade, Beneath the decent sod be laid, And children show, with glistening eyes, The place where poor old Pussy lies. Edinburgh Annual Register. SONG. BY WILLIAM SMYTH, ESQ. The Hero may perish, his country to save, And he lives in the records of fame ; The Sage may the dungeons of tyranny brave Ever honoured and blessed be his name ! But virtue that silently toils or expires, No wreath for the brow to entwine ; That asks but a smile but a fond sigh requires- O Woman ! that virtue is thine. 70 THE POETICAL ALBUM, TO THE RAINBOW. BY THOMAS CAMPBELL, ESQ. TRIUMPHAL arch, that fill'st the sky When storms prepare to part, I ask not proud philosophy To teach me what thou art. Still seem, as to my childhood's sight, A midway station given For happy spirits to alight Betwixt the earth and heaven. Can all that optics teach, unfold Thy form to please me so, As when I dreamt of gems and gold Hid in thy radiant bow ? When Science from Creation's face Enchantment's veil withdraws, What lovely visions yield their place To cold material laws. And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams, But words of the Most High Have told, why first thy robe of beams Wa,s woven in the sky. When o'er the green undeluged earth Heaven's covenant thou didst shine, How came the world's gray fathers forth TO watch thy sacred sign ! And when its yellow lustre smiled O'er mountains yet untrod, Each mother held aloft her child. To bless the bow of God, THE POETICAL ALBUM. 71 Methinks, thy jubilee to keep, The first-made anthem rang, On earth delivered from the deep, And the first poet sang. Nor ever shall the Muse's eye Unraptured greet thy beam : Theme of primeval prophecy, Be still the poet's theme. The earth to thec its incense yields, The lark thy welcome sings, When glittering' in the freshened fields The snowy mushroom springs. How glorious is thy girdle cast O'er mountain, tower, and town ! Or mirrored in the ocean vast, A thousand fathoms down ! As fresh in yon horizon dark, As young thy beauties seem, As when the eagle from the ark First sported in thy beam. For, faithful to its sacred page, Heaven still rebuilds thy span, Nor lets the type grow pale with age That first spoke peace to man. JVeM> Monthly Magazine. COMPARISON. As the rose of the valley, when dripping with dew, Is the sweetest in odour and brightest in hue ; So the glance of dear woman most lovely appears, When it beams from her eloquent eye through her tears 72 THE POETICAL ALBUM, SAPPHO. She was one Whose Lyre the spirit of sweet song had hung "With myrtle and with laurel; on whose head Genius had shed his starry glories, transcripts Of woman's loving heart and woman's disappointment. SHE leant upon her harp, and thousands looked On her in love and wonder; thousands knelt And worshipped in her presence ; burning tears, And words that died in utterance, and a pause Of breathless agitated eagerness, First gave the full heart's homage ; then came forth A shout that rose to heaven, and the hills, The distant valleys, all rang with the name Of the ^Eolian Sappho! Every heart Found in itself some echo to her song. Low notes of love, hopes beautiful and fresh, And some gone by for ever glorious dreams, High aspirations, those thrice gentle thoughts That dwell upon the absent and the dead, Were breathing in her music and these are Chords every bosom vibrates to. But she Upon whose brow the laurel crown is placed, Her colour's varying with deep emotion There is a softer blush than conscious pride Upon her cheek, and in that tremulous smile Is all a woman's timid tenderness. Her eye is on a Youth, and other days And feelings warm have rushed on her soul With all their former influence ; thoughts that slept Cold, calm as death, have wakened to new life ; Whole years' existence have passed in that glance. She had once loved in very early days ; That was a thing gone by. One had called forth The music of her soul. He loved her too, But not as she did : she was unto him As a young bird, whose early flight he trained, Whose first wild songs were sweet, for he had taught THE POETICAL ALBUM. 73 Those songs ; but she looked up to him with all Youth's deep and passionate idolatry ; Love was her heart's sole universe he was To her, Hope, Genius, Energy, the God Her inmost spirit worshipped, in whose smile Was all e'en minstrel pride held precious; praise Was prized but as the echo of his own. But other times and other feelings came: Hope is love's element, and love with her Sickened of its own vanity. She lived Mid bright realities and brighter dreams, Those strange but exquisite imaginings That tinge with such sweet colours minstrel thoughts ; And Fame, like sunlight, was upon her path; And strangers heard her name, and eyes that never Had looked on Sappho, yet had wept with her. Her first love never wholly lost its power, But, like rich incense shed, although no trace Was of its visible presence, yet its sweetness Mingled with every feeling, and it gave That soft and melancholy tenderness, Which was the magic of her song. That Youth Who knelt before her was so like the shape That haunted her spring dreams the same dark eyes, Whose light had once been as the light of heaven! Others breathed winning flatteries, she turned A careless hearing ; but when Phaon spoke, Her heart beat quicker, and the crimson light Upon her cheek gave a most tender answer. She loved with all the ardour of a heart Which lives but in itself; her life had passed Arnid the grand creations of the thought. Love was to her a vision ; it was now Heightened into devotion. But a soul So gifted and so passionate as her's Will seek companionship in vain, and find Its feelings solitary. Phaon soon Forgot the fondness of his Lesbian maid ; 7 71 THE POETICAL ALBUM. And Sappho knew that talents, riches, fame, May not soothe slighted love. There is a dark rock looks on the blue sea; 'Twas there love's last song echoed: there She sleeps, Whose lyre was crowned with laurel, and whose name Will be remembered long as Love or Song Are sacred the devoted Sappho ! Literary Gazette. L. E. L. SAPPHO'S SONG. FAREWELL, my Lute! and would that I Had never waked thy burning chords! Poison has been upon thy sigh, And fever has breathed in thy words. Yet wherefore, wherefore should I blame Thy power, thy spell, my gentle lute ? I should have been the wretch I am, Had every chord of thine been mute. It was my evil star above, Not my sweet lute, that wrought me wrong; It was not song that taught me love, But it was love that taught me song. If song be past, and hope undone, And pulse, and head, and heart, are flame ; It is thy work, thou faithless one ! But, no ! I will not name thy name ! Sun-god, lute, wreath, are vowed to thee ! Long be their light upon my grave My glorious grave ! Yon deep blue sea ! 1 shall sleep calm beneath its wave ! L. E. L. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 75 THE EGYPTIAN TOMB. if BY THE REV. W. L. BOWLES. POMP of Egypt's elder day, Shade of the mighty passed away, (Whose giant works still frown sublime Mid the twilight shades of Time,) Fanes, of sculpture vast and rude, That strew the sandy solitude, Lo! before our startled eyes, As at a wizard's wand, ye rise, Glimmering larger through the gloom ! While on the secrets of the tomb, Rapt in other times, we gaze, The Mother-Queen of ancient days, Her mystic symbol in her hand, Great Iris, seems herself to stand. From mazy vaults, high-arched and dim, Hark ! heard ye not Osiris' hymn ? And saw ye not in order dread The long procession of the dead? Forms that the night of years concealed, As by a flash, are here revealed ; Chiefs who sang the victor song, Sceptred Kings, a shadowy throng, From slumber of three thousand years Each, as in light and life, appears, Stern as of yore ! Yes, vision vast, Three thousand years have silent passed, Suns of Empire risen and set (Whose story Time can ne'er forget,) Time, in the morning of her pride, Immense, along the Nile's green side, The City* of the Sun appeared, And her gigantic image reared. * Thebes. 76 THE POETICAL, ALBUM. As Memnon, like a trembling string When the Sun, with rising ray Streaked the lonely desert gray, Sent forth its magic murmuring, That just was heard, then died away; So passed, oh ! Thebes! thy morning pride ! Thy glory was the sound that died ! Dark city of the desolate, Once thou wcrt rich, and proud, and great! This busy-peopled isle was then A waste, or roamed by savage men Whose gay descendants now appear To mark thy wreck of glory here. Phantom of that city old, Whose mystic spoils I now behold, A kingdom's sepulchre, oh say, Shall Albion's own illustrious day, Thus darkly close ? Her power, her fame Thus pass away, a shade, a name ? The Mausoleum murmured as I spoke ; A spectre seemed to rise, like towering smoke ; It answered not, but pointed as it fled To the black carcass of the sightless dead. Once more I heard the sounds of earthly strife, And the streets ringing to the stir of life. Literary Gazette. STANZAS. I saw a falling leaf soon strew The soil to which it owed its birth : I saw a bright star falling too But never reach the quiet earth. Such is the lowly portion blest, Such is ambition's foiled endeavour; The falling leaf is soon at rest, While stars that fall, fall on for ever ! THE POETICAL ALBUM. 77 I1ELVELLYN. BY BARRY CORNWALL. HELVELLTN! blue Helvellyn Hill of hills! Giant amongst the giants ! Lift thy head Broad in the sun-light! no loose vapour dims Thy barren grandeur; but, with front severe, Calm, proud, and unabashed, thou look'st upon The heights around the lake and meadows green, Whereon the herded cattle, tiny things, Like flowers upon the sunny landscape lie ; Behind thee cometh quick the evening pale, Whilst in the west an amphitheatre Of crags (such as the Deluge might have washed In vain,) against the golden face of heaven Turns its dark shoulder, and insults the day. With no imposing air, no needless state, Thou risest, blue Helvellyn ; no strange point Lends thee distinction, no fantastic shape Marks thee a thing whereon the mind must rest ; But in thine own broad height, peerless and vast, Leviathan of mountains! thou art seen Fairly ascending, amidst crags and hills The mightiest one, associate of the sky! I see thee again, from these bleak sullen moor?, Boundless and bare, long, dreary, wintry wastes, Where the red waters lie stagnant, amidst Black rocks, and treacherous moss, and rushes white With age, or withered by the bitter blast ; Thou lookest out on thy huge limbs that lie Sleeping far, far beneath ; and on the plains Below, and heaven, which scarcely o'er thy head Lifts its blue arch ; and on the driven clouds That loiter round thee, or impetuous burst About thy summit with their stormy showers. 1* 10 THE POETICAL ALBUM. There, in thy lonely state, thou livest on Through days, and years, and ages, still the same Unshaken, undecaying : not alone A thing material haply, for within Thy heart a secret spirit may now abide ; The same that fills thy veins in spring with green, And hangs around thoe long the summer thyme ; And when the winds of Autumn moan away Solemn and sad, from thy supremest brow Poureth the white stream bright and beautiful. The winds! are they thy music ? (who shall say Thou nearest not !) Thy echoes, which restore The rolling thunder fainting fast away, From death to a second life seem now, methinks, Not mere percussions of the common air, But imitations high of mightier sense Of some communicable soul that speaks From the most inward earth, abroad to men And mountains, bird and beast, and air and Heaven. London Magazine. INSCRIPTION FOR A VILLAGE SPRING. CALM is the tenor of my way, Not hurried/)n with furious haste, Nor raised aloft in proud display : Pure too the tribute of my urn, With constant flow, not idle waste, Offering to him who sends the rain, By serving man, the best return. A course like mine thy trials o'er Those living waters will attain, Which he who drinks shall thirst no more. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 79 MY BROTHER'S GRAVE. BENEATH the chancel's hallowed stone, Exposed to every rustic tread, To few, save rustic mourners, known, My brother, is thy lowly bed. Few words, upon thy rough stone graven, Thy name thy birth thy youth declare Thy innocence thy hopes of heaven, In simplest phrase recorded there. No 'scutcheons shine, no banners wave, In mockery o'er my brother's grave ! The place is silent. Rarely sound Is heard those ancient walls around, Nor mirthful voice of friends that meet Discoursing in the public street ; Nor hum of business dull and loud, Nor murmur of the passing crowd, Nor soldier's drum, nor trumpet's swell, From neighbouring fort or citadel ; No sound of human toil or strife In death's lone dwelling speaks of life, Or breaks the silence still and deep Where thou, beneath thy burial stone, Art laid in that unstartled sleep The living eye hath never known. The lonely sexton's footstep falls In dismal echoes on the walls, As, slowly pacing through the aisle, He sweeps the unholy dust away, And cobwebs, which must not defile Those windows on the sabbath-day ; And, passing through the central nave, Treads lightly on my brother's grave. But when the sweet-toned sabbath-chime, Pouring its music on the breeze, Proclaims the well known holy time Of prayer, and thanks, and bended knees ; 80 THE POETICAL ALBUM. When rustic crouds devoutly meet, And lips and hearts to God are given, And souls enjoy oblivion sweet Of earthly ills in thoughts of heaven ; What voice of calm and solemn tone Is heard above thy burial stone ? What form in priestly meek array Beside the altar kneels to pray ? Wiiat holy hands are lifted up To bless the sacramental cup ? Full well I know that reverend form, And if a voice could reach the dead, Those tones would reach thee, though the worm, My brother, makes thy heart his bed. That sire, who thy existence gave, Now stands beside thy lowly grave. It is not long since thou wert wont Within these sacred walls to kneel ; This altar, that baptismal font, These stones, which now thy dust conceal, The sweet tones of the sabbath bell, Were holiest objects to thy soul ; On these thy spirit loved to dwell, Untainted by the world's control. My brother, those were happy days, When thou and I were children yet! How fondly memory still surveys Those scenes, the heart can ne'er forget ! My soul was then, as thine is now, Unstained by sin, un.stung by pain ; Peace smiled on each unclouded brow Mine ne'er will be so cairn again. How blithely then we hailed the ray, Which ushered in the sabbath day ! How lightly then our footsteps trod Yon pathway to the house of God ! For souls, in which no dark offence Hath sullied childhood's innocence, THE POETICAL ALBUM. 81 Best meet the pure and hallowed shrine, Which guiltier bosoms own divine. I feel not now, as then I felt; The sunshine of my heart is o'er ; The spirit now is changed, which dwelt Within me, in the days of yore. But thou wert snatched, my brother, hence In all thy guileless innocence ; One sabbath saw thee bend the knee, In reverential piety, (For childish faults forgiveness crave) The next beamed brightly on thy grave. The crowd, of which thou late wert one, Now throng across thy burial stone ; Rude footsteps trample on the spot, Where thou liest mouldering- not forgot ; And some few gentler bosoms weep, In silence, o'er thy last long sleep. I stood not by thy feverish bed, 1 looked not on thy glazing eye, Nor gently lulled thy aching head, Nor viewed thy dying agony ; I felt not what my parents felt, The doubt the terror the distress ; Nor vainly for my brother knelt ; My soul was spared that wretchedness : One sentence told me, in a breath, My brother's illness and his death ! And days of mourning glided by, And brought me back my gaiety ; For soon in childhood's wayward heart Doth crushed affection cease to smart. Again I joined the sportive crowd Of boyish playmates, wild and loud ; I learnt to view with careless eye My sable garb of misery ; 82 THE POETICAL ALBUM. No more I wept my brother's lot, His image was almost forgot ; And every deeper shade of pain Had vanished from my soul again. The well known morn, I used to greet With boyhood's joy, at length was beaming, And thoughts of home and raptures sweet In every eye but mine were gleaming ; But I, amidst that youthful band Of bounding hearts and beaming eyes, Nor smiled nor spoke at joy's command, Nor felt those wonted ecstasies ! I loved my home, but trembled now To view my father's altered brow ; J feared to meet my mother's eye, And hear her voice of agony ; I feared to view my native spot, Where he who loved it now was not. The pleasures of my home were fled ; My brother slumbered with the dead. I drew near to my father's gate ; No smiling faces met me now. I entered, all was desolate. Grief sat upon my mother's brow; I heard her, as she kissed me, sigh ; A tear stood in my lather's eye ; My little brothers round me pressed, In gay unthinking childhood blest. Long, long, that hour has passed, but when, Shall I forget its gloomy scene ! The sabbath came With mournful pace I sought my brother's burial place That shrine, which when 1 last had viewed In vigour by my side he stood. J gazed around with fearful eye : All things reposed in sanctity. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 83 I reached the chancel, nought was changed : The altar decently arranged, The pure white cloth above the shrine, The consecrated bread and wine, All was the same I found no trace Of sorrow in that holy place. One hurried glance I downward gave, My foot was on my brother's grave ! And years have passed and thou art now Forgotten in thy silent tomb ; And cheerful is my mother's brow, My father's eye has lost its gloom, And years have passed and death has laid Another victim by thy side ; With thee he roams, an infant shade, But not more pure than thee lie died. Blest are ye both ! Your ashes rest Beside the spot ye loved the best ; And that dear home, which saw your birth, O'erlooks you in your bed of earth. But who can tell what blissful shore Your angel-spirits wander o'er ! And who can tell what raptures high Now bless your immortality ! My boyish days are nearly gone, My breast is not unsullied now ; And worldly cares and woes will soon Cut their deep furrows on my brow, And life will take a darker hue* From ills my brother never knew ; And I have made me bosom friends, And loved and linked my heart with others ; But who with mine his spirit blends, As mine was blended with my brother's ! When years of rapture glided by The spriug of life's unclouded weather, 84 THE POETICAL ALBUM. Our souls were knit, and thou and I, My brother, grew in love together. The chain is broke that hound us then ;- When shall I find its like again ! The Etonian. ON THE RECEIPT OF A LETTER. BT THE REV. GEORGE CRABBE. THROUGH many a year the Merchant views, With steady eye, his distant gains; Right on, his object he pursues, And what he seeks, in time, obtains : So he some distant prospect sees, Who gazes on a Patron's smiles, And if he finds it hard to please, That pleasant view his cares beguiles. Not such my fate what years disclose, And piece-meal oh such minds bestow, The lively joys, the grievous woes ! Shall this tremendous instant show : Concentred hopes and fears I feel, As on the verge of fate I stand, In sight of Fortune's rapid wheel, And with the ticket in myjiand. No intermediate good can rise, And feeble compensation make ; 'Tis one dread blank, or one rich prize ; And life's grand hope is now at stake! Where all is lost, or all is won, That can distress, that can delight ; Oh ! how will rise To-morrow's Sun On him who draws his fate To-night! Literary Gazette. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 85 ON A CHILD PLAYING. SWEET burl, tliat l>y and by shall be a flower ; Young star, that just hath broken on our eye : Pure spring, ero long 1 to grow a stream of power; First dawn of Hope, that soon shall flame out high Into the mid arch of the golden sky ; I love, young fawn, to see thee sport ; and yet Such contemplation breeds but vain regret. Let the proud mother smile to see thy ways, And once again forget herself in thee ; Let the proud father eke the mother's praise, But, graver, place thee fondly on his knee, And vainly prophecy what thou shall be Pleased with the tongueless eloquence, that lies Still silent, in thy clear blue laughing eyes. Let them enjoy whilst yet they can enjoy; And, infant son of Time, do thou smile on, Deem not for aye to be the favourite boy ; Take what thou can'st, or ere thy time is gone, For still the darling is the youngest son ; And thou shalt quickly sorrow sore to see Another, younger still, supplanting thee. Though many a high presage be cast upon thee, Though many a mouth be diligent to praise thee, Though Beauty pine until that she hath won thee, Though worship, wheresoe'er thou goest, delays thee, - Though Fate and Fortune emulate to raise thee, Yet all the thronging honours that surround thee Shall not avail thee, since that Care hath found thee. Time's train is lacqueyed still by weariness; What boots the crownlet of o'er-flattered gold, Or gemmed Tiara, if they cannot bless Or soothe the aching brows that they enfold ? What boots it to wax honourably old, 8 86 THE POETICAL ALBUM. If 'tis the end of every hope and vow, To yearn to be again as thou art now ! Oh ! 'tis a thriftless bargain of a life, To live to know that bliss is hut pretence That gaining nothing in this earthly strife, We only toil to forfeit innocence ! The profit nothing, but remorse the expense ! Or that fond grief, that wearies of its state, And pines for toys and gauds worn out of date. Thou art an old pretender, gray-beard Age ; Thou boasted much, and yet art hut a cheat ; And those who toil upon thy pilgrimage, Would turn again with no unwilling feet : Yea, dewy clouds to evening are most meet. If smiles be Youth's, sure tears are Age's sign, As suns that rise in smiles, in tears decline. Blackwood's Magazine. T. D. ON AN OLD ENGRAVING OF A NUN. 'Tis a most wondrous mockery of life ! A dirty scroll, and lined with dirtier ink, Is all I gaze upon ; and yet how rife With beauty and devotion ! One might drink From those meek, pensive lips, and drooping eyes Love that would lift a demon to the skies, Or plant an Eden on Destruction's brink ! Sure, on her saintly smile we need but look To read the entrancing promise of that Book, Which in one hand she clasps ; and dare we think Of virgin youth and loveliness, and bliss Too heavenly for a world so fallen as this, But no still, still be the fair fingers prest Upon those hallowed folds that curtain her pure breast. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 87 LORD BYRON'S LATEST VERSES. Missolonghi, January 22, 1824. " On this day I complete my thirty-sixth year." *Tia time this heart should be unmoved, Since others it hath ceased to move ; Yet though I cannot he beloved, Still let me love. My days are in the yellow leaf, The flowers and fruits of- love are gone, The worm, the canker, and the grief, Are mine alone. The fire that on my bosom preys Is like to some volcanic isle, No torch is kindled at its blaze : A funeral pile. The hope, the fear, the jealous care, Th' exalted portion of the pain, And power of love, I cannot share ; But wear the chain. But 'tis not thus it is not here Such thoughts should shake my soul ; nor now, Where glory seals the hero's bier, Or binds his brow. The sword, the banner, and the field, Glory and Greece around us see ; The Spartan borne upon his shield Was not more free. 88 THE POETICAL ALBUM. Awake ! not Greece she is awake ! Awake, my spirit, think through whom My life-blood tracks its parent lake And then strike home ! Tread all reviving passions down, Unworthy manhood unto thee, Indifferent should the smile or frown Of beauty be! If thou regret'st thy youth why live ? The land of honourable death Is here up to the field, and give Away thy breath ! Seek out less often sought than found A soldier's grave, for thee the best, Then look around, and choose thy ground, And take thy rest. SAPPHO. BY THE REV. GEORGE CROLT. LOOK on this brow ! the laurel wreath Beamed on it, like a wreath of fire ; For passion gave the living breath, That shook the chords of Sappho's lyre ! Look on this brow ! the lowest slave, The veriest wretch of want and care, Blight shudder at the lot that gave Her genius, glory and despair. For, from these lips were uttered sighs, That, more than fever, scorched the frame ; And tears were rained from these bright eyes, That from the heart, like life-blood, came,. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 89 She loved ! she felt the lightning-gleam, That keenest strikes the loftiest mind ; Life quenched in one ecstatic dream, The world a waste before behind. And she had hope the treacherous hope, The last deep poison of the bowl, That makes us drain it, drop by drop, Nor lose one misery of soul. Then all gave way mind, passion, pride ! She cast one weeping glance above, And buried in her bed, the tide, The whole concentred strife of Love ! LINES WRITTEN ON THE FIRST VIEW OF FONTHILL ABBET. BY THE REV. W. L. BOWLES. THE mighty master waved his wand, and lo ! On the astonished eye the glorious show Burst like a vision ! Spirit of the place ! Has the Arabian wizard with his mace Smitten the barren downs, far onward spread, And bade the enchanted palace rise instead ? Bade the dark woods their solemn shades extend, High to the clouds yon spiry tower ascend ? And starting from th' umbrageous avenue Spread the rich pile, magnificent, to view ? Enter ! From the arched portal look again Back, on the lessening woods and distant plain ! Ascend the steps ! The high and fretted roof Is woven by some elfin- hand aloof; Whilst from the painted window's long array A mellow light is shed as not of day. How gorgeous all ! O never may the spell Be broken, that arrayed those radiant forms so well ! 8* 90 THE POETICAL ALBUM. A SKETCH. Is not this grove A scene of pensive loveliness ? The gleam Of Dian's gentle ray falls on the trees, And piercing through the gloom, seems like the smile That Pity gives to cheer the brow of Grief; The turf hath caught a silvery hue of light, Broken by shadows, where the branching oak Rears its dark shade, or where the aspen waves Its trembling leaves. The breeze is murmuring by, Fraught with sweet sighs of flowers and the song Of sorrow, that the nightingale pours forth, Like the soft dirge of love. There is oft told A melancholy record of this grove : 'Twas once, they say, the haunt of young Affection And now seems hallowed by the tender vows That erst were breathed here. Sad is the tale That tells of blighted feelings, hopes destroyed ; But love is like the rose, so many ills Assail it in the bud ! The cankering blast, The frost of winter and the summer storm, All bow it down ; rarely the blossom comes To full maturity ; but there is nought Sinks with so chill a breath as Faithlessness, As she could tell whose loveliness lives yet In village legends. Often at this hour Of lonely beauty, would she list the tale Of tenderness, and hearken to the vows Of one more dear than life unto her soul ; He twined him round the heart, which beat with all The deep devotedness of early love, Then left her, careless of the passion, which He had awakened into wretchedness. The blight, which withered all the blossoms love THE POETICAL ALBUM. 91 Had fondly cherished, withered too the heart, Which gave them birth. Her sorrow had no voice, Save in her faded beauty ; for she looked A melancholy, broken-hearted girl. She was so changed, the soft carnation cloud Once mantling o'er her cheek like that, which eve Hangs o'er the sky, glowing with roseate hue, Had faded into paleness, broken by Bright burning blushes, torches of the tomb. There was such sadness, even in her smiles, And such a look of utter hopelessness Dwelt in her soft blue eye, a form so frail, So delicate, scarce like a thing of earth, 'Twas sad to gaze upon a brow so fair, And see it traced with such a tale of wo, To think that one so young and beautiful Was wasting to the grave. Within yon bower Of honeysuckle and the snowy wealth, The mountain-ash puts forth to welcome spring, Her form was found reclined upon a bank, Where nature's sweet unnurtured children bloom. One white arm lay beneath her drooping head, While her bright tresses twined their sunny wreath Around the polished ivory ; there was not A tinge of colour on her lovely face ; 'Twas like to marble, where the sculptor's skill Had traced each charm of beauty but the blush. Serenity, so sweet, sat on her brow, So soft a smile yet hovered o'er her lips, At first they thought 'twas sleep, and sleep it was, The cold long rest of death. L. E. L. Literary Gazette. 92 THE POETICAL, ALBUM. REPROACH ME NOT. OH ! gentle shade, reproach me not, For hours of mirth too late gone by ! Thy loveliness is ne'er forgot However wild the revelry. For o'er the silent goblet, thou Art still remembered, and a cloud, Comes o'er my heart, and o'er my brow ; And I am lone, while all are loud. Reproach me not, Reproach me not For mingling in the noisy scene ! Mine is indeed a gloomy lot, To think on joys, which but have been ; To meditate on woes, which yet Must haunt my life, and speed my fall ! Some minds would struggle to forget, But mine would fain remember all. I think on thee, I think and sigh, Though thoughts are sad. and sighs are vain! There's something in thy memory, That gives a loveliness to pain ; But yet, ah ! gentle saint, forgive The faults this wretched breast hath known ! Had fate allowed thee but to live, Those shadowing faults had ne'er been shown. Thy friends are fading from my sight, But from my mind they ne'er depart ; They leave behind them in their flight, Their images upon my heart ; And better 'twere that all should go From this dark world, since thou art gone ! I need no friend to share my wo ! I love to weep apart, alone. THE POETICAL ALBUM. Thy picture ! It is life, health, love, To gaze upon that eye, that cheek, Tho^e iips, which even in fancy move, Which fancy teaches even to speak. Oh ! I have hung so long at night, O'er thy still semblance, charmed from pain, Th:u 1 have thought the living light Came beaming from those eyes again ! 93 In my dark heart thy image glows, In shape and light divinely fair ; Youth sketched the form, when free from woes, And faithful memory placed it there. In revelry 'tis still with me ; In loneliness 'tis ne'er forgot, My heart beats still the same to thee : Reproach me not ! Reproach me not ! St. James's Chronicle. FROM ANACREON. THE girls with laughing faces, Still harp on age's traces ; And still they cry, grow wiser, Your glass be your adviser. See there the looks we cherished, On that dear brow are perished. For me, nor know, nor care I, If they depart or tarry ; But this I know much better, It suits me to the letter, To prize the joys remaining, Because those joys are waning. 94 THE POETICAL ALBUM. THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE, WHO FELL AT THE BATTLE OF CORUNNA, NOT a drum was heard, nor a funeral note, As his corse to the rampart we hurried ; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried. We buried him darkly at dead of night, The sods with our bayonets turning, By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, And the lantern dimly burning. No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Nor in sheet nor in shroud we bound him, But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him. Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow, But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead, And we bitterly thought of the morrow. We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow. Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him; But nothing he'll reck, if they let him sleep on In the grave where a Briton has laid him. But half of our heavy task was done, When the clock tolled the hour for retiring ; And we heard, by the distant and random gun, That the foe was suddenly firing. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 95 Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame, fresh and gory : We carved not a line, we raised not a stone, But left him alone in his glory. Blackwood's Magazine* VIRGIL'S TOMB. BY THE REV. GEORGE CROLY. BENEATH the' shelter of a mighty hill, Whose marble peaks were garlanded with vine, And musical will) many a sunny rill, That thro' its purple, clustered shades did twine, Bright as a summer serpent's golden spine, Leaned a low temple, in the sweet, gray gloom, Hoary with moss, like Age in calm decline. With, here and there, a rose's lingering bloom, Wreathed loving round its brow; that temple is a tomb ! There sleeps the Mantuan ! There the subtlest hand That ever wakened Passion's lyre, is laid. Oh ! Master-genius of thy glorious Land ! When -when shall Italy her tresses braid With the bright flowers, that round thy forehead played ? When flash to Heaven the ancient sword of Rome ? Come from thy rest, and call her Mighty shade ! No ! Vice, the worm, has fed upon her bloom ! Look not upon the slave ; sleep, Virgil, in thy tomb ! JYe w Times. EPITAPH, ON AN IDEOT GIRL. IF the innocent are favourites of Heaven ; And God but little asks where little's given, Thy great Creator hath for thee in store Eternal joys. What wise man can have more ? 96 THE POETICAL ALBUM. THE MOSLEM BRIDAL SONG. BY THE REV. GEORGE CROLY. THERE is a radiance in tlie sky, A flush of gold, and purple dye ! Night lingers in the west ; the sun Floats on the sea. The day's begun. The wave, slow swelling to the shore, Gleams on the green like silver ore ; The grove, the cloud, the mountain's brow, Are burning in the crimson glow ; Yet all is silence, till the gale Shakes its rich pinions from the vale. It is a lovely hour ! Though heaven Had ne'er to man his partner given, That thing of beauty, fatal, fair, Bright, fickle, child of flame and air; Yet such an hour, such skies above, Such earth below, had taught him love. But there are sounds along the gale, Not murmurs of the grot or vale, Yet wild, and sweet, as ever stole To soothe their twilight wanderer's soul. It comes from yonder jasmine bower, From yonder mosque's enamelled tower, From yonder harem's roof of gold, From yonder castle's haughty hold! Oh, strain of witchery ! whoe'er That heard thee, felt not joy was near? My soul shall in the grave be dim Ere it forgets that bridal hymn. 'Twas such a morn, 'twas such a tone That woke me ; visions ! are you gone ? The flutes breathe nigh, the portals now Pour out the train, white veiled, like snow THE POETICAL ALBUM. Upon its mountain summit spread, In splendour beyond man's rude tread ! And o'er their pomp, emerging far, The bride, like morning's virgin star. And soon along the eve may swim The chorus of the bridal hymn ; Again the bright processions move To take the last sweet veil from Love. Then speed thee on, thou glorious sun ! Swift rise, swift set, be bright and done. Literary Gazette. THERMOPYLAE. BY LORD BYRON. THEY fell devoted, but undying ; The very gale their names seemed sighing The waters murmured of their name ; The woods were peopled with their fame ; The silent pillar, lone and gray, Claimed kindred with their sacred clay ; Their spirits wrapt the dusky mountain ; Their memory sparkled o'er the fountain ; The meanest rill, the mightiest river, Rolled, mingled with their fame, forever. Despite of every yoke she bears, That land is Glory's still, and their's ! 'Tis still a watch-word to the earth ; When man would do a deed of worth, He points to Greece, and turns to tread, So sanctioned, on the tyrant's head ; He looks to her, and rushes on Where life is lost or freedom won. Liberal. 98 THE POETICAL ALBUM. BELSHAZZAR. BY THE REV. GEORGE CROLY. HOUR of an Empire's overthrow ! The Princes from the feast were gone, The Idol flame was burning low ; 'Twas midnight upon Babylon. That night the feast was wild and high ; That night was Sion's gold profaned ; The seal was set to blasphemy ; The last deep cup of wrath was drained, 'Mid jewelled roof and silken pall, Belshazzar on his couch was flung ; A burst of thunder shook the hall He heard but 'twas no mortal tongue :- 1 King of the East, the trumpet calls, That calls thee to a tyrant's grave ; A curse is on thy palace walls A curse is on thy guardian wave ; * A surge is in Euphrates' bed, That never filled its bed before ; A surge, that, ere the morn be red, Shall load with death its haughty shore. ' Behold a tide of Persian steel ! A torrent of the Median car ; Like flame their gory banners wheel ; Rise, King, and arm thee for the war !' Belshazzar gazed ; the voice was past The lofty chamber filled with gloom ; But, echoed on the sudden blast, The rushing of a mighty plume. THE POETICAL ALBUM. He listened ; all again was still ; He heard no chariot's iron clang ; He heard the fountain's gushing rill, The breeze that through the roses sang. He slept : in sleep wild murmurs came ; A visioned splendour fired the sky ; He heard Belshazzur's taunted name ; He heard again the Prophet cry * Sleep, Sultan ! 'tis thy final sleep ; Or wake, or sleep, the guilty dies. The wrongs of those who watch and weep, Around thee and thy nation rise,' He started, 'mid the battle's yell, He saw the Persian rushing on ; He saw the flames around him swell : Thou'rt ashes ! King of Babylon. New Times. WITHERED VIOLETS. BT WILLIAM READ, ESQ. LONG years have passed, pale flowers, since you Were culled, and given in brightest bloom, By one whose eyes eclipsed your blue, Whose breath was like your own perfume. Long years but though your bloom be gone, The fragrance, which your freshness shed, Survives, when memory lingers on, When all that blessed its birth have fled. Those hues and hopes will pass away ; Thus youth, and bloom, and bliss, depart ; Oh what is left when these decay ! The faded leaf, the withered heart ! London Magazine. 100 THE POETICAL ALBUM. THE DEAD SEA. BY THE REV. GEORGE CROLY. THE wind blows chill across those gloomy waves; Oh ! how unlike the green and dancing main ! The surge is foul as if it rolled o'er graves ; Stranger, here lie the cities of the plain. Yes, on that plain, by wild waves covered now, Rose palace once, and sparkling pinnacle ; On pomp and spectacle beamed morning's glow, On pomp and festival the twilight fell. Lovely and splendid all, but Sodom's soul Was stained with blood, and pride, and perjury ; Long warned, long spared, till her whole heart was foul, And fiery vengeance on its clouds came nigh. And still she mocked, and danced, and, taunting, spoke Her sportive blasphemies against the Throne : It came ! The thunder on her slumber broke : God spake the word of wrath I Her dream was done. Yet, in her final night, amid her stood Immortal messengers, and pausing Heaven Pleaded with man, but she was quite imbued, Her last hour waned she scorned to be forgiven ! 'Twas done ! Down poured at once the sulphurous shower, Down stooped, in flame, the heaven's red canopy. Oh ! for the arm of God, in that fierce hour ! 'Twas vain, nor help of God or man was nigh. They rush, they bound, they howl, the men of sin ; Still stooped the cloud, still burst the thicker blaze ; The earthquake heaved 1 Then sank the hideous din 1 Yon wave of darkness o'er their ashes strays. PARIS ! thy soul is deeper dyed with blood, And long, and blasphemous, has been thy day; And, Paris, it were well for thee that flood, Or fire, could cleanse thy damning stains away. Literary Gazette. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 101 SONG, WRITTEN FOR AN INDIAW AIR. BT THE LATE PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY, 1 ARISE from dreams of thee, In the first sweet sleep of night, When the winds are breathing low, And the stars are burning bright. I arise from dreams of thee, And a spirit, in my feet, Hath led me, who knows how ! To thy chamber window, Sweet. The wandering airs they faint On the dark, the silent stream, The Champak odours fail, Like sweet thoughts in a dream. The nightingale's complaint, It dies upon her heart : As I must on thine, Beloved as thou art ! The gentle dews of sleep Are falling on thine eye ; And 1, alas ! must weep, Thou know'st not I am nigh ! My cheek is cold and wan, My heart beats loud and fast ; O ! press it to thine own, Or it will break at last ! Liberal. 9* 102 THE POETICAL ALBUM. STANZAS, WRITTEN ON THE BACK OF A LETTER. BY ISMAEL F1TZADAM. BLEST be the page affection traced ! All welcome to the wanderer's eye, As roses springing 'mid the waste, As rills along the desert dry. And blest the spirit, breathing love, That doubly every line endears, While pensive memory pours above The melancholy joy of tears. Sweet messenger! Thou corn'st to bless To tell one heart a homeless one That, in this wide world's wilderness, It beats not cannot break alone. No, not alone, nor wholly lost, While love's fond sympathy can save ; Still fond, but in misfortune most, And burning brightest near the grave. God ! is not this the very hand, When stretched on sickness' rack 1 lay, That wiped, as with a healing wand, The bitter dews of pain away? That ministered the cooling cup To my parcned lip? No cup of glee, Or, wet with tears, was lifted up To Heaven, in fervent prayer for me ? Yes, sister of my soul ! the part Was thine long mouths to watch and weep THE POETICAL ALBUM. 103 The anguish, whose convulsive start Still mocked and murdered struggling sleep. Beleagured Nature's strife to view, And every pang so keenly share, That pity even from me was due, Who lay the wretch of wretches there. In that dark hour, when every tie, When life itself was all hut riven, Thou stood'st a guardian angel hy, That loosed from earth, and led to Heaven. Or, with unwearied labour, prest The ' nerve where agonies were horn,' Soothing my midnights not of rest Nor anxious for relief at morn. And she one other not less dear, Oh ! can her love forgotten he ! Who, o'er that bed that living bier Shared all thy toils and tears for me. Like chords in music's holiest mood, Mingling, but sweeter from control, Twin forms of mercy! there ye stood, Breathing one fond, devoted soul ! Oh, nought of pure on earth beneath, And scarcely aught in heaven above, Can match the purity, the faith, The blessing, of a sister's love ! Take thou, the fond return of^nine, 'Tis all, save verse, that's mine to give, Till life's last pulses cease, 'tis thine, And life itself it must outlive. 104 THE POETICAL ALBUM. A DRINKING SONG. BY LORD BYRON. FILL the goblet again, for I never before Felt the glow that now gladdens my heart to its core ! Let us drink ! Who would not? Since through life's varied round In the goblet alone no deception is found. I have tried in its turn all that life can supply ; I have basked in the beam of a dark rolling eye ; I have loved ! Who has not? But what tongue will declare, That pleasure existed whilst passion was there ! In the bright days of youth when the heart's in its spring, And dreams that affection can never take wing, I had friends ! Who has not? But what tongue will avow That friends, rosy wine, are so faithful as thou ! The breast of a mistress some boy may estrange ; Friendship shifts with the sun-beam ; thou never can'st change ! Thou grow'stold ! Who does not? But on earth what appears, Whose virtues like thine but increase with their years. Yet if blest to the utmost that love can bestow, Should a rival bow down to our idol below ; We are jealous ! Who's not ? Thou hast no such alloy, For the more that enjoy thee, the more they enjoy. Then the season of Youth and its jollities past, For refuge we fly to the goblet at last ; There we find Do we not? In the flow of the soul, That truth, as of yore, is confined to the bowl. When the Box of Pandora was opened on earth, And Misery's triumph commenced over Mirth, Hope was left ! Was she not? But the goblet we kiss, And care not for hope who are certain of bliss ! Long life to the grape ! and when summer is flown, The age of our nectar shall gladden our own ; We must die ! Who shall not? May our sins be forgiven, And Hebe shall never be idle in Heaven ! THE POETICAL ALBUM. 105 EPITAPH ON JOSEPH ATKINSON, ESQ. BY THOMAS MOORE, ES. IF ever lot was prosperously cast, If ever life was like the lengthened flow Of some sweet music, sweetness to the last, 'Twas his, who, mourned by many, sleeps below. The sunny temper, bright where all is strife, The simple heart that mocks at worldly wiles ; Light wit, that plays along the calm of life ; And stirs its languid surface into smiles ; Pure charity that comes not in a shower, Sudden and loud, oppressing what it feeds, But like the dew, with gradual silent power, Felt in the bloom it leaves along the meads ; The happy grateful spirit that improves, And brightens every gift by fortune given, That wander where it will with those it loves, Makes every place a home, and home a heaven. All these were his. Oh ! thou who read'st this stone, When for thyself, thy children, to the sky Thou humbly prayest, ask this boon alone, That ye, like him may live, like him may die. Morning Chronicle. 103 THE POETICAL ALBUM. A RECOLLECTION. BT J. MOIR, ESQ. SHE was a thing of morn with the soft calm Of summer evening iri her pensive air ; Her smile came o'er the gazer's heart, like balm, To soothe away all sorrow save despair; Her radiant brow scarce wore a tint of care, A sunny lake where imaged you might trace, Of Hope and Memory all that's bright and fair, Where no rude breath of passion carne to chase, Like winds from summer waves, its heaven from that sweet face. As one who looks on landscapes beautiful, Will feel their spirit all his soul pervade, Even as the heart grows stiller by the lull Of falling waters, when the winds are laid, So he who gazed upon that heavenly maid Imbibed a sweetness never felt before ! [ed, Oh ! when with her through autumn fields I've stray- A brighter hue the lingering wild flowers wore, And sweeter was the song the small bird warbled o'er! Then came Consumption with her languid moods, Her soothing whispers, and her dreams that seek To nurse themselves in silent solitudes ; She came with hectic glow, and wasted cheek, And still the maiden pined more wan and weak, Till her declining loveliness, each day, Paled like the second Bow ; yet would she speak The words of Hope, even while she passed away Amid the closing clouds, and faded ray by ray ! She d'ed in the bud of Being, in the spring, The time of flowers, and songs, and balmy air ; 'Mid opening blossoms she was withering, But thus 'twas ever with the good and fair, THE POETICAL ALBUM. 107 The loved of Heaven, ere yet the hand of Care Upon the snowy brow hath set his seal, Or Time's hoar frost come down to blanch the hair, They fade away and scape what others feel, The pangs that pass not by the wounds that never heal ! They laid her in the robes that wrap the dead, So beautiful in rest ye scarce might deem, From form so fair, the gentle spirit fled, But only lulled in some Itllysian dream ; And still the glory of a vanished beam, The lingering halo of a parted ray, Shed o'er her lovely sleep its latest gleam ; Like evening's rose-light when the summer day Hath fled o'er sea and shore and faded far away ! Constable's Edinburgh Magazine. INSCRIPTION FOR A BUST OF TASSO. FROM THE ITALIAN OF MATTHIAS. BY THE REV. ARCHDEACON \VRANGHAM. HERE in these groves, of every Muse the haunt, By life's rough tempests shattered and opprest, Torquato from his toils aspired to rest, And in their sheltering bowers, lone habitant, Has found safe refuge. Here their magic quire, Still, the sweet Sirens hold ; and, by the side Of echoing streams, the swan in stately pride Nests 'mid the strings of the melodious lyre. Then Stranger, whether from the icy pole Buoyant of heart or where the blazing noon Scorches swart Afric's race, thou.sojourn'st here, To this bright marble bow thy reverend soul, And o'er the bust of Sebeth's glorious son Strew pious flowers, and shed the holy tear. Literary Museum. 108 THE POETICAL ALBUM. RICHMOND HILL. SWEET Richmond ! Like a woodland queen Thou sittest on thy throne of green Smiling around, on bank and bower, And grove, and mead, and tree, and flower; As each presents its verdant gem To wreathe thy rustic diadem ; While Thames' soft waves, with murmurs sweet, Lie gently at thy flower-clad feet, And still, to leave thy beauties slow, Flow sparkling through the vale below ; As devious in its path, and wild, As fits old Ocean's favourite child: But how unlike the strenuous force With which he runs his manlier course, What time he rushes to the Ocean tide, And on his ample stream his country's bulwarks ride ! Sweet Richmond! In thy terraced grove How many a flattering tale of love, And hope, and bliss and faith sincere, Have stolen on Beauty's listening ear ! And many a warm, impassioned vow Been breathed by lips cold, silent now ! And many a matron, bowed with years, And toils and griefs, and pains and fears, With tearful eye remember still Past hours of joy on Richmond Hill ! The Child, in life's sweet opening day, Bounds o'er thy meads, in antic play, As fresh and fair as Spring's gay morn That breaks upon thy fairy lawn ; And youth beholds thy prospects rise, Luxuriant woods, and splendid skies ; And lovely as thy blooming bowers, Hope fondly paints his future hours ; THE POETICAL ALBUM. 109 All sunshine, beauty, light and love, As Summer's rosy noon in Richmond's flowery grove. And Manhood marks the magic With thoughtful eye and serious mien, Nor sees unmoved thy verdant crown Exchanged for wreath of Autumn hrovvn ; But sighs to think the hour must come, Shall wrap thy lovely brow in gloom, When Winter brings its hours of ill, Alike, to life and Richmond Mill ! Then, wandering forth at evening hour, Old Age shall view thy lonely bower, The frozen si ream the leafless tree And sigh, to deem itself like ihee ! Joy, pleasure, beauty, fled and gone ! Cold, helpless, lifeless, sad and lone ! With one sole hope, that, Winter past, A lovelier day shall dawn at last- Arid hours of bliss, and glory, still Shall beam on man, and Richmond Hill! Morning Herald. W. H. M. A SKETCH. A DREAM of saddest beauty : one pale smile Its light upon the blue-veined forehead shed, As love had lingered there one little while, Robbed the cheek of its colour, and then fled, Yet leaving a sweet twilight shade, which said There had been sunshine once. Alas ! the bloom, The light, the hope, at Love's shrine offered ! Yet all in vain ! That altar is a tomb Of broken hearts ! Its oracle but words of doom ! Literary Gazette. L. E. L. 10 110 THE POETICAL ALBUM. THE TOURNAMENT. LADY, if you love to hear Tales of lofty chivalry, Stealing Beauty's sigh or tear ; List not, lady sweet, to me. But there is a gentle sight, Roselike, always born with May, Full of arms and glances bright, 'Tis GRANADA'S holyday ! Twilight on the west was sleeping, Stars were sliding down the sky, Morn upon the hills was peeping With a blue, half-opening eye. When a silver trumpet sounded, And, beside the castle wall, Many a ribboned jennet bounded, Sparkled many a lance-head tall. In the plain, balconies proud, Hung with silk and flowery chain, Like a statued temple, showed, Rank o'er rank, the dames of Spain. Soon the tapestried kettle-drums Through the distant square were pealing ; Soon was seen the toss of plumes By the Viceroy's palace wheeling. Then, before the portal arch, Every horseman checked the rein, Till the rocket for their march, Flaming up the sky was seen. THE POETICAL ALBUM. Like a wave of steel arid gold, Swept the lovely pageant on; Many a champion young and bold hearing lance and gonfalon. At their sight arose the roar From the people gazing round ; Proudly came the squadrons four, Prancing up the tilting ground. First they gallop where the screen With its silken tissue hides Fair Valencia's jewelled Queen, Helmless every horseman rides ! Round the barrier then they wheel, Troop by troop, and pair by pair ; Bending low the lance of steel To the bowing ladies there. Hark! the trumpet long and loud! 'Tis the signal for the charge ! Now with hoofs the earth is ploughed, Now are clashed the lance and targe. Light as roe-bucks bound the steeds ; Sunny bright the armour gleams ; Gallant charge to charge succeeds, Like the rush of mountain streams! Noon has come, the warriors rest, Each dismounting from his barb ; Loosening each his feathery crest, Weighty sword, and steely garb. Then are shown the lordly form, Chestnut locks and eagle eyes, Cheeks with tilting crimson warm, Lips for lover's perjuries ! 112 THE POETICAL ALBUM. As they wander round the plain, Sparkle cross and collar gernraed, Sparkle knightly star and chain, On their tunics golden-seamed. Till again the trumpets play, And the mail again is worn ; And the ring is borne away, And the Moorman's turban torn. Closes then the tournament ; And the noble squadrons four, Proudly on the banquet-tent, March by Turia's flowery shore. Lovely as the evening sky, Ere the golden sun is down, March Granada's chivalry, Champions of the Church and Crown ! One still lingered, pale and last, By the lonely gallery's stair, As if there his soul had past, Vanished with some stately fair. Who the knight ? To few was known. Who his love ? He ne'er would tell. But her eyes were like thine own,- And his heart was, Oh, Farewell ! Blackwood's Magazine. EPITAPH. OPHELIA was the maiden's name, Only her beauty died ; Envy has nothing to proclaim, Nor Flattery to hide. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 113 THE TREASURES OF THE DEEP. BY MRS. HEMANS. WHAT hid'st thou in thy treasure-caves and cells ? Thou hollow-sounding- and mysterious Main ! Pale glistening pearls, and rainbow coloured shells, Bright things, which gleam unrecked of and in vain. Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy sea ! We ask not such from thee. Yet more, the Depths have more ! What wealth untold, Far down, and shining through their stillness, lies ! Thou hast the starry gems, the burning gold, Won from ten thousand royal Argosies. Sweep o'er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful Main ! Earth claims not these again ! Yet more, the Depths have more ! Thy waves have rolled Above the cities of a world gone by ! Sand hath filled up the palaces of old, Sea-weed o'ergrown the halls of revelry ! Dash o'er them, Ocean ! in thy scornful play, Man yields them to decay ! Yet more ! the Billows and the Depths have more ! High hearts and brave are gathered to thy breast ! They hear not now the booming waters roar, The battle-thunders will not break their rest. Keep thy red gold and gems thou stormy grave ! Give back the true and brave ! Give back The lost and lovely ! Those for whom The place was kept at board and hearth so long ; The prayerwent up through midnight's breathless gloom. And the vain yearning woke 'midst festal song ! Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o'erlhrown, But all is not thine own ! 114 THE POETICAL ALBUM. To thee the love of woman hath gone down ; Dark flow thy tides o'er manhood's nohle head, O'er youth's bright locks and beauty's flowery crown ! Yet must thou hear a voice Restore the Dead ! Earth shall reclaim her precious things from thee ! Restore the Dead, thou Sea ! New Monthly Magazine. MAGDALENA. SILENT and lone, beneath the cypress bough, She sat and watched the circlets of the night, As, imaged on the waveless stream below, They beamed again to heaven serenely bright ! She felt her dream of happiness was gone; But Hope, still lingering, shed its heavenly ray, Like the fair star that in those waters shone Still bright, though they were gliding fast away. Her bosom had been stained in passion's hour, But she had wept on it her frailties past, And, like the sullied lily by the shower, Jt had been washed and purified at last. Those long dark lashes, beaded still with tears The warm rose blanched upon her sunken cheek The lip, which pallid as that rose appears, Seemed well her silent penitence to speak. Her's was the heart's still prayer : her lips were sealed. Those meek eyes, glancing to their kindred heaven, In dewy orisons her soul revealed : She asked not but she looked to be forgiven. Literary Gazette. H. A. D. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 115 ROSALIE. A POETICAL SKETCH. WE met in secret : mystery is to love Like perfume to the flower ; tlie maiden's blush Looks loveliest when her check is pale with fear. By moonlight still I sought my lady's bower, And there, 'mid blossoms fragrant as her sigh, I met the beauty that my ; ; cul adored, And listened for the light feet, which like wind Passed o'er the dewy turf. Oh never can That dear step be forgotten. It is still Familiar as a sound of yesterday. Our shrine of meeting was a cypress, which Hung o'er the rose, like Sorrow shading Love ; This was the temple where we called the Night To witness gentle vows ; and when each lip Paused in the fulness of impassioned thoughts; Hearkened those moonlight melodies, which came So soothingly upon that silent time ; The light cascade, descending, shedding round Its silver drops upon the orange blooms, That leant to kiss their own fair images, Each sparkling wave a mirror, and sighed forth Their soul of odour as they caught the dew ; The melancholy music of that bird Who sings but to the stars, and tells her tale Of love, when, bosomed by the snowy clouds, The Queen of Beauty lights her radiant lamp, Her own soft planet. And at times there came Like a low echo, a faint murmur, when A gale just laden with the rose's sigh, Swept the Eolian lyre, and wakened sounds Of such wild sweetness that it almost seemed The breath of flowers made audible. They told, In long departed days, when every grove Was filled with beautiful imaginings And vJBioned creations, that a Nymph 116 THE POETICAL ALBUM. Once pined with unrequited love and sighed Away her sad existence. I could think She left her last tone softly giving soul To the sad of that lonely lyre ; Or else, perchance, the spirit of some Bard, Whose life in life was music, wandered o'er The chords, which once with him held sympathy, Like him neglected, but sweet breathing still. Why dwell I on these memories ? Alas, The heart loves lingering o'er the shadows left By joys departed ! 'Tvvas one summer night, And our brief hour had passed ; I know not why, But my soul felt disquieted within me, And the next evening, when I sought the grove, I had a strange foreboding sadness none Were there to welcome me, no silvery trace Of fairy footsteps was upon the grass. I waited long and anxiously : none came. I wandered on ; it was not in the hope To meet my ROSALIE ; but it was sweet To look upon the stars, and think that they Had witnessed our love. At once a sound Of music slowly rose, a sad low chant Of maiden voices, and a faint light streamed From out the windows of a chapel near ; I knew it well 'twas the shrine sacred to Her patron saint, and ROSALIE had said, If ever 1 might claim her as my bride Before the face of heaven, that altar should Be where our vows were given. I entered in, And heard a sound of weeping, and saw shapes Bent down in anguish ; in the rnidst, a bier Was covered o'er with flowers, sad offerings made The dead, in vain and one lay sleeping there, Whose face was veiled. I could not speak nor ask ; My heart was wild with fear, I lifted up The long white veil, I looked on the pale cheek Of my so worshipped ROSALIE ! Literary Gazette. L. E. L. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 117 THE VILLAGE CHURCH. AND is our country's father fled, His car of fire can none recall ? Be here his sacred spirit shed, Here may his prophet mantle fall. Fain would I fill the vacant breach, Stand where he stood the plague to stay ; In his prophetic spirit preach, And in his hallowed accents pray. It is not that on seraph's wing, I hope to soar where he has soared ; This is the only claim I bring, I love his church, I love his Lord. I love the altar of my sires, Firm as my country's rocks of steel ; And as I feed its sacred fires, The present deity I feel. I love to know that, not alone, I meet the battle's angry tide ; That sainted myriads from the throne Descend and combat by my side. Mine is no solitary choice, See, here, the seal of saints impressed! The prayers of millions swell my voice; The mind of ages fills my breast. I love the ivy-mantled tower, Rocked by the storms of thousand years ; The Grave, whose melancholy flower Was nourished by a martyr's tears, The sacred Yew, so feared in war, Which, like the sword to David given, Inflicted not a human scar, But lent to man the arms of heaven. 118 THE POETICAL ALBUM. I love the organ's joyous swell, Sweet echo of the joyous ode ! I love the cheerful village bell, Faint emblem of the call of God. Waked by the sound, I bend my feet, I bid my swelling sorrows cease ; I do but touch the mercy seat, And hear the still small voice of peace. And as the ray of evening fades, I love amidst the dead to stand, Where in the chancel's deepening shades, I seem to meet the ghostly band. One comes ; Oh ! mark his sparkling eye ! I knew his faith, his strong endeavour ; Another Ah ! I hear him sigh, Alas ! and is he gone for ever ! Another treads the shadowy aisle, I know him 'tis my sainted sire ; I know his patient angel smile, His shepherd voice, his eye of fire ! His ashes rest in yonder urn ; I saw his death ; I closed his eye; Bright sparks amidst those ashes burn, That death has taught me how to die. Long be our Father's temple ours, Woe to the hand by which it falls ; A thousand spirits watch its towers, A cloud of angels guard its walls. And be their shield by us possessed ! Lord, rear around thy blest abode, The buttress of a holy breast, The rampart of a present God! Manchester Exchange Herald. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 119 ADDRESS TO THE EGYPTIAN MUMMY IN BELZONl's EXHIBITION. BY HORACE SMITH, ESa. AND thou hast walked about how strange a story ! In Thehes's streets three thousand years ago ! When the Memnonium was in all its glory, And Time had not begun to overthrow Those temples, palaces, and piles stupendous, Of which the very ruins are tremendous! Speak, for thou long enough hast acted Dummy ! Thou hast a tongue come let us hear its tune ! Thou'rt standing on thy legs, above-ground, Mummy! Revisiting the glimpses of the Moon ; Not like thin ghosts or disembodied creatures, But with thy hones, and flesh, and limbs and features. Tell us for doubtless thou canst recollect, To whom should we assign the Sphinx's fame? Was Cheops, or Cephrenes architect Of either Pyramid that bears his name? Is Pompey's Pillar really a misnomer? Had Thebes a hundred gates as sung by Homer ? Perhaps thou wert a Mason, and forbidden, By oath, to tell the mysteries of thy trade, Then say, what secret melody was hidden In Memnon's statue, which at sunrise played ? Perhaps thou wert a Priest if so, my struggles Are vain, for priestcraft never owns its juggles. Perchance that very hand, now pinioned flat, Hath hob-a-nobhed with Pharoah, glass to glass; Or dropped a halfpenny in Homer's hat ; Or doffed thine own to let Queen Dido pass : 120 THE POETICAL ALBUM. Or held, by Solomon's own invitation, A torch at the great Temple's dedication. I need not ask thee if that hand, when armed, Has any Roman soldier mauled and knuckled ? For thou wert dead, and buried, and embalmed, Ere Romulus and Remus had been suckled : Antiquity appears to have begun Long after thy primeval race was run. Thou could'st develope, if that withered tongue Might tell us what those sightless orbs have seen, How the world looked when it was fresh and young, And the great Deluge still had left it green ! Or was it then so old that History's pages Contained no record of its early ages ? Still silent ! Incommunicative elf! Art sworn to secrecy ? then keep thy vows ; But, pry thee, tell us something of thyself, Reveal the secrets of thy prison-house ; Since in the world of spirits, thou hast slumbered, [ed ? What hast thou seen what strange adventures number- Since first thy form was in this box extended, [tions ; We have, above-ground, seen some strange muta- The Roman Empire has begun and ended ; New worlds have risen, we have lost old nations ; And countless kings have into dust been humbled, While not a fragment of thy flesh has crumbled. Didst thou not hear the pother o'er thy head When the great Persian Conqueror, Cambyses, Marched armies o'er thy tomb, with thundering tread, O'erthrew Osiris, Orus, Apis, Isis, And shook the Pyramids with fear and wonder, When the gigantic Memnon fell asunder ? If the tomb's secrets may not be confessed, The nature of thy private life unfold : THE POETICAL ALBUM. 121 A heart hath throbbed'beneath that leathern breast, And tears adown that dusty cheek have rolled. Have children climbed those knees,and kissed that face ? What was thy name, and station, age and race ? Statue of flesh ! Immortal of the dead ! Imperishable type of evanescence ! Posthumous man, who quitt'st thy narrow bed, And standest undecayed within our presence, Thou wilt hear nothing till the Judgment morning, When the greatTrump shall thrill tliee with its warning. Why should this worthless tegument endure, If its undying guest be lost for ever ? O let us keep the soul embalmed and pure In living virtue, that when both must sever, Although corruption may our frame consume, The immortal spirit in the skies may bloom. Neiv Monthly Magazine. THE FORSAKEN HEART. Mr heart is like a lonely lyre, Whose melody hath died away : The flame of a neglected fire, Burning away. And thou art as the careless fingers, Which tore those tuneless strings away ; The gale, which as the last spark lingers, Wastes it away. The world, the senseless world remembers, The music, which hath passed away : Its tears have steeped the cold, cold embers ; But thou art gay. Literary Gazette. 11 THE POETICAL ALBUM. GYPSIES. BY THE REV. J. BERESFORD. UNDERNEATH the greenwood tree, There we dwell right merrily, Lurking in the grassy lane, Here this hour then gone again. You may see where we have been, By the burned spot on the green ; By the oak's branch drooping low, Withered in our faggot's glow ; By the grass and hedge-row cropped, Where our asses have been grazing ; By some old torn rag we dropped, When our crazy tents were raising ; You may see where we have been ; Where we are that is not seen. Where we are, it is no place For a lazy foot to trace. Over heath and over field, He must scramble who would find us ; In the copse-wood close concealed, With a running brook behind us. JElere we list no village clocks ; Livelier sound the farm-yard cocks, Crowing, crowing round about, As if to point their roostings out ; And many a cock shall cease to crow, Or ere we from the copse-wood go. On the stream the trout are leaping ; Midway there the pike is sleeping, Motionless, self-poised he lies Stir but the water on he flies, E'en as an arrow through the skies ! We could tie the noose to snare him, But by day we wisely spare him ; THE POETICAL ALBUM. Nets shall scour the stream at night, By the cold moon's trusty light ; Scores of fish will not surprise her, Writhing with their glittering scales ; She'll look on, none else the wiser, Give us light, and tell no tales ; And next day the sporting squire Of his own trout shall he the buyer. Till the farmer catch us out, Prowling his rich barns about ; Till the squire suspect the fish ; Till the keeper find his hares, Struggling in our nightly snares ; Till the girls have ceased to wish, Heedless what young lad shall be Theirs in glad futurity ; Till the boors no longer hold Awkwardly their rough hands out, All to have their fortunes told By the cross lines thereabout ; Till these warnings, all or some, Raise us (not by beat of drum !} On our careless march to roam, The copse shall be our leafy home. Literary Gazette. 123 IMPROMPTU ADDRESSED TO THE BEAUTIFUL AND ACCOMPLISHED LADY C. BY THE REV. C. COLTOIT. Br Nature formed, at all points, to excel, AH things to do, write, speak, and all things well, Transcendent with thy pencil as thy pen, With this you've conquered women, that the men ; Both sexes, thus, thy full dominion prove O'er each ; by envy this, and this by love ; Both titles too thou'st won, then deign to wear, We see a Venus, but a Pallas hear ! 124 THE POETICAL ALBUM. JEMIMA, ROSE AND ELEANORE. THREE CELEBRATED SCOTTISH BEAUTIES. BY THOMAS CAMPBELL, ESft. ADIEU ! Romance's heroines ! Give me the nymphs who this good hour May charm me, not in fiction's scenes, But teach me beauty's living power ; My harp, that has been mute too long, Shall sleep at beauty's name no more, So but your smiles reward my song, Jemima, Rose and Eleanore, In whose benignant eyes are beaming The rays of purity and truth, Such as we fancy woman's seeming, In the creation's golden youth. The more I look upon thy grace, Rosina, I could look the more, But for Jemima's witching face, And the sweet voice of Eleanore. Had I been Lawrence, kings had wanted Their portraits, till I'd painted yours, And these had future hearts enchanted, When this poor verse no more endures ; I would have left the Congress faces, A dull-eyed diplomatic corps, Till I had grouped you as the Graces, Jemima, Rose and Eleanore. The Catholic bids fair saints befriend him ; Your poet's heart is catholic too ; His rosary shall be flowers ye send him, His saint -days when he visits you ; THE POETICAL ALBUM. 125 And ray sere laurels for rny duty, Miraculous, at your toucli would rise, Could I give verse one trait of beauty, Like that, which glads me from your eyes. Unsealed by you, these lips have spoken, Disused to song for many a day ; , Ye've tuned a harp whose strings were broken, And warmed a heart of callous clay ; So when my fancy next refuses, To twine for you a garland more, Come back again and be rny Muses, Jemima, Rose and Eleanore. Constables Edinburgh Magazine. LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY. BY PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. THE fountains mingle with the river, And the river with the ocean ; The winds of heaven mix for ever With a sweet emotion ; Nothing in the world is single ; All things, by a law divine, In one another's being mingle ; Why not I with thine ? See the mountains kiss high heaven, And the waves clasp one another! No leaf or flower would be forgiven, If it disdained to kiss its brother; And the sunlight clasps the earth, And the moonbeams kiss the sea: What are all these kissings worth, If thou kiss not me ? 11* 126 THE POETICAL ALBUM. THE STORM. A FRAGMENT. THE sun went down in beauty; not a cloud Darkened its radiance, yet there might be seen A few fantastic vapours scattered o'er The face of the blue heavens ; some fair and slight As the pure lawn that shields the maiden's breast, Some shone like silver, some did stream afar Faint and dispersed like the Pale Horse's mane, Which Death shall stride hereafter,-some were glittering Like dolphin's scales, touched out with varying hues Of beautiful light outvying some the rose, And some the violet, yellow, white and blue, Scarlet and purpling red. One small lone ship Was seen with outstretched sails, keeping its way In quiet o'er the deep ; all nature seemed Fond of tranquillity ; the glassy sea Scarce rippled the halcyon slept upon the wave ; The winds were all at rest, and in the east The crescent moon then seen imperfectly Came onwards, with the vesper star, to see A summer day's decline. The sun went down in beauty ; but the eyes Of ancient seamen trembled, when they saw A small black ominous spot far in the distance : It spread and spread larger and dark and came O'ershadowing the skies ; the ocean rose ; The gathering waves grew large, and broke in hoarse And hollow sounds ; the Fnighty winds awoke, And screamed andvvhistled through the cordage; birds, That seemed to have no home, flocked there in terror, And sat with quivering plumage on the mast. Flashes were seen, and distant sounds were heard Presages of a storm. The sun went down in beauty but the skies THE POETICAL ALBUM. 127 Were wildly changed. It was a dreadful night No moon was seen, in all the heavens, to aid Or cheer the loan and sea-beat mariner : Planet nor guiding star broke through the gloom ; But the blue light'nings glared along the waters, As if the Fiend had fired his torch to light Some wretches to their graves. The tempest winds Raving came next, and in deep hollow sounds Like those the spirits of the dead do use When they would speak their evil prophecies Muttered of death to come ; then came the thunder, Deepening and crashing as 'twould rend the world; Or, as the Deity passed aloft in anger And spoke to man despair! The ship was tossed And now stood poised upon the curling billows, And now midst deep and watery chasms that yawned As 'twere in hunger sank. Behind there came Mountains of moving water, with a rush And sound of gathering power, that did appal The heart to look on ; terrible cries were heard ; Sounds of despair, some like a mother's anguish Some of intemperate, dark and dissolute joy Music and horrid mirth but unallied To joy ; and madness might be heard amidst The pauses of the storm and when the glare Was strong, rude savage men were seen to dance In frantic exultation on the deck, Though all was hopeless. Hark ! the ship has struck, And the forked light'ning seeks the arsenal ! 'Tis fired and mirth and madness are no more ! 'Midst columned smoke, deep red, the fragments fly In fierce confusion splinters and scorched limbs, And burning masts, and showers of gold, torn from The heart that hugged it even till death. Thus doth Sicilian Etna in her angry moods, Or Hecla 'mid her wilderness of snows, Shoot up its burning entrails, with a sound Louder than e'er the Titans uttered from Their subterranean caves, when Jove enchained 128 THE POETICAL ALBUM. Them, daring and rebellious. The black skies Shocked at the' excess of light, returned the sound In frightful echoes, as if an alarm Had spread through all the elements : then came A horrid silence deep unnatural like The quiet of the grave ! Literary Gazette. LINES ON LEAVING LLANDOGO, A VILLAGE ON THE BANKS OF THE WTE. SWEET spot ! I leave thee with an aching heart, As down the stream my boat glides smoothly on ; With thee, as if 1 were a swain, I part, And thou the maiden that I doated on. I ne'er shall view yon woody glen again ; That lowly church, calm promiser of rest ; Yon white cots, free from riches and from pain, Fantastic gems upon the mountain's breast. Fast, fast, thou'rt fading from my longing sight ; The next bold turn, and thou art gone for aye, A dream's bright remnant on a summer night The faint remembrance of a love gone by. Farewell ! and if Fate's distant unknown page Doom me to wreck on Passion's angry sea, I'll leave Philosophy to reasoning age, And charm the tempest with a thought on thee. Etonian. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 129 STANZAS WRITTEN ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF THE JBIRTH-DAT OF ROBERT BURNS. BY JAMES MONTGOMERY, ESft. WHAT bird in beauty, flight or song, Can with the Bard compare, Who sang as sweet, and soared as strong, As ever child of air ! His plume, his note, his form, could BURNS, For whim or pleasure, change ! He was not one, but all, by turns, With transmigration strange ! The Blackbird, oracle of Spring, When flowed his moral lay ; The Swallow, wheeling on the wing, Capriciously at play ; The Humming bird, from bloom to bloom, Inhaling heavenly balm ; The Raven in the tempest's gloom ; The Halcyon, in the calm ; In ' auld Kirk Alloway,' the Owl, At witching time of night ; By * bonnie Doon,' the earliest fowl, That carolled to the light. He was the Wren amidst the grove, When in his homely vein ; At Bannockburn, the Bird of Jove, With thunder in his train ; 130 THE POETICAL ALBUM. The Woodlark, in his mournful hours ; The Goldfinch, in his mirth ; The Thrush, a spendthrift of his powers, Enrapturing heaven and earth ; The Swan, in majesty and grace, Contemplative and still ; But roused, no Falcon in the chace Could, like his satire, kill! The Linnet, in simplicity; In tenderness, the Dove ; But more than all beside, was He The Nightingale, in love. Oh ! had he never stooped to shame, Nor lent a charm to vice, How had Devotion loved to name That Bird of Paradise ! Peace to the dead ! In Scotia's choir Of minstrels, great and small, He sprang from his spontaneous fire, The Phosnixofthemall! Sheffield Mercury. EPITAPH ON AN INFANT. BY 8. T. COLERIDGE, ESQ. ERE sin could blight, or sorrow fade, Death came, with friendly care, The opening bud to heaven conveyed, And bade it blossom there. THE POETICAL ALBUM. MARY'S MOUNT. WHO, standing on this rural spot, With groves above, and fields around, Would, pausing, e'er indulge the thought, That armies thronged the lower ground ? Or image neighing steed, or fear That trump or drum salute his ear ! Or think tin's leafy screen enfolded A being of as tragic fate, As lovely, and unfortunate, As Nature ever moulded ! Traced like a map, the landscape lies In cultured beauty stretching wide ; There, Pentland's green acclivities; There, Ocean, with its azure tide ; There, Arthur's seat ; and gleaming through Thy southern wing, Dnnedin blue! While, in the orient, Lammer's daughters, A distant giant range are seen, North Berwick Law, with cone of green, And Bass amid the waters. Wrapt in the mantle of her wo, Here agonized Mary stood, And saw contending hosts below, Opposing, meet in deadly feud ; With hilt to hilt, and hand to hand, The children of one mother land For battle come. The banners flaunted Amid Carberry's beechen grove ; And kinsmen, braving kinsmen, strove Uudaunting and undaunted. Silent the queen in sorrow stood, When Both well, starting forward, said, 'The cause is mine a nation's blood, Go, tell yon chiefs, should not be shed ! 131 132 THE POETICAL ALBUM. Go, bid the bravest beart advance In single fight, to measure lance With me, who wait prepared to meet him !' ' Fly ! Bothwell, fly ! It shall not be.' She wept she sobbed on bended knee Fair Mary did entreat him. * I go,' he sighed ' the war is mine, A Nero could not injure thee ; My lot on earth is sealed, but thine Shall long, and bright, and happy be ! This last farewell this struggle o'er, We ne'er shall see each other more: Now loose thy hold, poor broken-hearted !' . She faints she falls upon his roan The bridle reins in haste are thrown The pilgrim hath departed. Know ye the tenor of his fate ? A fugitive among his own ; Disguised deserted desolate A weed on Niagara thrown ; A Cain among the sons of men ; A pirate on the ocean ; then, A Scandinavian captive fettered To die amid the dungeon gloom, If earthly chance, or heavenly doom Is dark : but so it mattered. Daughter of Scotland! Beautiful, Beyond what falls to human lot, Thy breathing features rendered dull, The visions of a poet's thought ! Thy voice was music on the deep, When winds are hushed, and waves asleep j In mould and mind by far excelling, Or Cleopatra on the wave Of Cydnus vanquishing the brave, Or Troy's resplendent Helen ! THE POETICAL ALBUM. Thy very sun in clouds arose, Delightful flower of Holyrood ! Thy span was tempest-fraught ; thy woes Should make thee pitied by the good. Poor Mary ! an untimely tomb Was thine ! With prison hours of gloom, A crown, and rebel crowds beneath thee ; A lofty fate a lowly fall ! Thou wert a woman : and let all Thy faults be buried with thee ! Blackwood's Magazine. 133 13ELLATOR MORIENS. BY THE REV. GEORGE CROLY. IN the dim chamber, on his couch of Ind, Hung round with crest, and sword, and knightly vane, Was stretched a cuirassed form, that inly pined With memories keener than his mortal pain ; And oft around his darkening eyes would strain, As if some evil visitant were come ; Then press his wasted hand upon his brain, Mutter low words, and beckon through the gloom, And grasp his couch, as if he saw the opening tomb. The fearful secret murmured from his lips 'T\vas ' Murder ;' but his voice was now a sigh ; For o'er his spirit gathered swift eclipse. He strove to dash the darkness from his eye, Then smote with nerveless hand upon his thigh ; But there the sword was not ; a deeper groan, A start, as if the Summoner were nigh, Told his last pangs ; his eye was fixed as stone : There lay a livid corse, the Master of a Throne ! JYeio Times. 12 134 THE POETICAL ALBUM. THE SPIRIT OF POESY. ART thou returned again ? The labouring breast, The full and swelling soul, the throbbing brain, Are signs of thee ; by these wert thou confessed In the fierce glow of summer, in the wane Of autumn, in the cloud and hurricane Of winter, and the changeful dawn of spring. Thou art returned, for fancy wakes the strain; And as I bend me to her summoning, Thy spell is o'er me cast, thy visions round rne cling. Whence, and what art thou? I have felt thy power When my soul wished not for thee. I have sought And found thee not. In life's aspiring hour, Courted and worshipped, to my youthful thought No utterance thou gavest. I had wrought The chaplet for my fair one ; I had strung The rosary of hope, and love had taught My heart love's rhetoric ; yet never hung Thy charm upon my lips, thy numbers on my tongue. I courted thee no longer, for the tomb Made havoc of my hopes, and 1 became The sport and prey of sorrow ; but in gloom And solitude, in misery and shame, In every feeling that unnerves the frame, Thy impulse was upon me : then arose Mv first and rude attempt ; then didst thou claim Thy long rejected suppliant, and disclose, In simple humble strain, the descant of his woes. I will not, cannot flee thee ! Thou must be As present on the full and noisy mart, As in the desert ; upon plain or sea, On wold, or mountain, of myself be part. I cannot flee thee ! Round this widowed heart THE POETICAL ALBUM. 135 Cling, if thou wilt, but spare thy wearied slave ! Exert thy nobler power, thy greater heart ; Bid the vain world resume whate'er it gave, But speak of brighter hopes, of bliss beyond the grave. London Magazine. SONG. THE birds have sung themselves to rest, That flitted 'round our bower ; The weight of the night-dew has bowed The head of every flower ; The ringing of the hunter's horn Has ceased upon the hill, The cottage windows gleam with light, The harvest song is still ; And safe and silent in the bay, Is moored each fisher's prow ; Each wearied one has sought his home, But where, my love, art thou ? I picked a rose, a red blush rose, Just as the dews begun, 1 kissed its leaves, but thought one kiss Would be a sweeter one. I kept the rose and kiss, I thought How dear they both would be ; But now I fear the rose and kisa Are kept in vain for thee ! Blackwood's .Magazine. 136 THE POETICAL ALBUM. A CHURCH YARD SCENE. BY JOHN WILSON, ESQ. How sweet and solemn, all alone, With reverend step, from stone to stone In a small village church-yard lying, O'er intervening flowers to move And as we read the names unknown, Of young and old, to judgment gone, And hear, in the calm air above, Time onwards softly flying, To meditate, in Christian love, Upon the dead and dying ! Across the silence seem to go With dream-like motion, wavery, slow, And shrouded in their folds of snow, The friends we loved long, long ago ! Gliding across the sad retreat, How beautiful their phantom feet ! What tenderness is in their eyes, Turned where the poor survivor lies, 'Mid monitory sanctities ! What years of vanished joy are fanned From one uplifting of that hand In its white stillness! When the shade Doth glimmeringly in sunshine fade From our embrace, how dim appears This world's life through a mist of tears ! Vain hopes! Wild sorrows! Needless fears! Such is the scene around me now: A little church-yard, on the brow Of a green pastoral hill; Its sylvan village sleeps below, And faintly, here, is heard the flow Of Woodburn's summer rill ; A place where all things mournful meet, And, yet, the sweetest of the sweet! The stillest of the still! THE POETICAL ALBUM. 137 With what a pensive beauty fall Across the mossy mouldering wall That rose-trees' clustered arches ! See The rohin-redbreast, warily, Bright through the blossoms leaves his nest : Sweet ingrate ! through the winter blest At the firesides of men but shy Through all the sunny-summer hours, He hides himself among the flowers In his own wild festivity. What lulling sound, and shadow cool, Hangs half the darkened church-yard o'er, From thy green depths, so beautiful, Thou gorgeous sycamore ! Oft hath the lowly wine and bread, Been blest beneath thy murmuring tent ; Where many a bright and hoary head, Bowed nt that awful sacrament. Now nil beneath the turf are laid, On which they sat and sung and prayed. Alone that consecrated tree Ascends the tapering spire, that seems To lift the soul up silently To heaven, with all its dreams! While in the belfry, deep and low, From his heaved bosom's purple gleams The dove's continuous murmurs flow, A dirge-like song, half bliss, half wo, The voice so lonely seems ! Blackivood's Magazine. 12* 138 THE POETICAL ALBUM. A GRECIAN EDEN. BY PERCY BYSSIIE SHELLEY. IT is an isle under Ionian skies, Beautiful as the wreck of Paradise ; And, for the harbours are not safe and good, This land would have remained a solitude, But for some pastoral people, native there. Who from the Elysian, clear, and sunny air Draw the last spirit of the age of gold ; Simple arid generous, innocent and bold. The blue ^Egean girds this chosen home With ever changing sound, and light and foarn, Kissing the sifted sands, and caverns hoar ; And all the winds, wandering along the shore, Undulate with the undulating tide. There are thick woods where sylvan forms abide ; And many a fountain, rivulet and pond, As clear as elemental diamond ; And all the place is peopled with sweet airs ; The light clear element, which the Isle wears Is heavy with the scent of lemon flowers, Which floats like mist laden with unseen showers, And falls upon the eye-lids like faint sleep ; And from the rnoss, violets and jonquils peep, That dart their arrowy odour through the brain, Till you might faint with that delicious pain ; And every motion, odour, beam and tone, With that deep music is in unison, Which is a soul within the soul : they seem Like echoes of an antenatal dream. It is a favoured spot. Famine, or Blight, Pestilence, War and Earthquake never light Upon its mountain-peaks; blind vultures, they Sail onward far upon their fatal way ; The winged storms chanting their thunder psalrn, To other lands, leave azure chasms of calm Over this isle, or weep themselves in dew, From which its fields and woods ever renew Their green and golden immortality. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 139 TO A CHILD. BY JOA.NNA BAILLIE. WHOSE imp art thou, with dimpled cheek, And curly pate, and merry eye, And arm and shoulders round and sleek, And soft and fair, thou urchin sly ? What boots it, who, with sweet caresses, First called thee his, or Squire or hind ? For thou in every wight that passes, Dost now a friendly playmate find. Thy downcast glances, grave, but cunning, As fringed eyelids rise and fall ; Thy shyness swiftly from me running ; 'Tis infantine coquetry all ! But far a-field thou hast not flown, With mocks and threats, half-lisped, half-spoken ;- I feel thee pulling at my gown, Of right good will thy simple token. And thou must laugh, and wrestle too, A mimic warfare with me waging ! To make, as wily lovers do, Thy after kindness more engaging ! The wilding rose, sweet as thyself, And new cropt daisies are thy treasure ; I'd gladly part with worldly pelf, To taste again thy youthful pleasure. But yet, for all thy merry look-, Thy frisks and wiles, the time is coming, When thou shall sit in cheerless nook, The weary spell of horn-book thumbing. 140 THE POETICAL ALBUM. Well, let it be ! Through weal and woe, Thou know'st not now thy future range ; Life is a motley shifting show ; And thou a thing of hope and change. Ntiv Monthly Magazine. VIOLA. A FRAGMENT. had a form ; but I might talk till night, Young as the sun is now upon our watch, Kre I had told its beauties ! It was slight, Kven as yon willow, and like its soft stem, Fell into thousand motions, and all lovely ! But for her cheek, look on those streaks of rose Tinting the white clouds o'er us! Now and then A flush of deeper crimson lighting up Their wreaths, like wind kissed lilies of the vale ; And now and then, a long, rich, ebon tinge, Floating between them ! There I think I see Still, though she's in her grave the cheek I loved, With the dark tress that veiled it. When 1 sat Beneath her eye, I felt its splendour on me Like a bright spell. "fis not the diamond's ray, Nor vesper starlight, nor aught beautiful In that ascending sun, or in this world, Can bring me back its image ; 'twas a soul That has no portraiture on earth ; a beam As we have heard of Angels, where no lips Are wanted to give utterance to the thought ; Her eye was radiant thought. Yet when her voice Spoke to me, or, at evening o'er her lute, Breathed some old melody, or closed the day With her due Hymn to the Virgin, I have turned, Even from the glory of her eye, to weep, With sudden keenness of delight. Those tears, On earth, 1 weep no more. She's in the grave! JVeiv Times. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 141 TO THE IVY. BT MRS. HEMANS. OH ! how could fancy crown with thee In ancient days, the God of wine, And bid thee at the banquet b Companion of the vine ? Thy home, wild plant, is where each sound Of revelry hath long been o'er ; Where song's full notes once pealed around, But now are heard no more ! The Roman, on his battle-plains, Where Kings before his eagles bent, Entwined thee with exulting strains, Around the Victor's tent ; Yet, there, though fresh in glossy green, Triumphally thy boughs might wave, Better thou lov'st the silent scene, Around the Victor's grave. Where sleep the sons of ages flown, The bards and heroes of the past ; Where through the halls of glory gone Murmurs the wintry blast ; Where years are hastening to efface Each record of the grand and fair ; Thou, in thy solitary grace, Wreath of the tomb ! art there. Thou o'er the shrines of fallen gods, On classic plains dost mantling spread, And veil the desolate abodes And cities of the dead ; Deserted palaces of Kings, Arches of triumph, long o'erthrown, And all once-glorious earthly things, At length are thine alone. 143 THE POETICAL ALBUM. Oh ! many a temple, once sublime JJeneath a blue, Italian sky, Hath nought ofbeauty left by time, Save thy wild tapestry ! Arid reared 'midst crags and clouds 'tis thine To wave where banners waved of yore, O'er mouldering towers by lovely Rhine Cresting the rocky shore. High from the fields of air, look down, Those eyries of a vanished race, Homes of the mighty, whose renown Hath passed, and left no trace ; But thou art there ! Thy foliage bright, Unchanged, the mountain storm can brave,- Thou that will climb the loftiest height, And deck the humblest grave. The breathing forms of Parian stone, That rise round grandeur's marble halla,-^ The vivid hues by painting thrown, Kich o'er the glowing walls, The Acanthus on Corinthian fanes, In sculptured beauty waving fair ; . These, perish all and what remains ? Thou- thou alone art there ! 'Tis still the same where'er we tread, The wrecks of human power we see ; The marvels of all ages fled, Left to Decay and thee ! And still let man his fabrics rear, August in beauty, grace and strength, Days pass, thou Ivy never sere, And all is thine at length. Literary Gazette, THE POETICAL ALBUM. 14S THK RETURN FROM INDIA, WRITTEN BY AN OFFICER, LONG RESIDENT IN INDIA, ON HIS RETURN TO ENGLAND. I CAME, but tlioy had passed away The fair in form, The pure in mind, And like a stricken deer I stray, Where all are strange, and none arc kind, Kind to the worn, the wearied soul, That pants, that struggles for repose : ! that my steps had reached the goal Where earthly sighs and sorrows close ! Years have passed o'er me like a dream, That leaves no trace on memory's page ! 1 look around me, arid I seem Some relict of a former age. Alone, as in a stranger clime, Where stranger voices mock my ear, I mark the lagging course of time, Without a wish a hope a fear! Oh I had hopes but they are fled ! And J had fears, which proved too true! My wishes too ! but they are dead, And what have I with life to do ! 'Tis but to bear a weary load, . I may not, dare not, cast away ! To sigh for one small, still abode, Where I may sleep as sweet as they ! As they, the loveliest of their race ! Whose grassy tombs my sorrows steep ; Whose worth my soul delights to trace, Whose very loss 'tis sweet to weep ; To weep beneath the silent moon, With none to chide, to hear, to see ! Life can bestow no dearer boon, On one whom death disdains to free. 144 THE POETICAL ALBUM. I leave a world that knows me not, To hold communion with the dead; And fancy consecrates the spot, Where fancy's softest dreams are shed. I see each shade, all silvery white I hear each spirit's melting sigh ; I turn to clasp those forms of light, And the pale morning chills my eye. But soon the last dim morn shall rise, The lamp of life burns feebly now, When stranger hands shall close my eyes, And smooth my cold and dewy brow. Unknown I live ; so let me die ; Nor stone, nor monumental cross, Tell where his nameless ashes lie, Who sighed for GOLD, and found it DROSS. London Magazine. SONG. THE ring you gave, the kiss you gave, The curl of raven hair, Pledges of truth and gifts of love, Where are they now ? Oh where ! The ring is broken, and by whom ? The kiss has been profaned ; And many, many bitter tears That shining curl have stained ! Yes, each and all are wholly changed ! More changed they could not be ; But the worst change is that, which time, False one ! has wrought in thee. Literary Gazette. L. E. L. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 145 TO THE PLANET JUPITER. BY THE REV. GEORGE CROLY. I LOOKED on thee, Jove, till my gaze Sank, smote from the pomp of thy blaze ; For in heaven, from the sunset's red throne To the zenith thy rival was none. From thy orb rushed a torrent of light, That made the stars dim in thy sight, And the half-risen moon seemed to die, And to leave thee the realm of the sky. I looked on the ocean's broad breast The purple was pale in the west; But down shot thy long silver spire, And the waves were like arrows of fire. I turned from the infinite main, And thy light was the light of the plain, 'Twas the beacon that blazed on the hill: Thou wert proud, pure, magnificent still. A cloud spread its wing over heaven : By the shaft of thy splendour 'twas riven, And I saw thy bright front through it shine Like a God from the depth of his shrine. But, planet of glory and awe, It was not thy lustre I saw, For my soul was absorbed in the night When last 1 gazed on thy light. I thought of the hand I had held, Of the heart by that soft hand revealed, Of the eye fixed with mine on thy beam, And the world was forgot in my dream. 13 146 THE POETICAL ALBUM. Flame on then, them king of the sky, For thy brightness is joy to my eye ; For this hour thou art beaming above The home of my wife and my Jove. Literary Gazette. STANZAS, BY WILLIAM ROSCOE, ESQ. On receiving.febm Dr. Rush, (^Philadelphia, apiece of the Tree, under which William Penn made his Treaty with the Indians, converted to the purpose of an inkstand. FROM clime to clime, from shore to shore, The war-fiend raised his hated yell, And 'midst the storm that realms deplore, Perm's honoured tree of Concord fell ; And of that tree, that ne'er again Shall Spring's reviving influence know, A relic o'er the Atlantic main, Was sent the gift of foe to foe! But though no more its ample shade, Wave green beneath Columbia's sky, Though every branch be now decayed, And all its "scattered leaves be dry, Yet 'midst the relic's sainted space, A health-restoring blood shall spring, In which the angel-form of Peace May stoop to dip her dove-like wing. So once the staff the prophet bore, By wondering eyes again was seen To swell with life through every pore, And bud afresh with foliage green. The withered branch again shall grow, 'Till o'er the earth its shade extend And this the gift of foe to foe Becomes the gift of friend to friend. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 147 LINES ON A SKULL. BEHOLD this ruin ! 'Twas a skull Once of ethereal spirit full ! This narrow cell was life's retreat ; This space was thought's mysterious seat ; What beauteous pictures filled this spot! What dreams of pleasure long forgot ! Nor love, nor joy, nor hope, nor fear, Has left one trace of record here. Beneath this mouldering canopy, Once shone the bright and busy eye; But start not at the dismal void, If social love that eye employed, If with no lawless fire it gleamed, But through the dew of kindness beamed, That eye shall be for ever bright, When stars and suns have lost their light. Here, in this silent cavern, hung The ready, swift, and tuneful tongue ; If falsehood's honey it disdained, And where it could not praise, was chained,- If bold in virtue's cause it spoke, Yet gentle concord never broke, That tuneful tongue shall plead for thee When death unveils eternity. Say, did these fingers delve the mine, Or with its envied rubies shine ? To hew the rock, or wear the gem, Can nothing now avail to them ; But if the page of Truth they sought, Or comfort to the mourner brought, These hands a richer meed shallclaim Than all that waits on wealth or fame. 148 THE POETICAL ALBUM. Avails it, whether bare or shod, These feet the path of duty trod ? If from the bowers of joy they fled, To soothe affliction's humble bed ; If grandeur's guilty bribe they spurned, And home to virtue's lap returned These feet with angel's wings shall vie, And tread the palace of the sky. Manchester Exchange Herald. THE GROUND SWELL* WRITTEN ON THE BREAKWATER, PLYMOUTH SOUND. THE Sun is high, the Atlantic is unfanned Even by the breathing of the gentle West ; And yet the broad blue flood is not at rest ! Amid the holy calm on sea and land, There is a murmuring on the distant strand ; And silently, though ocean heaves its breast, The shoreward swellings wear a feathery crest, And meet the opposing rocks in conflict grand. These, ships that dare the eternal winds and seas, In the commotion, roll without a breeze, And as their sides the huge upswellings lave, His flagging sails the listless seaman sees, And wishes rather for the winds to rave, And, like an arrow, dart him o'er the wave. Literary Gazette. N. T. C. * The Ground Swell is principally occasioned by storms in the Atlantic, which agitate the sea many days after the tern- pests have ceased. The ocean heaves, as it were, in masses, but its surface is quite smooth, i. e. unbroken into waves, and without foam, except -where it comes in contact with the coast. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 149 MIRKWOOD MERE. BY SIR WALTER SCOTT. LATE, when the Autumn evening fell, On Mirkwood-Mere's romantic dell ; The lake returned, in chastened gleam, The purple cloud, the golden beam ; Reflected in the crystal pool, Headland and bank lay fair and cool ; The weather-tented rock and tower, Each drooping tree, each fairy flower ; So true, so soft, the mirror gave, As if they lay beneath the wave, Secure from trouble, toil and care, A world than earthly world more fair. But distant winds began to wake, And roused the Genius of the Lake ! He heard the groaning of the oak, And donned at once his sable cloak ; As warrior at the battle cry, Invests him with his panoply ; Then, as the whirlwind nearer pressed, Began to shake his foamy crest O'er furrowed brow and blackened cheek, And bade his surge in thunder speak. In wild and broken eddies whirled, Flitted that fond ideal world ; And to the shore in tumult tost, The realms of fairy bliss were lost. Yet, with a stern delight and strange, I saw the spirit-stirring change ! As warred the wind with wave and wood, Upon the ruined tower I stood, And felt my heart more strongly bound, Responsive to the lofty sound ; While joying in the mighty roar, I mourned that tranquil scene no more. 150 THE POETICAL ALBUM. So, on the idle dreams of youth Breaks the loud trumpet-call of Truth, Bids each fair vision pass away, Like landscape on the lake that lay ; As fair, as flitting, and as frail, As that, which fled the Autumn gale ; For ever dead to Fancy's eye, Be each fair form that glided by ; While dreams of love, and lady's charms, Give place to honour and to arms ! Waverley. A PRAYER. BY WILLIAM BECKFORD, ESQ. LIKE the low murmur of the secret stream, Which, through dark alders, winds its shaded way, My suppliant voice is heard : Ah ! do not deem That on vain toys I throw rny hours away. In the recesses of the forest vale, On the wild mountain, on the verdant sod, Where the fresh breezes of the morn prevail, I wander lonely, communing with God. When the faint sickness of a wounded heart, Creeps in cold shudderings through my sinking frame, I turn to thee, that holy peace impart Which soothes the invokers of thy awful name. O all-pervading Spirit ! Sacred beam ! Parent of Hie and light ! Kternal Power! Grant me, through obvious clouds, one transient gleam Of thy bright essence in my dying hour ! Britton's Fonthill Abbey. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 151 THE CONTRAST, WRITTEN UNDER WINDSOR TERRACE, 17TH FEB. 1820. BY HORACE SMITH, ESQ,. 1 SAW him last on this Terrace proud, Walking in health and gladness; Begirt with his Court, and in all the crowd, Not a single look of sadness. Bright was the sun, and the leaves were green, Blithely the birds were singing ; The cymbal replied to the tambourine, And the bells were merrily ringing. I have stood with the crowd beside his bier, When not a word was spoken, But every eye was dim with a tear, And the silence by sobs was broken. I have heard the earth on his coffin pour, To the muffled drum's deep rolling ; While the minute gun, with its solemn roar, Drowned the death-bell's tolling. The time since he walked in his glory thus, To the grave till I saw him carried, Was an age of the mightiest change to ws, But to him a night unvaried. We had fought the fight ; from his lofty throne The foe of our land we had tumbled, And it gladdened each eye save his alone For whom that foe we humbled. 152 THE POETICAL ALBUM. A daughter beloved a Queen a son And a son's sole child had perished ; And sad was each heart, save the only one By which they were fondest cherished. For his eyes were sealed, and his mind was dark, And he sat in his age's lateness, Like a vision throned, as a solemn mark Of the frailty of human greatness. His silver beard, o'er a bosom spread, Unvexed by life's commotion, Like a yearly -lengthening snow-drift, shed On the calm of a frozen ocean. Still o'er him oblivion's waters lay, Though the stream of time kept flowing ; When they spoke of our King 'twas but to say, That the old man's strength was going. He is gone at length. He is laid in dust Death's hand his slumbers breaking, For the coffined sleep of the good and just, Is a sure and blissful waking. His people's heart is his funeral urn ; And should a sculptured stone be denied him, There will his name be found, when in turn We lay our heads beside him. London Magazine. FRAGMENT. SEE April comes! a primrose coronal, Circling her sunny temples, and her vest, Pranked with the hare-bell arid the violet, Like a young widow, beautiful in tears, She ushers in the Spring ! THE POETICAL ALBUM. 153 BALLAD. BY THOMAS PRINGLE. OUR native land our native vale, A long a last adieu ! Farewell to bonny Teviot-dale And Cheviot's mountains blue! Farewell, ye hills of glorious deeds, And streams renowned in song ! Farewell ye blithesome braes and meads, Our hearts have loved so long ! Farewell ye broomy elfin knowes, Where thyme and harebells grow ! Farewell ye hoary haunted howes, O'erhung with birk and sloe ! The battle rnound the Border tower, That Scotia's annals tell ; The martyr's grave the lover's bower, To each to all farewell ! Home of our hearts ! Our fathers' home Land of the brave and free ! The sail is flapping on the foam, That bears us far from thee. We seek a wild romantic shore, Beyond the Atlantic main ; We leave thee to return no more, Or view thy cliffs again. But may dishonour blight our fame, And quench our household fires, When we, or ours, forget thy name, Green island of our sires. 154 THE POETICAL ALBUM. Our native vale our native vale A long, a last adieu ! Farewell to bonny Teviot-dale, And Scotland's mountains blue ! The Inverness Courier. LINES WRITTEN UNDER THF HEBE OF CANOVA. DIVINITY in stone ! Yet glowing Supremely warm, and rich, and fair; Around a sense of sweetness throwing, As if her roses wantoned there ! Upon that brow, so pure and soft, Immortal Love hath set his seal ; And left, in kinder mood than oft, A sign we cannot see but feel ! Those eyes those full and fixed eyes, They cannot beam, nor glow with fire ; Or herald as the wishes rise, The thoughts the spirit would respire ; But, passionless themselves, they wake In us that feeling's tender strife, Of which the sister Graces make A busy, brilliant, span of life ! Then oh ! those lips ! Those eloquent lips! So full of love, and peace, and all, That suffered such a dark eclipse When erring woman doomed our fall ! Yet knowing this, whoe'er could look Upon that marble, nor prefer, That man the fatal apple took, And left his heaven to live with her. New European Magazine. B. B. W. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 155 THE PAST. BY JOHN WILSON, ESQ. How wild and dim this life appears ! One long, deep, heavy sigh, When o'er our eyes, half closed in tears, The images of former years Are faintly glimmering by ! And still forgotten while they go, As on the sea-beach, wave 011 wave, Dissolves at once in snow. The arnber clouds one moment lie, Then like a dream are gone! Though beautiful the moonbeams play On the lake's bosom, bright as they, And the soul intensely loves their stay, Soon as the radiance melts away, We scarce believe it shone ! Heaven-airs amid the harp-strings dwell ; And we wish they ne'er may fade They cease, and the soul is a silent cell, Where music never played ! Dream follows dream through the long night hours, Each lovelier than the last ; But ere the breath of morning flowers, That gorgeous world flies past ; And many a sweet angelic cheek, Whose smiles of love and kindness speak, Glides by us on this earth ; While in a day we cannot tell Where shone the face we loved so well, In sadness, or in mind ! Blackwood's Magazine. 156 THE POETICAL ALBUM. v I STANZAS. IN many a strain of grief and joy, My youthful spirit sang to thee ; But I am now no more a boy, And there's a gulph 'twixt thee and me. Time on my brow has set his seal I start to find myself a man, And know that I no more shall feel As only boyhood's spirit can. And now I bid a long adieu, To thoughts that held my heart in thrall, To cherished dreams of brightest hue, And thou the brightest dream of all ! My footsteps rove not where they roved, My home is changed, and one by one, The 'old familiar' forms I loved, Are faded from my path and gone. I launch into life's stormy main, And 'tis with tears but not of sorrow ; That pouring thus my parting strain, I bid thee, as a Bride, good-morrow. Full well thou know'st I envy not, The heart it is thy choice to share ; My soul dwells on thee as a thought, With which no earthly wishes are. I love thee as I love the star, The gentle star that shines at even ; That melts into my heart from far, And leads my wandering thoughts to heaven. 'Twould break my soul's divinest dream, With meaner love to mingle thee ; 'Twould dim the most unearthly beam, Thy form sheds o'er my Memory. It is my joy, it is my pride, To picture thee in bliss divine, A happy, and an honoured bride, . Blest by a fonder love than mine. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 157 Be thou to one a holy spell, A bliss by day a dream by night A thought on which his soul may dwell A cheering and a guiding light. This be thy heart; but, while no other Disturbs his image at its core, Still think of me as of a brother I'd not be loved or love thee more. For thee each feeling of my breast, So holy so serene shall be, That when thy heart to his is prest, 'Twill be no crime to think of me. I shall not wander forth at night, To breathe thy name as lovers would ; Thy form in visions of delight, Not oft shall break my solitude ; But when my bosom-friends are near, And happy faces round me press; The goblet to my lips I'll rear, And drain it to thy happiness. And when at morn or midnight hour, I commune with my God alone, Before the throne of peace and power, I'll blend thy welfare with mine own. And if with pure and fervent sighs, I bend before some loved-one's shrine, When gazing on her gentle eyes, I shall not blush to think of thine, Then, when thou meet'st thy love's caress, And when thy children climb thy knee, In thy calm hour of happiness, Then, sometimes, sometimes think of me. In pain or health in grief or mirth, Oh ! may it to my prayer be given, That we may sometimes meet on earth, /\iid meet, to part no more, in Heaven ! Etonian. 14 158 THE POETICAL ALBUM, AN ARABIAN SONG. BY BARRY CORNWALL. I LOVE thee, Ibla ! thou art bright As the white snow on the hills afar; Thy face is sweet as the moon by night, And thine eye like the clear and rolling star. But the snow is poor, and withers soon, While thou art firm and rich in hope ; And never (like thine) from the face of the moon Flamed the dark eye of the Antelope. Fine is thy shape as the Erak's bough, And thy bosom a heaven or, haplier, meant (If man may guess, who crawls below,) By Heaven for Earth's enchantment. But the bough of the Erak in winter dies, And the Heaven hath clouds that dim its blue; Thy shape is as fine when the summer flies, And thy bosom is warm and cloudless too. Thy hair is black as the starless sky, And clasps thy neck as it loved its home ; Yet it moves at the sound of thy faintest sigh, Like the snake that lies on the white sea-foam. Farewell ! Farewell ! Yet of thee, sweet maid, I'll sing in the wild woods far away ; And I'll bear thy name on my shining blade, Flower of my own Arabia ! And when I return, with a Chieftain's name, And many a plundered gem for thee, I'll ask thee, then to share my fame For all love's sweet eternity. Literary Gazette. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 159 A PORTRAIT, FROM REAL LIFE. AT length her griefs have drawn the lines of care Across her brow, and sketched her story there ; And years of keenest suffering dried the stream That lent her youthful eye its liquid beam. A mild composure to its glance succeeds; Her gayest look still speaks of widow's weeds \ Her smile is one of patience, not of ease, An effort made to cover, not to please ; While grief, with thorny pencil, day by day, In silence, delves the flagging cheek away, Chases the bloom that peaceful thoughts bestow, To spread instead the sallow tints of wo ; And where the magic dimple used to start In early wrinkles, writes a broken heart I Perchance the casual undiscerning gaze That never read a history in a face, In the gay circle might suppose her gay, Nor mark the nascent traces of decay ; But oh, to those whose nicer feelings take The fine impression that a look can make, Who, skilled by sorrows of their own, descry The prisoned secret speaking in the eye, (As weeping captives at their windows pine) To them there is a voice in every line ! The brow, by effort raised, to seem serene ; Round every smile the circling wrinkle seen ; The sullen cloud that comes to pass away, Chased by a cheerless struggle to be gay ; At certain words or names the quick short sigh, And when neglected long the absent eye, That seems on images long past to fall, Unconscious of aught else will tell them all ! But few among the selfish, busy, gay, Permit a quiet face to stop their way ; 160 THE POETICAL ALBUM. A face that holds no lure, no tribute seeks, Demands no homage, nothing strange bespeaks ; That looks as hundreds looked that they have known, Just marked enough to call some name its own. O, few in folly's course can check their speed, The simple lines of character to read ! Or if they pause, the rude unfeeling eye, The cold enquiry contumelious sigh, And all the world's. gross pity can impart, Are caustic to the festers of the heart. Leeds Intelligencer. EL HYPONDRIACO. BY THE REV. GEORGE CROLY. Go to thy rest, thou sullen Sun, An emblem of my weary mind, Obscure ere half its course be done, While Night, long Night, remains behind. All that I loved, my pencil, pen, That stole the time on downy wings, When shall I feel your charm again ? Farewell ! ye past, ye pleasant things. Where is thy balm of care, O Sleep, That once upon my eyelids lay ? Now, if a slumber on me creep, The night is wilder than the day. I plunge in ocean, shoot through air, Parch in the desert ! fly the den, See horrors, wake in struggling prayer; And Midnight is twice Midnight then. New Times. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 161 WRITTEN AT SPITHEAD. BY THE REV. GEORGE CROLY. HARK to the knell ! It comes in the swell Of the stormy ocean wave. 'Tis no earthly sound, But a toll profound From the Mariner's deep sea grave. When the billows dash, And the signals flash, And the thunder is on the gale ; And the Ocean is white In its own wild light, Deadly, and dismal, and pale ; When the lightning's blaze Smites the seaman's gaze, And the sea rolls in fire and in foam ; And the surges' roar Shakes the rocky shore, We hear the sea-knell come. There 'neath the billow, The sand their pillow, Ten thousand men lie low ; And still their dirge Is sung by the surge, When the stormy night-winds blow. Sleep, warriors ! sleep On your pillow deep In peace ! for no mortal care No art can deceive, No anguish can heave The heart that once slumbers there. Times. 14* 162 THE POETICAL ALBUM. A NIGHT STORM, AMONG THE MOUNTAINS OF SNOWDON. 'Tis eve ! The sun's last rays arc glimmering still On Snowdon's crested summit, and around His granite rocks flows the deep bosomed rill In solitude and loveliness. Its sound, As with an angel voice, of peace profound Whispers to Heaven ; and see the sultry fires Of day more faintly yon deep crags surround ; Slowly even now each western beam retires, Fades,-lightens o'er the wave,-and with a smile expires. Night, utter night succeeds. Above below All deepens slowly in one blackening gloom ; Dark are the Heavens, as is the front of wo, Dark as the mountain prospects, as the tomb. Even as I slow descend, a fearful doom Weighs heavy on my heart, the bird of night Screams from her straw-built nest as from the womb Of infant death, and wheels her drowsy flight, Amid the pine-clad rocks, with wonder and affright. The note of wo is hushed ; peace reigns around In utter solitude ; the night breeze dies Faint on the mountain ash-leaves that surround Snowdon's dark peaks. But hark ! again the cries Of the scared owl, loud hymning to the skies Her tale of desolation ! Fearfully Night lengthens out the note ; the echo flies From rock to rock; now whispering shrilly by Now in the distance softened, lingering mournfully. Heaven smiles on earth again the glimmering star Pours in mild lustre down his full-orbed light ; And see, his mistress in her burnished car . Beams on the view ! At the refulgent sight The clouds sail by in homage, and the night THE POETICAL ALBUM. 163 Welcomes her as a friend ; the heavenly train Of Satellites attend her in her flight From pole to pole ; while a full chorused strain Of heaven's own music swells and dies in peace again. Brightly she moves on in her loveliness ! The fair-haired regent of the sky ! Her smiles Soothe the stern horrors of the scene, and bless Nature's calm slumber ; o'er yon splintered piles Of beetling crags, how sweetly she beguiles Gloorn of its frown ; and, see! the glittering rill Heaves conscious of her presence, and reviles, With murmuring voice, yon proudly frowning hill, That scorns meek Dian's gaze, and mocks her gentle will. A sound rolls by of horror ! On the wind Rides the dark bosomed Daemon of the storm ; Whirlwinds, with meteor splendour, crowd behind, And Heaven peals out the trumpet of alarm. Hark! from yon murky cloud with lightning warm, A voice of death proceeds ! The majesty Of Heaven displays around its harrowing form ! Hark! God in all his power is riding by T [sky ? Heard ye his chariot-wheels sweep echoing through the He speaks ! scared nature trembles at the sound ; Earth, air, sky, ocean, dictate a reply; The mountain-rock tolls out the voice profound, And woodland echo multiplies the cry: ' Clashed with the night owl's scream, along the sky Rolls the live thunder; through the forest caves, Dim flashes the blue lightning ; eddying by Leaps the swoll'n torrent, o'er the cataract raves With brutal force, and headlong flings its billowy waves. The night-breeze sails athwart the sky the thunder Has waked him from his sleep the spirit hears The da3tnon's call, and rudely rends asunder The bonds of rest : upon the cloud he rears 164 THE POETICAL ALBUM. His deathless might, and wrathfully careers Round the black rocks, dashes in vengeance down Their craggy summits, damps the toil of years With one rude whirlwind and, more ruthless grown, Heaves up the ocean waves his giant strength to crown. And now he sinks in softness, and anon Rolls on the ear with desolating peal ; Again the voice is silent. It is gone, The darksome horrors of the night to seal? Forth peeps the moon ; her watery beams reveal The death that has been busy here ; again The clouds sail round, as anxious to conceal The sight"of desolation, but in vain She walks in beauty forth, with all her starry train. Chester Chronicle. W. F. D. SONNET, COMPOSED ON THE SEA COAST. BY S. T. COLERIDGE, ES&. O ! IT is pleasant, with a heart at ease, Just after sunset, or by moonlight skies, To make the shifting clouds be what you please, Or bid the easily persuaded eyes Own each strange likeness issuing from the mould Of a friend's fancy ; or, with head bowed low, And cheek aslant, see rivers flow of gold 'Twixt crimson banks, and then a traveller go From mount to mount o'er CLOUD LAWD,-gorgeous land ! Or listening to the tide with closed sight, Be that blind bard, who on the Chian stand, By those deep sounds possessed with inward light, Beheld the Iliad and the Odyssee Rise to the swelling of the voiceful sea ! JBlackwood's Magazine. THE POETICAL ALBUM. A COUNTRY WEDDING. OH ! there is music in the bells, From yonder noisy steeple pealing, That sweetly o'er the spirit swells, And wakes the deepest chords of feeling ! It is not that this twilight hour Blends softly with their melting one ; Theirs is a deeper, holier power, Whose echo's in the heart alone. There's music in that merry voice The voice of peasants, wild and high, That bids the listener's soul rejoice, And share in all their revelry. It is not that those sounds proclaim Some boastful conqueror's vain parade ; They swell not now the pomp of fame, They hail no gorgeous cavalcade. But oh ! they bear a mightier charm Than shouts of triumph can express! They spring from hearts with feeling warm, Each voice a voice of happiness. There's an o'erflowing tide of gladness, To night, in all we hear or see ; A moment's passing dream of madness The heart's delirious jubilee. Who recks amid a life like this, Of future grief, or toil, or pain ? To-morrow shall dissolve the bliss, And care and reason wake again. 1G5 166 THE POETICAL ALBUM. And may it be that yonder chime, Which spoke to-day of hearts delighted, May sadly tell, in after time, That death those hearts has disunited ? It may be but away, away ! Forebodings dark, and dreams of sorrow Let mirth and music reign to-day, And reason's voice be heard to-morrow.. I would not, with most sage advice, Dispel this momentary fever; For, oh ! the world were paradise, Could such delirium last for ever. Etonian. SONNET, TO AILSA ROCK. BY JOHN KEATS. HEARKEN, thou craggy ocean pyramid! Give answer from thy voice, the sea fowls' screams;. When were thy thunders mantled in huge streams? When from the sun was thy broad forehead hid ? How long is't since the mighty Power bid Thee heave to airy sleep from fathom dreams? Sleep on the lap of thunder or sun-beams, Or when gray clouds are thy cold coverlid !. Thou answerest not, for thou art dead asleep ; Thy life is but two dread eternities; The last in air, the former in the deep, First with the whales, last with the eagle skies ; Drowned wast thou till an earthquake made thee steep,- Another cannot bow thy giant size. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 167 TO A GIRL THIRTEEN YEARS OF AGE, THY smiles, thy talk, thy aimless plays, So beautiful approve thee, So winning, light, are all thy ways, I cannot choose but love thee : Thy balmy breath upon my brow Is like the summer air, As o'er my cheek thou leanest now To plant a soft kiss there. Thy steps are dancing toward the bound Between the child and woman ; And thoughts and feelings more profound, And other years are coming ; And thou shalt be more deeply fair, More precious to the heart ; But never can'st thou be again, That lovely thing thou art ! And youth shall pass, with all the brood Of fancy-fed affection ; And care shall come with womanhood, And 'waken cold reflection ; Thou'lt learn to toil, and watch, and weep, O'er pleasures unreturning, Like one who wakes from pleasant sleep Unto the cares of morning. Nav, say not so ! nor cloud the sun Of joyous expectation, Ordained to bless the little one, The freshling of creation ! Nor doubt that HE, who now doth feed Her early lamp with gladness, Will be her present help in need, Her comforter in sadness. 168 THE POETICAL ALBUM. Smile on, then, little winsome thing, All rich in nature's measure ; Thou hast within thy heart a spring Of self-renewing- pleasure ; Smile on, fair child, and take thy fill Of mirth, till time shall end it; 'Tis Nature's wise and gentle will, And who shall reprehend it? Knight's Quarterly Magazine. W. LOVE. BY R. SOUTHEY, ESQ. THEY sin who tell us love can die ; With life all other passions fly, All others are hut vanity. In heaven ambition cannot dwell, Nor avarice in the vaults of hell ; Earthly these passions as of earth, They perish when they have their birth ; But love is indestructible, Its holy flame for ever burneth, From heaven it came, to heaven returneth Too oft on earth a troubled guest, At times deceived, at times opprest ; It here is tried and purified, And hath in heaven its perfect rest ; It soweth here with toil and care, But the harvest time of Love is there. Oh when a mother meets on high The babe she lost in infancy, Hath she not then, for pains and fears, The day of wo, the anxious night, For all her sorrow, all her tears, An over-payment of delight ! THE POETICAL ALBUM. 1G9 TO A SISTER. BY W. READ, ESQ. THE soft gale of summer, though past, Will breathe of the rose it loved last ; Thus divided by land and by sea, My soul whispers fondly of thee. And to me thou art now as a star, In the blue depths of heaven afar; On which, from the gloom of my lot, I can gaze till my griefs are forgot. And my spirit full oft when it turns From the cold hearted crowd which it spurns, Confesses with pain, yet with pride, It hath found but One like thee beside. I may err and have erred, for a mind That finds not repose nor can find All helmless and havenless tost, Like a wreck on the ocean is lost. But oh ! when most wild or most weak, Let me think of the tear on thy cheek, And, as one from a serpent would start, My soul and her madness shall part. I once sighed for the wreath that is wove Round the brow of the blest in their love ; And I burned for the raptures that steal Through those hearts which are felt for, and feel ; I once hoped the proud laurel should bloom, Ever green on my temple, or tomb, And I thought round this rude harp of mine, An amaranth leaf might entwine. 15 170 THE POETICAL ALBUM. Alas ! they were dreams that pass on. Like a cloud o'er the moon, and are gone! For the stone that may tell of my name, Shall speak not of fortune or fame. Yet, dear one, though hopeless I be, Divided and distant from Thee, My lot shall not make me repine, Whilst thy fondness and friendship are mine. Farewell ! with thy purity blest, Be still my own star in the west ! For thy beam has a passionate spell, Which binds me to earth Fare-thee-well ! Literary Gazette. TO LOUISA. IF memory ever should whisper the name Of one who hath loved thee not wisely, but well, And dwelt on thy charms with that passionate flame, Which none but the soul of a poet can tell Remember his heart was not tempered like those Who have never awoke to the exquisite touch, Which passion imparts to the bosom that glows, Till its error in love is in loving too much. Remember, if fondness seduced him too far, The language that broke from thine eloquent eye ; For who could be blind to so brilliant a star, If it beamed but on him, though a thousand were by? And remember, whilst others are bound by its spell, With what ills and what anguish his spirit must cope, Who breathes thee this wild and eternal farewell: They hope while they love, but he loves without hope Literary Gazette. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 171 TFIE PAINTER. I know not which is the most fatal gift, Genius or Love, for both alike are ruled By stars of bright aspect and evil influence. HE was a lonely and neglected child ; His cheek was colourless, save when the flush Of strong emotion mastered its still whiteness; His dark eyes seemed all heaviness and gloom, So rarely were they raised. His mother's love Was for her other children ; they were fair, And had health's morning hues and sunny looks. She had not seen him, when he watched the sun Setting at eve, like an idolater, Until his cheek grew crimson in the light Of the so radiant heavens, and his eyes Were eloquently beautiful, all filled With earth's most glorious feelings. And his father, A warrior and a hunter, one whose grasp Was ever on the bridle or the brand, Had no pride in a boy whose joy it was To sit for hours by a lone fountain's side, Listening its low and melancholy song ; Or wander through the gardens silently, As if with leaves and flowers alone he held Aught of companionship. In his first years They sent him to a convent, for they said, Its solitude would suit with Guino's mood: And there he dwelt, treasuring those rich thoughts That are the food on which young genius lives. He rose to watch the sunlight over Rome Break from its purple shadows, making glad Even that desolate city, whose dim towers, Ruins and palaces, seem as they looked .Back on departed time ; then in the gloom Of his own convent's silent burying ground, Where, o'er the quiet dead, the cypress mourned, He passed the noon, dreaming those dear day-dreams, 172 THE POETICAL ALBUM. Not so much hopes as fancies ; then at eve, When, through the painted windows, the red sun Rainbowed the marble floor with radiant hues, Where spread the ancient church's stately arch, He stayed, till the deep music of the hymn, Chaunted to the rich organ's rolling notes, Bade farewell to the day ; then to his cell lie went, and through the casement's iron bars The moon looked on him, beautiful as love, Lighting his slumber. On the church's wall There hung one lovely portrait, and for hours Would GUI DO, in the fulness of his heart, Kneel, watching, till he wept. The subject was A dying Magdalene: her lung black hair Spread round her like a shroud, one pale thin hand Pillowed a cheek as thin and pale, and scarce The blue light of the eyes was visible, For the death dampness on the darkened lids, As one more effort to look on the cross, Which seemed just falling from the fainting arm, And they would close for ever. In that look, There was a painter's immortality ! And GUIDO felt it deeply, f<>r a gift Like his whose work that was, was given him, A gift of beauty and of power, and soon He lived but in the beautiful creations His pencil called to life. But as his thoughts Took wilier range, he languished to behold More of a world he thought must be so fair, So filled with glorious shapes. It chanced that he Whose hand had traced that pale sad loveliness, Came to the convent ; with rejoicing wonder, He marked how like an unknown mine, whose gold Gathers in silence, had young GUIDO'S mind Increased in lonely richness ; every day New veins of splendid thoughts sprang into life. And GUIDO left his convent cell with one, Who, like a Genie, bore him into scenes Of marvel and enchantment. And then first THE POETICAL ALBUM. 173 Did GUIDO feel how very precious praise Is to young genius, like sunlight on flowers, Ripening them into fruit. And time passed on ; The lonely and neglected child became One whom all Rome was proud of, for she gave, At once, birth to his fame, and to himself. There was a melancholy beauty shed Over his pictures, as the element In which his genius shed was sorrow. Love He made most lovely, but yet ever sad ; Passionate partings, such as wring the heart Till tears are life-blood : meetings, when the cheek Has lost all hope of health in the long parting; The grave, with one mourning in solitude ; These made his fame, and were his excellence, The painter of deep tears. He had just gained ' The summer of his glory and of his days, When his remembering art was called to give A longer memory to one whose life Was but a thread. Her history may be told In one word love. And what has love e'er been But misery to woman ? Still she wished It was a dying fancy which betrayed How much, though known how false its god had been, Her soul clung to its old idolatry, To send her pictured semblance to the false one. She hoped how love will hope ! it might recall The young and lovely girl his cruelty Had worn to this dim shadow. it might wake Those thousand fond arid kind remembrances Which he hat! utterly abandoned, while The true heart he had treasured next his own A little time, had never ceased to beat For only him, until it broke. She leant Beside a casement when first GUIDO looked Upon her wasted beauty. 'Twas the brow, The Grecian outline in its perfect grace, That he had learned to worship in his youth By gazing on that Magdalene, whose face 15* 174 THE POETICAL ALBUM. Was yet a treasure in his memory ; But sunken were the temples, they had lost Their ivory roundness, yet still clear as day The veins shone through them, shaded by the braids, Just simply parted back, of the dark hair, Where grief's white traces mocked at youth. A flush, As shame, deep shame, had once burnt on her cheek, Then lingered there for ever, looked like health Offering hope, vain hope, to the pale lip, Like the rich crimson of the evening sky, Brightest when night, is coming. GUIDO took Just one slight sketch ; next morning she was dead ! Yet still he painted on, until his heart Grew to the picture : it became his world, He lived but in its beauty, made his heart Sacred to it alone. No more he gave To the glad canvass green and summer dreams Of the Italian valleys ; traced no more The dark eyes of its lovely daughters, looked And caught the spirit of fine poetry From glorious statues: these were passed away. Shade after shade, line alter line, each day Gave life to the sweet likeness. Guino dwelt In intense worship on his own creation, Till his cheek caught the hectic tinge he drew, And his thin hand grew tremulous. One night Tiie portrait was just finished, save a touch, A touch to give the dark light of the eyes He painted till the lamps grew dim, his hand Scarce conscious what it wrought; at length his lids Closed in heavy slumber, and he dreamt That a fair creature came and kissed his brow, And bade him follow her : he knew the look, And rose. Awakening, he found himself Kneeling before the portrait ! 'twas so fair, He deemed it lived, and pressed his burning lips To the sweet mouth ;. his soul passed in that kiss, Young GUIDO died beside his masterpiece ! Literary Gazette. L. E. L. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 175 TEN YEARS AGO. TEN years ago ten years ago Life was to us a fairy scene ; And the keen blasts of worldly woe Had sered not then its pathway green ; Youth and its thousand dreams were ours, Feelings we ne'er can know again, Unwithered hopes un wasted powers, And frames unworn by mortal pain ; Such was the bright and genial flow Of life with us ten years ago ! Time has not blanched a single hair, That clusters round thy forehead now ; Nor hath the cankering touch of Care Left even one furrow on thy brow ; Thine eyes are blue as when we met, In love's deep truth in earlier years ; Thy cheek of rose is blooming yet, Though somewhat stained by secret tears; But where, oh where's the spirit's glow That shone through all ten years ago? I too am changed I scarce know why ; Can feel each flagging pulse decay, And youth, and health, and visions high Melt like a wreath of snow away ! .Time cannot sure have wrought the ill! Though worn in this world's sickening strife, In soul and form I linger still In the first summer month of life; Yet journey on my path below Oh ! how unlike ten years ago ! But look not thus I would not give The wreck of hopes that thou must share, To bid those joyous hours revive, When all around me seemed so fair ! 176 THE POETICAL ALBUM. We've wandered on in sunny weather, When winds were low, and flowers in bloom, And hand in hand have kept together, And still will keep, 'mid storm and gloom, Endeared by ties we could not know When life was young ten years ago ! Has fortune frowned ? Her frowns were vain ! For hearts like ours she could not chill. Have friends proved false ? Their love might wane ! But ours grew fonder, firmer, still. Twin barks on this world's changing wave, Stedfast in calms in tempests tried In concert still our fate we'll brave ; Together cleave life's fitful tide, Nor mourn, whatever winds may blow, Youth's first wild dreams ten years ago ! Have we not knelt beside his bed, And watched our first-born blossom die ? Hoped till the shade of hope had fled, Then wept till feeling's fount was dry ? Was it not sweet, in that dark hour To think rnid mutual tears and sighs- Our bud had left its earthly bovver And burst to bloom in Paradise? What to the thought that soothed that woe Were heartless joys ten years ago ? Yes, it is sweet, when Heaven is bright, To share its sunny beams with thee ! But sweeter far, 'mid clouds and blight, To have thee near to weep with me. Then dry those tears though something changed From what we were in earlier youth. Time that hath friends and hopes estranged, Hath left us love in all its truth ; Sweet feelings we would not forego For life's best joys ten years ago ! February 3, 1824. A. A. W. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 177 LINES SENT WITH AN HOUR GLASS TO A LADY ON NEW YEAR'S DAY. YES all things fade away That the soul cherishes and seeks on earth ; Fair flowers ! that do but bloom their summer's day, And are forgot their being and their birth. Youth hath its favoured hour, Of fancies, and high hopes, and dazzling dreams ; It flies and with it all the glittering dower That to young bosoms the securest seems ! And Manhood's hour comes next, Fevered and filled with the world's active thought ; Schemes, and ambitions ; till the spirit vexed, Finds that its hour hath fled and left it nought! Shortest and last is thine, Wasted in vain regrets and memories Age ! For while thy retrospects too brightly shine, The sand ebbs out so doth thy pilgrimage ! Thus pleasure hath its hour! And grief and pain and peril have no more ; Hatred, and love, but the same transient power, Time but remains ruling as heretofore ! On conqueror of the earth ! And fold not yet thy world-destroying wing ! Still reign while scattering man's work and worth, Omnipotent! o'er each created thing! Thy end will come, Oh Time ! VVhen thou, a conqueror shalt conquered be; Thyself, thy victories, and thy power sublime, No more remembered in Eternity! Leeds Intelligencer. M. J. J. 178 THE POETICAL ALBUM. THE COVENANTER'S HEATHER-BED. poem, suggested by the picture representing the Temp- tation of St. Anthony, by TVnter*, exemplifies the differ- ent aspect which the same subject and situation would assume' when clothed in the images supplied by Scottish Puritanism. A STORMY night and dark, had closed a gloomy day, And couched upon the heath a Covenanter Jay ; His feet were tired and damp, with the clays of many a hill, And in his sleeping ear the wind was roaring still ; When the powers of darkness thronged with persevering spite, To tempt his weary soul 'mid the visions of the night. And first a black one came, and said, with scornful eye, * Come, Jonathan, get up, and your merits let us try ; If you be strong in faith, here take me by the hand, Pull up while 1 draw down, we'll see who best can stand ; When flames break out beneath us, and yawning earth is riven, 'Twill then be brought to proof what hold you have on heaven. * You boldly walk by day, while sunshine warms the ground ; The breeze cheers up your heart, and the wild bee hums around, But when our dark hour comes, your songs and vaunts decrease, And, trusting to your works, you fain would sleep in peace; But if in works you trust, I have witnesses behind, Who can speak of former deeds, and recall them to your mind.* And then straightway the fiend for another fiend made room, Who carried in his hand a sprig of yellow broom, And said, ' This broom was cut in that glen of gowans fine, W'here you were wont in youth to drive a herd of kine ; For its crystal brook you deemed that glen beyond compare, But more for a blue-eyed girl, who also herded there. * When with her you would sit, one plaid encircled both, You called yourself her true love to her you pledged your troth ; But when you grew a man, and was master of some sheep, And saw some fanners' daughters, you left her there to weep ; THE POETICAL ALBUM. 179 Among the lonely knolls her heart sobbed out its pain, And 'twas said her silken snood ne'er tied so well again.' The one who next appeared, a tattered bible bore, And said, ' when first in youth you left your mother's door, With swimming eyes she came, this book she bade you take, And keep it as her gilt, and read it for her sake ; But scarce two days were past, ere at a drunken fair You lost it in the streets, to be soiled arid trampled there.' The next who came to taunt, a piece of money showed, And said, 'When paying last a neighbour what you owed, He was an aged man, and somewhat thick of sight, And you therefore slid this coin among others that were bright ; But the edge was partly worn, and the brass that glared behind Disgraced its silver coat, like a secret sinner's mind.' Tormented thus and stung by many a bitter word, 4 The last,' he cries, ' is false !' and starts and grasps his sword. Around on every side, his furious strokes he plies, Among their flitting shapes, among their glaring eyes ; But laughing at his rage, on sooty wings they fled, And a new rattling shower assailed his heather-bed. BlackwoocTs Magazine. LOVE. NAY, pray thee, let me weep, for tears Are Love's most fitting offerings ; I'll weep his smiles, I'll weep his sighs, But, more than all, I'll weep his wings. I'Jl weep his smiles, for first they taught My young heart what his sighs could he ; I'll weep his wings, for they have borne Away the truth you plighted me. Literary Gazette. 180 THE POETICAL, ALBUM. STANZAS WRITTEN BY THE SEA SIDE. ONE evening as the sun went down, Gilding the mountains bare and brown, I wandered on the shore ; And sucli a blaze o'er ocean spread, And beauty on the meek earth shed, I never saw before ! I was not lonely ; dwellings fair Were scattered 'round and shining there ;- Gay groups were on the green Of children, wild with reckless glee, Arid parents that could child-like be With them and in that scene. And, on the sea that looked of gold, Each toy-like skiff and vessel bold Glided, and yet seemed still ; While sounds rose in the quiet air, That mingling made sweet music there, Surpassing Minstrel's skill ! The breezy murmur from the shore, Joy's laugh re-echoed o'er and o'er Alike by sire and child, The whistle shrill, the broken song, The far off flute-notes lingering long, The lark's strain rich and wild. I looked, I listened, and the spell Of Music and of Beauty fell So radiant on my heart, That scarcely durst I really deem What yet I would not own a dream, Lest dream-like, it depart. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 'Twas sunset in the world around ; And, looking inwards, so I found 'Twas sun-set in the soul; Nor grief, nor mirth, were burning there, But musings sweet and visions fair, In placid beauty stole. But moods like these, the human mind, Though seeking oft, may seldom find, Or, finding, force to stay ; As dews upon the drooping flower, That having shone their little hour, Dry up or fall away. But though all pleasures take their flight, Yet some will leave memorials bright For many an after year ; This sunset, that dull night will shade, These visions, which must quickly fade, Will half-immortal memory braid For me, when far from here ! Literary Gazette. M. J. J. IMPROMPTU TO LADY HOLLAND ON NAPOLEONS LEGACY OF A SNUFF BOX. BY THOMAS MOORE, ESft. GIFT of the Hero, on his dying day, To her, whose pity watched, forever nigh ; Oh ! could he see the proud, the happy ray, This relic lights up on her generous eye, Sighing, he'd feel how easy 'tis to pay A friendship all his kingdoms could not buy. 16 182 THE POETICAL ALBUM. THE DYING POET'S FAREWELL. Animula vagula, blandula, Hospes, comesque corpoiis, Qua3 mine abibis in Joca? O THOU wondrous arch of azure, Sun, and starry plains immense ! Glories that astound the gazer By their dread magnificence ! O thou ocean, whose commotion Awes the proudest to devotion, Must I must I from ye fly, Bid ye all adieu and die ! O ye keen and gusty mountains, On whose tops I braved the sky ! O ye music-pouring fountains, On whose marge I loved to lie ! O ye posies, lilies, roses, All the charms that earth discloses, Must I must I from ye fly, Bid ye all adieu and die ! O ye birds, whose matin chorus Taught me to rejoice and bless ! And ye beasts, whose voice sonorous Swelled the hymn of thankfulness ; Learned leisure, and the pleasure, Of the muse, my dearest treasure, Must I must 1 from ye fly, Bid ye all adieu and die 1 O domestic ties endearing r Which still chain my soul to earth 1 O ye friends, whose converse cheering Winged the hours with social mirth ! Songs of gladness, chasing sadness, Wine's delight without its madness, Must I must I from ye fly, Bid ye all adieu and die ! THE POETICAL ALBUM. 183 Yes ! I now fulfil the fiction Of the swan that sings in death : Earth, receive my henediction ! Air, inhale my parting breath ! Hills and valleys, forest alleys, Prompters of my muse's sallies; Fields of green, and skies of blue, Take, oh take my last adieu ! Yet, perhaps, when all is ended, And the grave dissolves my frame, The elements from which 'twas blended May their several parts reclaim ; Waters flowing, breezes blowing, Earth, and all upon it growing, Still may have my altered essence Ever floating in their presence. While my disembodied spirit May to fields Elysian soar, And some lowest seat inherit Near the mighty bards of yore ; Never, never to dissever, But to dwell in bliss forever, Tuning an enthusiast lyre To that high and laurelled quire. London Magazine, H. IMITATION OF A GREEK EPIGRAM. I MOURN not those who have already left Life the sweet light of life and life's pure breath : But, oh, I mourn their state, of Hope bereft, Who, living, pine in hourly dread of death, And dying live ; and supplicate the gift Of added years to deck their wintry wreath Of hoary honours ; and when years are given, Then pray for more to make their peace with heaven ! 184 THE POETICAL ALBUM. THE DEAD BIRD. A SKETCH. 'Tis her first grief ! The bird is dead. How many a mournful word was said ! How many a tear was o'er it shed ! The anguish of the shock is past, But Memory's thoughts those eyes o'ercast ; As, like the violet gemmed with dew, Glitters through tears their lovely blue. *Tis her first grief! Motionless there Is stretched the fondling of her care ; No longer may she hear his voice, No longer in his sports rejoice ; And scarcely dare she lift her eyes, To where her lifeless treasure lies. But yesterday who could foresee That such a change as this might be, That she should call and he not hear, That bird who knew and loved her dear ; Who, when her finger touched his cage, 'Gainst it a mimic war would wage ; Who pecked the sweetmeat from her hand, And on her ringlets took his stand ! As all these recollections rise, Again does sorrow drown the eyes, The little bosom swell with sighs : . * Another bird ! No, never, never ! Empty shall be that cage for ever.' 'Tis her first grief! And it will fade Or ere the next sun sinks in shade. Ah ! happy age, when smile and tear Alternate in the eyes appear ; When sleep can every care remove, And morn's light wake to hope and love. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 185 But Childhood flies like spring-time's hour, And deepening shadows o'er youth lour ! Even thou, fair girl, must one day know Oflife the painfulness and wo, The sadness that sleep cannot cure, Griefs that through nights and days endure; Those natural pangs to mortals given, [heaven. To wean us from this earth, and lead our thoughts to Literary Gazette. ISABEL. SONNET, WRITTEN IN THE WOODS OF BOLTON ABBEY. BI BAR.RY CORNWALL. THERE is no lovelier scene in all the land ! Around me far a green enchantment lies, Fed by the weeping of these April skies. And touched by Fancy's great ' all charming wand/ Almost I expect to see a lightsome band Come stealing through the hazel boughs, and cross My path or half asleep upon the moss, Some Satyr with stretched arm, and clenched hand. It is a place of beauty ! Here, half hid By yellowing ash and drooping aspens, run The river waters as to meet the sun ; And in the distance, boiling in its might. The fatal fall is seen the thundering Strid ; And over all the morning blue and bright. London Magazine. 16* 186 THE POETICAL ALBUM. THE LAST MAN. BY T. CAMPBELL, ESQ. ALL worldly shapes shall melt in gloom, The Sun himself must die, Before this mortal shall assume Its immortality ! I saw a vision in my sleep, That gave my spirit strength to sweep Adown the gulf of Time! I saw the last of human mould, That shall Creation's death behold, As Adam saw her prime! The Sun's eye had a sickly glare, The Earth with age was wan, The skeletons of nations were Around that lonely man ! Some had expired in fight, the brands Still rusted in their bony hands ; In plague and famine some ; Earth's cities had no sound nor tread ; And ships were drifting with the dead, To shores where all was dumb ! Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood, With dauntless words and high, That shook the sere leaves from the wood, As if a storm passed by ; Saying, we're twins in death, proud Sun, Thy face is cold, thy race is run, 'Tis Mercy bids thee go. For thou ten thousand thousand years Hast seen the tide of human tears, That shall no longer flow. What though beneath thee man put forth His pomp, his pride, his skill ; THE POETICAL ALBUM. 187 And arts that made fire, flood and earth, The vassals ofhis will ; Yet mourn I not thy parted sway, Thou dim discrowned king of day ! For all those trophied arts And triumphs that beneath thee sprang, Healed not a passion or a pang Entailed on human hearts. Go, let oblivion's curtain fall Upon the stage of men, Nor with thy rising beams recall Life's tragedy again. In piteous pageants bring not back, Nor waken flesh, upon the rack Of pain, anew to writhe ; Stretched in disease's shapes abhorred, Or mown in battle by the sword, Like grass beneath the scythe. Even I am weary in yon skies To watch thy fading fire ; Test of all sumless agonies, Behold not me expire. My lips that speak thy dirge of death Their rounded gasp and gurgling breath To see thou shalt not boast. The eclipse of nature spreads my pall, The majesty of Darkness shall lleceive my parting ghost! This spirit shall return to Him That gave its heavenly spark ; Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim When thou thyself ait dark! No ! it shall live again, and shine In bliss unknown to beams of thine, By Him recalled to breath, 188 THE POETICAL ALBUM. Who captive led captivity, Who robbed the grave of Victory, And took the sting from Death ! Go, Sun, while Mercy holds me up On Nature's awful waste, To drink this last and bitter cup Of grief that man shall taste Go, tell the night that hides thy face, Thou saw'st the last of Adam's race, On Earth's sepulchral clod ; The darkening universe defy To quench his Immortality, Or shake his trust in God ! New Monthly Magazine. THE GENIUS OF SPAIN. BY LORD HOLLAND. Paz con Inglaterra, con todo el mundo Guerra. ON that steep ridge beyond Bayonna's bold, Methought a giant figure did appear, Sunburnt and rough ! He on his limbs did wear Bright steel and raiment fairer than of old, But yet uncouth in speech ' I nothing fear Yon braggart threats,' quoth he in accents bold, * Let recreant France her fine-spun plots unfold, And come with train barbarian in her rear, Croat or Muscovite ! My native pride Withered such hosts, when mightier captains led: CaBsar, Napoleon, ill with me have sped ! And shall I crouch now Freedom is my bride ! No ! the young offspring of that heavenly bed, Stand England firm,-shall 'gainst the World make head.' Morning Chronicle. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 189 A FAREWELL. BY ISMAEL FITZADAM. FARE thee well, land of my birth, That spot the most sacred on earth ! At last I have broken the spell That bound my heart to thee, farewell ! Away idle sorrows, that wet My cheek with unhidden regret! I leave no fond sympathy here That asks, at my parting, one tear. With a love that scarce death could remove, Have I clung to thee, land of my love! Yet found hut such fostering and rest As the babe at its dead mother's breast. Lift the sail. The lone spirit that braves The loud going forth of the waves Wherever they cast him, will mid A country, and bosoms, more kind. Lift the sail all remembrances sleep In the rush and the roar of the deep, As its tide blots the lines, which the hand Of childhood had etched on the sand. Denied to my chance-kindled fire The wreath that belongs to the lyre, Yet my good sword the battle shall join, And chivalry's garland be mine. Or victory, torn from the brow Of the Paynim, shall hallow my vow, Or fallen in the strife of the brave, Young Glory shall beam on my grave ! 190 THE POETICAL ALBUM. Fare thee well, land of my birth, The one spot most sacred of earth ! At last I have burst through the spell That bound my heart to thee ! Farewell ! Literary Gazette. LINES, . WRITTEN AMONG THE RUINS IN AMPTHILL PARK. BY J. H. WIFFEX, E Out upon time. LORD BYRON. BRIGHTLY the moon-beams slept amid Chambers 'mid rifled ruin hid ; For the alder rankled at the door, And thistles grew on the chill damp floor ; And proudly the flourishing ivy wound Pillar and column and roof around ! The vacant and desolate windows now Waving grass and herbage flout ; And from the night raven's sheltering bough, At times the howling fox looks out ; And each massy court and tower sublime, Is eat by the silent tusk of TIME ! O, how unlike their years of prime, By chieftains visited ! OUT UPON TIME ! RUIN, and ravin, and wild decay, Herald him on his blighting way ! Where points his finger, lours the storm ; Where his eye fixes feeds the worm ; Where treads his step, there glory lies ; Where breathes his breath, there beauty dies. He breaks the oppressor's iron rod ; Crumbles the robes of the Priest of God ; On the palace of kings and the peasant's cot, He turns his visage and they are not ! Even lofty song and the magic of rhyme Yield at length to his power ! OUT OUT UPON TIME ! Leeds Intelligencer. iqi THE POETICAL ALBUM. THE MICHELMAS DAISY. LAST smile of the departing year, Thy sister sweets are flown ! Thy pensive wreath is far more dear From blooming thus alone ! Thy tender blush, thy simple frame, Unnoticed might have passed; But now thou com'st, with softer claim, The loveliest and the last. Sweet are the charms in thee we find, Emblem of Hope's pay wing; 'Tis thine to call past bloom to mind, To promise future spring. iterary Gazette. 17 194 THE POETICAL ALBUM, ^^c mi me lair-oosonied daughters of earth, 'Tis to turn to thy beauties of beauty the Queen ! And if from man's dwelling to Nature I flee, Glen mountain and ocean seem breathing of thee. When a soft soothing glance from the eye of affection Breaks my midnight of gloom with its halo divine, How surpassingly sweet is the bright recollection Of the passionate love ever beaming from thine ! 'Twill beam on me no more ! Yet though death has bereft m Of a form such as Seraphs from heaven might adore, In this image thy features of beauty are left me, And the lines of thy soul in my heart's core of core 1 Then reproach me not, sweet one ! for time shall not see The hour that estranges one deep thought of thee. Literary Gazette. A. A. W. THE POETICAL ALBUM. THE HAPPY ISLE. THERE was a light upon the stream, Just one pale and silent beam From the moon's departing car, From the setting morning star, Like Hope asking, timidly, Whether it must live or die ; But that twilight pause is past ! Crimson hues are colouring fast, All the eastern clouds that fly, Banners spread triumphantly. The moon is but a speck of white, The sun has looked away her light ; Farewell Night, thy shadowy gleams, Dewy flowers, gentle dreams ! Be thy starry pinions furled, Day has blushed upon the world. Never day-beam hath shone o'er Lovelier or wilder shore ! Half was land, and half was sea, Where the eye could only see The blue sky for boundary. From the green woods sounds are ringing, For the wakened birds are singing To the blossoms where they slept, Thanks for the sweet watch they kept. Here stand tall and stately trees ; Others, that the slightest breeze Bows to earth, and from their bloom Shakes and rifles the perfume : Like woman, feeble but to bless, Sweetest in weak loveliness! Music is upon the air, Azure wings are waving there ; Music is on yonder hill, A low song from its bright rill, Where the water lilies float, And the Indian Cupid's boat, 195 196 THE POETICAL ALBUM. The red Lotus ; while above Hang the Grecian flowers of love, Roses leading soft and bright, Lives, half perfume and half light; In their leaves the honey bee Lulled to sleep, voluptuously. There are shades, which the red sun Never yet has looked upon ; Where the moon has but the power Of a cool and twilight hour. By the sea are sparry caves, Where the music of the waves Never ceases, and the walls Are hung with the coronals Left by Sea-maids, when they wring Pearls, which in their wet hair cling. 'Tis a land of fruit and flowers, Silver waters, sunny hours; Human foot has never prest Its so sweet and silent rest. But a bark is on the sea, And those in that bark will be Soon upon the island shore, And its loneliness is o'er! Oh, if any dare intrude On the lovely solitude ! If there be that need not fear Breaking the sweet quiet here ! If there should be those, for whom Leaves expand and flowers bloom, Birds breathe song, oh, if there be, Surely, Love, it is for thee ! Lover's step would softly press Flowers with its light caress; Lover's words would have atone With each song in unison ! Lover's smiles would be as fail- As the sunniest day-beam there ; THE POETICAL ALBUM. 197 And no roses would be sweet As the sighs when lovers meet. The slight bark came o'er the sea, Two leant in it mournfully : One who left her convent cell With the youth she loved so well ; One who left his native land For the sake of that dear hand. Shine and storm they had sailed through What is there love dare not do ? Her arm round his neck was thrown, His was round her like a zone, Guarding with such anxious fear All it had in love most dear. Pale her cheek, and the sea spray Dashed upon it, as she lay Pillowed on her lover's arm ; But her lip still kept the charm (Fondly raised to his the while) Of its own peculiar smile, As with him she had no fear Of the rushing waters near; And the youth's dark flashing eye Answered her's, so tenderly, So wildly, warmly, passionate, As she only were his fate. But Hope rises from her grave, There is a land upon the wave : What are toils or perils past Reached is the bright isle at last, Free from care or earthly thrall, For Love's own sweet festival ! Literary Gazttte. L. E. L. 17* 198 THE POETICAL ALBUM. THE FALLING LEAF. A REVERIE AT MATLOCK, IN DERBYSHIRE, BY JAMES MONTGOMERY, ESt. WERE I a trembling leaf On yonder stately tree, After a season gay and brief, Condemned to fade and flee, I should be loth to fall Beside the common way, Weltering in mire, and spurned by all, Till trodden down to clay. I would not choose to die All on a bed of grass, Where thousands of my kindred lie, And idly rot in mass. Nor would I like to spread My thin and withered face, In hortus siccus, pale and dead, A mummy of my race. No, on the wings of air Might I be left to fly, I know not, and I heed not where, A waif of earth and sky ! Or, cast upon the stream, Curled like a fhiry-boat, As through the chances of a dream, To the world's end I'd float. Who, that hath ever been, Could bear to be no more ? Yet who would tread again the scene He trod through life before ! THE POETICAL ALBUM. On, with intense desire, Man's spirit will move on ; It seems to die, yet like heaven's fire It is not quenched, but gone. London Magazine. 199 SONG. BY JOSIAH CONDER, ESQ. 'TWAS not when early flowers were springing, When skies were sheen, And wheat was green, And birds of love were singing, That first I loved thee, or that thon Didst first the tender claim allow. For when the silent woods had faded From green to yellow, When fields were fallow, And the changed skies o'ershaded, My love might then have shared decay, Or passed with summer songs away. 'Twas winter, cares and clouds were 'round me, Instead of flowers And sunny hours, When Love unguarded found me : 'Mid wintry scenes my passion grew, And wintry cares have proved it true. Dear are the hours of summer weather, When all is bright, And hearts are light, And Love and Nature joy together ; But stars from night their lustre borrow, And hearts are closer twined by sorrow. London Magazine. 200 THE POETICAL, ALBUM. TO LADY HOLLAND, ON THE SNUFF-BOX BEQUEATHED TO HER RY BONA- PARTE. BY THE EARL OF CARLISLE. LADY, reject the gift ! 'tis tinged with gore ! Those crimson spots a dreadful tale relate : It has been grasped by an infernal Power ; And by that hand which sealed young Enghien's fate. Lady, reject the gift ; beneath its lid Discord and Slaughter, and relentless War, With every plague to wretched man lie hid Let not these loose to range the world afar. Say, what congenial to his heart of stone, In thy soft bosom could the Tyrant trace ? When does the dove the eagle's friendship own, Or the wolf hold the lamb in pure embrace ? Think of that pile,* to Addison so dear, Where Sully feasted, and where Rogers' song Still adds sweet music to the perfumed air, And gently leads each Grace and Muse along. Pollute not, then, these scenes the gift destroy : ' 'Twill scare the Dryads from that lovely shade; With them will fly all rural peace and joy, And screaming fiends their verdant haunts invade. That mystic Box hath magic power to raise Spectres of myriads slain, a ghastly band ; They'll vex thy slumbers, cloud thy sunny days, Starting from Moscow's snows or Egypt's sand. * Holland House. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 201 And ye who, bound in Verdun's treacherous chains, Slow pined to death beneath a base control, Say, shall not all abhor, where Freedom reigns, That petty vengeance of a little soul ? The warning Muse no idle trifler deem : Plunge the cursed mischief in wide Ocean's flood ; Or give it to our own majestic stream The only stream he could not dye with blood. SONNET, ON THE DEATH OF THE POET KEATS. AND art thou dead ? Thou very sweetest bird That ever made a moonlight forest ring ! Its wild unearthly music mellowing ! Shall thy rich notes no more, no more be heard ? Never! Thy beautiful romantic themes, That made it mental heaven to hear thee sing, Lapping the enchanted soul in golden dreams, Are mute ! Ah ! vainly did Italia fling Her healing ray around thee blossoming With blushing flowers, long wedded to thy verse ! Those flowers, those sunbeams, but adorn thy hearse ; And the warm gales, that faintly rise and fall, In music's clime themselves so musical, [hall. Shall chaunt the minstrel's dirge far from his father's 202 THE POETICAL ALBUM. A FAREWELL. O, FARE thee well ! the bitter hour is past, And the dread conflict of my fate is o'er ; Of thy loved voice mine ear hath heard its last, And thy bright form I now may see no more. Yet wilt thou sigh for days for ever gone, When hope was young, and mutual faith secure; And thy pale cheek that inward smart shall own, Which thy false bosom must, perforce, endure. The frown of friends estranged,-Hate's pointed sneer, Untempted Virtue's pharisaic scorn, All that an erring heart could feel or fear, Hath mine almost without a murmur borne. For thou wert all my lonely hope and pride, My polar star when sorrow darkly frowned ! On thy loved breast life's darkest ills defied, I nestled safe from storms that raged around. The lonely shepherd, by his native stream, Sees a young wave along its surface gliding, Now sparkling in the summer's genial beam, And now amid the shady willows hiding ; Till sudden down the cataract's headlong steep, Hurled 'rnid the mass of waters' deafening roar, It bounds to the vast chasm, gloomy and deep, Sparkles, to spray, shines and is seen no more ! I am that wave, and thus it fares with me ! Ruined and lost, what more have I to tell ! What but to offer from my heart to thee, Its warmest prayer, in one wild word, FAREWELL ! THE POETICAL ALBUM, PALMYRA. SAD city of the silent place ! Queen of the dreary wilderness, No voice of life, no passing sound Disturbs thy dreadful calm around ; Save the wild desert-dweller's roar, Which tells the reign of man is o'er, Or winds that through thy portals sigh Upon their night course flitting by ! The eternal ruins frowning stand, Like giant spectres of the land ; Or o'er the dead like mourners hang, Bent down by speechless sorrow's pang; Where time and space, and loneliness, All, o'er the saddened spirit press, Around in leaden slumbers lie The dread wastes of infinity, Where not a gentle hill doth swell, Where not a hermit shrub doth dwell ; And where the song of wandering flood Ne'er voiced the fearful solitude. How sweetly sad our pensive tears Flow o'er each broken arch that rears Its gray head through the mists of years ! And where are now the dreams of Fame, The promise of a deathless name ? Alas ! the deep delusion's gone ! And all, except the mouldering stone, The wreath that decked the victor's hair, Hath, like his glory, withered there. And Time's immortal garlands twine O'er desolation's mournful shrine, Like youth's embrace around decline. O'er Beauty's dark and desert bed Ages of dreamless sleep have fled. 203 204 THE POETICAL ALBUM. And in the domes where once she smiled, The whispering weeds are waving wild; The prince's court is the jackall's lair, He peeps through Time's cold windows there ; Broken the harp, and all unstrung, Perished the strains the minstrel sung. The moss of ages is their pall, And dull oblivion hides them all ! Yet there, though now no mortal eye Looks forth upon the earth and sky, The evening star steals out as mild, Above the lone and mighty wild, As when young lovers hailed its light, Far in the dark-blue fields of night ; And dews as brightly gem the ground, As when a garden smiled around. Go read thy fate, thoti thing of clay, In wrecks of ages rolled away ; Read it in this dread book of doom, A city crumbled to a tomb ! Where the lorn remnants of the past Shed deeper sadness o'er the waste, Where Melancholy breathes her spell, And chroniclers of ruin dwell. Constable's Edinburgh Magazine. IMPROMPTU ON THE BLINDNESS OF MILTON. WHEN Milton's eye ethereal lights first drew, Earth's gross and cumberous objects checked his view ;- Quick, to remove these barriers from his mind, Nature threw wide the expanse and struck him blind. To him a nobler vision then was given ! He closed his eyes on earth, to look on heaven ! Brighton Gazelle. G. P. B. TH POETICAL ALBUM. 205 DREAMS. We are such stuff As dreams are made off; and our little life Is rounded with a sleep. OH, man ! before thy feverish brain What thousand visions rise! Like colours on the evening main, Each loveliest, till it dies. First bends the burning heart of youth Before some heart untried ; Deems like its own, a stranger's truth, And scorns the world beside ! Then life is one enchanted dream ! The hours too swift roll on ; The heart is on the fatal stream, We haste to be undone ; Pray but for life our faith to prove, And call the early folly Love ! But soon life's dangerous morn is past, And well for us 'tis so And well if o'er its sun be cast No cloud of lasting woe. Then tears must fall, as sad as vain, The homage to our pride ; Yet, broken once the worthless chain, That bond no more is tied. We wake, the light is round us shed, The prized are prized no more ; The passion of the hour has fled, The fondness, frenzy, o'er ; In wisdom we our idol fly, And this is called Inconstancy ! Then worldly dreams the spirits sway, And still the waking's pain ; And hopeless still we turn away, And hopeless turn again : 18 206 THE POETICAL ALBUM. And faster, as the phantoms fly, Pursues their willing slave ; And while their lustre fills the eye, O'erlooks the opening grave. But years will stoop the brow at last, The wintry hour will come ; Then, remnant, ruin of the past, And trembling o'er her tomb, To heaven, a last resource we fly, And dare to call it Piety ! The Graces. HELEN. THE CHARM. FROM THE SPANISH. WIND the shell, bind the spell ; What is in it ? Fond farewell ! Wreathed with drops from azure eyes, Twilight vows and midnight sighs. Bind it on the maiden's soul ! Suns may set, and years may roll ; Yet, beneath the tender twine All the spirit shall be thine. Oceans may between you sweep, But the spell's as strong and deep ! Anguish, distance, time are vain Death alone can loose the chain. Literary Gazette, THE POETICAL ALBUM. 207 STANZAS. I KNEW not that the world contained A form so lovely as thine own ; Nor deemed that where such beauty reigned Humility would fix her throne ; For I had marked, where eyes were bright, Too well their owners knew their power, And armed them with that dazzling light The sun emits at noontide's hour ; Too proud to veil a single ray, Or one effulgent glance surrender, And glittering with the blaze of day, And scorning twilight's softer splendour. I knew not, where the form displayed Such symmetry and grace as thine, That intellect would lend its aid, And sentiment there raise her shrine ; For I had marked where form and face Had beauty's varied charms combined, There oft was wanting feeling's trace The beam of soul the ray of mind ! And vain has been each studied art, And futile every cold endeavour ! The light that comes not from the heart A moment shines then fades forever. But I, at last, have turned from those Whom once I knew, to gaze on thee, On thee, whose cheek's divinest glows Reveal thy bosom's purity ! The summer sky is calm serene The summer-ocean mildly fair, As if some bright some heavenly scene In beauty were reflected there ; And thus when on thy brow 1 gaze, And view the lights around it gleaming, They seem to be the living rays From heart, and soul, and spirit beaming. London Magazine. V. D. 208 THE POETICAL ALBUM. EVENING THOUGHTS. 'TWAS eve. The lengthening shadows of the oak And weeping birch, swept tar adown the vale ; And nought upon the hush and stillness broke, Save the light whispering of the spring-tide gale, At distance dying ; and the measured stroke Of woodmen at their toil ; the feeble wail Of some lone stock-dove, soothing as it sank On the lulled ear its melody that drank. The sun had set ; but his expiring beams Yet lingered in the west, and shed around Beauty and softness o'er the woods and streams, With coming night's first tinge of shade embrowned. The light clouds mingled, brightened with such gleams Of glory, as the seraph-shapes surround, That in the visions of the good descend, And o'er their couch of sorrow seem to bend. There are emotions in that grateful hour Of twilight and serenity, which steal Upon the heart with more than wonted power, Making more pure and tender all we feel, Softening its very core, as doth the shower The thirsty glebe of summer. We reveal More in such hours of stillness, unto those We love, than years of passion could disclose. The heavens look down on us with eyes of love, And earth itself looks heavenly; the sleep Of nature is around us, but above Are beings that eternal vigils keep. 'Tis sweet to dwell on such, and deem they strove With sorrow once, and fled from crowds to weep Jn loneliness, as we perchance have done ; And sigh to win the glory they have won ! THE POETICAL ALBUM. 209 'Tis sweet to mark the sky's unruffled blue Fast deepening into darkness, as the rays Of lingering eve die fleetly, and a few Stars of the brightest beam illume the haze, Like woman's eye of loveliness, seen through The veil that shadows it in vain ; we gaze In mute and stirless transport, fondly listening, As there were music in its very glistening. 'Tis thus in solitude ; but sweeter far By those we love, in that all-softening hour, To watch with mutual eyes each coming star, [er And the faint rnoon-rays streaming through ourbow- Of foliage, wreathed and trembling, as the car Of night rolls duskier onward, and each flower And shrub that droops above us, on the sense Seems dropping fragrance more and more intense ! Oh Love ! undying and ethereal Love! Thou habitant of heaven strayed to earth! Or boon of the Beneficent above To worlds, that void of thee, were worlds of dearth ! Soft as thy Cytherean mother's dove As thine own Pysche bright-eyed from thy birth, Poets might feign, or priests of old conceive thee, And heathen maids delightedly believe thee ! Not in the leafy haunts and hushed retreats Enthusiasts fondly consecrate as thine ; Not where, with smile and sparkle, nature greets The adoring gaze, alone is reared thy shrine : Lips cling to lips the full heart fondly beats From Ajut's icy regions to the Line Roam where we may, thy rapt emotions start, The bliss to meet ! the agony to part ! J. G. G. 18* 210 THE POETICAL ALBUM. THE NORTHERN STAR. WRITTEN AT TYNEMOUTH, NORTHUMBERL A.ND. 1 THE Northern Star Sailed o'er the Bar, Bound to the Baltic Sea: In the morning gray She stretched away 'Twas a weary day to me. * And many an hour, In sleet and shower, By the light-house rock I stray, And watch till dark For the winged bark Of him that's far way. 'The Church-yard's bound I wander round, Among the grassy graves ; But all I hear Is the North wind drear, And all I see, the waves !' Oh roam not there, Thou mourner fair, Nor pour the fruitless tear ! Thy plaint of wo Is all too low The dead, they cannot hear. The Northern Star Is set afar, Set in the raging sea ; And the billows spread O'er the sandy bed, That holds thy love from thee ! Newcastle Courant. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 211 THE INCOGNITA. WRITTEN UNDER THE PORTRAIT OF AN UNKNOWN LADY. UPON her cheek the eye may trace The lineaments of heavenly grace ; A tender blush of rosy light, That wins and then detains the sight. It is not brilliant ; no, nor gay ; It is not pleasure's dazzling ray ; It does not wildly flash and burn, Like rich wines in a sparry bowl ; But softly beams and shines, as roll Sweet waters from a crystal urn. It makes, albeit he strive, in vain, The gazer turn to gaze again. It seems to speak in pensive tone, Of childhood's happier moments flown ; Of loss of hopes too dearly prized, Dreams of delight unrealized, And all the warring fears that wring A woman's heart in love's first spring ! On her smooth brow her chestnut hair Descends, and makes a twilight there! As softly shadowed and as sweet, As that when light and darkness meet. On that pure tablet Grief hath laid Her hand, but not one furrow made ; On that unsullied page as yet, No impress of her seal is set. From those rich tresses to the view That dark eye takes a darker hue ; Full glassy brilliant there the mind Sits like a Deity enshrined ; Within its pupil works a spell Which fills the rnind, we know not why, 212 THE POETICAL ALBUM. With scenes on which our thoughts would dwell Of vanished hours of bliss gone by. We gaze and grieve, and still we gaze, Upon that soul-appealing token ; And mourn, that Time can never raise One flower like that his touch has broken. Leeds Intelligencer. B. B. W. TO A BUTTERFLY RESTING ON A SKULL. BY MRS. HEMAJSS. CREATURE of air and light! Emblem of that which may not fade or die, Wilt thoti not speed tliy flight To chase the south-wind through the sunny sky ? What lures thee thus to stay With Silence and Decay, Fixed on the wreck of dull Mortality ? The thoughts once chambered there, Have gathered up their treasures, and are gone ! Will the dust tell us where They that have burst the prison-house are flown ? Rise, nursling of the Day, If thou wouldst trace their way ! Earth has no voice to make the secret known. Who seeks the vanished bird, By the forsaken nest and broken shell ? Far thence, he sings unheard, Yet free and joyous 'midst the woods to dwell. Thou, of the sunshine born, Take the bright wings of morn ! Thy hope calls heavenward from yon ruined cell. Literary Gazette. THE POETICAL ALBUM. WHERE IS HE ? BY HENRY NEELE, ESQ. * Man giveth up the ghost, and where is he ?' " AND where is he ?" Not by the side Of her whose wants he loved to tend ; Not o'er those valleys wandering wide, Where, sweetly lost, he oft would wend ! That form beloved he marks no more ; Those scenes admired no more shall see ; Those scenes are lovely as before, And she as fair, but where is he ? No, no, the radiance is not dim, That used to gild his favourite hill ; The pleasures that were dear to him, Are dear to life and nature still ; But, ah ! his home is not as fair, Neglected must his garden be, The lilies droop and wither there, And seem to whisper, where is he ?' His was the pomp, the crowded hall ! But where is now the proud display ? His riches, honours, pleasures, all Desire could frame ; but where are they ? And he, as some tall rock that stands Protected by the circling sea, Surrounded by admiring bands, Seemed proudly strong, and where is he ? The church-yard bears an added stone, The fire-side shows a vacant chair ; Here sadness dwells, and weeps alone, And death displays his banner there ; The life has gone, the breath has fled, And what has been, no more shall be; The well-known form, the welcome tread, O where are they, and where is he ? New European Magazine. 213 214 THE POETICAL ALBUM. THE WAR OF THE LEAGUE. Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are 1 And glory to our Sovereign Liege, King Henry of .Navarre ! Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance, Through thy cornfields green, and sunny vines, oh pleasant land of France ! And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters, Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters. As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy, For cold, and stiff, and still are they who wrought thy walls annoy. Hurrah ! hurrah ! a single field hath turned the chance of war, Hurrah I hurrah! for Ivry, and King Henry of JNavarre. Oh ! how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of day, We saw the army of the League drawn out in long array ; With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers, And AppenzeTs stout infantry, and Egmont's Flemish spears. There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our land ! And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his hand ; And, as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's empurpled flood, And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with his blood ; And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate of war, To fight for his own holy name, and Henry of Navarre. The King has come to marshal us, in all his armour drest, And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest. He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye ; He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high. Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to wing, Down all our line, a deafening shout, ' God save our Lord the King.' 1 An if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may, For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray, Press where ye see my white plume shine, amidst the ranks of war, And be your oriflamme, to-day, the helmet of Navarre.' Hurrah ! the foes are moving ! Hark to the mingled din, Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin ! THE POETICAL ALBUM. 215 The fiery Duke is pricking fast across Saint Andre's plain, "With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne. Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France, Charge for the golden lilies now, upon them with the lance ! A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest, A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow-white crest ; And in they hurst, and on they rushed, while, like a guiding star, Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of .Navarre. Now, God be praised, the day is ours! Mayeune hath turned his rein. D'Aumale hath cried for quarter. The Flemish Count is slain. Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a Biscay gale ; The field is heaped with bleeding steeds,and flags,and cloven mail; And then we thought on vengeance, and, all along our van, * Remember St. Bartholomew,' was passed from man to man; But out spake gentle Henry, ' No Frenchman is my foe : Down, down, with every foreigner, but let your brethren go.' Oh ! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war, As our Sovereign Lord, King Henry, the soldier of Navarre ! Ho ! maidens of Vienna ! Ho ! matrons of Lucerne ! Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall return. Ho ! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican pistoles, That Antwerp's monks may sing a mass for thy poor spearmen's souls ! Ho ! gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms be bright ! Ho ! burghers of Saint Gf-nevieve, keep watch and ward to-night! For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath raised the slave, And mocked the counsel of the wise, and the valour of the brave. Then glory to his holy name, from whom all glories are ; And glory to our Sovereign Lord, King Henry of Navarre. Knight's Quarterly Magazine. T. M. 216 THE POETICAL ALBUM. STANZAS. BY LORD BYRON. OH ! had my fate been joined with thine As once this pledge appeared a token ; These follies had not then been mine, For then my peace had not been broken. To thee these early faults [ owe, To thee the wise and old reproving: They know my sins, but do not know 'Twas thine to break the bonds of loving. For, once, my soul like thine was pure, And all its rising fires could smother ; But, now, thy vows no more endure, Bestowed by thee upon another. Perhaps, his peace I could destroy, And spoil the blisses that await him ; Yet, let my rival smile in joy, For thy dear sake J cannot hate him. Ah ! since thy angel form is gone, My heart no more can rest with any; But what it sought in thee alone, Attempts, alas ! to find in many. Then, fare thee well, deceitful maid, 'Twere vain and fruitless to regret thee ; Nor Hope, nor Memory yield their aid ; But Pride may teach me to forget thee. Yet all this giddy waste of years, This tiresome round of palling pleasures, These varied loves, these matron fears, These thoughtless strains to Passion's measures. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 217 If thou wert mine, had all been hushed ; This cheek, now pale from early riot, With Passion's hectic ne'er had flushed, But bloomed in calm domestic quiet. Yes, once the rural scene was sweet, For Nature seemed to smile before thee ; And once my breast abhorred deceit, For then it beat but to adore thee. But, now, I seek for other joys ; To think, would drive my soul to madness ! * In thoughtless throngs, and empty noise, I conquer half my bosom's sadness. Yet, even in these, a thought will steal, In spite of every vain endeavour ; And fiends might pity what I feel, To know that thou art lost for ever. Hours of Idleness. RECONCILEMENT. ALTHOUGH the tear-drop gliding Makes thee lovelier than before, Yet weep not at my chiding, I'll never chide thee more. Let thy lip no longer quiver, Let thy bosom's heaving cease, Though they lend more bliss than ever To the long, long kiss of peace. Could my lips with scorn deceive thee, I might boast our broken tie ; But to lose thee, and to leav e thee, Were to part with peace and die. A*eu> Monthly Magazine. 19 218 THE POETICAL ALBUM. THE LOT OF THOUSANDS. BY MRS. JOHN HUNTER. How many lift the head, look gay, and smile, Against their consciences. WHEN hope lies dead within the heart, By secret sorrow close concealed, We shrink lest looks or words impart, What must not be revealed. 'Tis hard to smile, when one could weep ; To speak, \vhen one would silent be ; To wake, when one should wish to sleep, And wake to agony. Yet such the lot by thousands cast, Who wander in this world of care, And bend beneath the bitter blast, To save them from despair. But Nature waits her guests to greet, Where disappointment cannot come ; And Time guides with unerring feet, The wearied wanderer home. Constable' s Edinburgh Magazine. COMPARISON. BY R. B. SHERIDAN, ESQ. MARKED you her cheek of roseate hue ! Marked you her eye of radiant blue ! That eye in liquid circles moving, That cheek abashed at man's approving, The one Love's arrows darting round, The other blushing at the wound ': THE POETICAL ALBUM. 219 A POETICAL SKETCH. THERE is a feeling in his heart, A feeling, which it well might spare, That will not break it and depart, But ever dwells and rankles there : Nor music, mirth, nor rosy wine, Friendship, nor woman's smiles divine, Nor sanctity of prayer, Nor aught that holy men may say, Can scare that ravening fiend away ! A sickness of the soul, the balm Of Hope can neither soothe nor slake ; A serpent that no spell can charm, With eye eternally awake ; A glance of fire, a tongue of flame, That Time can neither tire nor tame, Nor music's voice disarm ; A living sense of lasting wo, That poisons every bliss below ! It was not always thus. He danced The earlier hours of life away, And snatched at joy where'er it chanced To blossom on his lonely way ! Then Hope was young, and bright, and fair, He knew nor wo nor wasting care, But, innocently gay, Deemed reckless of the debt it owed 'Twould always flow as then it flowed ! As Childhood ripened into Youth, Those feelings fled : he drank the springs Of Knowledge, and the source of Truth, (What the sage writes the poet sings) And read in Nature's varying forms, Her shifting shades of sun and storms. 220 THE POETICAL ALBUM. Unutterable things, And wrought, unweariedly, to cull All that was wild and wonderful ! But even then, at times, would roll, Unbidden and profoundly deep, An awful silence o'er his soul That hushed all other sense to sleep ; And then he saw, too near, the springs And wild realities of things, And only waked to weep That man should be cut off from bliss, And exiled to a world like this ! He loved I will not say how true The faithless tongue perchance might lie;- He did not love as others do, Nor cringe, nor flatter, whine nor sigh ! Look on his inmost heart, and trace, What time may deepen, not efface, So firmly wrought the die That did her lovely image bear, And warm and glowing stamp it there. His hopes were crushed ; he strove to hide The past, by mingling with mankind ; And left the maid he deified Idols elsewhere to find. Now, from Love's sanctuary hurled, He roves an outcast through the world, Nor evermore may find Wreck of the past his future stay-~ The bonds that have been wrenched away ! He stands as stands a ruined Tower Which Time in triumph desolates ; The ivy wreath that scorns his power, A melancholy gloom creates. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 221 What though it shine in light while yet The summer suns its fibres fret The stone it decorates ; So, smiles upon his pallid brow But wring the ruined heart below ! B. B. W. SUNSET THOUGHTS. How beautiful the setting sun reposes o'er the wave 1 Like Virtue, life's drear warfare done, descending to the grave ; Yet smiling with a brow of love, benignant, pure and kind, And blessing, ere she soars above the realms she leaves behind. The cloudlets, edged with crimson light, veil o'er the blue serene, "While swift the legions of the night, are shadowing o'er the scene ; The sea-gull, with a wailing moan, up starting, turns to seek Its lonely dwelling-place, upon the promontory's peak. The heaving sea, the distant hill, the waning sky,--lhe woods With melancholy musing fill the swelling heart that broods Upon the light of other days, whose glories now are dull, And on the visions Hope could raise, vacant, but beautiful I Where are the bright illusions vain, that fancy boded forth ! Sunk to their silent caves again, Aurorae of the North ? Oh ! who would live those visions o'er, all brilliant though they seem, Since Earth is but a desert shore, and Life a weary dream I Blackwood's Magazine. A 222 THE POETICAL ALBUM. THERE IS A TONGUE IN EVERY LEAF. THERE is a tongue in every leaf, A voice in every rill ; A voice that speaketh every where, In flood and fire, through earth and air ! A tongue that's never still ! the Great Spirit, wide diffused Through every thing we see, That with our spirits communeth Of things mysterious Life and Death, Time and Eternity ! I see him in the blazing sun, And in the thunder cloud ; I hear Him in the mighty roar That rusheth through the forests hoar, When winds are piping loud. I see Him, hear Him, every where, In all things darkness, light, Silence and sound ; but, most of all, When slumber's dusky curtains fall, At the dead hour of night. I feel Him in the silent dews, By grateful earth betrayed ; I feel Him in the gentle showers, The soft south wind, the breath of flowers, The sunshine, and the shade. And yet (ungrateful that I am !) I've turned in sullen mood From all these things, whereof He said, When the great whole was finished, That they were very good.' THE POETICAL ALBUM. 223 My sadness on the loveliest things Fell like unwholesome dew ; The darkness that encompassed me, The gloom I felt so palpably, Mine own dark spirit threw. Yet was he patient slow to wrath, Though every day provoked By selfish, pining discontent, Acceptance cold or negligent, And promises revoked ; And still the same rich feast was spread For my insensate heart ! Not always so I woke again, To join Creation's rapturous strain, 1 O Lord, how good Thou art !' The clouds drew up, the shadows fled, The glorious sun broke out, And love, and hope, and gratitude, Dispelled that miserable mood Of darkness and of doubt. BlackiDoodSs Magazine. C. FROM THE ARABIC. OH ! ask me not oh ! task me not Her monument to see, For doubly blest is there the rest, Which never comes to me. Oh ! say not so you may not so All powerful Love inhume ; For in your breast, while life's a guest, The heart's her real tomb. 224 THE POETICAL ALBUM. STANZAS BY LORD BYRON. THERE was a time I need not name, Since it will ne'er forgotten be, When all our feelings were the same, As still my soul hath been to thee ! And from that hour when first thy tongue Confessed a love, which equalled mine, Though many a grief my heart hath wrung, Unknown, and thus uiifelt by thine, None, none hath sunk so deep as this, To think how soon that love hath flown! Transient as every faithless kiss, But transient in thy breast alone ! And yet my heart some solace knew, When late I heard rhy lips declare, In accents once imagined true, Remembrance of the days that were. Yes ! my adored! yet most unkind ! Though thou wilt never love again, To me 'tis doubly sweet to find Remembrance of that love remain. Yes! 'tis a glorious thought to me, Nor longer shall my soul repine, Whate'er thou art, or e'er shall be, Thou hast been, dearly, solely, mine ! THE POETICAL ALBUM. 225 MUSIC. OH yes, the sounds were sweet as those That die away at Evening's close, And gentle as the tones that fall From waters wildly musical. But Music is not dear to me, It wakes too much of memory ; There is a spell in Music's sigh That breathes too much of days gone by ; The silver tone, the sweet voiced shell, To me are as the sad farewell Of parting lovers. Music wakes The wildest throbs, and Music takes Each shape of fancy ; but it brings Tg me the shades of lovely things Past, and for ever, hopes deferred, Or, like the song of the spring bird, Dying when sweetest. Music's sigh First taught me love's idolatry, Waked my young heart to find (too late) It might be left all desolate ; To curse the dream-like life before, To love the once loved song no more ; To know, hope, genius, spirit fled, Soul-sickness, feeling withered ! Rather be mine the heartless smile, A flower upon the lava ; while Beneath its flame and barrenness, The colours do not glow the less. I bade my heart once be my world, And dreamed it could ; but I was hurled From my enchanted pinnacle Of hope, of joy, of trust, to dwell Mid those stern truths, which chilled that heart ; And bade youth's fairy lights depart. And Music has to me a tone Sacred to thoughts, to feelings gone, 226 THE POETICAL ALBUM. When love was faith, or ere I knew Its altar frail, its sigh untrue, That it was like the hues that spring Upon the rainbow's wandering. But, now, those feelings cannot be ; Their echo is too sad for me ; For what can Music breathe me now ? The blighted hope, the broken vow ! Literary Gazette. L. E. L. SONNET, ON CONTEMPLATING THE MINIATURE OF A DECEASED TRIEND. YES ! I have felt of life that weariness Which will, at times, steal o'er a hapless few, Crushing all hopes of bliss ; but, while I press Thine image to my heart, I can review My sad career with smiles, to think how true To friendship thou did'st prove, even in the hour When darkest frowned my fate, and fiercest blew Misfortune's bitter storm ! I lack the power To thank thee as I wish. Peace to thy shade ! Thou died'st at distance from me, and thy grave Rises on foreign shores ; yet, oft conveyed Thither in Fancy's magic car, I lave With burning tears the spot, and sighing, say, Would with thy life mine own had passed away ! Literary Gazette. THE POETICAL ALBUM 227 YOUTH. * There's not a joy the world can give, like that it takes away.' OH Youth ! in such a world as this, Why doth thy morning-ray, Thy pure and ' natural blessedness,' So early fade away ? That lustre of the cloudless soul, Seen dawning in thine eye ; Those thoughts that spring without control, As young birds flutter by ; Hopes, that bloorn like flowers unhid, And dew-drop tears, that leave no stain; Emotions, not a moment hid, And joy, without its after pain ; And guilelessness, faith, fervour, all, Like the blossoms in the wind ; Why fall ! or leave not ivhen they fall, Maturing fruit behind ? Oh Manhood ! with the busy brow ! Age ! with the ' world-worn' heart ! Where rests Remembrance oftenest now, Reviewing life's past part ? Say, on ambition's proudest hour? Fame's, fortune's hard- won steep ? On the wild stir of this world's power, That dark, unfathomed deep, Where human passions, human pride, To fury lash its form, Till peace, hope, virtue, all allied, Sink helpless in the storm ? Beyond these scenes, beyond, how far ! Their memories both will Turn To those which, distant as a star, As rudiant too, still burn. 228 THE POETICAL ALBUM. Each eye will turn to Childhood's years, * Each heart be inly stirred, ' And the same sounds be in his ears, * As in those days he heard ;' While simple feelings, guileless thought, Affections, long grown dim, Return, with all the freshness fraught, They bore in youth for him. First friendships rising on his soul, As once they rose before ; Then shed awhile the sweet control They now can shed no more ! And so will manhood's brow be calm, And age's heart be light ; For these are memories ' breathing balm ;* These, memories ever bright. Oh Youth ! thou spring of human life, First, fairest of our dreams ! How lovely, 'midst this world's dire strife, Thy rainbow-beauty, seems ! The unworn soul, all dewy-bright, And opening like a flower ! But ah ! it droops and closes quite, In age's evening hour ! Frail, fair possession ! Yet I know Thy frailty wisely given ; For beings always young below, Would never seek for heaven ! M. J. J. A FAREWELL. IF e'er by words can be expressed The mind of man when broken hearted, Or sighs or tears console the breast From what it loves for ever parted ; Then every grief I have to tell, 'Mid sighs just breathed and tears just started, Head thou in this wild word Farewell ! THE POETICAL ALBUM. 229 DUTY AND PLEASURE. BY MRS. PIOZZI. DUTY and Pleasure, long at strife, Crossed in the common walks of life ; * Pray don't disturb me, get you gone,' Cries Duty, with a serious tone : Then, with a smile ; keep off, my dear, Nor force me thus to be severe.' * Dear Sir,' cries Pleasure, ' you're so grave ; You make yourself a perfect slave : I can't think why we disagree ; You may turn Methodist for me : But, if you'll neither laugh nor play, At least don't stop me on my way ; Yet sure one moment you might steal, To see the lovely Miss O'Neil : One hour to relaxation give ; Oh ! lend one hour from life to live ! And here's a bird, and there's a flower ; Dear Duty, walk a little slower.' 1 My morning's task is not half done,' Cries Duty with an inward groan ; ' False colours on each object spread, I know not whence, or where, I'm led ! Your boasted Pleasures mount the wind, And leave their venomed stings behind. Where are you flown ?' Voices around Cry, * Pleasure long hath left this ground ; Old Age advances ; haste away ! Nor lose the light of parting day. See Sickness follows ; Sorrow threats ; Waste no more time in vain regrets : O Duty ! one more effort given May reach perhaps the gates of heaven, Where, only, each with each delighted, Pleasure and Duty live united !' Literani Gazette. 20 230 THE POETICAL ALBUM. ELLEN ! A FRAGMENT. Is she not beautiful, although so pale ? The first May flowers are not more colourless Than her white cheek ; yet I recall the time When she was called the rosebud of our village. There was a blush, half modesty, half health, Upon her cheek, fresh as the summer morn With which she rose ; a cloud of chestnut curls, Like twilight, darkened o'er her blue-veined brow ; And through their hazel curtains, eyes, whose light Was like the violet's, when April skies Have given their own pure colour to the leaves, Shone sweet arid silent, as the twilight star. And she was happy : innocence and hope Make the young heart a paradise for love. And she was loved, and loved. The youth was one That dwelled on the waters. He had been Where sweeps the blue Atlantic, a wide world ; Had seen the sun light up the flowers, like gems, In the bright Indian isles ; had breathed the air When sweet with cinnamon, and gum, and spice. But he said that no air brought health, or balm, Like that on his own hills, when it had swept O'er orchards in their bloom, or hedges, where Blossomed the hawthorn and the honeysuckle ; That, but one voyage more, and he would come To his dear Ellen and her cottage home Dwell there in love and peace. And then he kissed Her tears away, talked of the pleasant years Which they should pass together of the pride He would take in his constancy. Oh, hope Is very eloquent ! and as the hours Passed by their fireside in calm cheerfulness, Ellen forgot to weep. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 231 At length the time Of parting came ; 'twas the first mouth of Spring ; Like a green fan spread the horse-chestnut's leaves, A shower of yellow bloom was on the elm, The daisies shone like silver, and the houghs Were covered with their blossoms, and the sky Was like an augury of hope, so clear, So beautifully blue. Love ! oh young love ! Why hast thou not security ! Thou art Like a bright river, on whose course the weeds Are thick and heavy : briars are on its banks, And jagged stones and rocks are mid its waves. Conscious of its own beauty, it will rush Over its many obstacles, and pant For some green valley, as its quiet home. Alas ! either it rushes with a desperate leap Over its barriers, foaming passionate, But prisoned still ; or, winding languidly, Becomes dark, like oblivion ; or, else wastes Itself away. This is love's history. They parted one spring evening; the green sea Had scarce a curl upon its wave ; the ship Rode like a queen of ocean. Ellen wept, But not disconsolate, for she had hope : She knew not then the bitterness of tears. But night closed in, and with the night there came Tempest upon the wind ; the beacon light Glared like a funeral pile ; all else was black And terrible as death. We heard a sound Come from the ocean : one lone signal gun, Asking for help in vain followed by shrieks, Mocked by the ravening gale ; then deepest silence. Some gallant souls had perished. With the first Dim light of morn, they sought the beach ; and there Lay fragments of a ship, and human shapes, Ghastly and gashed. But the worst sight of all The sight of living misery met their gaze. Seated upon a rock, drenched by the rain, 232 THE POETICAL ALBUM. Her hair torn by the wind, there Ellen sat, Pale, motionless. How could love guide her there ? A corpse lay by her ; in her arms its head Found a fond pillow, and o'er it she watched, As the young mother watches her first child. It was her lover. Ackermari's ' Forget me not. 1 L. E. L. SONG, OF A GERMAN TROBADOUR.* TRANSLATED BY W. ROSCOE, ESft. THERE sat upon the linden tree A bird, and sang its strain ; So sweet it sang, that as I heard My heart went back again. It went to one remembered spot, It saw the rose-trees grow, And thought again the thoughts of love, There cherished long ago. A thousand years to one it seems, Since by my fair I sat ; Yet thus to be a stranger long, Is not my choice, but fate ; Since then I have not seen the flowers, Nor heard the bird's sweet song : My joys have all too briefly past, My griefs been all to long. * From Mr. T. Roscoe's Translation of Sismondi's Literature of the South of Europe, THE POETICAL ALBUM. 233 THE BACHELOR'S DREAM. THE music ceased, the last quadrille was o'er, And one by one the waning beauties fled ; The garlands vanished from the frescoed floor, The nodding fiddler hung his weary head. And I a melancholy single man Retired to mourn my solitary fate. I slept awhile ; but o'er my slumbers ran The sylph like image of my blooming Kate. I dreamt of mutual love, and Hymen's joys, Of happy moments and connubial blisses ; And then I thought of little girls and boys, The mother's glances, and the infant's kisses. I saw them all, in sweet perspective sitting In winter's eve around a blazing fire, The children playing and the mother knitting, Or fondly gazing on the happy Sire. The scene was changed. In came the Baker's bill : I stared to see the hideous consummation Of pies and puddings that it took to fill The bejlies of the rising generation. There was no end to eating : legs of mutton Were vanquished daily by this little host ; To see them, you'd have thought each tiny glutton Had laid a wager who could eat the most. The massy pudding smoked upon the platter, The ponderous sirloin reared its head in vain ; The little urchins kicked up such a clatter, That scarce a remnant e'er appeared again. Then came the School bill : Board and Education So much per annum ; but the extras mounted 20* 234 THE POETICAL ALBUM. To nearly twice the primal stipulation, And every little bagatelle was counted ! To mending tuck ; A new Homeri Ilias ; A pane of glass ; Repairing coat and breeches ; A slate and pencil ; Binding old Virgilius ; Drawing a tooth ; An open draught and leeches. And now I languished for the single state, The social glass, the horse and chaise on Sunday, The jaunt to Windsor with my sweetheart Kate, And cursed again the weekly bills of Monday. Here Kate began to scold, I stampt and swore, The kittens squeak, the children loudly scream ; And tiuis awaking with the wild uproar, I thanked my stars that it was but a dream. Literary Gazette. TIME'S SWIFTNESS. BY THE HON. R. W. SPENCER. Too late I staid ; forgive the crime, Unheeded flew the hours ; How noiseless falls the foot of Time That only treads on flowers ! What eye with clear account remarks The ebbings of the glass, When all its sands are diamond sparks, Which dazzle as they pass ? Oh ! who to sober measurement Time's happy fleetness brings, When Birds of Paradise have lent Their plumage for his wings ! THE POETICAL ALBUM. 235 LINES, WRITTEN BENEATH A BUST OF SHAK5PEARE. BY HENRY NEELE, ESQ.. His was the master-spirit ; at his spells The heart gave up its secrets ; like the mount Of Horeb, smitten by the Prophet's rod, Its hidden springs gushed forth. Time, that gray rock On whose bleak sides the fame of meaner bards Is dashed to ruin, was the pedestal On which his genius rose ; and, rooted there, Stands like a mighty statue, reared so high Above the clouds and changes of the world, That heaven's unshorn and unimpeded beams Have round its awful brows a glory shed, Immortal as their own. Like those fair birds Of glittering plumage, whose heaven-pointing pinions Beam light on that dim world they leave behind, Arid while they spurn, adorn it ;* so his spirit, His ' dainty spirit' while it soared above This dull, gross compound, scattered as it flew Treasures of light and loveliness. And these Were * gentle Shakspeare's' features ! This the eye Whence Earth's least earthly mind looked out arid flash- Amazement on the nations ! This the brow [ed Where lofty thought majestically brooded, Seated as on a throne ! And these the lips * In some parts of America, it is said, there are birds which, when on the wing, at night, emit so surprising a brightness, that it is no mean substitute for the light of da}'. Among the whim- sical speculations on Fontelle, is one, that in the Planet Mars, the want of the moon may be compensated by a multiplicity of these luminary aeronauts. 236 THE POETICAL ALBUM. That warbled music stolen from heaven's own choir When seraph harps rang sweetest! But I tempt A theme too high, and mount like Icarus, On wings that melt before the blaze they worship. Alas ! my hand is weak, my lyre is wild ! Else should the eye, whose wondering gaze is fixed Upon this breathing bust, awaken strains Lofty as those the glance of Phoebus struck From Memnon's ruined statue ; the rapt soul Should breathe in numbers, and in dulcet notes, ' Discourse most eloquent music.' Liter wy Gazette. SONNET. BY CHARLES LAMB, ESQ. THEY talk of time, and of time's galling yoke, That like a mill-stone on man's mind doth press, Which only works and business can redress : Of divine leisure such foul lies are spoke, Wounding her fair gifts with calumnious stroke. But might I, fed with silent meditation, Assoiled live from that fiend Occupation Improbus labour, which my spirits hath broke I'd drink of time's rich cup and never surfeit, Fling in more days than went to make the gem That crowned the white-top of Methusalem, Yea, on my w r eak neck take, and never forfeit, Like Atlas bearing up the dainty sky, The heaven-sweet burthen of eternity. London Magazine. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 237 THE DAISY IN INDIA. Supposed to be addressed by the Rev. Dr. Carey, the learned and illustrious Baptist Missionary at Serampore, to the first plant of this kind, which sprang up, unexpectedly, in his gar- den, out of some English earth, in which other seeds had been conveyed to him from this country. The subject was suggest- ed by reading a letter from Dr. Carey to a botanical friend in England. BY JAMES MONTGOMERY, ESQ. THRICE welcome ! little English Flower ! My mother-country's white and red, In rose or lily, till this hour, Never to me such beauty spread ! Transplanted from thine island-bed, A treasure in a grain of earth, Strange as a spirit from the dead, Thine embryo sprang to birth. Thrice welcome little English Flower ! Whose tribes beneath our natal skies Shut close their leaves while vapours lower ; But when the sun's gay beams arise, With unbashed but modest eyes Follow his motion to the west, Nor cease to gaze till daylight dies, Then fold themselves to rest. Thrice welcome, little English Flower ! To this resplendent hemisphere, Where Flora's giant-offspring tower In gorgeous liveries all the year : Thou, only Thou, art little here, Like worth unfriended or unknown, Yet to my British heart more dear Than all the torrid zone ! Thrice welcome, little English Flower ! Of early scenes beloved by me, 238 THE POETICAL ALBUM. While happy in my father's bower, Thou shall the blithe memorial be ! The fairy sports of infancy, Youth's golden age, and manhood's prime, Home, country, kindred, friends, with thee Are mine in this far clime. Thrice welcome, little English Flower! I'll rear thee with a trembling hand : O for the April sun and shower, The sweet May-dews of that fair land, Where Daisies, thick as starlight, stand In every walk ! that here might shoot Thy scions, and thy buds expand, A hundred from one root ! Thrice welcome, little English Flower ! To me the pledge of Hope unseen ! When sorrow would my soul o'erpower For joys that were, or might have been, I'll call to mind, how fresh and green, I saw thee waking from the dust, Then turn to heaven with brow serene, And place in God my trust. London Magazine. SILENT LOVE. OH, I could whisper thee a tale That surely would thy pity move ; But what would idle words avail Unless the heart might speak its love ! To tell that tale my pen were weak ; My tongue its office too denies ; Then mark it on my varying cheek, And read it in my languid eyes ! W. THE POETICAL ALBUM. THE CROSS OF THE SOUTH. BY MRS. HEMANS. 1 The pleasure we felt on discovering the Southern Cross, was warmly shared by such of the crew as had lived in the colonies. In the solitude of the seas, we hail a star, as a friend from whom we have been long separated. Among the Portuguese and Spaniards, peculiar motives seem to increase this feeling : a re- ligious sentiment attaches them to a constellation, the form of which recalls the sign of the faith planted by their ancestors in the deserts of the new world. The two great stars, which mark the summit and the foot of the cross, having nearly the same right ascension, it follows hence, that the constellation is al- most perpendicular, at the moment when it passes the meridian. This circumstance is known to every nation that lives beyond the tropics, or in the southern hemisphere. It has been observ- ed at what hour of the night, in different seasons, the cross of the south is erect or inclined. It is a time-piece that advances very regularly nearly four minutes a day, and no other group of stars exhibits, to the naked eye, an observation of time so easily made. How often have we heard our guides exclaim in the savannas of Venezuela, or in the desert extending from Lima to Truxillo, ' midnight is past, the cross begins to bend." DE HUMBOLDT'S TRAVELS. IN the silence and grandeur of midnight 1 tread, Where savannas in boundless magnificence spread ; And bearing sublimely their snow-wreaths on high, The far Cordilleras unite with the sky. The Fern-tree waves o'er me ; the fire-fly's red light, With its quick-glancing splendour illumines the night ; And I read, in each tint of the skies and the earth, How distant my steps from the land of my birth. But to thee, as thy lode-stars resplendently burn, In their clear depths of blue, with devotion I turn, Bright Cross of the South ! and beholding thee shine, Scarce regret the loved land of the Olive and Vine. Thou recallest the ages when first o'er the main, My fathers unfolded the streamer of Spain, And planted their faith in the regions that see Its unperishing symbol emblazoned in thee. 240 THE POETICAL ALBUM. How oft, in their course over oceans unknown, Where all was mysterious and awfully lone, [deep Hath their spirit been cheered by thy light, when the Reflected its brilliance, in tremulous sleep ! As the vision that rose to the Lord of the world,* When first his bright banner of faith was unfurled ; Even such, to the heroes of Spain, when their prow Made the billows the path of their glory, wertthou ! And to me, as I traverse the world of the west, Through deserts of beauty, in stillness that rest, By forests and rivers untamed in their pride, Thy beams have a language, thy course is a guide. Shine on ! my own land is a far distant spot, And the stars of thy sphere can enlighten it not ; And the eyes, which I love, though e'en now they may be O'er the firmament wandering, can gaze not on thee ! But thou to my thoughts art a pure blazing shrine, A fount of bright hopes and of visions divine ; And my soul, as an eagle exulting and free, Soars high o'er the Andes, to mingle with thee ! Literary Gazette. WITH A WHITE ROSE, FROM A LOVER OF THE HOUSE OF YORK TO HI3 MISTRESS OF THE HOUSE OF LANCASTER. IF this pale rose offend thy sight, Go place it in thy bosom fair, 'Twill blush to find itself less white, And turn Lancastrian there. * Alluding to the Vision of Constantine the Great. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 241 STANZAS. BY J. H. REYNOLDS, ESQ. < And muttered, lost I lost! lost I' SIR W. SCOTT, BART. 'Tis vain to grieve for what is past, The golden hours are gone ; My own mad hand the die hath cast, And I am left alone : 'Tis vain to grieve I now can leave No other bliss yet still I grieve. The dreadful silence of this night Seems breathing in my ear ; I scarce can bear the lonely light That burns oppressed and near ; I stare at it while half reclined, And feel its thick light on my mind. The sweetest fate have I laid waste With a remorseless heart ; All that was beautiful and chaste, For me seemed set apart ; But I was fashioned to defy Such treasure, so set richly by. How could I give up HER, whose eyes Were filled with quiet tears, For many a day, when thoughts would rise, Thoughts darkened with just fears, Of all my vices! Memory sees Her eye's divine remonstrances. A wild and wretched choice was mine, A life of low delight; The midnight rounds of noise and wine, That vex the wasted night ; 21 242 THE POETICAL ALBUM. The bitter jest, the wearied glee, The strife of dark society. To those who plunged me in the throng Of such disastrous joys, Who led me by low craft along, And stunned my mind with noise, I only wish they now could look Upon my life's despoiled book. When midnight finds me torn apart From vulgar revelry, The cold, still, madness of the heart Comes forth, and talks with me ; Talks with me, till the sky is gray With the chill light of breaking day. My love is lost ; my studies marred ; My friends disgraced and changed ; My thoughts all scattered and impaired ; My relatives estranged ; Yet can I not by day recall My ruined spirit from its thrall. Peter Corcoran's Memoirs. EPITAPH. SHE lived ; what further can be said Of all the generations dead ? She died ; what more can be foretold Of all the living, young or old ? She lived with death before her eye, As one who did not fear to die ; She died as one exchanging breath, For immortality in death. Her dust is here her spirit there Eternity ! O tell me where r THE POETICAL ALBUM. 243 THE BANKS OF THE ESK. BY J. RICHARDSON, ESQ. THERE'S hardly motion in the air, To waft the floating gossamer ; Along the placid azure sky, The clouds in fleecy fragments lie, Like the thin veil o'er beauty's face, Conferring more endearing grace. Again I gaze upon thy stream, Loved scene of many a youthful dream, Where rosy Hope, with syren tongue, Carolled her fond alluring song, And led my raptured soul along. Why is thy murmur to my ear, So full of sorrow, yet so dear ! Why does the rustling of thy woods, The roll of thy autumnal floods, Re-echoed by a hollow moan, Sounds so peculiarly thine own, Awake in strange alternate measure, Thoughts of wo, and thoughts of pleasure? 'Tis, that, once more, thy scenes can give Times that in memory hardly live, And youth again, with angel smile, A fleeting moment can beguile ; And bid, as in the wizard's glass, His shadowy visions gleam, and pass, Till quick returns the present doom. Involving all in double gloom, English Minstrelsy. 244 THE POETICAL ALBUM. THINGS TO COME. BY THE REV. GEORGE CROLT. THERE are murmurs on the deep, There are thunders on the heaven ; Though the ocean billows sleep, Though no cloud the sign has given ; Earth that sudden storm shall feel, 'Tis a storm of man and steel. Tribes are in their forests now, Idly hunting ounce and deer ; Tribes are crouching in their snow O'er their wild and wintry cheer, Doomed to swell that tempest's roar, Where the torrent-rain is gore. War of old has swept the world, Guilt has shaken strength and pride ; But the thunders, feebly hurled, Quivered o'er the spot, and died ; When the vengeance next shall fall, Woe to each, and woe to all. Man hath shed Man's blood for toys, Love and hatred, fame and gold ; Now, a mightier wrath destroys ; Earth in cureless crime grows old ; Past destruction shall be tame To the rushing of that flarne. When the clouds of Vengeance break, Folly shall be on the wise, Frenzy shall be on the weak, Nation against nation rise, And the worse than Pagan sword In Religion's breast be gored. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 245 Then the Martyr's solemn cry, That a thousand years has rung, Where their robes of crimson lie Round the * Golden Altar' flung, Shall be heard, arid from the 'throne* The trumpet of the 'Judgment' blown. 'Wo to Earth, the mighty, wo !' Yet shall Earth her conscience lull, Till above the brim shall flow The draught of pall. The cup is full. Yet a moment! Comes the ire, Famine, bloodshed, flood and fire. First shall fall a Mighty one ! Ancient crime had crowned his brow, Dark Ambition raised his throne Truth his victim and his foe. Earth shall joy in all her fear O'er the great Idolater. Then shall rush abroad the blaze Sweeping Heathen zone by zone ; Afric's tribe the spear shall raise, Shivering India's pagod throne : China hear her Idol's knell In the Russian's cannon-peal. On the Turk shall fall the blow From the Grecian's daggered hand 1 Blood like winter-showers shall flow, Till he treads the Syrian land ! Then shall final vengeance shine, And all be sealed in Palestine ! Literary Gazette. 21* 246 THE POETICAL ALBUM. NIGHT. BY E. ELLIOTT, ESQ. NIGHT ! thou art silent ; thou art beautiful ; Thou art majestic ; and thy brightest moon Rides high in heaven, while on the stream below, Her image, glimmering as the waters glide, Floats at the feet of Boulten. There no more The green graves of the pestilence are seen ; O'er them the plough hath passed, and harvests wave Where haste and horror flung the infectious corpse. Grey Wharncliffe's rocks remain, still to out-live Countless editions of the Autumn leaf. But where are now their terrors ? Striga's form Of largest beauty, wanders here no more ; No more her deep and mellow voice awakes The echoes of the forest ; and a tale Of fear and wonder, serves but to constrain, Around the fire of some far moorland farm, The speechless circle, while the importunate storm, O'er the bowed roof, growls with a demon's voice. The poacher whistles in * the Dragon's den ;' Nor fiend, nor witch fears he. With felon foot He haunts the wizard wave, and makes the rock, Where spirits walk, his solitary seat ; The unsleeping gale moves his dark curls ; the moon Looks on his wild face ; at his feet, his dog Watches his eye ; and while no sound is heard, Save of the hooming Don, or whirling leaf, Or rustling fern, he listens silently, But not in fear. At once, he bounds away; And the snared hare shrieks, quivers, and is still. Sheffield Iris. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 247 TO HIS DAUGHTER. BY HORACE SMITH, ESQ. O DAUGHTER dear, my darling child, Prop of my mortal pilgrimage, Thou who hast care and pain beguiled, And wreathed with Spring my wintry age! Through thee a second prospect opes Of life, when but to live is glee, And jocund joys, and youthful hopes, Come thronging to my heart through thee. Backward thou lead'st me to the bowers Where love and youth their transports gave ; While forward still thou strewest flowers, And bid'st me live beyond the grave ; For still my blood in thee shall flow, Perhaps to warm a distant line, Thy face, my lineaments shall show, And e'en my thoughts survive in thine. Yes, daughter, when this tongue is mute, This heart is dust these eyes are closed, And thou art singing to thy lute Some stanza by thy Sire composed, To friends around thou may'st impart A thought of him who wrote the lays, And from the grave my form shall sjart, Embodied forth to fancy's gaze. Then to their memories will throng Scenes shared with him who lies in earth ; The cheerful page, the lively song, The woodland walk, or festive mirth ; Then may they heave the pensive sigh, That friendship seeks not to control, And from the fixed and thoughtful eye, The half unconscious tears may roll; 248 THE POETICAL ALBUM. Such now bedew my cheek but mine Are drops of gratitude and love, That mingle human with divine, The gift below, its source above. How exquisitely dear thou art Can only be by tears expressed, And the fond thrillings of rny heart, While thus I clasp thee to rny breast ! Neiv Monthly Magazine. STANZAS. THOU art not lost. Thy spirit giveth Immortal peace, and high it liveth ! Thou art not mute. With angels' blending, Thy voice is still to me descending ! Thou are not absent. Sweetly smiling, I see thee yet, my griefs beguiling ! Soft, o'er my slumbers, art thou beaming, The sunny spirit of my dreaming ! Thine eyelids seem not yet concealing In death their orbs of matchless feeling; Their living charms my heart still numbers ; Ah ! sure they do but veil thy slumbers! As kind thou art; for still thou'rt meeting This breast, which gives the tender greeting ! And shall I deem thee altered ? Never ! Thou'rt with me waking dreaming ever ! Observer. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 249 STANZAS, BY BARRY CORNWALL. FAREWELL ! You have banished me then From my home, and the language of men Must come foreign and chill to my heart ! But you scorned and 'twas time to depart. I go, like the shadow that flies, When night and her darknesses rise, And there is not a star in the sky, To light me on even to die. You have slighted me, cruel, and yet I cannot disdain or forget, For in hate you still keep your control, And it lies like a chain on iny soul. And now for the storm and the breeze, And the music that lives on the seas, And the ever-green valleys that lie ('Midst the Alps) in the smile of the sky! I shall stand on the mountain, and shout To the stars as they wander about, And perhaps THEY may stop at my call Cut thou wilt be brighter than all. Oh ! then why do I strive to remove Thee ? I lived on the thought of thy love Once, and ever must think ('tis my fate) Of Thee though I think of thy hate. Farewell ! Thou hast struck in thy pride A heart that for Thee would have died! Yet I bear the reproach, as I go, Of filling thy bosom with wo. 250 THE POETICAL ALBUM. No matter ! I have, and 'tis well, A spirit that nothing shall quell! And I know that, whatever my doom, The laurel must spring from my tomb IMerary Gazette. ON AN IVY LEAF, BROUGHT FROM THE TOMB OF VIRGIL. BY MRS. HEMANS. AND was thy home, pale withered thing, Beneath the rich blue southern sky ! Wert thou a nursling of the Spring, The winds and suns of glorious Italy? Those suns, in golden light, e'en now, Look o'er the Poet's lovely grave ! Those winds are breathing soft, but Thou Answering their whisper, there no more shalt wave ! The flowers o'er Posilippo's brow May cluster in their purple bloom ; But, on the mantling ivy-bough, Thy breezy place is void, by Virgil's tornb. Thy place is void ! Oh ! none on earth, This crowded earth, may so remain, Save that, which souls of loftiest birth Leave, when they part their brighter home to gain. Another leaf ere now hath sprung On the green stern, which once was thine ; When shall another strain be sung Like his, whose dust hath made that spot a shrine ! Literary Gazette. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 251 THE SIGH. BY S. T. COLERIDGE, ESQ. WHEN youth its fairy reign began, Ere sorrow had proclaimed me man ; While peace the present hour beguiled, And all the lovely prospect smiled ; Then, Mary, 'mid my lightsome glee, I heaved a painless sigh for thee ! When tossed upon the waves of wo, My harassed heart was doomed to know The frantic burst, the outrage keen, And the slow pang that gnaws unseen ; Then, shipwrecked on life's stormy sea, I heaved an anguished sigh for thee. But soon Reflection's power impressed, A stiller sadness on my breast ; And sickly hope with waning eye, Was well content to droop and die; ' I yielded to the stern decree, Yet heaved a languid sigh for thee. And though in distant climes to roam, A wanderer from my native home, I fain would soothe the sense of care, And lull to sleep the joys that were ! Thine image may not banished be, Still, Mary, still 1 sigh for thee ! 1794. THE POETICAL ALBUM. THE FOUNTAIN.* BY SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ. IT was a well Of whitest marble, white as from the quarry ; And richly wrought with many a high relief, Greek sculpture ; in some earlier clay perhaps A tomb, and honoured with a hero's ashes. The water from the rock filled, overflowed it ; Then dashed away, playing the prodigal, And soon was lost stealing, unseen, unheard, Through the long grass, and round the twisted roots Of aged trees discovering where it ran By the fresh verdure. Overcome with heat, I threw me down, admiring, as 1 lay, That shady nook, a singing-place for birds, That grove so intricate, so full of flowers, More than enough to please a maid a-Maying. The sun was down, a distant convent-bell Ringing the Angelus ; and now approached The hour for stir and village gossip there, The hour Rebekah came, when from the well She drew with such alacrity to serve The stranger and his camels. Soon I heard Footsteps ; and, lo, descending by a path Trodden for ages, many a nymph appeared, Appeared and vanished, bearing on her head Her earthen pitcher. It called up the day Ulysses landed there ; and long I gazed, Like one awaking in a distant time. At length there came the loveliest of them all, Her little brother dancing down before her ; And ever as he spoke, which he did ever, Turning and looking up in warmth of heart And brotherly affection. Stopping there She joined her rosy hands, and, filling them With the pure element, gave him to drink ; * Near Mola di Gaeta, in the kingdom of Naples. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 253 And, while he quenched his thirst, standing on tiptoe, Looked down upon him with a sister's smile, Nor stirred till he had done, fixed as a statue. Then, hadst thou seen them as they stood, Canova, Thou hadst endowed them with eternal youth ; And they had evermore lived undivided, Winning all hearts of all thy works the fairest. THE BIRD OF PASSAGE. AWAY ! away, thou Summer Bird, For Autumn's moaning voice is heard, In cadence wild and deepening swell, Of Winter's stern approach to tell ! Away ! for vapours, damp and low, Are wreathed around the mountain's brow ; And tempest clouds their mantles fold Around the forest's russet gold ! Away ! away ! o'er earth arid sea, This land is now no home for thee ! Arise, and stretch thy soaring wing, And seek, elsewhere, the smiles of Spring ! The wanderer now, with pinions spread, Afar to brighter climes has fled, Nor casts one backward look, nor grieves For those dear groves whose shade he leaves. Why should he grieve ; the beam he loves Shines o'er him still, where'er he roves, And all those early friends are near Who made his Summer-home so dear? Oh ! deem not that the tie of birth Endears us to this spot of earth ; For, wheresoe'er our steps may roam, If friends are near, that place is home : No matter where our fate may guide us, If those we love are still beside us. Literary Gazette. F. B. 22 254 THE POETICAL ALBUM. LINES SUGGESTED BY A PORTRAIT OF THE UNFORTUNATE QUEEN OF FRANCE, TAKEN ON THE LAST EXAMI- NATION PREVIOUS TO HER EXECUTION. EY MISS IIOLFORD. AND this was she ! The peerless and the bright, The false world's darling ! she who did possess, (And held awhile in Europe's dazzled sight, Glorious in majesty and loveliness,) The Heaven-lent power to ruin or to bless ! Yes, this was she ! But mark ye, I beseech, Who love the world, mark this mute wretchedness, And grave it on your hearts, for it doth reach To regions unexplored by eloquence of speech ! Nature gave loveliness, and fate gave power, And millions lavished incense, poets hung Their amaranth garlands o'er the royal bower, For Gallia's lily every lyre was strung ; Pride of all eyes, and theme of every tongue : Love, awe and wonder, were her ministers ; Life, and its hours, upon her fiat hung ; She held in poise a nation's hopes and fears : [her's \ Dominion, beauty, pomp, and the world's shout, were Gracious and mighty. Yet there came an hour Of desolation ; and away it swept, In one rude whirlwind, empire, pomp and power! O'er the fair brow the hoary winter crept Of sorrow, not of time. Those eyes have wept Till grief had done with tears, and calm and cold, Tired with its own excess ; in stupor slept, Or gazed in frozen wonder to behold The black and hideous page of destiny unrolled. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 255 Vet trace these faded lines ; for they impart A tale, may do your careless bosoms good! Muse o'er the fragments of a mighty heart, Broken by sorrow, ye whose jocund mood, Insatiate feeds on pleasure's tempting food ; Look here ! It will not harm ye, though your thought Leave its gay flight to melt in pity's flood ! To each light heart, home be the lesson brought, With what enduring bliss the world's fair smile is fraught ! And is this all ? No ; ye may learn beside, That all, which fate can threaten may be borne; To see life's blessings, one by one, subside, Its wild extremes from tenderness to scorn, But as the changes of an April morn ! For still she was a Queen ! and majesty Survived, though she, deserted and forlorn, Save Heaven, had ne'er a friend to lift her eye ; [die ! But Heaven returned the glance, and taught her how to Poems edited by Miss Baillie. SONNET. CHOSEN of thee, henceforth 1 consecrate Whate'er of life remains to soothe thy grief; And I will weep with thee like a fond mate, With tears to sorrow ministering relief: And, if it please thee, I will change the measure To joy and playfully I'll while away Thy care, and bid a sunny smile to play Upon thy cheek, suffused once more with pleasure I'll ever watch thine uncoufessed desires, Fondly to do their import and I'll blend The varied duties, as thy mood requires, Of wife, or mistress, sister, servant, friend This this I'll do and in thine arms resign All other glory, save that thou art mine ! THE POETICAL ALBUM. STANZAS TO AN OLD FRIEND, COME, here's a health to thee and thine ! Trust me, whate'er we may be told, Few things are better than old wine, When tasted with a friend that's old. We're happy yet ; and, in our track New pleasures if we may not find, There is a charm in looking back On sunny prospects left behind. Like that famed hill in western clime, Through gaudy noontide dark and bare, That tinges still, at vesper time, With purple gleam the evening air ; So there's a joy in former days, In times, and scenes, and thoughts gone by, As beautiful their heads they raise, Bright in Imagination's sky. Time's glass is filled with varied sand, With fleeting joy and transient grief; We'll turn, and with no sparing hand, O'er many a strange fantastic leaf; And fear not but, 'mid many a blot, There are some pages written fair, And flowers that time can wither not, Preserved, still faintly fragrant there. As the hushed night glides gentlier on, Our music shall break forth its strain, And tell of pleasures that are gone, And heighten those that yet remain ; And that creative breath divine, Shall waken many a slumbering thrill, And call forth many a mystic line Of faded joys remembered still. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 257 Again, the moments'shall she bring, When youth was in his freshest prime ; We'll pluck the roses that shall spring Upon the grave of buried time. There's magic in the olden song ; Yea, e'en ecstatic are the tears, Which steal a-down, our smiles among, Roused by the sounds of other years. And, as the mariner can find Wild pleasure in the voiced roar Even of the often-dreaded wind, That wrecked his every hope before ; If there's a pang that lurks beneatb For youth had pangs oh ! let it rise ! 'Tis sweet to feel the poet breathe The spirit of our former sighs. We'll hear the strains we heard so soft, In life's first, wann, impassioned hours, That fell on our young hearts so soft As summer dews on summer flowers ! And as the stream, where'er it hies, Steals something in its purest flow, Those strains shall taste of ecstasies O'er which they floated long ago. Even in our morn, when fancy's eye Glanced, sparkling o'er a world of bliss, When joy was young, and hope was high, We could not feel much more than this : llo\ve'er, then, time our day devours, Why should our smiles be overcast ? Why should we grieve for fleeting hours ? We find a future in the past. Blackwood's Magazine. T. D. 22* 258 THE POETICAL ALBUM. AN ARABIAN SONG. FOUNDED ON AN ANECDOTE RELATED BY AN ORIEN- TAL TRAVELLER. BY MRS. HEMANS. AWAY ! though still thy sword is red, With life-blood from my sire ; No drop of thine may now be shed, To quench my spirit's fire, Though on my heart, 'twould fall more blest, Than dews upon the desert's breast. I've sought thee 'midst the haunts of men, Through the wide city's fanes ; I've sought thee by the lion's den, O'er pathless, boundless plains ; No step that tracked the burning waste, But I its lonely course have traced. Thy name hath been a baleful spell, O'er my dark bosom cast ; No thought may dream, no words may tell What there unseen hath passed : This hollow cheek, this faded eye, Are seals of thee behold, and fly ! Haste thee, and leave my threshold-floor, Inviolate and pure ; Let not thy presence tempt me more Man may not thus endure. Away ! I bear a fettered arm, A heart that burns but must not harm ! Hath not my cup for thee been poured, Beneath the palm-tree's shade ! Hath not soft sleep thy frame restored, Within my dwelling laid ! THE POETICAL ALBUM. 259 What though unknown yet who shall rest Secure if not the Arab's guest ? Begone ! outstrip the fleet Gazelle ! The wind in speed subdue ; Fear cannot fly so swift, so well, As vengeance shall pursue ! And hate, like love in parting pain, Smiles o'er one hope we meet again. To-morrow and the avenger's hand, The warrior's dart is free ; E'en now, no spot in all the land, Save this, had sheltered thee : Let blood the monarch's hall profane, The Arab's tent must bear no stain ! Fly ! may the desert's fiery blast Avoid thy sacred way, And fettered, till thy steps be past, Its whirlwinds sleep to-day : I would not, that thy doom should be Assigned by Heaven, to aught but me. Literary Gazette. A PERSIAN PRECEPT. BY HERBERT KNOWLES. FORGIVE thy foes ; nor that alone ; Their evil deeds with good repay ; Fill those with joy who leave thee none, And kiss the hand upraised to slay. So does the fragrant Sandal bow In meek forgiveness to its doom ; And o'er the axe at every blow, Sheds in abundance rich perfume ! 260 THE POETICAL ALBUM. SONG OF THE ZEPHYRS. O'ER the lofty swelling mountain, O'er the dancing summer fountain, By the towering forest waving, By the brook, the willows laving, Wafting odorous airs along, We pour the mellow-breathing song. Little wanton, winged rovers, Oft we tend the walks of lovers ; Witness smiles with passion glowing, Souls with tenderness o'erflowing, Vows, that, fainting on the tongue, Mingle with our breezy song ! Oft we fan the flame that rushes O'er the maiden's cheek, in blushes : Softly to her swain revealing All the luxury of feeling, In her bosom though so strong Gentle as our airy song ! Oft we, in our sportive duty, Kiss the dimpling cheek of beauty, And on soft ethereal winglets Wanton in her sunny ringlets, Breathing, as we dance along, Liquid notes of rapturous song! When Care's ever-rising bubble Clouds the wanderer's soul with trouble, We sweet Pleasure's viewless minions- Fan his brow with balmy pinions, Chasing sorrow's shades along, With our spirit-soothing song. While the sweets of eve diffusing, Oft we meet the poet musing, 261 THE POETICAL ALBUM. Mark his eye sublimely glancing, With erratic thought entrancing ! Catching inspiration strong, From our soul-enchanting song. Oft we waft the pious whispers Of the saint's low-breathing vespers Sighs of love, and tears of sorrow, For our sweetest strains we borrow ; Bearing on our wings along, All the ecstasy of song. New Monthly Magazine. J. L. W. STANZAS, ON BURNING A PACKET OF LETTERS. COLD is the hand that gives thee to the flame, Sweet source of pleasure in my early years ! But, O ye friends ! to me impute no blame, I mark its quick destruction through my tears. Cold was the hand that at one cast destroyed Sweet friendship, which, upon that crackling scroll, Depicted was ; even where, with skill employed, Her pen had traced the kindness of her soul. Ah ! why the proof of former joy preserve ! A present grief 'twere folly to retain ; Years to increase the change would only serve ; And every change would add severer pain. 262 THE POETICAL ALBUM. MELANCHOLY. BY J. MOIR, ESQ. THE sun of the morning, Unclouded and bright, The landscape adorning With lustre and light, To glory and gladness New bliss may impart; But, oh ! give to sadness And softness of heart A moment to ponder, a season to grieve, The light of the moon, or the shadows of eve! Then soothing reflections Arise on the mind ; And sweet recollections Of friends who were kind ; Of love that was tender, And yet could decay ; Of visions whose splendour Time withered away ; In all that for brightness or beauty may seem The painting of fancy the work of a dream ! The soft cloud of whiteness, The stars beaming through, The pure moon of brightness, The deep sky of blue ; The rush of the river, Through vales that are still, The breezes that ever Sigh lone o'er the hill, Are sounds that can soften, and sights that impart A bliss to the eye, and a balm to the heart. Constable's Edinbui'gh Magazine. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 263 THE PASSAGE THROUGH THE DESERT. CALL it not Loneliness, to dwell In woodland shade, or hermit dell,^- To pierce the forest's twilight maze, Or from the Alpine summit gaze ; For Nature there all joyous reigns, And fills with life her wild domains : A bird's light wing may break the air, A fairy stream may murmur there, A bee the mountain-rose may seek, A chamois bound from peak to peak, An eagle, rushing to the sky, Wake the deep echoes with its cry; And still some sound, thy heart to cheer, Some voice, though not of man, is near. But he, whose weary step has traced Mysterious Afric's awful waste, Whose eye Arabia's wilds hath viewed, Can tell thee what is Solitude ! . It is, to traverse lifeless plains Where everlasting stillness reigns, And billowy sands, and dazzling sky, Seem boundless, as Infinity ! It is, to sink with speechless dread In scenes unmeet for mortal tread ; Severed from earthly being's trace, Alone amidst unmeasured space. 'Tis noon, and fearfully profound Silence is on the desert 'round. Supreme she reigns, above, beneath, With all the attributes of Death! No bird the blazing heaven may dare ; No insect 'bide the scorching air ; The ostrich, though of sun-born-race, Seeks a more sheltered dwelling-place ; 264 THE POETICAL ALBUM. The lion slumbers in his lair ; The serpent shuns the noontide glare ; But slowly winds the patient train Of camels, o'er the blasted plain, Where they and man may brave alone The terrors of the burning zone. Faint not, oh Pilgrims! though on high As a volcano flame the sky ! Shrink not, though, as a furnace glow, The dark red seas of sand, below ! Though not a shadow, save your own, Across the dread expanse is thrown ; Mark, where your feverish lips to lave, Wide spreads the fresh transparent wave ! Urge your tired camels on, and take Your rest beside yon glistening lake ; Thence, haply, cooler gales may spring, Arid fan your brows with lighter wing. Lo ! nearer now, its glassy tide Reflects the date-tree on its side ; Speed on ! pure draughts and genial air, And verdant shade await you there. Oh! glimpse of heaven! to him unknown That hath not tracked the burning zone ! Forward they press they gaze dismayed The waters of the desert fade ! Melting to vapours, that elude The eye, the lip, their brightness wooed.* What meteor comes ! A purple haze Hath half obscured the noontide rays ! Onward it moves in swift career, A blush upon the atmosphere ; Haste, haste ! avert the impending doom, Fall prostrate ! 'tis the dread Simoom ! Bow down your faces till the blast On its red wing of flame hath past, * The miragej or nitrous band assuming the appearance of water. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 265 Far bearing o'er the sandy wave, The viewless angel of the grave. It came 'tis vanished but hath left The wanderers even of hope bereft ;* The ardent heart, the vigorous frame, Pride, courage, strength, its power could tame ; Faint with despondence, worn with toil, They sink upon the burning soil ; Resigned, amidst those realms of gloom, To find their death-bed and their tomb. But onward still ! Yon distant spot Of verdure can deceive you not. Yon palms, which tremulously seemed Reflected as the waters gleamed, Along the horizon's verge displayed, Still rear their slender colonade, A landmark, guiding o'er the plain, The Caravan's exhausted train. Fair is that little Isle of Bliss, The desert's emerald Oasis ! A rainbow on the torrent's wave, A gem, embosomed in the grave, The sunbeam of a stormy day, Its beauty's image might convey ; Beauty, in horror's lap that sleeps, While silence round her vigil keeps. Rest, weary Pilgrims! calmly laid To slumber in the Acacia-shade ; Rest, where the shrubs your camels bruise Their aromatic breath diffuse ; Where softer light the sunbeams pour, Through the tall palm and sycamore, * The extreme languor and despondence produced l>y the Si- moom, even when its effects tire not fatal, have been described by many travellers. 23 266 THE POETICAL ALBUM, And the rich date luxuriant spreads Its pendant clusters o'er your heads. Nature, once more, to seal your eyes, Murmurs her sweetest lullabies ; Again each heart the music hails, Of rustling leaves and sighing gales; And oh ! to Afric's child how dear ! The voice of fountains gushing near ! Sweet be your slumbers, and your dreams, Of waving groves and rippling streams ! Far be the serpent's venomed coil From the brief respite won by toil! Far be the awful shades of those Who deep beneath the sands repose, The hosts, to whom the desert's breath Bore swift and stern the call of death ! Sleep ! may no scorching blast invade The freshness of the Acacia-shade ; But gales of heaven your spirits bless While life's best balm forgetful ness ; Till night from many an urn diffuse The treasures of her world of dews. The day hath closed. The moon'on high Walks in her cloudless majesty. A thousand stars to Afric's heaven Serene magnificence have given ; Pure beacons of the sky, whose flame Shines forth eternally the same ! Blest be their beams! whose holy light Shall guide the camel's footsteps right, And lead, as with a torch divine, The Pilgrim to his Prophet's shrine. Rise ! bid your Tsle of Palms adieu ; Again your lonely march pursue, While winds of night are freshly blowing, And heavens with softer beauty glowing. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 267 Tis silence all. The solemn scene Wears, at each step, a ruder mien ; For giant rocks, at distance piled, Cast their deep shadows o'er the wild. Darkly they rise ! What eye hath viewed The caverns of their solitude ? Away ! within those awful cells, The savage lord of Afric dwells ! Heard ye his voice ? The Lion's roar Swells as when billows break on shore ; Well may the camel shake with fear, And the steed pant : his foe is near. Haste ! Light the torch bid watch-fires throw Far o'er the waste a ruddy glow ; Keep vigil guard the bright array Of flames that scare him from his prey ! Within their magic circle press, Oh wanderers of the wilderness ! Heap high the pile, and, by its blaze, Tell the wild tales of elder days; Arabia's wondrous lore that dwells On warrior deeds and wizard spells ; Enchanted domes, 'mid scenes like these, Rising to vanish with the breeze ; Gardens whose fruits are gems, that shed Their light where mortal may not tread ; And genii, o'er whose pearly halls, The eternal billow heaves and falls. With charms like these, of mystic power, Watchers ! beguile the midnight hour. Slowly that hour hath rolled away, And star by star withdraws its ray : Dark children of the sun ! again Your own rich Orient hails his reign. He comes, but veiled ; with sanguine glare, Tinging the mists that load the air ; Sounds of dismay, and signs of flame, The approaching hurricane proclaim. 268 THE POETICAL ALBUM. 'Tis death's red banner streams on high. Fly to the rocks for shelter ! Fly ! Lo ! darkening o'er the fiery skies The pillars of the desert rise ! On, in terrific grandeur wheeling, A giant host, the heavens concealing, They move like mighty genii-forms, Towering immense midst clouds and storms ! Who shall escape ! With awful force The whirlwind bears them on their course. They join they rush resistless on The landmarks of the plain are gone ! The steps, the forms, from earth effaced Of those who trod the boundless waste ! All whelmed ! All hushed ! None left to bear Sad record how they perished there ! No stone their tale of death shall tell, The desert guards its mysteries well ! And o'er the unfathomed sandy deep Where now their nameless relics sleep, Oft shall the future Pilgrim tread, Nor know his steps are on the dead ! Constables Edinburgh Magazine. FROM PLATO. BY THOMAS MOORE, ESQ. WHY dost thou gaze upon the sky ? Oh ! that I were that spangled sphere, And every star should be an eye To wonder on thy beauties here ! In life thou wert my morning star, But now that death hath stolen thy light, Alas ! thou shinest dim and far, Like the pale beam that weeps at night. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 269 THE BROKEN HEART. And \\ 'hat's her history ? A blank, my Lord. TWELFTH NIGHT. YES ! I remember well how beautiful I used to think her, as she lay in slumber, In the cool evening hour upon her couch, Before the open lattice, which the vines Half veiled with drooping wreaths how like an angel She looked with those soft glossy ringlets, And slight arched brow, and cheek of ivory, Tinged with a blush of rose, bright, delicate As that, which paints the unfolded apple-blossom. And yet, at times, what heavy sighs she breathed In that so beautiful sleep ! and from her eye-lids Have wandered tears, like morning dew on roses. 'Twas sadness she was dying of! deep deep For which, on this earth, grew no healing balm. And they had brought her from her ruder clime To that sweet spot, where ever cloudless skies, Pure gales, and smiling scenes, their influence shed, But not for her this influence : she was then * Past hope past cure.' They said her heart was broken ; but a child, I knew not, then, the meaning of that speech Yet never word, or murmur of regret, Lingered upon that gentle lip. The spirit Was weaned from this world, and it looked on high In humble faith. The grave no terrors had For one to whom existence had no charms. Music alone still held its witching o'er her; And she would dwell for hours on the rich tones She knew so well to draw forth from her lute, As in the stillness of the night she loved To mingle with them hor soft voice, when all 23* 270 THE POETICAL ALBUM. But ceaseless, life-consuming sorrow, slept. And, at those hours, how often used I wake From my light sleep, and to the casement steal ; Then as the moon beam glittered on the Rhone, The music of that voice and lute arose In sighs of fragrance, and across the wave Rung in strange sounds of harmony, as though [there,, Some Spirit of Heaven his midnight hymn breathed All on his angel watch as lone he lingered. I do remember it well though long, long past ; And whether it was young imagination, Or the enchantment of the scene and time, Such strains as those I never after heard. She died : and died unknown to all around, Though many a look of fondness rested on her. It was but a short moment fled her eyes Had in expressive silence gazed upon The glorious sun, that from a sky of gold Went down in Majesty. Her earnest glance Still lingered on its last light (she then knew The setting sun would rise for her no more.) That last light faded, vanished, and she closed Her heavy eyes, and back reclined her head, As in soft sleep : 'twas an eternal sleep, For she had died unconscious all, had died. And there she lay, like some fair sculptured form, Lovely and pure, and pale and motionless. Literary Gazette. ISABEL. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 271 TO A DYING INFANT. SLEEP, little baby ! Sleep ! Not in thy cradle bed, Not on thy mother's breast Henceforth shall be thy rest, But with the quiet dead. Yes with the quiet dead, Baby, thy rest shall be ! Oh ! many a weary wight, Weary of life and light, Would fain lie down with thee. Flee little tender nursling ! Flee to thy grassy nest ; There the first flowers shall blow, The first pure flake of snow Shall fall upon thy breast. Peace ! Peace ! The little bosom Labours with shortening breath : Peace ! Peace ! That tremulous sigh Speaks his departure nigh ! Those are the damps of death. I've seen thee in thy beauty, A thing all health and glee ; But never then wert thou So beautiful, as now, Baby, thou seem'st to me ! Thine up-turned eyes glazed over, Like hare-bells wet with dew ; Already veiled and hid By the convulsed lid, Their pupils darkly blue. 272 THE POETICAL ALBUM. Thy little mouth half-open Thy soft lip quivering, As if like summer air Ruffling the rose leaves, there Thy soul was fluttering. Mount up, immortal essence ! Young spirit, haste, depart ! And is tliis death ! Dread Thing ? If such thy visiting, How beautiful thou art 1 Oh ! I could gaze forever Upon that waxen face : So passionless, so pure ! The little shrine was sure An Angel's dwelling place. Thou weepest, childless Mother ! Aye, weep 'twill ease thine heart ;- He was thy first-born Son, Thy first, thine only one, 'Tis hard from him to part ! 'Tis hard to lay thy darling Deep in the damp cold earth, His empty crib to see, His silent nursery, Once gladsome with his mirth. To meet again, in slumber, His small mouth's rosy kiss ; Then, wakened with a start By thine own throbbing heart, His twining arms to miss To feel (half conscious why,) A dull, heart-sinking weight, THE POETICAL ALBUM. 273 Till memory on thy soul Flashes the painful whole, That thou art desolate ! And then to lie and weep, And think the live-long night (Feeding thine own distress With accurate greediness) Of every past delight ; Of all his winning ways, His pretty, playful smiles, His joy at sight of thee, His tricks, his mimicry, And all his little wiles ! Oh ! these are recollections Round mothers' hearts that cling, That mingle with the tears And smiles of after years, With oft awakening. But thou wilt then, fond Mother ! In after years, look back, (Time brings such wondrous easing) With sadness not unpleasing, E'en on this gloomy track. Thou'lt say ' My first-born blessing, It almost broke my heart When thou wert forced to go ! And yet, for thee, I know, 'Twas better to depart. * God took thee in his mercy, A lamb, untasked, untried ; He fought the fight for thee, He won the victory, And thou art sanctified ! 274 THE POETICAL ALBUM. ' I look around and see The evil ways of men; And oh ! Beloved child ! I'm more than reconciled To thy departure then. 'The little arms that clasped me, The innocent lips that pressed, Would they have been as pure Till now, as when of yore, I lulled thee on rny breast ? ' Now, like a dew-drop shrined Within a crystal stone, Thou'rt safe in heaven, my dove ! Safe with the Source of Love, The Everlasting One. * And when the hour arrives From flesh that sets me free, Thy spirit may await The first at heaven's gate, To meet and welcome me. J Blackwood's Magazine. EPIGRAM, FROM THE GREEK OF JULIAN. As a garland once I made, In a bed of roses laid, Love I found ; with eager joy By his wings I seized the boy ; Crowning then an ample cup, In a bumper drank him up. Now along my veins he swims, Fluttering, tickling through my limbs. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 275 TO HELEN. I'VE whirled o'er leagues of plain and hill, And like its gusts have swept the sea, Yet one deep dream is on me still, Sweet Helen, it is all of thee. Back wings the heart, plain, hill and tide, And loves, and lingers at thy side. I see thee give the parting flower, Whose very touch was like a spell ; And startle at its sudden power, When deadly paleness on me fell ; And see thy guileless beauty bend In blushing pity o'er thy friend. My simple Helen ! How that heart Shall feel, once conscious that it feels! What crimson to thy cheek shall dart When the first vision o'er it steals, What tears shall weep Love's madness, folly, . Thou child of Love and Melancholy. I've seen it in that eye of blue, Wild wandering over earth and sky, Fve seen it in that cheek's deep hue, When some sublimer fantasy Wrought in thee like an infant Muse; But these were passion's tears and hues. I've seen thee press the rose to lips That might have given it richer red, And where the western sunbeam dips Its radiance, gaze till all was fled : Helen ! when once thy hour is nigh, Thy lot is bliss or misery ! Who tells thee this ? A silent one, Who loved thee, as thou lov'dst the flower, 276 THE POETICAL ALBUM. With passion to himself unknown, And hovered round thee hour by hour, And saw thee but a lovely child, Nor woke till all his soul was wild. Child as thou wert yet didst thou ne'er Think who he was that loved thee so ? Did thy heart never thrill, to hear His tone, so strange, and sad, and low ? The glance so raised, so sunk again, Was not the fearful secret plain ? Yet I have torn myself from thee ! This hour the surge is at my feet, That bears me, ah ! how gloomily ! Where thou and I shall never meet! Aye, 'tis a fitting hour to tell The heart's deep history. Fare thee well J Literary Gazette. SONG. 'TWAS sweet to look upon thine eyes, As they looked answering to mine own ; 'Twas sweet to listen to thy sighs, And hear my name on every tone. 'Twas sweet to meet in yon lone glen While smiles the heart's best sunshine shed ; 'Twas sweet to part, and think again The gentle things that each had said. But all this sweetness was not worth The tears that dimmed its after light ! Love is a sweet star at its birth, But one that sets in deepest night. L. E. L. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 277 LINES SUGGESTED BY THE SIGHT OF SOME LATE AUTUMN FLOWERS. THOSE few pale autumn flowers, How beautiful they are ! Than all that went before, Than all the summer store, How lovelier far ! And why ? They are the last ! The last ! the last ! the last ! Oh ! by that little word, How many thoughts are stirred ; That sister of the past ! Pale flowers ! Pale perishing flowers ! Ye're types of precious things ; Types of those bitter moments, That flit like life's enjoyments, On rapid, rapid wings. Last hours with parting dear ones, (That time the fastest spends) Last tears in silence shed, Last words half uttered, Last looks of dying friends. Who but would fain compress A life into a day, The last day spent with one Who, e'er the morrow's sun, Must leave us, and for aye ? Oh, precious, precious moments! Pale flowers ! ye're types of those ; The saddest ! sweetest ! dearest ! Because, like those, the nearest To an eternal close. 24 278 THE POETICAL ALBUM. Pale flowers ! Pale perishing flowers ! I woo your gentle breath I leave the summer rose For younger, blither brows ; Tell me of change and death. Blackwood's Magazine. TO THE MEMORY OF COWPER. BY MRS. HUNTER. Tis not thy Muse, though tuneful is her song, That draws me, Cowper, weeping to thy tomb ; Nor could thy Grecian lore thy fame prolong In memory, through time's revolving gloom. Were not thy gifts of nature, and of art, Joined to the treasure of a feeling heart. Formed for each dear delight by man enjoyed, For love, for friendship, and each social tie, The nipping blast of fate thy hopes destroyed, And in the bud thy rose was doomed to die : Friendship remained, and there thy lot was blessed, Of every heart, as soon as known, possessed. O soul of tenderness ! though thou art flown, Still shall thy fair example teach the age, That gentle sympathies perform alone More than e'er wit or wisdom taught the sage : They bind in bonds of love the captive will, In sickness, sorrow, death, unchanging still ! English Minstrelsy. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 279 STANZAS ON THE LOSS OF HIS MAJESTY'S SHIP SALDANAH. BY THOMAS SHERIDAN, EStt. * BRITANNIA rules the waves 1' Heard'st thou that dreadful roar? Hark ! 'tis bellowed from the caves Where Lough-Swilly's billow raves, And three hundred British graves Taint the shore. No voice of life was there I 'Tis the dead that raise that cry ; The dead, who raised no prayer As they sunk in wild despair, Chaunt in scorn that boastful air, Where they lie. ' Rule Britannia' sung the crew When the stout Saldanah sailed ; And her colours, as they flew, Flung the warrior-cross to view, Which in battle to subdue Ne'er had failed. Bright rose the laughing morn, (That morn that sealed her doom ;) Dark and sad is her return, And the storm-lights faintly burn, As they toss upon her stern Mid the gloom. From the lonely beacon's height, As the watchmen gazed around, They saw their flashing light 280 THE POETICAL ALBUM. Drive swift athwart the night ; Yet the wind was fair, and right To the Sound. But no mortal power shall now That crew and vessel save ; They are shrouded as they go In a hurricane of snow, And the track beneath her prow Is their grave. There are spirits of the deep, Who, when the warrant's given, Rise raging from their sleep On rock, or mountain steep, Or 'mid thunder-clouds that keep The wrath of heaven. High the eddying mists are whirled As they rear their giant forms ; See ! their tempest flag's unfurled, Fierce they sweep the prostrate world, And the withering lightning's hurled Through the storms. O'er Swilly's rocks they soar, Commissioned watch to keep ; Down, down, with thundering roar, The exulting demons pour. The Saldanah floats no more O'er the deep ! The dreadful hest is past ! All is silent as the grave ; One shriek was first and last. Scarce a death sob drunk the blast, As sunk her towering mast Beneath the wave. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 281 ' Britannia rules the waves' O vain and impious boast ! Go mark, presumptuous slaves, Where He, who sinks or saves, Scars the sands with countless graves Round your coast. Album. AN APOLOGUE. BY T. GASPY, ESQ. 'TWAS eight o'clock, and near the fire My ruddy little boy was seated ; And with the titles of a sire, My ears expected to be greeted. But vain the thought ! By sleep oppressed, No father there the child descried ; His head reclined upon his breast, Or nodding, rolled from side to side. 'Let this young rogue be sent to bed,' More I had not had time to say, When the poor urchin raised his head To beg that he might longer stay. Refused ; away his steps he bent, With tearful eye and aching heart ; But claimed his playthings ere he went, And took up stairs his horse and cart. Still for delay, though oft denied, He pleaded ; wildly craved the boon ; Though past his usual hour, he cried At being sent to bed so soon ! If stern to him, his grief I shared, (Unmoved who sees his offspring weep?) Of soothing him I half despaired, When all his cares were lost in sleep. 24* 282 THE POETICAL ALBUM. 1 Alas poor infant!' I exclaimed, ' Thy father blushes now to scan In all that he so lately blamed The follies and the fears of man. The vain regret the anguish brief What thou hast known sent up to bed, Pourtrays of man the idle grief When doomed to slumber with the dead.' And more [ thought when up the stairs With longing, lingering looks, he crept ; To mark of man the childish cares, His playthings carefully he kept. Thus mortals in life's later stage, When nature claims their forfeit breath, Still grasp at wealth, in pain and age, And cling to golden toys in death ! 'Tis morn, and see my smiling boy Awakes to hail returning light ; To fearless laughter, boundless joy ! Forgot the tears of yesternight ! Thus shall not man forget his wo, Survive of age and death the gloom, Smile at the cares he knew below, And, renovated, burst the tomb ? Literary Gazette. EPIGRAM, FROM THE GREEK. ON marble tombs let no rich essence flow, No chaplet bloom no lamp suspended glow ; Vain cost! while yet 1 live, these honours pay, Wine can but moisten ashes into clny. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 283 THE SHIP. HER mighty sails the breezes swell, And fast she leaves the lessening land, And from the shore the last farewell Is waved by many a snowy hand ; And weeping eyes are on the main, Until its verge she wanders o'er ; But, from that hour of parting pain, Oh ! she was never heard of more ! In her was many a mother's joy, And love of many a weeping fair ; For her was wafted, in its sigh, The lonely heart's unceasing prayer; And oh! the thousand hopes untold Of ardent youth, that vessel bore ; Say, were they quenched in ocean cold, For she was never heard of more ? When on her wide and trackless path Of desolation, doomed to flee, Say, sank she 'mid the blending wrath Of racking cloud and rolling sea ? Or, where the land but mocks the eye, Went drifting on a fatal shore ? Vain guesses all ! Her destiny Is dark : she ne'er was heard of more. The moon hath twelve times changed her form, From glowing orb to crescent wan ; 'Mid skies of calm, and scowl of storm, Since from her port that ship hath gone ; But ocean keeps its secret well ; And though we know that all is o'er, No eye hath seen no tongue can tell Her fate : she ne'er was heard of more ! 284 THE POETICAL ALBUM. Oh ! were her tale of sorrow known, 'Twere something to the broken-hcnrt, The pangs of doubt would then be gone, And Fancy's endless dreams depart ! It may not be : there is no ray By which her doom we may explore ; We only know she sailed away, And ne'er was seen nor heard of more. Constable's Edinburgh Magazine. LOVE. IN FIVE SONNETS. I. THERE is an hour, when all our past pursuits, The dreams and passions of our early day, The unripe blessedness that dropped away From our young tree of life, like blasted fruits, All rush upon the soul : some beauteous form Of one we loved and lost, or dying tone, Haunting the heart with music that is flown, Still lingers near us, with an awful charm ! I love that hour, for it is deeply fraught With images of things, no more to be ; Visions of hope, and pleasure madly sought, And sweeter dreams of Jove and purity; The poesy of heart, that smiled in pain, And all my boyhood worshipped but in vain 1 II. W T e met in secret, in the depth of night, When there was none to watch us, not an eye, Save the lone dweller of the silent sky, To gaze upon our love and pure delight! And in that hour's unbroken solitude, When the white moon hath robed her in its beam, I've thought, some vision of a blessed dream, THE POETICAL, ALBUM. 285 Or spirit of the air, before me stood, And held communion with rne. In mine ear Her voice's sweet notes, breathed not of the earth ; Her beauty seemed not of a mortal birth ; And in my heart, there was an awful fear, A thrill, like some deep warning from above, That soothed its passion to a spirit's love ! III. She stood before me, the pure lamps of heaven Lighted her charms, and those soft eyes, which turned On me with dying fondness. My heart burned, As tremblingly with her's my vows were given. Then, softly ! 'gainst my bosom, beat her heart ! These loving arms around her form were thrown, Binding her heavenly beauty, like a zone ; While from her ruby, warm lips, just apart, Like bursting roses, sighs of fragrance stole ; And words of music, whispering in mine ear, Things pure and holy, none but mine should hear. For they were accents uttered from her BOU! ; For which, no tongue her innocence reproved. And breathed for one who loved her and was loved ! IV. She hung upon my bosom and her sighs, Fragrant and fast, were warm upon my cheek ; And they were all her suffering heart could speak, Save the soft language of her eloquent eyes, Which the night hid not, for her soul was there, In starry brightness, tempered by distress, All softened down with love's own tenderness ; And some wild tokens of her heart's despair Were trembling o'er her beauty. There was one Who would not have exchanged that sorrowing hour, For all that he had dreamed in rapture's bower. In the wide world there was one heart alone, That blessed him with its love, and truth, and charms, And it was beauty, now, within his arms! 236 THE POETICAL ALBUM. V. They loved for years with growing tenderness. They had but one pure prayer to waft above, One heart, one hope, one dream, and that was love; They loved for years, through danger and distress, Till they were parted, arid his spotless fame Became the mark of hate and obloquy ; 'Till the remembering tear that dimmed her eye, Was dried on blushes of repentant shame. While he oh God ! in raptured vision sweet, Would walk alone beneath the evening star, Watching the light she loved, and dream of her, And of the hour, when they again should meet ! They met at last ; but love's sweet vision fled Forever from his heart, for she was wed ! Dublin Magazine. STANZAS FOR MUSIC. BY JAMES MONTGOMERY, ESQ. WHERE are ye with whom in life I started, Dear companions of my golden days ? Ye are dead, estranged from me, or parted ; Flown like morning clouds, a thousand ways. Where art thou, in youth my friend and brother? Yea in my soul, my friend and brother still! Heaven received thee, and on earth none other Can the void in my lorn bosom fill. Where is she whose looks were love and gladness ? Love and gladness I no longer see ; She is gone, and since that hour of sadness Nature seems her sepulchre to me. Where am I ? Life's current faintly flowing, Brings the welcome warning of release ; Struck with death ; ah ! whither am I going? All is well, my spirit parts in peace. Polyhymnia. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 287 LINES WRITTEN ON THE PLA.TFORM AT BERNE. BY MISS PORDEJV. THREE days of chequered smiles and tears, Such changeful cheer as Autumn wears, Still have I sought this spot to gaze On yon rich work of Gothic days, That proud Cathedral, perfect still ; Or, fairer yet, this noble hill, Whose ridge patrician mansions crown, And terraced gardens sloping down, Where murmuring in its rapid flow Broad winds the clear blue Aar below. Nor deemed I aught might hence be seen Beyond that swelling slope of green ! But now what vision mocks my sight? Those summits of eternal white, More than the eye may count around, Stretched to the horizon's farthest bound. See Him* whose fine and painted horn Rises to meet the earliest morn, And bask in clay, while deepest night Still blackens each surrounding height ; And Shef whose glittering dells are known To sprites of middle-air alone, The virgin on whose frozen breast A shadowy eagle loves to rest, And spreads his mighty pinions dun To shield her from the amorous sun, When all the lingering beam he throws, She blushes through her waste of snows, And all her brother Alps around Are with a roseate glory crowned. * The Finster-Aar-Horn, the highest of the Bernese Alps, t The Jungfrau, or Virgin's Horn, so called fiom the belief that it is inaccessible. THE POETICAL ALBUM. All save the Shreckhorn's dreadful- peak, For ever black, and bare, and bleak ; For not a sprite that comes to throw The soft and velvet veil of snow, That dresses other heights, will dare To plant his venturous footsteps there ! Ye mountains ! have your peaks sublime Scorned all the wasting power of time, Unchanged since first the world began, 'Mid all the changing fates of man. Eagles of Austria, Rome and Gaul, Lour ! for these heights have mocked you all. Ye thought these realms an easy spoil ; They foiled you, and shall ever foil ; For freedom lives her flag to rear Where hills are proud and steeps are clear. And who that knowsjhese velvet vales, These pine-clad steeps these healthful gales, These glittering peaks to conqueror's hand Will ever yield the lovely land ? Helvetia, trust the prophet prayers, A sister spirit breathes and shares ; Albion, though distant, still allied By kindred feelings, kindred pride, Where winds beneath the solar course Blow with unerring, changeless force ; The slave may fear a tyrant's nod, The humbled soul may kiss the rod, But here, our spirits more sublime, Are, like our seasons, unconfined ; There's vigour in the changing clirne, And freedom breathes in every wind. Literary Gazette. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 289 THE SPARTAN'S MARCH. It was at once a delightful and terrible sight to sec the Spartans marching on to the tunes of their flutes, without ever troubling their order, or confounding their ranks ; their music leading them into danger with a deliberate hope and assurance, as if some Divinity had sensibly assisted them. PLUTARCH. 'Twas morn upon the Grecian hills, Where peasants dressed the vines ; There was sun-light on Cithaeron's rills, Arcadia's rocks and pines ; And brightly through his reeds and flowers Eurotas wandered by, When a sound arose from Spartan towers Of solemn harmony. Was it the shepherd's choral strain That hymned the forest-God? Or the virgins as to Pallas' fane With their full-toned lyres they trod ? But helms were glancing on the stream, Spears ranged in close array, And shields flung back a glorious beam To the morn of a fearful day ; And the mountain echoes of the land Swelled through the deep blue sky, While to soft strains mo*ed forth a band Of men that moved to die. They marched not with the trumpet's blast, Nor bade the horn peal out ; And the laurel woods as on they passed, Rung with no battle shout ! 25 290 THE POETICAL ALBUM. They asked no clarion's voice to fire Their souls with an impulse high ! But the Dorian reed and the Spartan lyre, For the sons of liberty ! And still sweet flutes their path around, Sent forth Eolian breath ; They needed not a sterner sound To marshal them for death. So moved they calmly to their field, Thence never to return, Save bearing back the Spartan's shield, Or on it proudly borne. Constable's Edinburgh Magazine. SONG. THE lights are fair in rny father's hall, The red wine is bright to see ; But I'll flee like a bird and leave them all, My Ocean Love ! for thee. There is gold around my silken robe, And white pearls are in my hair: And they say that gems and the broidered vest Are woman's chiefest care; But dearer to me is one silent smile Of thine eagle eye*han them all; And dearer the deck of thy bark to me Than my father's lighted hall. I have no home now but thy arms, And they are the world to me ; And be thou but true, I'll never regret All, dear love ! I have left for thee. L. E. L. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 291 LINES ON A PORTRAIT, SUPPOSED TO BE THAT OF NELL GWYN, BY SIR PETER LELY, IN THE POSSESSION OF R. CRACROFT, ESQ. BEAUTIFUL and radiant girl ! I have heard of teeth of pearl, Lips of coral, cheeks of rose, Necks and brows, like drifted snows, Kyes, as diamonds sparkling bright, Or the stars of summer's night, And expression, grace and soul, Softly tempering down the whole : But a form so near divine, With a face so fair as thine, And so sunny bright a brow, Never met my gaze till now ! Thou wert Venus' sister twin If this shade be thine, NELL GWYN ! Cast that carcanet away, Thou hast need of no display Gems, however rare, to deck Such an alabaster neck ! Can the brilliant's lustre vie With the glories of thine eye ? Or the ruby's red compare With the two lips breathing there ? Can they add a richer glow To thy beauties ? No, sweet, no ! Though thou bearest the name of one Whom 'twas virtue once to shun, It were sure to Taste a sin, JVbu? to pass thee by NELL GWYN ! But they've wronged thee ; and I swear By that brow, so dazzling fair, 292 THE POETICAL ALBUM. By the light subdued that flashes From thy drooping 'lids' silk lashes, By the deep blue eyes beneath them, By the clustering curls that wreathe them, By thy softly blushing cheek, By thy lips, that more than speak, By thy stately swan-like neck, Glossy white without a speck, By thy slender fingers fair, Modest mien, and graceful air, 'Twas a burning shame and sin, Sweet, to christen thee NELL Wreathe for aye thy snowy arms, Thine are, sure, no Wanton's charms ! Like the fawn's as bright and shy Beams thy dark, retiring eye ; No bold invitation's given From the depths of that blue heaven ; Nor one glance of lightness hid 'Neath its pale, declining lid ! No, I'll not believe thy name Can be aught allied to Shame. Then let them call thee what they will, I've sworn and I'll maintain it still, (Spite of Tradition's idle din,) Thou art not canst not be NELL GWYN I A. A. W. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 293 TO JESSY. BY LORD BYRON. THERE is a mystic thread of life So dearly wreathed with mine alone, That Destiny's relentless knife At once must sever both or none. There is a form on which these oyes Have often gazed with fond delight ; By day that form their joy supplies, And dreams restore it through the night. There is a voice whose tones inspire Such thrills of rapture through my breast, I would not hear a seraph choir Unless that voice could join the rest. There is a face whose blushes tell Affection's tale upon the cheek ; But pallid at one fond farewell, Proclaims more love than words can speak. There is a lip, which mine hath prest, And none had ever prest before, It vowed to make me sweetly blest, That mine might only press it more. There is a bosom all my own Hath pillowed oft this aching head ; A mouth that smiles on me alone, An eye whose tears with mine are shed. There are two hearts whose movements thrill In unison so closely sweet, That, pulse to pulse responsive still, They both must heave or cease to beat. 25* 294 THE POETICAL ALBUM. There are two souls whose equal flow, In gentle streams so calmly run, That when they part They part ? Ah, no ! They cannot part ! Those souls are one ! Literary Panorama. THE NYMPH OF THE STREAM. BY MRS. HUNTER. NYMPH of the mountain-stream, thy foaming urn Wastes its pure waters on the rock below ; There no green herbage shall a leaf return, No plant can flourish and no flower can blow ; Stern Solitude, whose frown the heart appals, Dwells on the heath-clad hills around thy waterfalls. Yet not in vain thy murmuring fountain flows, It cheers the wanderer in the dreary waste, Awakes dull Silence from her deep repose, And charms the eye, the ear, the soul, of taste ; For this the grateful muse in fancy twines Around thy urn, the rose and waving wild woodbines. And when far distant from the glowing scene Of castles, winding straths, and tufted woods, From Lomond's fairy banks, and islands green, His cloud-capt mountains, and his silver floods, Memory shall turn in many a waking dream, To meet thee, lonely Nymph ! beside thy mountain- stream. English Minstrelsy. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 295 ITALY. A FRAGMENT. EARTH'S loveliest land, I behold thee in dreams, All gay in the summer, and drest in sun-beams, In the radiance, which breaks on the purified sense Of the thin-bodied ghosts that are flitting from hence. The blue distant Alps, and the blue distant main, Bound the far varied harvests of Lombardy's plain ; The rivers are winding in blue gleaming lines, Round the ruins of old, round the hill of the vines, Round the grove of the orange the green myrtle bower, }}y castle and convent by town and by tower. Through the bright summer azure,the north breezes flow, That are cooled in their flight over regions of snow ; Or westerly gales, on whose wandering wings, The wave of the ocean its silver dew flings. Bright bright is the prospect, and teeming the soil, With the blessings of promise with corn, wine and oil ; Where the cypress and myrtle, and orange combine, And around the dark olive gay wantons the vine. Woods leafy and rustling, o'ershadow the scene, With their forests of branches, and changes of green ; And glossy their greenness, where sunshine is glistening, And mellow their music, where SILENCE is listening; And the streamlets glide through them with glassier hue, And the sky sparkles o'er them with heavenlier blue. How deep and how rich is the blush of the rose, That spreading and wild o'er the wilderness grows ! What waftures of incense are filling the air, For the bloom of a summer unbounded is there ! The soft and voluptuous spirit of love, Rules in earth and in ether bolow and above ! In the blue of the sky in the glow of the beam, In the sigh of the wind, and the flow of the stream ! 296 THE POETICAL ALBUM. At his presence the rose takes a ruddier bloom, And the vine-bud exhales a more wanton perfume; Even the hoarse surging billows have softened their roar, And break with a musical fall on the shore. Blackwood' } s Magazine. LINES WRITTEN IN THE BAY OF NAPLES. BY PERCY BYSSHK SHELLEY. THE sun is warm, the sky is clear, The waves are dancing fast and bright, Blue isles and snowy mountains wear The purple noon's transparent light Around its unexpended buds ; Like many a voice of one delight The winds, the birds, the ocean floods, The city's voice itself is soft, like Solitude's. I see the Deep's untrampled floor With green and purple sea-weeds strown ; I see the waves upon the shore, Like light dissolved in star-showers, thrown ; I sit upon the sands alone, The lightning of the noon-tide ocean Is flashing round me, and a tone Arises from its measured motion ; How sweet! did any heart now share in my emotion. Alas! I have nor hope nor health, Nor peace within, nor calm around, Nor that content surpassing wealth, The sage in meditation found, THE POETICAL ALBUM. 297 And walked with inward glory crowned Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure : Others I see whom these surround Smiling they live, and call life pleasure ; To me that cup has been dealt in another measure. Yet now despair itself is mild, Even as the winds and waters are ; I could lie down like a tired child, And weep away this life of care, Which I have borne and yet must bear, Till death, like sleep, might steal on me, And I might feel in the warm air My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony. Some might lament that I were cold, As I, when this sweet day is gone, Which my lost heart, too soon grown old, Insults with this untimely moan ; They might lament for I am one Whom men love not, and yet regret, Unlike this day, which, when the sun Shall on its stainless glory set, Will linger, though enjoyed, like joy in memory yet. INSCRIPTION ON A NATURAL GROTTO, NEAR A DEEP STREAM. HEALTH, rose-lipped cherub, haunts this spot : She slumbers oft in yonder nook ; If in the shade you trace her not, Plunge and you'll find her in the brook ! 298 THE POETICAL ALBUM. THE CONTRAST. And this is love : Can you then say that love is happiness ! THERE were two portraits : one was of a Girl Just blushing into woman ; it was not A face of perfect beauty, but it had A most bewildering smile, there was a glance Of such arch playfulness and innocence, That as you looked, a pleasant feeling came Over the heart, as when you hear a sound Of cheerful music. Rich and glossy curls Were bound with roses, and her sparkling eyes Gleamed like Thalia's, when some quick device Of mirth is in her laugh. Her light step seemed Bounding upon the air, with all the life, The buoyant life, of one untouched by sorrow. There was another, drawn in after years : The face was young still ; but its happy look Was gone ; the cheek had lost its colour, and The lip its smile; the light that once had played Like sunshine in those eyes, was quenched and dim, For tears had wasted it ; her long dark hair Floated upon her forehead, in loose waves, Unbraided ; and upon her pale thin hand Her head was bent, as if in pain ; no trace Was left of that sweet gaiety, which once Seemed as if grief could darken not, as care Would pass and leave behind no memory. There was one whom she loved undoubtingly, As youth will ever love, he sought her smile, And said most gentle things, although he knew Another had his vows. Oh! there are some Can trifle, in cold vanity, with all The warm soul's precious throbs, to whom it is A triumph that a fond devoted heart Js breaking for them, who can bear to call Young flowers into beauty, and then crush them ! THE POETICAL ALBUM. 299 Affections trampled on, and hopes destroyed, Tears wrung from very bitterness, and sighs That waste the breath oflife,- these all were her's Whose image is before me. She had given Life's hope to a most fragile bark, to love! 'Tvvas wrecked wrecked by love's treachery ! She knew, Yet spoke not of his falsehood ; but the charm That bound her to existence was dispelled. Her days were numbered : She is sleeping now. Literary Gazette. L. E. L. SONG. THE dream on the pillow That flits with the day, The leaf of the willow A breath wears away ; The dust on the blossom, The spray on the sea ; Aye ask thine own bosom ! Are emblems of thee. When I trust the dark waters, And tempests are near, List the blue sea's false daughters, And think not on fear, Oh then I'll believe tb.ee As once I believed, Nor dread thou'lt deceive me As thon hast deceived. When the rose blooms at Christmas, I'll trust thee again, Or the snow falls in summer, But never till then ! L. E. L. 300 THE POETICAL ALBUM. THE SLEEPING CHILD. IN TWO SONNETS. I. 'TIS a touching thing to make one weep! A tender infant with its curtained eye, Breathing as it would neither live nor die, With that unmoving countenance of sleep, As if its silent dream, serene and deep, Had lined its slumbers with a still blue sky, So that the passive cheeks unconscious lie, With no more life than roses, just to keep The blushes warm and the mild odorous breath: Oh blossom-boy ! so cairn is thy repose ! So sweet a compromise of life and death ! 'Tis pity those fair buds should e'er unclose, For Memory to stain their inward leaf, Tinging thy dreams with unacquainted grief! II. Thine eyelids slept so beauteously, I deemed No eyes would wake more beautiful than they j Thy glossy cheeks so unim passioned lay, 1 loved their peacefulness, and never dreamed Of dimples; for thy parted lips so seemed I did not think a smile could sweetlier play, Nor that so graceful life could charm away Thy graceful death, till those blue eyes upbeamed ! Now slumber lies in dimpled eddies drowned, And roses bloom more rosily for joy ; And odorous silence ripens into sound, And fingers move to mirth ! All-beauteous boy ! How dost thou waken into smiles, and prove, If not more lovely, thou art more like Love ! London Magazine. T. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 301 STANZAS BY THE HON. ST. GEORGE TUCKER. DAYS of my youth, Ye have glided away ; Hairs of my youth, Ye are frosted and gray ; Eyes of my youth, Your keen sight is no more ; Cheeks of my youth, Ye have furrowed all o'er ; Strength of my youth, All your vigour is gone ; Thoughts of my youth, Your gay visions are flown. Days of my youth, I wish not your recall ; Hours of my youth, I'm content ye should fall ; Eyes of my youth, You much evil have seen ; Cheeks of my youth, Bathed in tears have you been ; Thoughts of ray youth, ^ Ye have led me astray ; Strength of my youth, Why lament your decay. Days of my age, Ye will shortly be past ; Pains of my age, Yet awhile ye can last ; Joys of my age, ^ In true wisdom delight ; Eyes of my age, lie religion your light ; 26 302 THE POETICAL ALBUM. Thoughts of my age, Dread ye not the cold sod ; Hopes of my age, Be ye fixed on your God. The Mirror of Literature. THE MERRY HEART. BY THE REV. H. H. MILMAN. I WOULD not from the wise require The lumber of their learned lore ; Nor would I from the rich desire A single counter of their store. For I have ease, and I have health, And I have spirits, light as air ; And more than wisdom, more than wealth,- A merry heart, that laughs at care. Like other mortals of my kind, I've struggled for dame Fortune's favour. And sometimes have been half inclined To rate her for her ill behaviour. But life was short I thought it folly To lose its moments in despair ; So slipped aside from melancholy, With merry heart, that laughed at care. And once, 'tis true, two 'witching eyes Surprised me in a luckless season, Turned all my mirth to lonely sighs, And quite subdued my better reason. Yet 'twas but love could make me grieve, And love you know's a reason fair, And much improved, as I believe, The merry heart, that laughed at care. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 303 So now, from idle wishes clear, I make the good I may not find ; Adown the stream I gently steer, And shift my sail with every wind. And half by nature, half by reason, Can still with pliant heart prepare, The mind, attuned to every season, The merry heart, that laughs at care. Yet, wrap me in your sweetest dream, Ye social feelings of the mind, Give, sometimes give, your sunny gleam, And let the rest good humour find. Yes, let me hail and welcome give To every joy my lot may share, And pleased and pleasing let me live With merry heart, that laughs at care. SONG, BY THOMAS MOORE, ESQ. I'VE roamed through many a weary round, I've wandered east and west, Pleasure in every clirne I've found, But sought in vain for rest. While glory sighs for other spheres, I feel that one's too wide, And think the home, which love endears, Worth all the world beside. The needle thus too rudely moved, Wanders unconscious where ; 'Till having found the place it loved, It trembling settles there. 304 THE POETICAL ALBUM. THE RETURN. THE palms fling down their shadows, and the air Is rich with breathings of the citron bloom ; All the so radiant children of the south, The gold and silver jessamines, the rose In crimson glory, there are gathered ; sounds Of music too from waterfalls, the hymn The bees sing to the sweet flowers as they feed ; The earth seems in its infancy ; the sky, The fair blue sky, is glowing as the hopes Of childish happiness : It is a land Of blossoming and sunshine. One is here To whom the earth is colourless, the heaven Clouded and cold ; his heart is far away ; The palms have not to him the majesty Of his own land's green oaks; the roses here Are not so sweet as those wild ones that grow In his own valley ; he would rather have One pale blue violet than all the buds That Indian suns have kissed ; his heart is full Of gentle recollections, and those thoughts, Which can but hold communion with themselves,. The heart's best dreaming. When the wanderer Calls up those tender memories, which are So very sweet in absence, those dear links That distance cannot sunder come there not Such visionings, young Evelin, o'er thy soul ? The dwelling of thy childhood, the dark hill Above thy native valley, down whose side, Like a swift arrow, shot the foaming stream, The music of the lark, which every morn Waked thy light slumber, and a fairy shape, Whose starry eyes are far too bright for tears, Though tears are in them, and whose coral lip Wears still its spring-day smile ? Although * Farewell,* That saddest of sad sounds, is lingering there, Are not these present to thee ? Evelin was A soldier, and he left his home with all THE POETICAL ALBUM. 305 The high romance of youth. Beloved, and well His heart repaid that love; but there were clouds, Low worldly clouds, upon Affection's star : He sought to clear them what was toil, that led To fame, to fortune, and Elizabeth ! There's music in that bower, where the wild rose Has clung about the ash, such plaining tones As the winds waken ! There a harp is breathing, And o'er it leans its mistress, as she lived Upon those melancholy sounds ; her head Is bent, as if in pain, upon those strings, And the gold shadows of her long hair veil The white hand, which almost unconsciously In melody is wandering. That fair hand Is not more snowy than the cheek it presses ; That cheek proclaims the history of the heart Tells, that across the bright May hours of youth Bleak clouds have past, and left behind a trace Bordering on sadness, but withal so sweet You scarce might call it sorrow ; and that smile But speaks of patient mild endurance, soft And kind and gentle thoughts, which well become A breaking heart, whose throbs will soon be still In the so lonely but so quiet grave. Yes, she is dying ! Though so young and fair, Her days are numbered ; and if e'er her cheek Wears the rich colour it once had, 'tis but The sad and lovely herald of decay, The death rose, that but blossoms on the tomb. (Her's was a heart which, when it once had loved, Could but ill brook the many trembling fears That absent love must know. Her fate was like A star, o'er which the clouds steal one by one, Scarce seen, scarce noticed, till the sweet light's gone.) She is within his arms, and they have met ! Evelin and Elizabeth ? Yes. A flush Of beautiful delight is on her face ; 26* 306 THE POETICAL ALBUM. He clasps her silently, and his dark eye Is filled with tears. Ah, tears like these are worth A life of smiles! At length he gently says, ' Elizabeth, my own love !' It was heaven To think that she again could hear him breathe That dear, dear name ! She answereth not, but lies Upon his bosom motionless. He looks On her sweet face 'tis fixed and pale in death ! Literary Gazette. L. E. L. PARTING. BY ISMAEL FITZADAM. No, never other lips shall press The plighted one where thine hath been ; Nor ever other bosom press The heart whereon thy head did lean. Oh, never, love ! though after this Thy srnile perchance no more I see, The very memory of that bliss Shall keep me sacred all to thee. Farewell, farewell ! in wo or weal, Though worlds may interpose to sever, And ' the world's law,' I wildly feel, Thy heart and mine are one for ever ! Farewell ! the ripe tear fills mine eye My very inmost soul is riven ! After such pang 'tis light to die Matilda, we shall meet in heaven ! Literary Gazette, THE POETICAL ALBUM. 307 THE BATTLE OF ROSLIN. HARK ! 'twas the trumpet rung ! Commingling armies shout ! And, glancing far these woods among, The wreathing standards float ! The voice of triumph, and of wail, Of victor, and of vanquished, joined, Is wafted on the vernal gale ; And Echo hath combined Her mimic tones, to breathe the tale To every passing wind. For Saxon foes invade A proud, but kingless, realm ; Oppression draws her crimsoned blade To ruin, and o'erwhelm : 'Tis Confray, on destruction bent, From Freedom's roll to blot a land, By England's haughty Edward sent ; But never on her mountain-strand Shall Caledonia sit content, Content with fettered hand ! Not while one patriot breathes, While every verdant vale, And mountain-side bequeaths Some old heroic tale : The Wallace and The Bruce have thrown A trail of glory far behind, The heart, to youth and valour known, With giant strength to bind ; While even the peasant, toiling lone, Recalls their deeds to mind. The Cumin leaves not home To tell a bloodless tale ; And forth, in arms, with Frnzer roam The flower of Teviotdale ; 308 THE POETICAL ALBUM. In Roslin's wild and wooded glen, The voice of war the shepherd hears; And, in the groves of Haw tnornd en, Are thrice ten thousand spears, Bright as the cheek of Nature, when May morning smiles through tears. Three camps, divided, raise Their snowy tops on high ; The flag unfurling now displays Its lions to the sky. The tongue of mirth is jocund there ; Blithe carols hail the matin light ; Though lurking death, and gloomy care, Are watching, in despite, Bright eyes that now are glancing fair, Too soon to close in night ! Baffled, and backward borne, Is England's foremost war ! The Saxon battle-god, forlorn, Remounts his dragon-car ! A third time warlike cheers are raised Beneath the noon's unclouded sun ; Upon the patriot band it blazed, Saw thrice their laurels won, And hung o'er Roslin's vale amazed, As erst o'er Ajalon ! Blue Esk, with murmuring stream, Romantic, journeys by Between its rocky banks, which seem To woo the summer sky, With beechen groves, and oaken boughs, And bloomy wild shrubs, fresh and fair ; While oft the pendent willow throws Its locks of silver hair Athwart the waters, which disclose Its image pictured there. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 309 Three triumphs in a day ! Three hosts subdued by one ! Three armies scattered like the spray Beneath one summer sun ! Who, pausing 'mid this solitude, Of rocky streams, and leafy trees, Who, gazing o'er this quiet wood, Would ever dream of these ? Or think that aught might here intrude, Save birds, and humming bees ? Roslin, thy castle gray Survives the wrecks of time ; And proudly towers thy dark Abbaye, With pinnacles sublime : But, when thy battlements shall sink, And, like a vision, leave the scene, Here, here, when daylight's glories shrink, On sculptured base shall lean The patriot of the land, to think Of glories that have been ! BlackwoocTs Magazine. A EPITAPH ON COWPER. BY LEIGH HUNT. HERE, where thought no more devours, Rests the poet and the man ; Life with all its subtle powers, Ending where it first began. Stranger, if thou lov'st a tear, Weep thee o'er his death awhile ; If thine eye would still be clear, Think upon his life, and smile. Monthly Mirror. 310 THE POETICAL ALBUM. THE PYTHONESS. BACK she flung The gathered darkness of her raven hair, And bared her marble brow, as she would turn An unchecked gaze on heaven ; back they flowed, And, as beneath a mantle did she move Within their shadow, while the murmuring wind Bearing them like a banner, with low wail, Passed through those long black locks. Her cheek was And, as the day break fell upon her face, It grew still paler. One whom godless spells Had summoned from the silence of the grave, Would wear such fixed ghostliness of look And, in her eyes, unearthly lightening dwelt, As they caught from the stars, with which she held Communion strange, a portion of their fire. Her form was wan and wasted, as the soul Had worn its fragile dwelling ; when she raised Her white arms, they were like the snowy cloud, That, half dissolved, hangs on a moonlight sky. She stood and watched the morning ; the first blush Of young Aurora was upon the east ; But, when the chariot of the sun-god caught, Invisible glory, from its cloudy hall, A breath of fragrance floated on the air ; The laurels trembled, though the wind was hushed, And sounds, faint, but most musical, swept past. She felt the influence on her, and her cheek Grew red with strong emotion ; wilder light Flashed from her eyes ; and, with still haughtier step, She prest the ground, and flung her arms on high. Bright visions were before her, and the page Of dim futurity was opened, and Years yet to be, were pictured on her soul In all their varied characters of fate. She told of glorious things, of victories, Of crowns, of wealth ; and then came deeper tones Of human miseries, battles, famine, death. Constable's Edinburgh Magazine. L. E. L. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 311 THE WINTER ROSE. HAIL, and farewell, thou lovely guest ! I may not woo thy stay, The hues that paint thy glowing vest Are fading fast away, Like the retiring tints that die At evening on the western sky, And melt in misty gray. It was but now thy radiant smile Broke through the season's gloom, As bending I inhaled awhile Thy breathing of perfume, And traced on every silken leaf A tale of summer, sweet and brief, And sudden as thy doom. The morning sun thy petals hailed New from their mossy cell ; At eve his beam, in sorrow veiled, Bade thee a last farewell ; To-morrow's ray shall mark the spot Where, loosened from their fairy knot, Thy withering beauties fell. Alas ! on thy forsaken stem My heart shall long recline, And mourn the transitory gem, And make the story mine ! So on my joy less winter hour Has oped some fair and fragrant flower With smile as soft as thine. Like thee the vision came, and went, Like thee it bloomed and fell, In momentary pity sent Of fairer climes to tell ; 312 THE POETICAL ALBUM. So frail its form, so short its stay, That nought the lingering heart could say, But, hail, and fare thee well ! Constable's Edinburgh Magazine. THE DRINKING SONG OF MUNICH. WRITTEN IN GERMANY, IN 1800. SWEET Iser, were thy sunny realm And flowery gardens mine, Thy waters I would shade with elm To prop the tender vine ; My golden flagons I would fill With rosy draughts from every hill ; And, under every myrtle bower, My gay companions should prolong The laugh, the revel, and the song, To many an idle hour. Like rivers crimsoned with the beam Of yonder planet bright, Our balmy cups should ever stream Profusion of delight ! No care should touch the mellow heart, And sad or sober none depart ; For wine can triumph over wo ; And Love and Bacchus (brother powers) Should build in Iser's sunny bovvers, A paradise below. [This little poem has been given to the Editor as an early and unpublished effusion of a celebrated and virtuous living Poet.] THE POETICAL ALBUM. 313 LINES WRITTEN BENEATH THE HEAD OF TYRT.EUS. GLORIOUS Bard ! whose Lyre was heard Amid the armed ring, As victory were upon each word And death on every string ! Glorious Bard ! to whom belong Wreaths not often claimed by song, Those hung round the warrior's shield Laurels from the blood-red field. The soldier cowered beneath his tent, His sword all rust, his bow unbent ; His comrades, who had dared to die, Unburied on the plain, And, jeered by mocking foemen nigh, He dared not taunt again. The Bard took up his burning song ; Each heart beat high, each arm grew strong : He told them of the curse and shame That darken round the coward's name ; Told how the mother's cheek would burn To hear her son had fled, How the young maiden's smile would turn To tears, should it be said, * The war strength of thy lover's brand Is weaker than thine own fair hand ;' And proudly rung his harp while telling The fallen warrior's fame, When trumpet, shout and song are swelling All glorious with his name. It was enough. Each sword was out, The mountains trembled in the shout Of men prepared like men to die For Sparta and for victory ! Literary Gazette. L. E. L. 27 314 THE POETICAL ALBUM. BALAK AND BALAAM. UPON the hill the Prophet stood ; King Balak in the rocky vale, Around him, like a fiery flood, Flashed to the Sun his men of mail. 'Twas Morn ; 'twas Noon ; the sacrifice Still rolled its sheeted flame to Heaven ; Still on the prophet turned their eyes, Nor yet the fearful ' CURSE' was given. 'Twas Eve ; the flame was feeble now. Dried was the victim's purple blood ; The Sun was rushing broad and low Upon the murmuring multitude. 'Now Curse, or die' The gathering roar Around him, like a tempest, came ; Again the altar streamed with gore ; And blushed again the sky with flame. The Prophet was in prayer ; he rose, His mantle from his face he flung ; He listened, where the mighty foes To Heaven their evening anthem sung. He saw their camp, like endless clouds, Mixed with the horizon's distant blue ; Saw on the plain their marshalled crowds ; Heard the high strain their trumpets blew. A sudden spirit on him came, A sudden fire was in his eye ; His tongue was touched with hallowed flame, The 'Cursor' swelled with prophecy. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 315 * How shall I curse whom God hath blessed ? With whom he dwells, with whom shall dwell 1' He clasped his pale hands on his breast, < Then, be thou blest, O Israel !' * Be Israel cursed,' was in his soul, But on his lip the wild words died ; He paused, till on its myriads stole The night ; again the * Curse' he tried. A whirlwind from the desert rushed, Deep thunder echoed round the hill ; King, prophet, multitude, were hushed ; The thunder sank, the blast was still ! Broad in the East a new-born STAR On cloud, hill, desert, poured its blaze ! The prophet knew the SIGN afar, And on it fixed his shuddering gaze. 1 1 shall behold it, but not now ! I shall behold him, but not nigh ! He comes to break the Oppressor's bow, To triumph, suffer, weep and die ! * All power is in his hand ; the world Is dust beneath his trampling heel ; The thunder from his lips is hurled, The Heavens beneath his presence reel. 'He comes, a stranger to his own ! With the wild bird and fox he lies The King ! who makes the stars his throne, A wanderer lives an outcast dies ! 1 Proud Israel ! o'er thy diadem What blood shall for his blood be poured ! Until that Star again shall beam, Again JEHOVAH be the Lord !' 316 THE POETICAL ALBUM. The Prophet ceased in awe ; the STAR Rose broader o'er the boundless plain, Flashing on Balak's marshalled war, On mighty Israel's farthest vane. And sweet and solemn echoes flowed From lips of more than mortals given ; Till in the central cope it glowed, Then vanished in the heights of Heaven ! New Times. PULCI. THE EYE. WHAT is the little lurking spell That hovers round the eye ? Without a voice, a word can tell The feelings as they fly. When tearless it can speak of wo ; When weeping still the same ; Or in a moment, catch the glow Of thoughts without a name. Can beam with pity on the poor With anger on the proud Can tell that it will much endure Or flash upon the crowd ! Now brightly raised, or now depressed With every shade of feeling It is the mirror of the breast The thought, the soul revealing ! Oh ! tones are false and words are weak The tutored slaves at call The eye the eye alone can speak Unfettered tell us all ! J. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 317 THE CUP OF CIRCE. All have drank of the cup of the enchantress. SHE sat a crowned Queen the ruby's light Gleamed like a red star on the dark midnight Ann'd her curls; but as they downward fell To meet her ivory neck's luxuriant swell, Some roses twined around the flowing hair Fair roses yet her neck was far more fair : They were in summer perfume, and they gave Fresh fragrance forth at each light tress's wave. Her cheek was crimson beauty, and her eye Flashed light upon its varying brilliancy. There was a spell in those dark eyes, and all Bent joyfully beneath its radiant thrall : Their power was on the heart. One white hand raised A sparkling vase, where gold and opals blazed Only less glorious than their starry eyes; (How sweet the incensed breathings that arise From that enchanted cup !) and she the while Held the bright poison with a witching smile. All gathered round. I marked a fair child stop And kiss the purple bubbles from the top ; A white haired man, too, hung upon the brim Oh ! that such pleasure should have charms for him And by his side a girl, whose blue eyes, bent On the seducer, looked too innocent For passion's madness ; but love's soul was there And for young love what will not woman dare ! There was a warrior oh, the chain was sweet That bound him prisoner to the Circe's feet : He knelt and gazed upon her beauty ; she Smiled, and received his wild idolatry ; Then sighed that low sweet sigh, whose,tender tone Is witching, from its echo of our own. The painter's skill has seized a moment where Her hand is wreathing mid his raven hair: 27* 318 THE POETICAL ALBUM. And he is bent in worship, as that touch, That soft light touch were ecstasy too much. He is just turned from that bewildering face To the fair arm that holds the magic vase The purple liquor is just sparkling up The youth has pledged his heart's truth in that cup ! Literary Gazette. L. E. L. LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM. BY WALTER PATERSON, ESa. I CANNOT stain this snowy leaf Without a sigh of pensive grief! As musing on my days gone by, And those that still before me lie, I read a mournful emblem here, That few could read without a tear ! For, as my musing eyes I cast, Upon the pages that are past, I search them all, but search in vain To find even one without a stain ! But what has been, is not to be, The happy future yet is free ; Far as my forward eye can go, The future still is white as snow ; So free from stains, so free from cares, The tainted past it half repairs ! It is a goodly sight ! but oh ! Too well within this heart I know That this fair future, at the last, Shall be itself the tainted past. Blackwootfs Magazine. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 319 AMOR PATRLE. WRITTEN ABROAD. THOUGH from his native land afar His step the Briton bends ; Still there his country's glories are, And are to him as friends. There they protect him ; there they seem A mantle o'er him spread, A guardian spell a sacred beam, A radiance 'round his head. In every clime, at every hour, He walks in England's fame ; Safe in the shelter of her power, And honoured in her name. Or borne o'er ocean, as the keels Divide the sparkling foam, That boundless main, he proudly feels, Is yet a Briton's home. For to the world's remotest shore, Old Albion's deeds are known ; And till its white waves roll no more, Shall ocean seem her own. Then must the Briton, though he strays O'er distant seas or earth, Find reason yet to love and praise The land that gave him birth. The Council of Ten. 320 THE POETICAL ALBUM. THE WHITE HORSE OF WHARFDALE. A TRADITIONAL TALE. SISTERS, hasten we on our way, The Wharf is wide and strong ! Our father alone in his hall will say, ' My daughters linger long.' Yet, tarry awhile in the yellow moonlight, And each shall see her own true night, For now in her boat of an acorn-shell The fairy queen may he, She dives in a water-spider's bell To keep her revelry : We'll drop a thistle's beard in the tide 'Twill serve for bridles when fairies ride ; And she who shall first her White Horse see Shall be the heiress of Bethmeslie.' Then Jeannette spoke with her eyes of light ' O if I had fairy power, 1 would change this elm to a gallant knight, And this gray rock to a bower : Our dwelling should be behind a screen Of blossoming alders and laurustine ; Our hives should tempt the wild bees all, And the swallows love our eaves, For the eglantine should tuft our wall And cover their nests with leaves : The spindle's wool should lie unspun, And our larnbs lie safe in the summer-sun, While the merry hells ring for my knight and me, Farewell to the halls of Bethmeslie !' Then Annot shook her golden hair ' If I had power and will, These rocks should change to marble rare, And the oaks should leave the hill, THE POETICAL ALBUM. 321 To build a dome of prouder height Than ever yet rose in the morning light ; And every one of these slender reeds Should be a page in green, To lead and deck my berry-brown steeds, And call my greyhounds in ; These lilies all should be ladies gay, To weave the pearls for my silk array, And none but a princely knight should see Smiles in the lady of Bethmeslie.' Then softly said their sister May * I would ask neither spell nor wand ; For better I prize this white rose-spray Plucked by my father's hand : And little I heed the knight to see Who seeks the heiress of Bethmeslie ! Yet would I give one of these roses white If the fairy queen would ride Safe o'er this flood ere the dead of night, And bear us by her side. And then with her wing let her lift the latch Of my father's gate, and his slumbers watch, And touch his eyes with her glow-worm-gleams Till he sees and blesses us in his dreams.' The night-winds howled o'er Bolton Strid,* The flood was dark and drear, But through it swam the Fairy-queen's steed The lady May to bear } And that milk-white steed was seen to skim Like a flash of the moon on the water's brim. The morning came, and the winds were tame, The flood slept on the shore ; But the sisters three of Bethmeslie Returned to its hall no more. * Coleridge and Rogers have made this Strid famous, and the White Horse is still expected to rise on the Wharf near it, when travellers are drowning. 322 THE POETICAL ALBUM. Now under the shade of its ruined wall A thorn grows lonely, bare and tall. Arid there is a weak and weeping weed Seems on its rugged stem to feed : The shepherds sit in the green recess, And call them Pride and Idleness, But there is the root of a white rose-tree Still blooms at the gate of JBethmeslie. Wo to the maid that on morn of May Shall see that White Horse rise ! The hope of her heart shall pass away As the foam of his nostril flies, Unless to her father's knee she brings The white rose-tree's first offerings. There is no dew from summer-skies Has power like the drop from a father's eyes ; And if on her cheek that tear of bliss Shall mingle with his holy kiss, The bloom of her cheek shall blessed be As the Fairy's rose of Bethmeslie. European Magazine. V. ON A TIME PIECE, ORNAMENTED WITH A BUST OF THOMSON. To teach old Time an equal pace, Should be the Artist's care ; But every Season speeds his race, If Thomson's Lyre is there ! Fond workman ! Humbler minstrelsy Might regulate thy chime ; The bard of immortality Need take no note of Time. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 323 CONSOLATION. TO A FRIEND ON THE LOSS OF HIS CHILD. NOT every bud that grows Shall bloom into a flower : Not every hope that glows Shall have its prospering hour: A blight the bud may sever, The hope be quenched for ever. In every joy there lurks An impulse of decay : With silent speed it works, While all without is gay ; Kre yet we dream of ruin, The breach is past renewing. Yet, like the bending bough From some dead weight released, The spirits bound, we know not how, When wo's first press hath ceased ; But this may ne'er be spoken Of heart or bough that's broken. There is a pulse in man That will not throb to grief; Let wo do all it can, That pulse will bring relief: We feel, though self-accusing, That pulse its balm diffusing. Since human hopes are vain, And joy remaineth not, 'Tis well that human pain When dealt, is thus forgot. The smile shall leave no traces : The tear itself effaces. 324 THE POETICAL ALBUM. Then, if apart from all Thou sheddest still the tear, Too early doomed to fall Warm on thine infant's bier, War not with nature's sorrow, For peace will come to-morrow. Or should reviving peace E'en now be kindly given, Oh ! suffer wo to cease, And thank indulgent heaven, That breathes the breath of healing On wounds of deepest feeling. London Magazine. MELROSE ABBEY. WHAT Spirit fills this holy place ? Is it Religion's mystic torch That sheds a more than mortal grace On fractured arch and ruined porch ? Beneath this sky-light dome hath prayed The heroes of the stormy ages ; And here their noble dust is laid, Commingled with the saint's and sage's. Untold thy strongest charm remains A poet found thy secret powers, Rebuilt thee by his heavenly strains, And wrapt in glory all thy towers. Now see we but what lie hath told : His Spirit fills t^iis mighty shrine : Restores the lost, renews the old : Hia immortality is thine. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 325 MARIUS AMONGST THE RUINS OF CARTHAGE. Marius, during the time of his exile, seeking refuge in Africa, had landed at Carthage ; when an officer, sent hy the Roman Governor of Africa, came, and thus addressed him ' Marius, I come from the Prsetor bextilius, to tell you, that he forbids 3'ou to set foot in Africa. If you obey not, he will support the Senate's decree, and treat you as a public enemy.' Ma- rius, upon hearing this, was struck dumb with grief and indig- nation. He uttered not a word for some time, but regarded the officer with a menacing aspect. At length, the officer en- quired what answer he should carry to the Governor? 'Go and tell him,' said the unfortunate man, with a sigh, ' that thou hast seen the exiled Marius sitting among the ruins of Carth- age.' PLUTARCH. 'TWAS noon and Afric's dazzling sun on high, With fierce resplendence filled the unclouded eky ; No zephyr waved the palm's majestic head, And smooth alike the seas and deserts spread ; While, desolate, beneath a blaze of light, Silent and lonely, as at dead of night, The wreck of Carthage lay ; her prostrate Fanes Had strewed their precious marble o'er the plains ; Dark weeds and grass the column had o'ergrown, The lizard basked upon the altar-stone ; 'Whelmed by the ruins of their own abodes Had sunk the forms of heroes and of gods ; While near dread offspring of the burning day Coiled, 'midst forsaken halls, the serpent lay. There came an exile, long by fate pursued, To shelter in that awful solitude. Well did that wanderer's high, yet faded mien, Suit the sad grandeur of the desert scene ; Shadowed, not veiled, by locks of wintry snow, Pride sat, still mighty, on his furrowed brow ; Time had not quenched the terrors of his eye, Nor tamed his glance of fierce ascendency ; While the deep meaning of his features told, Ages of thought liad o'er his spirit rolled, Nor dimmed the fire that might not be controlled : 28 326 THE POETICAL ALBUM. And still did power invest his stately form, Shattered, but yet unconquered, by the storm. But slow his step and where, not yet overthrown. Still towered a pillar, 'midst the waste alone ; Faint with long toil, his weary limbs he laid, To slumber in its solitary shade. He slept and darkly on his brief repose, The indignant Genius of the scene arose. Clouds robed his dim, unearthly form, and spread Mysterious gloom around his crownless head Crownless, but regal still. With stern disdain, The kingly shadow seemed to lift his chain, Gazed on the palm, his ancient sceptre torn, And his eye kindled with immortal scorn! ' And sleep'st thou, Roman ?' cried his voice austere ; * Shall son of Latium find a refuge here ? Awake ! arise ! to speed the hour of fate, When Rome shall fall, as Carthage, desolate! Go ! with her children's flower, the free, the brave, People the silent chambers of the grave ; So shall the course of ages yet to be, More swiftly waft the day, avenging me ! 'Yes ! from the awful gulph of years to come, I hear a voice that prophecies her doom ; I see the trophies of her pride decay, And her long line of triumphs pass away, Lost in the depths of time while sinks the star That led her march of heroes from afar ! *Lo ! from the frozen forests of the North, The sons of slaughter pour in myriads forth ! Who shall awake the mighty? Will thy wo, City of thrones ! disturb the realms below ? Call on the dead to hear thee ! let thy cries Summon their shadowy legions to arise, Array the ghosts of conquerors on thy walls ! Barbarians revel in their ancient halls! And their lost children bend the subject-knee, 'Midst the proud tombs and trophies of the free ! THE POETICAL ALBUM. 327 ' Bird of the sun ! dread eagle! born on high, A creature of the empyreal Thou, whose eye Was lightening to the earth whose pinion waved, In haughty triumph, o'er a world enslaved ; Sink from thy heavens ! for glory's noon is o'er, And rushing storms shall bear thee on no more ! Closed is thy regal course thy crest is torn, And thy plume banished from the realms of morn. The shaft hath reached thee rest with chiefs and kings, Who conquered in the shadow of thy wings ! Sleep ! while thy foes exult around their prey, And share thy glorious heritage of day ! ' But darker years shall mingle with the past, And deeper vengeance shall be mine at last. O'er the seven hills I see destruction spread, And empire's widow veils with dust her head! Her gods forsake each desolated shrine, Her temples moulder to the earth, like mine ; 'Midst fallen palaces she sits alone, Calling heroic shades from ages gone, Or bids the nations, 'midst her deserts wait, To learn the fearful oracles of fate. ' Still sleep's! thou, Roman ? Son of victory ! rise ! Wake to obey the avenging destinies! Shed by thy mandate, soon thy country's blood Shall swell and darken Tiber's yellow flood. My children's names call awake ! prepare The feast they claim exult in Rome's despair ! Be thine ear closed against her suppliant cries; Bid thy soul triumph in her agonies ! Let Carnage revel e'en her shrines among! Spare not the valiant ! pity not the young ! Haste ! o'er her hills the sword's libation shed, And wreak the curse of Carthage on her head !' The vision flies a mortal step is near, Whose echoes vibrate on the slutnhcrer's ear : THE POETICAL ALBUM. He starts, he wakes to wo before him stands The unwelcome messenger of harsh commands, Whose faltering accents bid the exiled chief Seek, far on other shores, a home for grief. Silent the wanderer sat but on his cheek The burning glow, far more than words might speak ; And, from the kindling of his eye, there broke Language, where all the indignant soul awoke, Till his deep thought found voice then, calmly stern, And sovereign in despair, he cried, 'Return ! Tell him who sent thee hither, thou hast seen Marius the exile rest where Carthage once hath been !' Constable's Edinburgh Magazine. LOVE'S LAST WORDS. LIGHT be around thee, hope be thy guide ; Gay be thy bark, and smooth be the tide ; Soft be the wind that beareth thee on, Sweet be thy welcome, thy wanderings done. Bright be the hearth, may the eyes you love best Greet the long-absent again to his rest ; Be thy life like glad music, which floateth away As the gale lingering over the rose-tree in May. But yet while thy moments in melody roll, Be one dark remembrance left on thy soul, Be the song of the evening thrice sad on thine ear Then think how your twilights were past away here. And yet let the shadow of sorrowing be Light as the dream of the morning to thee ! One fond, faint recollection, one last sigh of thine May be granted to love so devoted as mine ! Literary Gazette. L. E. L. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 329 ERATO, FROM A PAINTING BY J. STOTHARD. GENTLEST one, I bow to thee, Rose-lipped queen of poesy, Sweet ERATO, thou whose chords Waken but for love-touched words ! Never other crown be mine Than a flower-linked wreath of thine ; Green leaves of the laurel tree Are for bards of high degree ; Better rose or violet suit With thy votary's softer lute. Not thine those proud lines that tell How kings ruled, or heroes fell ; .But that low and honey tone So peculiarly Love's own ; Music such as the night breeze Wakens from the willow trees ; Such as murmurs from the shell, Wave-kissed in some ocean cell ; Tales sweet as the breath of flowers, Such as in the twilight hours The young Bard breathes ; and also thine Those old memories divine, Fables Grecian poets sung When on Beauty's lips they hung, Till the essenced song became Like that kiss, half dew, half flame. Thine each frail and lovely thing, The first blossoms of the spring : Violets, ere the sunny ray Drinks their fragrant life away ; Roses, ere their crimson breast Throws aside its green moss vest ; Young hearts, or ere toil, or care, Or gold, has loft a world-stain there. 28* 330 THE POETICAL ALBUM. Thine, too, other gifts above, Every sign and shape of love, Its first smile, and its first sigh, Its hope, its despondency, Its joy, its sorrow, all belong To thy dear delicious song. Fair ERATO, vowed to thee, If a lute like mine may be Offered at thy myrtle shrine, Lute and heart and song are thine. Broken be my treasured lute, Be its every number mute, Ere a single chord should waken, If by thee or Love forsaken. Gentlest one, I bow to thee, Rose-lipped queen of poesy ! Literary Gazette. L. E. L. COMPARISON. BY MRS. JOHJ* HUNTER. I SAW the wild rose on its parent thorn, Half-closed, soft blushing through the glittering dew, Wave in the breeze and scent the breath of morn, Lelia, the lovely flower resembled you. Scarce had it spread to meet the orb of day, Its fragrant beauties opening to the view, When ruffian blasts had whirled the rose away ; Lelia, alas ! it still resembles you. So torn by wild and lawless Passion's force From every social tie, thy lot must be ; At best oblivion shades thy future course, And still the hapless flower resembles thee. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 331 THE CAVES OF YORKSHIRE. BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, ESQ. PURE element of waters, wheresoe'er Thou dost forsake thy subterranean haunts, Green herbs, bright flowers, and berry-bearing plants, Start into life, and in thy train appear ! And, through the sunny portion of the year, Swift insects shine thy hovering pursuivants, And, if thy bounty fail, the forest pants, And hart and hind, and hunter with his spear, Languish and droop together ! Nor unfelt In man's perturbed soul thy sway benign ; And haply far within the marble belt Of central earth, where tortured spirits pine For grace and goodness lost, thy murmurs melt Their anguish, and they blend sweet songs with thine ! II. MALHAM COVE. Was the aim frustrated by force or guile, When giants scooped from out the rocky ground Tier under tier this semicerque profound. Giants the same who built in Erin's Isle That Causeway with incomparable toil ! Oh ! had the Crescent stretched its horns, and wound, With finished sweep, into a perfect round, No mightier work had gained the plausive smile Of all-beholding Phrebus ! but, alas! Vain earth ! false world ! Foundations must be laid In heaven ; for, 'mid the wreck of is and WAS, Things incomplete, and purposes betrayed, Make sadder transits o'er truth's mystic glass, Than noblest objects utterly decayed ! 332 THE POETICAL ALBUM. III. GORDALE. At early dawn, or when the warmer air Glimmers with fading light, and shadowy eve Is busiest to confer and to bereave, At either moment let thy feet repair To Gordale chasm, terrific as the lair Where the young lion's couch ; for then, by leave Of the propitious hour, thou rnayest perceive The local Deity, with oozy hair And mineral crown, beside his jagged urn Recumbent ! Him thou may'st behold, who hides His lineaments from day, and there presides Teaching the docile waters how to turn ; Or if need be, impediment to spurn, And force their passage toward the salt sea tides. Blackwood's Magazine. FRAGMENT. LOVE once dwelt in a palmy isle, His palace of the green leaves' shade, A A chain of rose upon his wings, Whose guardian was a dark-eyed Maid. They lived in sweet companionship : Enough for him one smile so bright ; Enough for her to live for him, To watch his chain, to keep it light. But once the Nymph lay down to sleep, Leaving her fragrant chain undone ; And Love awakened while she slept, Shook off his fetters, and was gone. Literary Gazette. L. E. L. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 333 HE NEVER SMILED AGAIN. BY MRS. HEMANS. Henry I. (after the loss of Prince William) entertained hopes, for three days, that his son had put into some distant port of England; but when certain intelligence of the calamity was brought him, he fainted away ; and it was remarked, that he never afterwards was seen to smile, nor ever recovered his wonted cheerfulness. HUME. THE bark that held a Prince went down, The sweeping waves rolled on ; And what was England's glorious crown To him that wept a son ? He lived for life may long be borne Ere sorrow break its chain ! Why comes not death to those that mourn ? He never smiled again ! There stood proud forms around his throne, The stately and the brave ; But which could fill the place of one, Tha.t one beneath the wave ? Before him passed the young and fair In pleasure's reckless train ; But seas dashed o'er his son's bright hair, He never smiled again ! He sat where festal bowls went round, He heard the minstrel sing ; He saw the tourney's victor crowned Amidst the knightly ring. A murmur of the restless deep Seemed blent with every strain, A voice of winds that would not sleep He never smiled again ! Hearts, in that time, closed o'er the trace Of vows once fondly poured, And strangers took the kinsman's place At many a joyous board. 334 THE POETICAL ALBUM. Graves, which true love had washed with tears Were left to heaven's bright rain ; Fresh hopes were born for other years He never smiled again ! STANZAS EY LORD BYRON. AND wilt thou weep when I am low ? Sweet Lady, speak those words again ! Yet, if they grieve thee, say not so ; I would not give thy bosom pain. My heart is sad ! my hopes are gone ! My blood runs coldly through my breast ; And when I perish, thou alone Wilt sigh above my place of rest. And yet, methinks, a beam of peace Doth through my cloud of anguish shine ; And, for a while my sorrows cease To know that heart hath felt for mine ! O Lady ! blessed be that tear, It falls for one who cannot weep ; Such precious drops are doubly dear To those whose eyes no tears may steep. Sweet Lady ! once my heart was warm With every feeling soft as thine ! But beauty's self hath ceased to charm A wretch created to repine. Then wilt thou weep when I am low ? Sweet Lady ! speak those words again ! Yet, if they grieve thee, say not so ; I would not give thy bosom pain ! New Monthly Magazine. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 335 DERWENT-WATEIl AND SKIDDAW. BY BARRY CORNWALL. DEEP stillness lies upon this lovely lake. The air is calm : the forest trees are still : The river windeth without noise, and here The fall of fountains comes not, nor the sound Of the white cataract Lodore: The voice The mighty mountain voice itself is dumb. Only, far distant and scarce heard, the dash Of waters, broken by some boatman's oar, Disturbs the golden calm, monotony. The earth seems quiet, like some docile thing Obeying the blue beauty of the skies ; And the soft air, through which the tempest ran So lately in its speed, rebels no more : The clouds are gone, which but this morning gloomed Round the great Skiddaw ; and he, wide revealed Outdurer ofthe storms, now sleeps secure Beneath the watching ofthe holy moon. But a few hours ago and sounds were heard Through all the region : Rain and the white hail sang Amongst the branches, and this placid lake Teased into mutiny : its waves (these waves That lie like shining silver motionless) Then shamed their gentle natures, and rose up Lashing their guardian banks, and, with wild cries Complaining, called to all the echoes round, And answered rudely the rude winds, which then Cast discord in the waters, until they Amongst themselves waged wild and glittering war. Oh! could imagination now assume The powers it lavished in the by-gone days On Fauns and Naiads, or in later times Village religion or wild fable flung O'er sylphs and gnomes and fairies, fancies strange, 336 THE POETICAL ALBUM. Here would I now compel to re-appear Before me, here, upon the moon-lit grass, Titania, blue-eyed queen, brightest and first Of all the shapes, which trod the emerald rings At midnight, or beneath the stars drank merrily The wild-rose dews, or framed their potent charms: And here should princely Oberon, sad no more, Be seen low whispering in his beauty's ear, While round about their throne the fays should dance ; Others the while, tending that peerless pair, Should fill with odorous juices cups of flowers. Here yet not so : from out thy watery home, Deep sunk beneath all storms and billoAvs, thou Should'st not be torn : Sleep in thy coral cave, Lonely and unalarmed, for ever sleep, White Galatea ! for thou wast indeed The fairest among all the forms, which left Their haunts, the gentle air, or ocean wide, River, or fount, or forest, to bestow High love on man ; but, rather let me now From these so witching fancies turn away, Lest I, beguiled too far, forget the scene Before me, bright as aught in fairy land. Skiddaw ! Eternal mountain, hast thou been Rocked to thy slumber by the howling winds, Or has the thunder or the lightnings Slue Scared thee to quiet ? To the sounding blast Thou gavest answer, and when thou didst dash The white hail in its puny rage aside, Thou wast not dumb, nor to the rains when they Ran trembling from thee : me thou auswercst not. Art thou indignant then, or hear I not? Or, like the double-visaged god who sate Within the Roman temples, dost thou keep High watch above the northern floods to warn Lone ships from erring, while thy southern front Is sealed in sleep? Thy lofty head has long THE POETICAL ALBUM. 337 Stood up an everlasting mark to all Who wander : haply now some wretch, whose bark Has drifted from its path since set of sun, Beholds thee shine, and kneeling pours his soul In thanks to heaven, or towards his cottage home Shouts amidst tears, or laughter sad as tears. And shall I, while these things may be, complain ? Never : in silence as in sound them art A thing of grandeur; and throughout the year Thy high protecting presence (let not this Be forgot ever) turns aside the winds, Which else might kill the flowers of this sweet vale. London Magazine. FOR MUSIC. THOU art looking on the face of night, my love ! Is not yon evening star bright, my love ? Methinks it is A world of bliss For spirits all softness and light, my love ! This earth is so chilled with care, my dear ! Would we might wing our flight there, my dear ! For love to blaze With the cloudless rays It would have in a world so fair, my dear ! But my wish to visit that star, dear love ! Is vain as my other hopes are, dear love ! For my heart's wild sigh Of idolatry Breathes with thcc like that planet afar, dear love ! Literary Gazette. L. E. L. 29 338 THE POETICAL ALBUM. STANZAS. TWINE not those roses red for me, Darker and sadder my wreath must be ; Mine is of flowers unkissed by the sun, Flowers that died as the Spring begun. The blighted leaf and the cankered stem Are what should form my diadem. Take that rose it is nipt by the blast ; That lily the blight has over it past ; That peach-bud a worm has gnawed it away; Those violets they were culled yesterday : Bind them with leaves from the dark yew tree, Then come and offer the wreath to me. Let every flower be a flower of Spring, But on each be a sign of withering ; Suited to me is the drooping wreath, With colourless hues and scentless breath ; Seek ye not buds of brighter bloom, Why should their beauty waste on the tomb ? I am too young for death, 3^011 say : Fall not and fade not the green leaves in May? Does not the rose in its light depart? Needs there long life to break the heart ? I have felt the breath of the deadly power, My summons is come, and I know mine hour! There came a voice to my sleeping ear, With words of sorrow and words of fear, Its sound was the roll of the mountain wave, Its breath was damp as an opening grave ; My heart grew colder at every word, For I knew 'twas the voice of death I heard ! It summoned me, and I wept to die, Oh, fair is life to the youthful eye ! THE POETICAL ALBUM. 339 Time may come with his shadowy wing, But who can think on Autumn in Spring ? With so much of hope, and of light, and of hloom, Marvel ye that I shrunk from my doom ? My tears are past, the grave will be Like a home and a haven, welcome to me ! I have marked the fairest of hopes decay, Have seen love pass like a cloud away, Seen bloom and sweet feelings waste to a sigh, Till my heart has sickened and wished to die. Falling to earth like a shower of light, Yon ash tree is losing its blossoms of white ; Ere its green berries are coloured with red, 1 shall be numbered amid the dead. The buds that are falling in dust will lie A prey for the worms, and soon shall I ! Be my tomb in the green grass mncle, There let no white tombstone be laid ; All my monument shall be A lonely and bending cypress tree, Drooping just such as should lean above One who lived and who died for love ! Literary Gazette. EPITAPH. * De mortuis nil nisi bonum ;' If I had virtues kindly own 'em- As human nature still is frail, Spread o'er my faults Oblivion's veil, Remembering this command from heaven, Forget, forgive, and be forgiven. 340 THE POETICAL ALBUM. TO THE MOON. BY JANE TAYLOR. WHAT is it that gives thee, mild Queen of the Night, That secret intelligent grace ? Or why should I gaze with such pensive delight On thy fair, but insensible face ? What gentle enchantment possesses thy beam, Beyond the warm sunshine of day ? Thy bosom is cold as the glittering stream Where dances thy tremulous ray ! Canst thou the sad heart of its sorrows beguile ! Or grief's fond indulgence suspend ? Yet, where is the mourner but welcomes thy smile, And loves thee almost as a friend ! The tear that looks bright, in the beam, as it flows, Unmoved dost thou ever behold ; The sorrow that loves in thy light to repose, To thee, oft, in vain, hath been told ! Yet soothing thou art, and for ever I find, Whilst watching thy gentle retreat, A moonlight composure steal over my mind, Poetical pensive, and sweet ! I think of the years that for ever have fled ; Of follies by others forgot ; Of joys that are vanished and hopes that are dead ; And of friendships that were and are not ! I think of the future, still gazing the while, As though thou'dst those secrets reveal ; But ne'er dost thou grant one encouraging smile, To answer the mournful appeal. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 341 Thy beams, which so bright through my casement ap- To far distant regions extend ; [pear, Illumine the dwellings of those that are dear, And sleep on the grave of a friend. Then still must I love thee, mild Queen of the Night ! Since feeling and fancy agree, To make thee a source of unfailing delight, A friend and a solace to me ! ON THE ROYAL INFANT, STILL BORN NOVEMBER 6, 1817. BY JAMES MONTGOMERY, EStt. A THRONE on earth awaited thee, A nation longed to see thy face, Heir to a glorious ancestry, And father of a mighty race ! Vain hope, that throne thou must not fill ; Thee must that Nation ne'er behold ; Thine ancient house is heirless still, Thy line shall never be unrolled. The Mother knew her offspring dead ; Oh was it grief, or was it love That broke her heart ? The spirit fled To seek her nameless child above. Led by his natal star, she trod His path to heaven : the meeting there, And how they stood before their God, The day of judgment will declare. 29* 342 THE POETICAL ALBUM. THE PLUVIAN JUPITER. FROM A PICTURE BY GANDY. BY BARRY CORNWALL. LOOK ! where, amongst the porphyry columns, sits Jove the Olympian ! Look ! His shadowy arms Crown the brave temple of his Deity, And round about his head the vapours come Lowering, in dark obedience. Nobly hath The painter told his story and well it shines (Placed by some cunning hand there) from amidst The architectural things of new creation, That in their gilded dress rise stiffly up, As though to do it honour. Trooping on, See where the crowds of worshippers (attired In white, and carrying flowers) pass on, to hail The Spirit supreme, by all his various names Of father, and king, and PLUVIAN JUPITER. He like the god of clouds, sits motionless : But in his quiet power there seems to be Assent and blessing, and the elements As self-informed, bow down obsequiously. Above, above temples and towers sublime, Rocks and blue mountains, and Athenian skies Gleam in the distance. What a scene is there ! Fit for those mighty minds intelligent, Who, through the mists of ages rear their heads In brave defiance of the storms of time. And, haply, from these beautiful regions came A power, that shed a light on man ; and as The sun draws from the earth rich fruits, drew forth Bright thoughts and patriot feeling, and did give To Greece its fame unparalleled. Literary Gazette. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 343 GREECE. LAND of the brave ! where lie inurned The shrouded forms of mortal clay, In whom the fire of valour burned And blazed upon the battle's fray : Land where the gallant Spartan few Bled at Thermopylae of yore, When death his purple garment threw On Helle's consecrated shore ! Land of the Muse ! within thy bowers Her soul-entrancing echoes rung, While on their course the rapid Hours Paused at the melody she sung ; Till every grave and every hill, And every stream that flowed along, From morn to night repeated still The winning harmony of song. Land of dead heroes living slaves Shall glory gild thy clime no more ? Her banners float above thy waves, Where proudly it hath swept before ? Hath not remembrance then a charm, To break the fetters and the chain ? To bid thy children nerve the arm. And strike for freedom once again ? No ! coward souls the light that shone On Leutra's war-empurpled day The light that beamed on Marathon, Hath lost its splendour, ceased to play ; And thou art but a shadow now, With helmet shattered spear in rust Thy honour but a dream and thou Despised degraded in the dust ? 344 THE POETICAL ALBUM. Where sleeps the spirit that of old Dashed down to earth the Persian plume, When the loud chaunt of triumph told How fatal was the despot's doom ? The bold three hundred where are they, Who died on battle's gory breast ? Tyrants have trampled on the clay, Where death has hushed them into rest. Yet Ida, yet upon thy hill A glory shines of ages fled, And fame her light is pouring still, Not on the living but the dead 1 But 'tis the dim sepulchral light That sheds a faint and feeble ray, As moon-beams on the brow of night, When tempests sweep upon their way. Lost land! where genius made his reign, And reared his golden arch on high ; Where science raised her sacred fane, Its summit peering to the sky : Upon thy clime the midnight deep Of ignorance hath brooded long, And in the tomb, forgotten, sleep The sons of science and of song. The sun hath set, the evening storm Hath passed in giant fury by, To blast the beauty of thy form, And spread its pall upon thy sky ; Gone is thy glory's diadem, And freedom never more shall cease To pour her mournful requiem O'er blighted, lost, degraded Greece ! Literai'y Chronicle. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 345 LOVE. AWAKE, my harp, some joyful measure ! No longer breathe a pensive strain ; Be, like my soul, attuned to pleasure, And never mourn again. Awake, my harp, some joyful measure ! 'Twas Love that taught thy strings to move ; And Love now fills my soul with pleasure ; Then hymn the charms of Love! O Love ! some call thy musings folly, Some call thee cruel, base and blind ; But thou, methinks, art pure and holy, Exalted, raised, refined. And some there are who can dissemble The raptures of thy ardent flame ; And some poor maidens start and tremble, If they but hear thy name. Yet, though thy charms were all illusion, Such dear deceits I still would seek ! Thy mantling blush, thy soft confusion, Thy looks that more than speak. Thou know'si, O Love ! Low I have blest thee, How oft for thee my heart hath beat ; How oft in sorrow I've carest thee, And thought my sorrow sweet. O Love ! some call thy musings folly ; Some call thee cruel, base and blind ; But thou, methinks, art pure and holy, Exalted, raised, refined ! Poetical Register. N. S. S. L. 346 THE POETICAL ALBUM. THE BEECH TREE'S PETITION, BY THOMAS CAMPBELL, ESQ. O LEAVE this barren spot to me ! Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree ! Though bush or floweret never grow My dark, unwanning shade below ; Nor summer bud perfume the dew Of rosy blush, or yellow hue ; Nor fruits of Autumn, blossom-born, My green and glossy leaves adorn ; Nor murmuring tribes from me derive The ambrosial amber of the hive ; Yet leave this barren spot to me, : Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree ! Thrice twenty summers have I seen The sky grow bright, the forest green ; And many a wintry wind have stood In bloomless, fruitless solitude, Since childhood in my pleasant bower First spent its sweet and sportive hour, Since youthful lovers in my shade Their vows of truth and rapture made ; And on my trunk's surviving frame, Carved many a long forgotten name. Oh ! by the sighs of gentle sound, First breathed upon this sacred ground ; By all that Love had whispered here, Or Beauty heard with ravished ear ; As Love's own altar honour me, 3pare, woodman, spare the beechen tree ! THE POETICAL ALBUM. 347 ELEGY. BY. C. A. ELTON. A SHADOW on my spirit fell, When my hushed footstep from thee passed ; And sad to me thy mild farewell, To me, who feared it was thy last ; And when I saw thee next, a veil Was drawn upon thy features pale. They strewed thee in thy narrow bed With roses from thy own loved bowers : In melting anguish memory fled Back to thy valued rural hours ; And saw thee gentle gliding round, Where all to thee was Eden ground. The God, whose presence met thee there, Was with thee in thy slow decays ; He answered to thy dying prayer, Whose life had been a hymn of praise : Thy God was nigh thy Shepherd-God, With comfort of his staff and rod. I lay thee where the loved are laid : Rest till their change and ihine shall come ; Still voices whisper through the shade ; A light is glimmering round the tomb ; The temple rends ! the sleep is ended Th dead are gone, the pure ascended ! 348 THE POETICAL ALBUM. TIME. WHILE others grace thy natal day With festive dance and song, A pilgrim leaves his lonely way To mingle in the throng : When thou art near, a lingering pace, A scanty lock, a wrinkled face, No more to me belong ; For smiling beauty best can prove How swift my silver pinions move. I will not boast how oft and bright This day I mean to bring, Though many a downy plume last night Thy bounty gave my wing. Thy hand my rosy crown bestowed To thee my sparkling glass I owed, Now take my offering ; Thou canst not reach so rich a prize In Pleasure's gayest Paradise ! Midst sands that sparkle in my glass No purer gem I find ; The rest may glitter, break and pass, But this remains behind ; Pride may the modest pearl disdain, Or Love a brittle semblance feign, But Pride and Love are blind ; They mock my power, yet I alone Their fraudful counterfeits make known. Receive my gift ! of nature's wealth Thy mind has ample store ; Of Pleasure, Honour, Hope and Health, I cannot give thee more. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 349 The gem, which none of these can buy Will youth's ethereal light supply, When thou like me art hoar ; I give what Fortune cannot lend Time, only Time reveals a friend ! European Magazine. SONG, BY HENRY NEELE, ESQ. FOR thee, love, for thee, love, I'll brave fate's sternest storm ; She cannot daunt or chill the hearts, Which love keeps bold and warm: And when her clouds are blackest, nought But thy sweet self I'll see, Nor hear, amidst the tempest, aught But thee, love, only thee. For thee, love, for thee, love, My fond heart would resign The brightest cup that pleasure fills, And fortune's wealthiest mine ; For pleasures smiles are vanity, And fortune's fade or flee ; There's purity and constancy In thee, love, only thee. For thee, love, for thee, love, Life's lowly vale I'll tread, And aid thy steps the journey through, Nor quit thee till I'm dead ; And even then round her I love, My shade shall hovering be, And warble notes from heaven above To thee, love, only thee. New European Magazine. 30 350 THE POETICAL ALBUM. STANZAS WRITTEN IN A HIGHLAND GLEN. BY JOHN WILSON, ESft. To whom belongs this valley fair, That sleeps beneath the filmy air, Even like a living thing ! Calm, as the infant at the breast, Save a still sound that speaks of rest, That streamlet's murmuring ! The heavens appear to love this vale ; There clouds with scarce-seen motion sail Or, 'mid the silence lie ! By that blue arch this beauteous earth Mid evening's hour of dewy mirth Seems bound unto the sky. O ! that this lovely vale were mine ! Then, from glad youth to calm decline, My years would gently glide ; Hope would rejoice in endless dreams, And memory's oft-returning gleams J3y peace be sanctified. There would unto my soul be given, From presence of that gracious heaven, A piety sublime ; And thoughts would come of mystic mood, To make in this deep solitude Eternity of time ! And did I ask to whom belonged This vale ? I feel that I have wronged Nature's most gracious soul ! THE POETICAL ALBUM. 351 She spreads her glories o'er the earth, And all her children from their birth Are joint-heirs of the whole ! Yea ! long as nature's humblest child Hath kept her temple undefiled By sinful sacrifice, Earth's fairest scenes are all his own, He is a monarch, and his throne Is built amid the skies ! CELANO. A BLUE Italian sky, yet scarce more blue Than the clear lake beneath, upon whose breast Are gliding two or three light boats, with sails Floating and waving gracefully like clouds. On one side there are corn and green grass fields, And olive groves and vineyards, and one shrine, One ruined shrine, sacred in other days To some most radiant nymph or starry queen, Whose sweet divinity was beauty. Near Is a lone cavern, with its azure fount Shaded by roses and a laurel tree, Beneath whose shade might the young painter lean, And gaze around until his passionate hues Caught light and life and loveliness. Steep hills Are on the other side, upon whose heights Dark Hannibal once rested. Who could dream That this calm lake was crimson once with blood ? That these green myrtles waved o'er the death-wounds Of men in their last agony ? Oh, War ! How soon thy red fiends can lay desolate The holy and the beautiful ! Literary Gazette. L. E. L. 352 THE POETICAL ALBUM. THE FLOWER OF MALHAMDALE. IF, on some bright and breezeless eve, When falls the ripe rose leaf by leaf, The moralizing Bard will heave A sigh that seems allied to grief^ Shall I be blithe shall I be mute Nor shed the tear, nor pour the wail, When death hath blighted to its root The sweetest flower of Malhamdale ! Her form was like the fair sun-stream That glances through the mists of noon, Ah ! little thought we that its beam Would vanish from our glens so soon ! Yet, when her eye had most of mirth, And when her cheek the lea's! was pale, They talked of purer worlds than earth : She could not stay in Malhamdale ! The placid depth of that dark eye, The wild-rose tint of that fair cheek, Will still awake the long-drawn sigh, While memory of the past shall speak. And we can never be but pained To think, when gazing on that vale, One angel more to heaven is gained, But one is lost to Malhamdale ! I may not tell what dreams were mine, Dreams laid in bright futurity, When the full, soft, and partial shine Of that fair eye was turned on me. Enough enough, the blooming wreath Of Love, and Hope, and Joy, is pale, And now its withering perfumes breathe On yon new grave in Malhamdale. Literary Gazette. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 353 BALLAD BY MRS. CORNWELL BARON WILSON. YES ! once I own I loved thee, With purest flame, with purest flame ; The smiles of beauty moved me, Let stoics blame, let stoics blame ; Aye ! let them scorn love's tender theme, And with cold hearts such lays deride ; One hour of youth's romantic dream, Is worth an age of life beside ! When Hope's soft voice was singing, Her sweetest lay, her sweetest lay ; And smiles, like flowers, were springing Around my way, around my way ; Then first in joyous hour we met, With bosoms light, from sorrow free, Nor did I dream that dark regret Could ever rise at thoughts of THEE ! 'Twas in youth's summer season, When hearts were gay, when hearts were gay ; Before the wand of reason Chased hope away, chased hope away ; That first this bosom felt love's power, And worshipped at his fairy shrine ; Nor ever thought that luckless hour Would be the source of griefs like mine ! That sunny time passed over, And life grew dark, and life grew dark; And fate soon left thy lover, A stranded bark, a stranded bark ; Of all his early glories reft, On life's rude ocean dark and dim, With not one friendly harbour left, Or welcome port to shelter him ! 30* 354 THE POETICAL ALBUM. Still in that hour of sorrow, When fortune frowned, when fortune frowned ; His heart one hope could borrow, To look around, to look around ; It was the blissful thought of thee, [n life's first bright unclouded day, That lightened all the misery That tracked the wanderer's weary way ! Yet this last hope was blighted, So fate decreed, so fate decreed ; For THOU, like others, slighted The bruised reed, the bruised reed ; Yes ! thou wert like that faithless thing, The blue-winged bird of distant isles, That only spreads its painted wing, And breathes its song when Phrebus smiles ! Yes ! once I own I loved thee, Alas! too well, alas ! too well ; How faithless I have proved thee, I will not tell, I will not tell ! Let stoics scorn love's tender theme, And turn away their eyes of pride ; Give me one hour of passion's dream, 'Tis worth an age of life beside ! A BYRONIAN GEM. BETWEEN two worlds life hovers like a star, 'Twixt night and morn upon the horizon's verge, How little do we know that which we are ! How less what we may be ! The eternal surge Of time and tide rolls on, and bears afar Our bubbles ; as the old burst, new emerge, Lashed from the foam of ages ; while the graves Of empires heave but like some mightier waves ! THE POETICAL ALBUM. 355 AWAKE MY LOVE. BY ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. AWAKE, my love ! ere morning's ray Throws off night's weed of pilgrim gray ; Ere yet the hare, cowered close from view Licks from her fleece the clover dew ; Or wild swan shakes her snowy wings, By hunters roused from secret springs ; Or birds upon the boughs awal^e, Till green Arbigland's woodlands shake ! She combed her curling ringlets down, Laced her green jupes and clasped her shoon, And from her home by Preston burn Came forth the rival light of morn. The lark's song dropt, now loud, now hush ; The gold-spink answered from the bush, The plover, fed on heather crop, Called from the misty mountain top. ' 'Tis sweet, she said, while thus the day Grows into gold from silvery gray, To hearken heaven, and bush and brake, Instinct with soul of song, awake; To see the smoke, in many a wreath, Stream blue from hall and bower beneath, Where yon blithe mower hastes along With glittering scythe and rustic song. Yes, lovely one ! and dost thou mark The moral of yon caroling lark? Tak'st thou from nature's counsellor tongue The warning precept of her song? Each bird that shakes the dewy grove Warms its wild note with nuptial love The bird, the bee, with various sound, Proclaim the sweets of wedlock 'round. London Magazine. 356 THE POETICAL ALBUM. THE PIRATE'S CAVE. THE shore was reefed with rocks, whose rugged sides Were venturous footing for the fowler's step : They were shaped out in wild and curious forms, Above, all jagged and broken, but below The waves had worn the shaggy points away; For there they rave incessantly. When last 1 past along the beach, it was at eve, A summer's eve, stormy, but beautiful ; I looked in silence, on the western sky, The rest was hidden from my view ; but there The day had spent its glory. One rich light Broke through the shadow of the tempest's wing, While the black clouds, with gold and purple edged, Caught every moment warmer hues, until 'Twas all one sparkling arch, and, like a king, In triumph o'er his foes, the Sun-god sought The blue depths of the sea ; the waters yet Were ruffled with the storm, and the white foam Yet floated on the billows, while the wind Murmured at times like to an angry child, Who sobs even in his slumber. 'Mid the rocks That rose stern barriers to the rebel waves, There was one spot less rugged than the rest : Some firs had taken root there, and waved o'er The entrance of a cave, where Grecian bards Had said some Sea-maid dwelt, and decked the place With ocean treasures, for the walls were bright With crystal spar : In sooth, it seemed just formed For some fair daughter of the main ; at noon, Here she might bind her hair with shells, and wake Her golden harp. But now a legend's told Of human love and sorrow it is called The Cavern of the Pirate's Love : her fate Is soon and sadly told : she followed one, A lawless wanderer of the deep, for whom She left her father's halls. A little while Bhe might know happiness it is the heart That gives the colour to our destiny. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 357 But lovely things are fleeting blushes, sighs, The hours of youth, smiles, hopes, and minstrel-dreams, Spring days and blossoms, music's tones, are all Most fugitive ; and swifter still than these Will love dissolve into forgetful ness. She was deserted. For awhile this cave Was her sad refuge ; for awhile the rocks Echoed her wild complainings. I can deem How she would gaze upon the sea, and think Each passing cloud her lover's bark, 'till, hope Sickened of its own vanity, and life Sickened with hope : she'passed and left a tale, A melancholy tale, just fit to tell On such an eve as this, when sky and sea Are sleeping in the mute and mournful calm Of passion sunk to rest. Literary Gazette. L. E. L. THE FIRST TEAR. BY THE REV. R. POLWHELE. AH, why to my too feeling mind Is this my native place so dear, As if it had some chain to bind In lasting links my being here ? I need not ask ! 'twas this calm scene Witnessed ere yet a stranger ! I Had mingled with tumultuous men My purest grief my purest joy. For 'twas this spot on my young cheek That saw the first emotion rise, That saw its little wo to speak, The first tear dim my infant eyes. 358 THE POETICAL ALBUM. THE WIDOWED MOTHER. BY JOHN WILSON, ESQ. BESIDE her babe, who sweetly slept, A widowed mother sat and wept O'er years of love gone by ; And as the sobs thick-gathering came, She murmured her dead husband's name 'Mid that sad lullaby. Well might that lullaby be sad, For not one single friend she had On this cold-hearted earth ; The sea will not give back its prey And they were wrapt in foreign clay Who gave the orphan birth. Steadfastly as a star doth look Upon a little murmuring brook, She gazed upon the bosom And fair brow of her sleeping son, ' O merciful heaven ! when I am gone ' Thine is this earthly blossom !' While thus she sat, a sunbeam broke Into the room ; the babe awoke, And from his cradle smiled ! Ah me ! what kindling smiles met there ! I know not whether was more fair, The mother or her child ! With joy fresh-sprung from short alarms, The smiler stretched his rosy arms, And to her bosom leapt, All tears at once were swept away, And said a face as bright as day, ' Forgive me ! that I wept !' THE POETICAL ALBUM. 359 Sufferings there are from nature sprung, Ear hath not heard, nor poet's tongue May venture to declare ; But this as holy-writ is sure, 1 The griefs she bids us here endure 'She can herself repair !' Blackwood's Magazine. STANZAS. BY BARRY CORNWALL. IN glowing youth, he stood beside His native stream, and saw it glide Showing each gem beneath its tide, Calm as though nought could break its rest, Reflecting heaven on its breast, And seeming, in its flow, to be Like candour, peace and piety. When life began its brilliant dream, His heart was like his native stream ; The wave-shrined gems could scarcely seem Less hidden than each wish it knew ; Its life flowed on as calmly too : And heaven shielded it from sin, To see itself reflected in. He stood beside that stream again, When years had fled in strife and pain ; He looked for its calm course in vain, For storms profaned its peaceful flow, And clouds o'erhung its crystal brow : And turning then, he sighed to deem His heart still like his native stream. Monthly Magazine. 360 THE POETICAL ALBUM. LINES, WRITTEN BY THE SEA SIDE. BY WILLIAM JERDAN, ESa. HASTINGS, upon thy coast I stood, Still onward, onward rolled the flood : 'Tis trite, but who can see that strife Of waves, nor think on human life ? Oh, awful likeness ! how they pass, A rippling undistinguished mass, Fretting the surface, and no more, Till lost upon the oblivious shore. And Fancy, how thou turn'st my brain ! I trace each billow of the main : 'Tis individual, and its span Of being is like thine, O Man ! Mark ye that plumy-crested surge, Its foaming courser forward urge ; Lashing the land, it spreads dismay, The pebbles fly, the rocks give way : That is the warrior fierce upreared, Roaring to battle, ruthless, feared ; He's spent a whispering murmur all That echoes his high-sounding fall. Upon the sand that gentle wave Delights in peaceful grace to lave, The margin dents with flowing line, While glittering planets o'er it shine : That is the Bard, alas ! to see The impress of his harmony And tuneful force, a moment's joy, The next succeeding wave destroy. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 361 Wearing and splashing through these rocks, Whose adamant the struggle mocks ; In eddies whirled, in deep chasms lost, Rubbling in straits, in spray up-tost; Many an effort see they make, And billows rise, and billows break: All worldlings these, who ceaseless boil And labour on with noisy toil ; By difficulties some defied, Die off the granite's reckless side ; While others, blest beyond desire, Wind through, and on the shore expire ! Those burst, the haven ere they reach, And these but perish on the beach. How sweetly these round billows rise, And undulate, while the breeze sighs Above ; their race seems youthful sport, Flight and pursuit they shun, they court- Now parted, and to distance thrown, And now commingled into one ; They swell but soon subside, and where They were, a few small wavelets are ; Or sooth to say, they brawl and flee, One seeks the land, one floats to sea : How like is this to human love, As the young passions swell and move ; Coy dalliance, union, fond embrace, Proud bound, and then a nameless place Or severed fates, away they go, No matter where they froth or flow. Far off a hoary head I view, Dropping salt rheum : 'tis age's hue, And life's last tears. The sea-bird's breast Is on the neighbouring calm imprest Ah, spirit's emblem ! can it be, But one faint struggle more, and lie Shall seek Heaven's element, like thee ? 31 THE POETICAL ALBUM. How blest, if so ; for lo the gale, Increasing, flaps the shuddering sail, Wild ocean bellows loud, and fierce The tempest sweeps, the drear winds pierce With dismal howl, the waters rave, Nothing can scape the yawning grave ; And every mortal, wrecked, may know There is no safety here below. Ah me ! my dream of WAVES is o'er ; Another reflux bares the shore, Another influx comes again, And new each shape in, on, the main My heroes, lovers, bards, all fled, Forgotten, traceless, vanished. And Man, whence springs thy senseless pride ? 'Tis but a CENTURY or a TIDE ? Literary Gazette. COMPARISON. THE lake lay hid in mist, and to the sand The little billows hastened silently Came sparkling on, in many a gladsome band, Soon as they touched the shore all doomed to die. I gazed upon them with a pensive eye r For, on that dim and melancholy strand, I saw the image of Man's destiny, So hurry we right onwards thoughtlessly, Unto the coast of that Eternal Land. Where, like the worthless billows in their glee, The first faint touch unable to withstand, We melt at once into eternity. O Thou who weighest the waters in thine hand, My awe-struck spirit puts her trust in thee. Blackwood's Magazine. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 363 ON A NEW-MADE GRAVE, NEAR BOLTON PRIORY. SWEET be thy rest! near holy shrine A purer relic never lay : A grave of blessedness is thine, More rich than piles of sculptured clay. For softly on these peaceful knolls The feet of happy wanderers tread ; While Wharf his silver chariot rolls In music o'er his ample bed. And none are here but those who come In gentle indolence to roam, Or feed in Bolton's holy gloom Sweet memories of a distant home. Sweet be thy rest ! the toils and woes Of man, have left this magic bound, Since Beauty's awful genius chose, And breathed upon the sacred ground. Those cliffs where purple shadows creep, The stream scarce gleaming through the dell, These giant groves that guard its sleep, The present power of Beauty tell. The crosier's place, the nltar-stohe, Now echo gentle wisdom's speech ; And those dim cloisters, mute and lone, Their meek and holy moral teach. The shrine, the mitred Abbot's niche, Where once unheeded incense spread, Now with the woodbine's wreath is rich, And sweets from vagrant roses shed. 364 THE POETICAL ALBUM. Changed to a bounteous Baron's hall, His gateway greets the wandering guest, And only on its arrased wall The frowning warrior lifts his crest. Where by a lonely taper's light The cowled and captive bigot knelt, Now summer-suns beam cheerly bright, And evening's softest shadows melt. Where once the yelling torrent's jaws Death to the youthful hunter gave, Scarce frolic beauty feigns a pause, Then trusts her light foot to the wave. Emblem of passion's changeful tide ! The flood that wrecked the heedless boy In after years is taught to glide Through sheltering bowers of social joy. For such a tomb of sweets and flowers, By social gladness sacred made, Midst warbling streams and golden bowers, The priest of Persia's Eden prayed. But far from thee shall be the torch Of frantic mirth and impious rite ; A Christian Hafiz guards the porch, And decks the Garden of Delight. And only kindred hearts can bear The smiling peace that slumbers here ; None but the pure in spirit dare Gaze on a scene to heaven so near. European Magazine. THE POETICAL ALBUM. TO IDA. Heu ! quantum minus est reliquis versari, quam tin meminisse ! OH ! sweetly o'er the Atlantic sea, The moon, with melancholy smile, Looks down, as I, beloved, on thee Am fondly musing all the while : And as, along the silver tide, Its silent course the vessel steers, I dream of days, when, side by side, We roamed on eves of other years! Though many a land, and many a wave, Between us rise, between us roll, Still, like a beacon, bright to save, Thou sheddcst light upon my soul. And though the mist of years hath passed, Since first I blessed its glorious shine, Yet thoughts and woes and days amassed, Have only made it doubly thine ! How sweetly to the pensive mind The dreams of other days awake, And all the joys be left behind, No more on earth to overtake ! Our wanderings by the sandy shore, Our walks along the twilight plain, The raptures that we felt of yore,. And ne'er on earth shall feel again ! Unclouded rnoon ! o'er rippling seas Thou lookest down in placid grace; With sails, expanded by the breeze, Alert, our onward path we trace ; To foreign isles, and lauds unknown, We steer, where every sigh shall tell, 'Mid thousands as I walk alone, My thoughts, with those far distant dwell. 56 THE POETICAL ALBUM. Unclouded moon ! 'tis sweet to mark Thine aspect, so serene and calm, Dispersing, vanquishing the dark, And o'er our sorrows shedding balm. Departed years like visions pass Across the hot and fevered brow, Blest years, and vanished eves, alas ! When thou did'st shine as thou dost now ! Oh ! brightly as of yesterday The dreams of vanished years awake, The hopes that flattered to betray, And left the joyless heart to break. I see thee, as I saw thee then. Endowed by youth with magic charm ; I hear thee, as I heard thee, when We roamed together, arm in arm. It were a soothing thought, that thou Perchance, now pondering, tak'st delight To raise thy white, angelic brow, And gaze upon this lovely night ; And that the very scenes might rise Upon thy mind's reverted eye. That draw from me a thousand sighs, In starting up and passing by. 'Twere nothing did we die 'twere nought From life at once to pass away, But thus to wither thought by thought, And inch by inch, and day by day ; To mark the lingering tints of light, As twilight o'er the sky expands, To mark the wave's receding flight, That leaves the bleak and barren sands. To see the stars that gem the sky Fade one by one, to note the leaves Drop from the boughs all witheringly, Through which the wintry tempest grieves THE POETICAL ALBUM. 367 'Tis this that chills the drooping heart, That still we breathe, and feel, and live, When all the powers of earth depart, And life hath not a joy to give ! Not parted yet not parted yet Though oceans roll, and roar between ; A star that glitters ne'er to set, Thou smilest bright, and shinest serene ; Fair Ida ! and the waste of life, All bleak and barren though it be, Although a scene of care and strife, Has still a charm in having thee ! Blackwood's Magazine. THE MOSS ROSE, FROM THE GERMAN. THE angel of the flowers one day, Beneath a rose-tree sleeping lay, That spirit to whom charge is given To bathe young buds in dews of heaven ; Awaking from his light repose, The angel whispered to the Rose : ' O fondest object of my care, * Still fairest found, where all are fair * For the sweet shade thou givest to me, * Ask what thou wilt 'tis granted thee.' ' Then,' said the Rose, with deepened glow, 1 On me another grace bestow.' The spirit paused in silent thought, What grace was there that flower had not ? 'Twas but a moment o'er the rose A veil of moss the angel throws, And robed in nature's simplest weed, Could there a flower that rose exceed. Literary Gazette. ISABEL. 368 THE POETICAL ALBUM. TIME ARRESTING THE CAREER OF PLEA- SURE. FROM A DRAWING BY R. DAGLEY. STAY thee on thy wild career, Other sounds than mirth's are near ; Spread not those white arms in air ; Fling those roses from thy hair ; Stop awhile those glancing feet ; Still thy golden cymbals beat ; Ring not thus thy joyous laugh ; Cease that purple cup to quaff; Hear my voice of warning, hear, Stay thee on thy wild career ! Youth's sweet bloom is round thee now, Roses laugh upon thy brow ; Radiant are thy starry eyes ; Spring is in the crimson dyes O'er which thy dimpled smile is wreathing ; Incense on thy lip is breathing ; Light and Love are round thy soul, But thunder-peals o'er June-skies roll ; Even now the storm is near Then stay thee on thy mad career ! Raise thine eyes to yonder sky, There is writ thy destiny ! Clouds have veiled the new moonlight; Stars have fallen from their height ; These are emblems of the fate That waits thee dark and desolate ! All morn's lights are now thine own, Soon their glories will be gone ; What remains when they depart ? Faded hope, and withered heart : Like a flower with no perfume To keep a memory of its bloom ! THE POETICAL ALBUM. 369 Look upon that hour-marked round, Listen to that fateful sound ; There my silent hand is stealing, My more silent course revealing ; Wild, devoted PLEASURE, hear, Stay thee on thy mad career ! Literary Gazette. L. E. L. THE SPANISH MAIDEN'S FAREWELL. BY MATILDA BETHAM. MANUEL, I do not shed a tear Our parting to delay ; J dare not listen to my fear, I dare not bid thee stay. The heart may shrink, the spirit fail, But Spaniards must be free ! And pride and duty shall prevail O'er all my love for thee. Then go ; and round that gallant head, Like banners in the air, Shall float full many a daring hope, And many a tender prayer. Should freedom perish at thy death 'Twere madness to repine ; And I should every feeling lose, Except the wish for mine. But if the destiny of Spain Be once again to rise ! O ! grant me heaven ! to read the tale In Manuel's joyful eyes. 370 THE POETICAL, ALBUM. THE CAIRNGORM. A HIGHLAND HUSBAND'S GIFT. WEAR thy mountain's diamond, fairest ! In thy waving hair ; It will noblest seem, and rarest If it sparkles there ; For only this dark gem can vie With those brown tresses' burnished dye, And well the elves that guard it know, If it might touch thy spotless brow, For ever in thy memory Thy wedded love would living be. Or hanging on thy ear, dearest, A moment let it shine ; Then in every voice thou hearest Shall seem a sound of mine Yet no ; for never by the tone Of silver words was true Jove known ; I would not tax thy soul to give The fondness that on words can live. But place it on thy hand, sweetest. Clasped with the holy gold, And when a stranger's hand thou meetest, Thine shall be winter-cold ; And thou shalt lute and tablet take In bower or chamber for my sake ; And it shall teach thy pen to show How thought should speak when speech is true. Then hide it in thy breast, dearest ! If it be pure as fair, When to thy heart this gem is nearest, My image shall be there ; THE POETICAL ALBUM. 371 For it has spells more deep and strong When hid its native snows among ; And it shall have most power to bless Where all is power and holiness. European Magazine. V. THE POET. OH say not that truth does not dwell with the lyre, That the minstrel will feign what he never has felt ; Oh say not his love is a fugitive fire, Thrown o'er the snow mountains, will sparkle, not melt It is not the Alpine hills rich with the ray Of sunset can image the soul of the bard ; The light of the evening around them may play, But the frost-work beneath is, though bright, cold an( hard. 'Tis the burning volcano, that ceaselessly glows, Where the minstrel may find his own semblance pour- trayed ; The red fires that gleam on the summits are those That first on his own inmost spirit have preyed. Ah, deeply the minstrel has felt all he sings, Every passion he paints his own bosom has known ; No note of wild music is swept from the strings, But first his own feelings have echoed the tone. Then say not his love is a fugitive fire, That the heart can be ice while the lip is of flame ; Oh say not that truth does not dwell with the lyre; For the pulse of the heart and the harp are the' same. Literary Gazette. L. E.L. 372 THE POETICAL ALBUM. TO THE MEMORY OF IDA. Oh ! what are thousand living loves To one that cannot quit the dead. BYRON. WELL though the clouds of sorrow haste, With darkening gloom, and threatening roll, To blight existence to a waste, And shut out sunshine from my soul, Departed Ida ! rather far My musing thoughts would dwell on thee, Than join the mirthful, and the jar Of voices loud, and spirits free. Sad alteration ! Here alone, Where we so oft together sate, With hearts, where love's commingling tone Had linked us to one mutual fate : I gaze around me where art thou, Whose glance was sunshine to the spot ? These roses bloomed, as they bloom now, But thou art where I see thee not ! Oh ! never more oh ! never more This earth again shall smile for me ! I'll listen to the tempest's roar, Or gaze along the stormy sea, And from the sunshine I will hide, But, as the moon in silver gleams, I'll lean me o'er the vessel's side, And see thee in my waking dreams. Then welcome be the doom that calls To foreign climes my wandering way: These echoing walks and empty halls, The blosmy lilac on its spray. The lily in its innocence, The fleur-de-lis with purple vest, Pine for thee, vanished far from hence, Removed from earth, and laid to rest. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 373 Oh ! do not breathe on Ida's lute 'Twould make her vanished form appear, Since Ida's breathing 1 now is mute Since Ida's voice I cannot hear. All music, and all melody, The azure stream, and leafy tree, The glories of the earth and sky Are stripped of half their charms for me! Then welcome be the flapping sail, And welcome he the stormy main, And never may the breezes fail, But when they bring me back again ! And I will wander o'er the deep, And brave the tempest's threatening harms, Since not a shore to which we sweep, To me can proffer Ida's arms ! Oh ! Ida, ever lost and dear, Soon come the day, and come it must, When I shall seek thy happier sphere, And leave this perishable dust. Then grief shall flee my troubled eyes, And gloom forsake my drooping heart, And through the fields of Paradise We two shall roam, and never part. Blackwootfs Magazine. NAUTA. 32 374 THE POETICAL ALBUM. FRAGMENT. A SOLITUDE Of green and silent beauty, just a home Where I could wish to weep my life away In utter loneliness, and never more Hear human voice, or look on human face. ft is a secret place among the hills : Narrow and dark the valley lies below, And not a taint of earth is on the air, Which the lip drinks pure as the stream whose source Is hidden here, large rocks have girthed it in ; All palaces for the eagle are their sides, Safe or far safer than a sanctuary, For even that, though shielded by God's name, Man holds not sacred. Here at least his power Is neither felt nor feared. The chamois rests When harassed, as the powerless ever are, It 'scapes the cruel hunter. Small as still, A skilful archer's bow would send the shaft Across its utmost boundary, and half Is covered with dark pines, which in the spring Send forth sweet odours, even as they felt As parents do, rejoicing o'er their children In the green promise of their youthful shoots, The spreading of their fresh and fragrant leaves. The other part is thinly scattered o'er With dwarf oaks, stinted both in leaves and growth. And in the midst there are two stately firs, The one dark in its hoary foliage, like A warrior armed for battle ; but the next Has lost its leafy panoply, the bark Stripped from the trunk, the boughs left black and bare By some fierce storm to which it would not bend : Like a high spirit, proud, though desolate. At one end is a cavern, musical With falling waters: roof, and floor, and walls Are set with sparry gems, snow turned to treasure ; THE POETICAL ALBUM. 375 Beyond is black as night, or grief, or death, And thence there comes a silent stream, which takes Onward its quiet course, then, through a break, The only one amid the mountain, flows Down to the world below. And it should be My task in fanciful similitudes To trace a likeness for my destiny ; Those pale blue violets, which in despite Of snow, or wind, or soil, cling to the rock In lonely beauty they are like my love, My woman's love : it grew up amid cares And coldness, yet still like those flowers it lived On in its fragrance ; but far happier they, They rest in their lone home's security, While, rooted from its dear abode, my love Was scattered suddenly upon the wind, To wither and to die. And the blue stream Will be another emblem : cold and calm It leaves its dwelling place, soon over rocks, Torrents, like headlong passions, hurry it Its waters lose their clearness, weeds and sands Choke it like evil deeds, and banks upraised By human art, obstruct and turn its course, Till, worn out by long wanderings, it seeks Its strength gone by, some little quiet nook Where it may waste its tired waves away. So in this solitude, might I depart, My death unwatched ! I could not bear to die, And yet see life and love in some dear eye. Why should I wish to leave some faithful one With bleeding heart to break above my grave ? Oh, no, I do but wish to pass away Unloved and unremembered ! Literary Gazelle. L. E. L. 376 THE POETICAL ALBUM. LINES ON LEAVING A SCENE IN BAVARIA. BY THOMAS CAMPBELL, ESa. ADIEU the woods and water's side, Imperial Danube's rich domain ! Adieu the grotto, wild and wide, The rocks abrupt and grassy plain ! For pallid Autumn, once again, Hath swelled each torrent of the hill, Her clouds collect, her shadows sail ; And watery winds that sweep the vale, Grow loud and louder still. But not the storm, dethroning fast Yon monarch oak of massy pile ; Nor river roaring to the blast Around its dark and desert isle ; Nor curfew tolling to beguile The cloud-born thunder passing by, Can sound in discord to my soul ! Roll on, ye mighty waters, roll ! And rage thou darkened sky ! Thy blossom, though no longer bright, Thy withered woods, no longer green, Yet, Eldun shore, with dark delight I visit thy unlovely scene ! For many a sunset hour serene My steps have trod thy mellow dew ; When his green light the fire-fly gave } When Cynthia from the distant wave Her twilight anchor drew, THE POETICAL ALBUM. 377 And ploughed as with a swelling sail, The billowy clouds and starry sea ; Then, while thy hermit nightingale Sang on her fragrant apple-tree, Romantic, solitary, free, The visitant of Eldun's shore, On such a moonlight mountain strayed As echoed to the music made By druid harps of yore. Around thy savage hills of oak, Around thy waters bright and blue, No hunter's horn the silence broke, No dying shriek thine echo knew ; But safe, sweet Eldun woods, to you The wounded wild deer ever ran, Whose myrtle bound their grassy cave, Whose very rocks a shelter gave From blood-pursuing man. Oh heart effusions, that arose From nightly wanderings cherished here! To him who flies from many woes, Even homeless deserts can be dear ! The last and solitary cheer Of them that own no earthly home, Say is it not, ye banished race, In such a loved and lonely place Companionless to roam ? Yes ! I have loved thy wild abode, Unknown, unploughed, untrodden shore, Where scarce a woodman finds a road, And scarce a fisher plies an oar ! For man's neglect I love thee more, That art nor avarice intrude To tame thy torrent's thunder-shock, Or prune thy vintage of the rock Magnificently rude. 378 THE POETICAL ALBUM. Unheeded spreads thy blossomed bud Its milky bosom to the bee ; Unheeded falls along the flood Thy desolate and aged tree. Forsaken scene ! how like to thee The fate of unbefriended worth! Like thine her fruit dishonoured falls ; Like thee in solitude she calls A thousand treasures forth. ! silent spirit of the place ! If lingering with the ruined year, Thy hoary form and awful face I yet might watch and worship here, Thy storm was music to my ear ! Thy wildest walk a shelter given Sublimer thoughts on earth to find, And share, with no unhallowed mind, The majesty of heaven ! What though the bosom friends of Fate,- Prosperity's unwearied brood, Thy consolations cannot rate O, self-dependent solitude ! Yet, with a spirit unsubdued, Though darkened by the clouds of Care, To worship thy congenial gloom, Like pilgrim to the Prophet's tomb, Misfortune shall repair. On her the world hath never smiled, Or looked but with accusing eye ; All silent goddess of the wild, To thee that misanthrope shall fly ! I hear her deep soliloquy, 1 mark her proud but ravaged form, As stern she wraps her mantle round, And bids, on winter's bleakest ground, Defiance to the storm. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 379 Peace to her banished heart, at last, In thy dominions shall descend, And strong as bcechwood in the blast Her spirit shall refuse to bend ; Enduring life without a friend, The world and falsehood left behind, Thy votary shall bear elate, And triumph o'er opposing Fate Her dark inspired mind. But dost thou, Folly, mock the muse A wanderer's mountain walk to sing, Who shuns a warring world, nor wooes The vulture cover of its wing? Then fly, thou towering shivering thing, Back to the fostering world beguiled, To waste in self-consuming strife The loveless brotherhood of life, Reviling and reviled ! Away, thou lover of the race That hither chased yon weeping deer ! If nature's all majestic face More pitiless than man's appear ; Or if the wild winds seem more drear Than man's cold charities below, Behold around his peopled plains, Where'er the social savage reigns Exuberance of wo ! His art and honours wilt thou seek Embossed on grandeur's giant walls ? Or hear his moral thunders speak Where senates light their airy halls, Where man his brother man enthralls, Or sends his whirlwind warrants forth, To rouse the slumbering fiends of war, To dye the blood-warm waves afar, And desolate the earth. 380 THE POETICAL ALBUM. From clime to clime pursue the scene And mark in all thy spacious way, Where'er the tyrant man has been, There Peace, the cherub, cannot stay ; In wilds and woodlands far away She builds her solitary bower, Where only anchorites have trod Or friendless men to worship God, Have wandered for an hour. In such a fair forsaken vale, And such sweet Eldun vale is thine, Afflicted nature shall inhale Heaven-borrowed thoughts and joys divine ; No longer wish, no more repine For man's neglect or woman's scorn ; Then wed thee to an exile's lot, For if the world hath loved thee not, Its absence may be borne. THE HOUR GLASS. THE dust that here, with motion true, In silence tells the waning hour, Once glowed with vital heat, and knew, The pride of honour, wealth and power- Was one, who lost in pleasure's maze, Relentless beauty's charms admired ; He saw, but withered in the gaze, And in a fatal flame expired. Still in this glass his ashes move, Proclaiming to each pining breast, That he, who knows the pangs of love, May never, never, hope for rest ! New Monthly Magazine. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 381 THE MARRIAGE OF PELEUS AND THETIS. BY BARRY CORNWALL. HIGH placed upon a hill of Thessaly, (That lifts its forehead to the clear blue skies, And when the storms are high, And, like its diadem, the lightning shines, Shakes in wild music all its whispering pines) Sate twice ten thousand deities. Pelion ! in song renowned and heathen story, Dost thou remember that auspicious day, (Marked in celestial history) When gods and star-bright spirits deigned to stray Along thy rills and through thy pastures sweet, Or sporting on their heavenly pinions fleet Shook light and fragrance through the noontide air ?- Then every god that loved the nymphs, was there (The nymphs, the gods' especial care) And goddesses and spirits all of mighty name. First sweet Aurora in the morning came (For well she loved the sea-green maid, Thetis, who wont her streaming hair to braid, Ere yet Apollo dashed the shores with flame), And over Pelion's giant-head she threw (For this was Thetis' nuptial day) A veil of roses, such as in the Spring Burst into beauty 'fore the sons of May, And many a flower, touched with the rainbow's hue, She cast such (though on earth they fade away) In heaven live ever blossoming. And this was the coy Thetis' nuptial day The bridegroom was a man of fame, (His line immortal, though from earth his name) And through a kingdom once held sceptered sway 382 THE POETICAL ALBUM. (Thessalian Pelus) Twas a day of state, And all the assembled gods and heroes then Came down in mortal shapes 'mongst men, (Save one, the greatest of the great) Those holy rites of love to celebrate. Then came the mightiest on his blazing throne Borne downwards, buoyant on a thunder-cloud ; And as he passed each living creature bowed. Mountains, and woods, and waves, were forced to own His powerful presence though unseen he rode, And spared the world the image of a god Saturnian Jove ! on Pelian's topmost height Thou sat'st amidst the circling deities, Ranked each in order, for, as in the skies, They took their place to view this marriage rite. The Queen of heaven was there, her braids of jet Clasped by a dazzling coronet ; Her port was majesty her look was light And pale Minerva, with her face divine, And with mild eyes intelligently bright And there Apollo's brow was seen to shine 'Midst the rich clusters of his golden hair; And Venus, with her zone unbound was there, Upon a thymy hillock bent ; And Bacchus, crowned with leaves of vine, Son of the star-bright Semele and Mars And dark Bellona left their thundering cars, To consecrate a day so sweet and fair And Neptune, charmed, had left his element. Below, below joyous the woods among And fountains through the cool and leafy shade Bright nymphs and sylvan spirits strayed Some laughing chased some woke the cheerful song And some that strain to melancholy dear Some bathed their limbs amidst the waters clear, Naiads and heaven born Nereids, THE POETICAL ALBUM. 883 Or plunged their hands within some secret well, And as they flung on high the sparkling wave Muttered each a soothing spell. Fearless the Dryads left their sacred trees, For well that day did the rude Fauns behave, And through the morn the noon the evening hours, Some tore the violet from its stem, [spread ; To grace the sea-maid's couch when night should And some inwove a diadem, Formed all of roses white, to deck her head ; [flowers. Some plucked the golden fruits, some rolled amongst the Still some were wanting ; yet as day declined They came then first was heard Favonius' sigh, Wild whispering through the blossoms, as he pined Away, in notes of fragrant melody And Cupid, who till then had fluttered far, Blushing and fretful on the varying wing, And wept to see the Nereids fear, Came wheeling round and round near arid more near (As doves come homeward in their narrowing ring) And loitering Dian sent her vesper star To tell her coming, and to say, that night She nearer to the Earth would bend her head, And rest a moment on old Pelion's height, And kiss pale Thetis on her bridal bed. And now the nymph was borne along 'Midst dance and festal song, In spotless garments, as became a bride, Whilst Peleus languished by her side, Breathing in murmurs faint his fondest sigh: His helmet and his arms were all laid by Yet looked he, though unarmed he rode! Hero, and prince, and demi-god! His head was laurelled, and his eyes of fire Fashioned to softness all, and looks of love: Around his shoulders broad a robe he threw, Stained with the murex' matchless hue, 384 THE POETICAL ALBUM. (This the rude fisher found, who wont to rove, Seeking for bright shells through the seas of Tyre). Now was the altar won, And that sweet rite begun Mysterious that unites in awful chain Hearts that none may part again. Bright was the flame and holy that arose, (Fed all by flowers that once on Pelion grew) And sweet the incense that ascended high, Fanned by Favonius' sigh. (Favonius, who at evening blows, And stirs the laurel on Parnassus' side) : Aloft in pairs the birds of Venus flew, And all without a pang the victims died. All was propitious. Soon amidst the throng Low tones were heard increasing, till the tide Dilated in a sound of war. That song Through all the caves on Pelion's side Burst ; and then (diminished) died : Then breathed the flute, the bugle pealed afar, (In tones of music, but too near to war) ; The trumpet poured its note, and all was still Silence was heard o'er vale and hill ; When (from on high descending, like a star That leaves its orb to watch o'er men below), Hymen, the god of wedded love was seen Standing beside the altar green ; Before his feet the votive wreathes were flung, And wildly sweet the hymn his hymn by kneeling virgins sung. And midnight came, and all the gods departed, And nymphs and left the lovers to repose On pillows of the fresh-blown rose ; The winds were silent, and the waters played No more lest that they should the sea-green maid Disturb (no longer pale and broken-hearted). THE POETICAL ALBUM. 385 Love only on the couch was hovering, A couch that gods had deigned to bless, Where each had given some gift of happiness ; Love only staid, he kissed each forehead fair, And n ung narcotic odours from his wing (Sweet beyond man's imagining) ; Then took his flight upon the morning air : Yet every night returned and blessed that happy pair ! MOONLIGHT. WHAT see'stthou, silver crescent of the sky, When, in thy growing beauty, thou dost sail Bright, through yon blue unclouded canopy, And when, ere twilight gathers in the vale, Or sunny radiance leaves the mountain's brow, Thy gentler beams their loveliest light bestow ? Thou see'st the village-dance, where light hearts meet Upon the village green, and where the lute Breathes forth in merry tunes its accents sweet, Nor stops until the tabor's voice is mute, And till the dancers in their mirth forget The jingling music of the castanet. Thou see'st the lover in the twilight bower, When vow is poured on vow, and eye meets eye, And when the bliss of that enraptured hour Is uttered only in the burning sigh ; Ah ! tell them not that youth is on the wing, Blight not the hopes of their delicious spring. Thou see'st the fisher loitering by the shore ; [wood ; Thou see'st the school-boy wandering through the Thou see'st the peasant by his cottage door ; Thou see'st the poet in his solitude, Musing, perchance, some high heroic lay Soft fall thy light where'er his footsteps stray ! 33 386 THE POETICAL ALBUM. But other scenes are thine, sweet star of night, When, in thy wane, the too victorious morn Steals from thee all thy radiance, and with light From orb more dazzling hastens to adorn This lower world : Ah ! then, fair planet, say, What see'stthou, as thou hold'st thy heavenly way ? Thou see'st the traveller, haply doomed to roam In foreign lands, unfriended and alone, An exile from his country and his home, The sweets of friendship and of Jove unknown ; Now round his bark the whitening billows rise, And now his path through Afric's desert lies. Thou see'st pale genius watching from afar The first faint traces of the wakening day, Or gazing sadly on yon fading star, Whose little light fades not more fast away : Ah ! 'tis the vigil of the broken heart, That fain would live, though treacherous hope depart. Thou see'st the mother, wife, or sister stand, By the lorn sick-bed, where disease has found Another victim, and with icy hand The joyful current of the blood has bound, And from the brow plucked off the festive wreath, Triumphant of the thorns that lurked beneath. Thou see'st the soldier on the tented field Snatching short slumber ere he wakes to die ; Thou see'st the wretch whose senses never yield To gentle sleep, and in whose dim, sunk eye Thou read'st remorse and terror ; this is he Who finds, too late, that guilt is misery. Thou see'st, fair orb, the truth of human life, Things, which will be, and which have ever been ; A motley stage, that shows a constant strife Betwixt the tragic and the comic scene ; Where now a sage, and now a fool appears ; To-day delight and smiles, to-morrow care and tears. THE POETICAL ALBUM. 387 STANZAS TO A LADY. BY. T. K. HERVEY, ESQ. ACROSS the waves away and far, My spirit turns to thee; I love thee as men love a star, The brightest where a thousand are, Sadly and silently ; With love unstained by hopes or fears, Too deep for words, too pure for tears! My heart is tutored not to weep ; Calm, like the calm of even, Where grief lies hushed, but not asleep, Hallows the hours I love to keep For only thee and heaven ; Too far and fair to aid the birth Of thoughts that have a taint of earth ! And yet the days forever gone, When thou wert as a bird, Living 'mid flowers and leaves alone, And singing in so soft a tone As I never since have heard, Will make me grieve that birds, and things So beautiful, have ever wings ! And there are hours in the lonely night, When I seem to hear thy calls, Faint as the echoes of far delight, And dreamy and sad as the sighing flight Of distant waterfalls ; And then my vow is hard to keep, For it were a joy, indeed, to weep ! For I feel, as men feel when moonlight falls Amid old cathedral aisles ; Or the wind plays, sadly, along the walls Of lonely and forsaken halls, That we knew in their day of smiles ; 388 THE POETICAL, ALBUM. Or as one who hears, amid foreign flowers, A tune he had learned in his mother's bowers. But I may not, and I dare not weep, Lest the vision pass away, And the vigils that 1 love to keep Be broken up, by the fevered sleep That leaves me with the day Like one who has travelled far to the spot Where his home should be and finds it not ! Yet then, like the incense of many flowers, Rise pleasant thoughts to me ; For I know, from thy dwelling in eastern bowers, That thy spirit has come, in those silent hours, To meet me over the sea ; And I feel, in my soul, the fadeless truth Of her whom I loved in early youth. Like hidden streams, whose quiet tone Is unheard in the garish day, That utter a music all their own, When the night-dew falls, and the lady moon Looks out to hear them play, I knew not half thy gentle worth, Till grief drew all its music forth. We shall not meet on earth again ! And I would have it so ; For, they tell me that the cloud of pain Has flung its shadow o'er thy brain, And touched thy looks with wo ; And I have heard that storm and shower Have dimmed thy loveliness, rny flower ! I would not look upon thy tears, For I have thee in my heart, Just as thou wert, in those blessed years When we were, both, too young for fears That we should ever part ; And I would not aught should mar the spell, The picture nursed so long and well ! THE POETICAL ALBUM. 389 I love to think on thee, as one With whom the strife is o'er ; And feel that I am journeying on, Wasted, and weary, and alone, To join thee on that shore Where thou I know wilt look for me, And 1, for ever, be with thee ! MEMORY. BY W. LEGGETT, ESQ. When memory paints with pencil true The scenes where youth delighted roved, She throws o'er none so sweet a hue As robes the home of her 1 loved. Each tree, each flower, that flourished there, In former beauty seems to wave ; I seem to breathe my native air, 'Mid friends who're sleeping in the grave. But soon these shades of joy depart And present sorrows start to view Memory, like Hope, still mocks the heart With visions sweet but fleeting too ! But Faith points out your radiant heaven, And bids the mourner not despair ; Whispering, " afflictions are but given, " Like angel-wings to waft you there !" 33* 390 THE POETICAL ALBUM. NAPOLEON MORIBUNDUS. .... Sume superbiam Quesitam meritis. YES ! bury me deep in the infinite sea, Let my heart have a limitless grave For my spirit in life was as fierce and free As the course of the tempest-wave. As far from the stretch of all earthly control Were the fathomless depths of my mind, And the ebbs and flows of my single soul Were as tides to the rest of mankind. Then my briny pall shall engirdle the world, As in life did the voice of my fame ; And each mutinous billow that's sky-ward curled, Shall seem to re-echo my name. That name shall be storied in records sublime, In the uttermost corners of earth : Now breathed as a curse, now a spell-word sublime, In the glorified land of my birth. My airy form on some lofty mast In fire-fraught clouds shall appear, And mix with the shriek of the hurricane blast My voice to the fancy of fear. Yes ! plunge my dark heart in the infinite sea, It would burst from a narrower tomb Shall less than an ocean his sepulchre be Whose mandate to millions was doom ? NOTES. 1. Page 1. Sketches taken from Dover Castle during a Storm. These beautiful poems are from the pen of W. Read, Esq., the author of " Rouge and Noir, with other Poems," a volume of very high promise. They were originally published in the Literary Gazette, under the signature of "Eustace." 2. Page 41. The Mossy Seat. This poem, the production of D. M. Moir, Esq., the Delta of Black wood's Magazine, is incorrectly ascribed in the body of the work to J. Moir, Esq. The latter gentleman is no relation to the author of " The Legend of Genevieve," although he has published several vigorous translations from the Spanish, in an article on Spanish Literature in the Edinburgh Review. 3. Page 49. Ode to France. Eij Lord Byron. This splendid Ode had not been transplanted into any edition of Lord Byron's works when first printed in this volume. It has lately been included in the edi- tion of the noble poet, published in Paris, by Galiguani. 392 NOTES. 4. Page 63. To the Spirit of Poetry. This exquisite little poem, which appeared originally under the signature of Zarach, is from the pen of J. S. Clarke, Esq. 5. Page 79. My Brother's Grave. This touching poem was, if \ve mistake not, first printed in a little periodical called " The College Maga- zine." It was afterwards transplanted into the Etonian. Its author, Mr., now the Rev. J. Moultrie, has written several charming poems in the Etonian, and Knight's Quarterly Magazine. Mr. Moultrie is also the author of the Stanzas at page 156. 6. Page 87. Lord Byron's latest Verses. These lines have been printed very incorrectly in most of the periodicals ; but are here given from an autograph copy of Lord Byron in the possession of John Bowring, Esq. They were first put in circula- tion by the person who calls himself Major Parry, and who has written a book entitled " The last Days of Lord Byron." Some idea may be formed of the value of his version, from the fact, that for the line Tread all reviving passions down, Is given Tread these reviewing papers down, and that Mr. P. was accustomed to cite this passage as a proof that Lord Byron's feelings on the subject of the press had undergone a very sensible alteration ! 7. Page 90. A Sketch. These lines of the gifted author of the Improvisa- trice, have been published in her earliest volume, "The Fate of Adelaide, and other Poems." NOTES. 393 8. Page 94. The Burial of Sir John Moore. This poem appeared originally in nn Irish (we be- lieve, a Belfast) newspaper, dated from Trinity College, Dublin. After a good deal of discussion, they have been ascribed to the Rev. John Wolfe, on authority, which scarcely admits of a question. 9. Page 104. Jl Drinking Song. By Lord Byron. This singularly original poem, which the veracious Captain Medwin tells us was composed by Lord Byron one day after dinner, during his sojourn with the noble bard, was printed several years before in a volume of Translations from the Classics, by John Cam Hob- house, Esq. ; as were also the Stanzas, pages 216, 224, and 334. Mr. H.'s work transpired (for it can scarcely be said to have been published) in 1809. 10. Page 106. A Recollection. This poem is improperly ascribed to J. Moir, Esq. It is from the pen of John Malcolm, Esq., and has been included in a volume of very charming poetry, entitled " The Buccaneer, with other Poems." 11. Page 114. Magdalena. By H. A. Driver, Esq., author of " The Arabs." 12. Page 117. The Village Church. Improperly referre'd to a provincial newspaper, but extracted from the " Velvet Cushion," by the Rev. J. W. Cunningham, of Harrow. 394 JNOTES. 13. Page 126. The Storm, These splendid lines are ascribed, I know not upon what authority, to B. W. Proctor, Esq., better known by his alias of Barry Cornwall. They would do hon- our to any pen, 14. Page 131. Mary's Mount. This sketch has been transplanted by its author (D. M. Moir, Esq.) into a volume entitled " The Legend of Genevieve, and other Poems ;" as have also the grand ballad of the Covenanters' Heather Bed, p. 178, the Vision, p. 192, Sunset Thoughts, p. 221, Melancholy, p. 262, and the Battle of Roslin, p. 307. 15. Page 148. The Ground Swell. By N. T, Carrington, author of" Dartmoor." 16. Page 153. Ballad. This touching ballad, from the pen of the amiable and tasteful author of "The Autumnal Excursion," Mr. Thomas Pringle, was written a short time before his departure from Teviot-dale for the Cape of Good Hope. It was adapted to the fine old border air of " My good Lord John." 17.Page 175. Ten Years ago. This Poem, and Stanzas written beneath a Picture, p, 194, have been appended to the last editions of the author's " Poetical Sketches." When first printed in this volume they were original, NOTES. 395 18. Page 177. Lines sent with an Hour Glass. By Miss M. J. Jewsbury, author of " Phantasmago- ria ; or Sketches of Life and Literature." The beauti- ful Lines written by the Sea-side, p. 180, and those On Youth, p. 227, are from the same pen. 20. Page 182. The Dying Poet's Farewell. Ascribed, I know not how correctly, to Horace Smith, Esq. 21. Page 203. Palmyra. By John Malcolm, Esq. ; as are also The Passage through the Desert, p. 263 ; and The Ship, p. 283. 22. Page 222. There is a Tongue in every Leaf. This poem, the exquisitely beautiful verses To a Dying Infant, at p. 271, and Lines suggested by some late Autumn Flowers, at p. 277, are all from the gifted pen of Miss Caroline Bowles, the author of a delightful little volume, entitled "Solitary Hours." "D m 73 I Cn O CO nr 2 U.C. BERKELEY LIBRARIES C00700fc"!i M2651G8 THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY m