8^5 b rnia 9-^0 THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES THE BUCCANEER, AND OTHER POEMS. By JOHN MALCOLM, Late of the 42d Regiment. EDINBURGH : PUBLISHED BY OLIVER & BOYD, TWEEDDALE-COURT ; AND G. & W. B. WHITTAKER, LONDON. 1824. ENTERED IN STATIONERS'-HALL. OLIVER & BOYD, PRINTERS. PREFACE. The composition of the following Poems has been the amusement of some of the Avithor's leisure hours. Such as they are, he now submits them to the Public, not without con- siderable fears with regard to their reception ; especially as the circumstances, which he might plead in palliation of their imperfections, would by no means excuse their publication. If, however, they have any merit, the world is not unjust; and if destitute of that, the Author cannot, for his own sake, regret that they should be speedily forgotten. 9419S3 CONTENTS. Page The Buccaneer, Canto I., 1 Canto II., 17 Lines to Spain, 34 Lines on a Dead Soldier, 38 The Aeronaut, , 41 Palmyra, 45 The Spanish Lovers, 49 Stanzas to Greece, 80 The Camp, 83 Orkney, 86 Stanzas written at the Close of a Year, 104 Dream of a Wounded Soldier, 109 Home, 115 Lines to Melancholy, 124 to Greece, 129 The Setting Sun, 132 St Sebastian, 134 The Steam-Boat, 138 Fergusson's Last Lucid Interval, ...143 X vi CONTENTS. Page Song of the Spaniard, 147 Lines to Lord Byron, 150 on the Loss of a Ship, 153 on Napoleon, 156 To Mary, 158 Stanzas to Scio, 160 Lines on viewing the Tomb of Sir John Moore, 165 Song on his Majesty's Procession to Holyrood, 16? Lines on the Disappearance of a Female Child, l^^) liines on Moscow, 173 Greece, 178 Song on the 42d Regiment, 181 Stanzas on a Lady, 183 Ocean, 186 The Warrior's Dirge, 189 Music, 193 Eve of Battle among the Pyrenees, 196 Change, 199 Lines on the Death of Lord Byron, 200 THE BUCCANEER. CANTO I. Far o'er the waters, bright with evening's ray. The vessel holds her solitary way ; Her white sails hover o'er the foam below. Dashed from the billows by her bounding prow : And huge and high, like brooding Avings out- spread. Cast far behind a lone and mighty shade. Hark from the topmast sounds the welcome cry Of " Land a-head !" like cloud 'twixt sea and sky : Emerging slowly from their boiling seas, Soar the dark summits of the Orcades ; A 2 THE BUCCANEER. Amid whose Isles the ocean's desert homes. Wild as a prisoned maniac, Pentland foams, Careers through stormy straits with rushing roar. And bursts in thunder on each savage shore. And who is he whose brief and stern command His crew obey with instant heart and hand ? Who sends in musing mood his wandering eye. Far o'er the ocean's briglit immensity ? Yeai's had rolled on since o'er its distant wave He saw his home sink down as in a grave : And now its lonely mountains rise again. To hail that wanderer of the pathless main ; Each early scene that meets his ardent gaze. Reminds him now of brighter, happier days. With these come darker thoughts and wilder di-eams. That rush like clouds o'er memory's moonlight gleams, — The pangs that pass not, and the vain regret. His heart fain would, but never can forget. THE BUCCANEER. 3 Such are his bosom's guests, as from the prow Looks on his native Isles — the Pirate Gow ! Long were the task to trace each varied cause. Whose silent workings made him what he was. Born on that far and melancholy shore, Where Nature sighs and saddens evermore : In early days a strange and wayward boy. He sought in solitude a gloomy joy. Where rocks of ages soared within their shroud. Wove of the mingled ocean-mist, and cloud ; There would he watch the crowding waves attack The eternal crag that heaves them howling back. From whose terrific height — half-scaled — that fall Like foiled besiegers of a leagured wall ; Or gaze upon the solitary sail That passed like wandering cloud before the gale. Rocked by the tempest on the rolling wave. At once the Islesman's cradle and his grave. In his light bark careering o'er the floods. His soul imbibed their wild and stormy moods : His walks the scenes of many a gloomy tale. Where louder than the roar of wave and gale 4 THE BUCCANEER. The '-vvildered pilgrim of the starless night Oft hears the shrieks he deems of water sprite. Till by the flash that gleams along the wave. He sees the bark reel down into her gi'ave : Nursed 'mid such wilds, their breathings like a spell Upon his youthful fancy deeply fell ; And, v/ooed to musing, where each sound and sight. Tinged all his early thoughts with hue of night. By the bright dreams of youth, he had believed His heart had still been soothed to be deceived. We trace not here, through years of hopeless time. His long progressive lapse from grief to crime. In bosoms gay, to whom mere life is joy, JMisfortune comes to chasten, not destroy ; But hearts that early wear the tinge of care. She wakes to rage, or sinks into despair. With such, as sure from sin as sorrows flow. Crime ever tends upon the walks of woe. Far from the world and all its busy race. His wounded spirit fixed her dwelling-place ; THE BUCCANEER. 5 And sought in solitude a vain relief, Which only soothes to foster secret grief. His early friends, the desert and the flood. To them he clung in dreary brotherhood. Till shunning long, his heart at length began To hate communion with his felloAV-man ; And cold at last to every fear and hope. Behold the lone and gloomy misanthrope ! He leaves his home, with billow and with breeze. Roused by his heart's wild wakening energies. Oh ! well can such, for love of glory, brave, By field or flood, the terrors of the grave : Resistless, kindling in the battle broil. When foes are thickest on our native soil. But love of fame — of friends — of country, ne'er Could wake the heart to darings like despair. From every tie that bends to being free. That knows not joy, and mocks at agony : With this most fearful heritage, he sought Upon the roaring seas escape from thought. Vain hope ! our own dark shade we cannot shun. It haunts our footsteps till our day is done. 6 THE BUCCANEER. Oh ! for a drop of Lethe's wandering wave. Oblivious as the cold and silent grave ; That stream, whose dark and sullen water rolls Remembrance of the past from parted souls. And from the day he sighed his far farewell. Of him no ear had heard, no tongue could tell ; No more had friends a hope of his return. And all, save one fond majd, had ceased to mourn. Men spake of him, — remembered more than known, — As of a gloomy vision seen and gone. The long-lank grass sighed sadly at his gate. The passing pilgrim there no more would Avait ; Deep silence reigned among his garden bowers, A mingled wilderness of weeds and flowers ; The roses bloomed and faded all unviewed. And sighed their sweetness to tlie solitude ; Unheard the small bird warbled on the spray A pensive requiem to the dying day ; A verdant garment years had lightly thrown Ai-ound the dim and aged dial-stone : THE BUCCANEER. 7 Still o'er it passed, by mortal unsurveyed. From morn to night. Time's dark funereal shade ; vStill to the waste it told its mom-nful tale. Till twilight o'er the waters dropt her veil. Sad is the scene beneath her blazing skies, A howling wilderness where Ormus lies ; Or where we trace, 'mid Tadmor's wrecks sub- lime. O'er tower and tomb, the morning march of time. Where Solitude hath fixed her sullen throne. And broods Oblivion o'er her crumbling stone ; Where not a sound, except the lion's roar. Breaks nightly like the billow's on the shore ; And not an eye beholds her awful doom. Save such as glares amid the desert's gloom. But sadder than her thousand years' decay. Seems the lone hall, the wreck of yesterday. Which lifts its blighted form 'mid life's gay scene. And points where ruin hath so lately been : We feel as if its echoes still were there, And start at silence where it breathes despair ! 8 THE BUCCANEER. Sudden, at last, the wandering voice of Fame Wild tales began to whisper of his name. And ships seen drifting o'er the waters lone. Their cargoes plundered, and their sailors gone, (Sad witnesses by which the ocean gave Dark hint of secrets trusted to its wave,) Revealed at last to many a distant land The evil workings of his pirate band. Where had he been ? In what far distant clime Had passed the earlier years of manhood's prime ? None knew ; but now his native hills arose : How drear to him their desolate repose ! Alas ! far fairer scenes of earth and sky Had then seemed clouded to the wanderer's eye — The misty mount, the airy cliff sublime. That mocks the eternal roll of tide and time ; The long dim moorland waste, the twilight vales. The scenes of superstition's mystic tales : These, — the wild haunts his footsteps loved to range, Are still the same — in him alone the change. THE BUCCANEER. 9 But there no more shall voice of gladness greet The wave- worn pilgrim at the still retreat ; Nor she that loved him from her mansion come To give the wanderer weeping welcome home. No more for him shall friends the feast prepare. No heart remember him in evening prayer ; The brow of childhood saddens at his name. The cheek of kinsmen reddens with its shame. And this he knew and felt ; but now too late To mend the past, or shun the future fate. He felt what by his crew must ne'er be seen. To them he bears a cold and haughty mien : His the keen eye, beneath its brow's dark shroud That glanced like lightning from the thunder- cloud. And yet at times a smile would kindle there, — (A sunbeam wandering o'er a sepulchre), — Which oft, in moments of excited mirth. Half-formed and feeble, perished in the birth. But his were darker hours, — when on the deep. All, save the lonely watch, had sunk to sleep ; Then, at the dead of night, the pirate throws His form on couch, and vainly wooes repose ; 10 THE BUCCANEER. Or if at last, perchance, soft slumber steals. And weary lids in sweet oblivion seals ; The gentle spell some frightful visions scare. And drench with clammy dew the bristling hair ; And bursting on the brow the cold drops hung. By more than pangs of mortal terrors wrung. To waking eyes reveal the dire reviews. The dreamer's guilty conscience nightly rues. The moon had wandered to her cloudy cave. And darkness wrapt the rude and roaring wave : They hear ; but all too late to shun, by flight, Tlie tides that hold their revels through the night. Vain hope, to stem the waters reeling round ; The bark is hurrying down the darksome sound, Careering on her headlong course so fast. Beneath her bow the Isles are rushing past ; Low wailed the wind, as if it sung their dirge. The ship their coffin, and their bier the sur9 Or crumbling remnant of the past That ivy shelters trom the blast. And clinffs to still when others flee. Like true love in adversity. On Gothland's solitary pile The last blush of the dying day Plays like a melancholy smile And hectic glow on pale decay. Such o'er Consumption's cheek will stray. Ere the long night-shade round it lies. Life's last gleams ere it wane away Its setting sun and evening skies. The moss of years is on the wall. And fitfully the night- winds start Through Bothwell's roofless ruined hall. Like sobs of sorrow from the heart ; Upon each floor of cold damp sod The clustering weeds like hearse-plumes nod ; Through chambers desolate and green Hoots the grey owl at evening's close, INIeant for far other guests, I ween, — Where wave-worn Beauty might repose. 100 ORKNEY. And find that bliss in love's caress Which hallows scenes of loneliness. See Hoy's Old Man,* whose summit bare Pierces the dark-blue fields of air. Based in the se , his fearful form Glooms like the spirit of the storm. An ocean Babel, rent and worn By time and tide — all wild and lorn — A giant that hath warred with heaven, Whose ruined scalp seems thunder-riven, — Whose form the misty spray doth shroud, — Whose head the dark and hovering cloud. Around his dread and lowering mass. In sailing swarms the sea-fowl pass. But when the night-cloud o'er the sea, •Hangs like a sable canopy. And wlien the flying storm doth scourge Around his base the rushing surge. * An immense pillar of rock rising out of the sea, and detached from the island. It has obtained its name from its supposed resemblance to the figure of an old man. ORKNEY. 101 Swift to his airy clefts they soar. And sleep amid the tempest's roar. Or with its howling round his peak. Mingle their drear and dreamy shriek. The dying day has had its rest Upon the mountain's lofty crest ; Now, o'er the ocean it has fled. And to the past is gathered ; From stunted shrubs of foliage bared, The farewell melodies are heard ; The twilight spreads a duskier veil Upon the deep and lonely dale. And, moaning to the evening star. The mountain-stream is heard afar. He, who misfortune's power hath proved. And vainly lived, or vainly loved. Owns, with the season and with thee — Thou stormy land ! a sympathy. As sigh the winds when leaves are sere — The dirge-notes of the fallen year. 102 ORKNEY. Feels a stern joy his bosom sway, As drear and dim it wanes away. And in a blighted world can find A picture of his own dark mind. The twilight fades, and Night again Claims fx-om our time her portioned reign ; Earth sets, and leaves us to admire Yon vaulted canopy of fire. Those burning glories of the sky. Those " sparks of immortality," Which shed from high their living light, And blaze through the blue depths of night. At such an hour, should music stray. Soft from some isle, far — far away. It seems to charm to silent sleep The murmurs of the mighty deep ; The torrent, as it speeds along. Stills its dark waters to the song. And the full bosom feels relief. Soothed by the mystic " joy of grief ;" ORKNEY. 103 Upon the heart-chords stealing slow. It hallows every cherished woe. And v/akes sensations in the mind. Wild, beautiful, and undefined. As tones that hai-p-strings give the wind. Oh ! at such soul-inspiring strain. The wondrous links of Memory's chain, Though scattered far, unite again. And Time and Distance strive in vain. Again Youth's fairy visions pass In morning glow o'er IMemory's glass. At every magic melting fall. They come like echoes to their call. And with the dreams of vanished years. Steal forth again our smiles and tears. STANZAS WRITTEN AT THE CLOSE OF A YEAR. And it hath gone into the grave of time — The past — the mighty sepulchre of all ! That solemn sound — the midnight's mournful chime. Was its deep dead-bell — but, within the hall The old and young hold gladsome festival. — What hath it left them thus to cause such joy ? — Gray hairs to some — and hearts, less green to all. And fewer steps to where their fathers lie Low in the church-yard cell — cold — dark — and silently ! CLOSE OF A YEAR. 105 Strange time for mirth ! — when round the leaf- less tree The wild winds of the winter moan and sigh. And while the twilight saddens o'er the lea. Mute every woodland's evening melody — Mute the wide landscape — save where, hurry- ing by. Roars the dark torrent on its headlong flight. Or, slowly sailing through the blackening sky. Hoots unto solitude, the bird of night. Seeking the domeless wall — the turret's hoary height. And yet with Nature, sooth, we need not grieve ; She does not heed the woes of human kind ; No : for the tempests howl, the waters heave Their hoary hills unto the raging wind. And the poor bark no resting-place can find ; And friends on shore shall weep — and weep in vain, For, to the ruthless elements consigned. The seaman's corpse is drifting through the main. Ne'er to be seen by them, nor heard of e'er again ! lOf) CLOSE OF A YEAR. Now o'er the skies the orbs of light ai-e spread. And through yon shoreless sea they wander on ; — Where is the place of your abode, ye dead ? To what far regions have your spirits gone ? But ye are silent — silent as the stone That gathers moss above your bed of rest. And from the land of souls returneth none To tell us of the place to which we haste ; But time will tell us all — and time will tell us best. How still — how soft — and yet how dread is all The scene around ! — the silent earth and air ! What glorious lamps arehung in Night's high hall ! Her dome — so vast, magnificent, and fair ! Oh ! for an angel's wing to waft me there ! How sweet, methinks, e'en for one little day. To leave this cold, dull sphere of cloud and care, And, midst the immortal bowers above, to stray In lands of light and love — unblighted by decay ! Surely there is a language in the sky — A voice that speaketh of a world to come ; It swells from out thy depths. Immensity ! CLOSE OF A YEAR. 107 And tells us this is not our final home. As the toss'd bark, amidst the ocean's foam. Hails, through the gloom, the beacon o'er the wave ; So from life's troubled sea, o'er which we roam. The stars, like beacon-lights, beyond the grave, Shine through the deep, o'er which our barks we hope to save ! Now gleams the moon on Ai'thur's mighty crest, That dweller of the air — abrupt and lone ; Hushed is the city in her nightly rest ; But hark ! — there comes a sweet and solemn tone, The lingering strains, that sweDed in ages gone. The music of the wake — oh ! many an ear, Raised from the pillow gentle sleep hath flown, Lists with delight, while blend the smile and tear. As recollections rise of many a vanished year. It speaks of former scenes — of days gone by — Of early friendships — of the loved and lost — And wakes such music in the heart, as sigh 108 CLOSE OF A YEAR. Of evening wooes from harp-strings gently crost ; And thoughts and feelings crowd — a varied host. O'er the lone bosom from their slumbers deej), Unfelt amidst its winter's gathering frost. Till the soft spell of music o'er it creep. And thaw the ice away, and bid the dreamer weep ! THE DREAM OF A WOUNDED SOLDIER. The day had set — and silence drear Sank o'er that field — the last but one So fiercely fought, and dearly won — The red goal of his wild career — The mightiest of the human kind — Which was like meteor's on the wind, That deeper darkness, in its rear, Leaves, when its brief and blazing race Hath sped along, the wilds of space ! The thunders of the fight had past To echoes on the moaning blast ; 110 DREAM OF A WOUNDED SOLDIER. But oft upon its hollow sigh Of low and melancholy sound. Came the loud sob of agony, To break sepulchral silence round : — There, in his blood, the war-horse lay. Whose stormy breath had wreathed him o'er With foam — such as the ocean's spray Leaves, when the winds have passed away, At eve along the silent shore ! There, imaged in the broad Garonne, Like drops of light the pure stars shone ; The watch-fires' fitful gleams, that sank And soared along its silent bank. Tinged the dark night-cloud's edge with fire. And blazed on turret, dome, and spire ! In that still hour, the sleeji I found Was such as fevered brain permits. When pangs that shoot fi'om stiffening wound, And wild delirium rage by fits ! — Oh ! then to troubled Fancy's eye Again the tide of war rolled by — DREAM OF A WOUNDED SOLDIER. HI 'Mid sulphurous pall, the whistling ball, The battle's fiery tempest past With rushing sound — as, in some hall Of ruin, roars the gathering blast ; — And sweeping down the sky's blue dome. Like comet with its burning train. Burst with wild roar the blazing bomb. And strewed with dead the plain ! Then came, methought, a night of fear : We fled ; and thundering in our rear. To change reti*eat into a rout. In that dark dream I seemed to hear The horsemen in their full career. With wild hurrah and vengeful shout ! And hurrying on, as storm-clouds flee. Or wrecks that di-ift upon the sea, Methought we passed through ghostly glades, 'Mid moonlight gleams and mournful shades. Where dying men forsaken lay. And saw — but could not scare away The famished vultures, as they tore The shuddering flesh ere life was o'er ! — 112 DREAM OF A WOUNDED SOLDIER. And fast — and fast — and faster still;, A living chaos — on we rolled Adown the vale, and up the hill. And o'er the mute and midnight wold, That starting shook, as in hot haste, At gallop o'er the lonely waste. By foaming steeds the cannon whirled. Woke central echoes of the world ! Then changed the visions of my dream : Upon a waste, all bleak and dim. And bounded by the horizon's brim, I stood beside a desert stream. Whose lone and melancholy sound Each sense to slumber seemed to lull ; It was so dreamy and so dull. That deeper seemed the silence round : And there, methought, I walked with one I loved in youth — yet knew that she Ere then had passed from things that be Beneath the circuit of the sun ! DREAM OF A WOUNDED SOLDIER. 113 And as I spake of perils o'er. The silent tears stole down her face. And in her cold and close embrace She clasped me as to part no more ! — Then sudden on my startled ear Again arose the sounds of fear. Like rustling of the forest leaves. When her last sighs pale Autumn heaves. Then the loud tramp of hurrying throng. That bore us in its flight along, — Till sweeping o'er that dreary ti'ack. We heard at last the ocean's roar, — The headlong charge was at our back — Fire flashed behind — floods yawned before ! And borne away unto the verge Of rocks that hung above the sea. To them we clung convulsively. In vain — for o'er the sounding surge, Forced from our hold by crowds that prest, Down — down we sank amidst the waste. While shrieks of horror slumber broke. And from that direful dream I woke ! H 114 DREAM OF A WOUNDED SOLDIER. I woke — and to mine opening eye Another scene arose in view ; But still the voice of agony I heard — and deemed reality What was a dream — yet partly true ; And closely to my couch I clung As it above the deep did hang, — But the dread cries I heard — the pang Of ghastly wounds from warriors wrung ! As morning beams steal through the sea Of mists that, on the landscape wide. Rest like a dim and waveless tide ; So Memory's light to me Came glimmering through a wildered track. O'er which night's phantom-shadows lay ; Through them it slowly wandered back Unto the scenes of yesterday. And I — from visionary pain To real — gladly woke again. HOME. When on the last far height we pause to throw A parting look upon our home below, And gaze in silence on the peaceful bowers, That gave their shelter to our happier hours ; While through the twilight of the past, flit by- Its shadowy forms, to Memory's musing eye ; How long — ere from the summit of the hill We turn the foot that there would linger still ? And when that scene sinks down its ridge behind. Do they too set — the visions of the mind ? Ah ! no : — the winds may waft — the billows bear To other lands — but they will haunt us there : — 116 HOME. The shadows of the past — that round us grow INIore deep, — as life's declining sun is low. In all its wanderings, still the heart is true To that loved scene, whereitsyoungfeelings grew: E'en when its withered hopes around it fall, Like faded wreaths in some forsaken hall. Still, o'er the waste of sorrow, unforgot, Gi'een and unfading blooms that hallowed spot : Its memory steals along life's sullen stream. As breaks o'er clouded seas the setting beam. Though brighter lands beyond the ocean lie. And softer scenes there woo the raptured eye. Yet to the pilgrim's heart they cannot bring The charm that breathed in youth from each fair thing. Around the haunts, where passed his infant hours. When life and feeling seemed to dwell in flowers ; A voice in every breeze — in leaves that hung Upon the waving woods — a whispering tongue ; HOME. 117 When heaven and earth seemed joined, the skies to rest On ocean's margin, and the mountain crest ; When, in the silent night, his infant glance Was cast in wonder on the blue expanse. And gazing on the stars, so bright and fair. He wished, e'en then, for wings to waft him there : With tiny hands, stretched upwards to its dome. E'en then the heart hath sighed for its high home, And wept for other worlds, ere yet its tear Was shed o'er sorrows, all undreamt of here ; Ere yet it knew that, launched on life's rough wave. Its bark must drift to that dark port — the grave. Thou who in foreign lands hast lonely strayed, 'Midst Nature's scenes of solitude and shade, Know'st, when the winds had wafted some sad strain, How from oblivion bi-oke the past again : Seemed not a voice to hail thee from that shore, — That home, perchance, revisited no more. 118 HOME. Save, when in dreams, beyond the power of Fate, The soul flies there, like wild bird to its mate ; Flies to that far, but unforgotten land. Where first upon the eye creation dawn'd. Where, like sweet flowers, the heart's pure feel- ings sprung. Ere yet the weeds of Passion round them clung ? But when the fleeting days of youth depart. And from their dream awakes thy cheated heart. Returning home at last, in hopes to meet That peace the world bestowed not, — in retreat, — Once more, in summer's greenest garment drest, Thy native vale receives thee to its breast, — Oh ! di'eam not of its former joys again. Though fair as ever all its scenes remain ; Though steals as soft each murmuring stream along. And sweet as e'er the wild-wood's evening song : There's something sadly changed : — the heart — the heart. That could a charm to all around impart. HOME. 119 E'en to the leaves that whispered on the stem. Deeming that its own sweetness dwelt in them ; That heard the music of its well-tuned strings. Flow in the sound of dead, unconscious things : The heart indeed is changed; — the spell isgone; — The scene remains ; but, ah ! the soul is flown. The friend of youth is missed ; and where is he .'' That starting tear too well can answer thee. Yon sun, that sheds o'er summer seas his beam. Smiles in his sleep — the sleep without a dream ; -But, oh ! how sad his fate, whom early crimes Have doomed to die in far and friendless climes, Ere yet the heart to native feelings cold. Is heedless where its numbered throbs are told ; While roUs'twixt him and all he loves, — the wave, That parts for ever, sure as doth the grave ; Ah ! farther severs ; for the sod we tread Alone divides the living fi'om the dead. Through the long night — the night of fate and fear, When drifts the bark upon her dark career. 120 HOME. Far o'er the wintry waters, doomed to roam. How wakes the memory of our peaceful home ! How have they sighed for that, — the Wanderers* gone To brave the terrors of the frigid zone — To sweep those sullen seas, — where Winter piles His snowy mountains and his icy isles ; Who shrouds in polar glooms his hoary form. And from his garner-house sends forth the storm; Oi', while the roaring seas are tempest-tossed. Bids them be still, and fetters them in frost ? Perchance, ere now, their hapless barks may be Chained in the bosom of a waveless sea ; While the long night hath closed around them there. Like the all-circling shadow of despair ; Or cheered, at last, perhaps, by distant dawn. And when in gulfs the ice began to yawn. With such continuous roar, in masses hurled. As seemed the thunders of a rending world ; * Captain Parry and his companions. HOME. 121 The floating fragments each frail bark have crushed. And hopes and fears for ever deeply hushed ! No — something whispers they shall yet return. And hints that they have crossed the dreai-y bourne. The mystic pass, untraced by man, which Fate Seemed to have closed with an eternal gate. Ye links, that bind us to our place of birth — Ye sacred feelings, cherished at its hearth. But that your magic makes a desert fair, Man were a sad and homeless wanderer. The boundless north — earth's regions, cold and rude. Would slumber then on lifeless solitude, Untrod by him, would Switzer's mountains rise. Unheeded were the strain on which he dies ; Unknown the rapture through his heart that thrills. Who hails, from foreign lands, his native hills. J 22 HOME. Home! where the morn of lite in brightness rose, — Home! where we hope its peaceful eve will close, — Thine are the varied scenes that might beguile. E'en from a Stoic eye, the tear and smile, — Oh ! when like spring-buds of the parent tree. The cherubs hang around their father's knee. Who but a sire shall speak that purest bliss. Which thrills the heart in every infant kiss ? — Thine too the stolen glance of secret woe. That sees on Beauty's cheek Consumption's glow ; That rose, whose hue seems of celestial birth Too fair a flower to blossom lonff on earth : With sorrow's pang increasing day by day,— <» The ceaseless drop that wears the stone away,— • The lover marks her bright, unearthly bloom. And sees her wedded to an early tomb. What though thy joys and sorrows, deep not loud. Touch not the bosoms of the high-born crowd ; HOME. 123 What though, to fashion's minions, all unknown. With such a sympathy they'd blush to own ; Whose lives roll on, like shallow streams, that stray. With brawl and bubble on their barren way. With whom a sound can sanctify a sin, — A gorgeous garb redeem the fool within ? — Thine the first friendship, and the earliest love. That time and distance strengthen, — not remove ; And with thy peaceful scenes are closely joined The thousand pleasing pictures of the mind, That, bright as stars, along a cloudless sky. Shine through the silent night of memory ! STANZAS TO MELANCHOLY. Where headlong from its rock the torrent cast,' Mingles its mountain music with the blast. At Winter's eve, when, through the skies, expand His cloudy banners o'er a faded land. Who at such place hath strayed, at such an hour. And hath not felt dark Melancholy's power, — That spell which makes us feed upon distress. And, like the bee, draw sweets from bitterness, — That spell which breathes from soft and from sublime, — From wilds of nature, and the wrecks of time, — From farewell blushes of departing light. And lowering cliff, slow blackening into night, — STANZAS TO MELANCHOLY. 125 From roaring sea, and ruin dim and lone, The proud grey glory of long ages gone ? In isles that bloom on ocean's desert scene. Where Nature smiles, though man hath never been, — There, in the bosom of the bounding main, Hath INIelancholy held her lonely reign. While ages, gliding down the evening sky. And o'er the seas, have swelled eternity ; Her haunts, the voiceless wild, and sounding shore ; Her evening song, the ocean's caverned roar. In such did Selkirk from wild wood and hill, Awake those echoes, since creation still, Mute since the early hours, when first, from high The morning stars sang out their melody ; And they were his companions, all that could Give answer, in that place of solitude. There, to the small brook, murmuring through the vale, Oft would he list as to a soothing tale ; 126 STANZAS TO iMELANCHOLY. And he had made him friends of trees and flowers. And converse held with Nature, at those hours When gently breathed the night-winds through the grove. Which then seemed peopled with the sighs of love; And though no church-spire glimmered through the trees. Nor sound of Sabbath-bell e'er swelled the breeze. The still small voice of Nature whispered there At morn and eve its holy call to prayer. And he would gaze upon the waters wild. From the griin rocks in random ruin piled. Both when they calmly heaved, as evening's sigh Sung them to sleep with gentle lullaby, — And when, from slumber roused by sweeping storms. The troubled waves tossed high their mountain forms. Till, of their torment, rose the smoke in air. From flash and foam, like madness in despair. Through the long day sad vigils would he keep. For Hope's pale light still lingered o'er the deep. STANZAS TO MELANCHOLY. 127 And gaze, till oft would Fancy start to hail On the blue verge, some solitary sail. Oh, Melancholy! thine those regions drear. Whose long, long night is half the sullen year. Where wandering Borealis chequers o'er The cold, dead- sheeted wastes and mountains hoar. Which lift far up, into the vaulted sky. Their mighty ice-crowns of eternity ; And in the moonshine, gleaming high in air. Seem, like tall spires and turrets, blazing there. But thy chief dwelling place those wilds so lone^ Where sleep the sands o'er buried Babylon : — Regions of rubbish, from the gazer hide. That mightiest wreck of mortal power and pride. There flits the caverned bat of fearful size. Through the deep gloom of silent galleries. In low-browed vaults the tiger makes his lair. And in dim portals lordly lions glare. — Hark ! 'midst the halls of darkness deep and dread. That roar hath waked the dwellings of the dead. 128 STANZAS TO MELANCHOLY. As if beneath the haughty tower they built. Imprisoned spirits howled in pangs of guilt ; The slumbering desert startles at the sound. Which rolls, far-circling, on the stillness round. LINES TO GREECE. Hail to the morn that o'er thee beams, — Herald of days like those gone by ! Which o'er thy night of ages streams. And breaks thy sleep of slavery. Thy children's second birth we hail. In tyrants' blood baptized the Free !" May such soon live but in the tale Of what hath ceased to be ! Thy sons have cast their fetters by, Have burst at last the iron chain ; — Accurst the nation that would try To bind it on the brave again ! 130 LINES TO GREECE. Though few — yet of the glorious band. Who fight for death or freedom there, The history of our native land Forbids us to despair. From out the ashes of thy dead. Rekindles Freedom's hallowed fire ; — From heart to heart her flame shall spread, Like lightning o'er th' electric wire. Again she walks thy sunny shore. Each former haunt, and fairy isle ; Thy spirits from the stars, once more. On thee look down and smile ! Land of the everlasting song ! — Voice of the dead that cannot die. From sire to son, which floats along ! — From rock to rock — as echoes fly ! Oh ! thou wert never made for slaves. Nor formed for Tyranny to blast. For Freedom's halo gilds thy graves, — The landmarks of the past ! LINES TO GREECE. 131 Thy heroes o'er the tide of time, All dim and distant though it be. Still tower immortal and sublime. As mountains soar above the sea. Eternity their tale shall tell ; Through future ages, as they roll. Shall despots fade before its spell. As doth a burning scroll ! The false one's followers crowd thy shore ; Amidst thy scenes they seek to dwell ; Give them thy gift to foes of yore. Within thy breast a silent cell. But living may not one remain. To cast a shadow over thee, Or wake the bitter thought again Of shame and slavery ! ON THE SETTING SUN. It is the hour when winds and waves Scarce heave and sigh around their caves ; It is the hour to musing sweet. When sun and sea in glory meet ; — The sinking orb seems, in his flight. Pausing to bid the world good night. — Now funeral waters o'er him swell. And peal afar his parting knell ; But though he's gone beneath the sea, A pensive glow, like Memory, ON THE SETTING SUN. 133 That beauteous light of suns long set. In softened radiance lingers yet. As I behold him thus retire In such a cloudless blaze of fire^ Leaving a twilight in the air That sweetly, softly lingers there, I think, oh ! when my course is o'er, And on this world's remotest shore. Where, like yon blending sky and sea, Time melts into Eternity. Like him I look a last adieu. Ere yet the earth fades from my view. Oh ! may no clouds around me lower, To darken my departing hour. But brightening onward to its close. Like his, so light me to repose ; And fading down from mortal eyes, Like him, in other lands to rise ! Oh ! may I wake in happier spheres. To shine through everlasting years J ST SEBASTIAN. Sebastian ! when I saw thee last. It was in Desolation's day ! As through thy voiceless streets I past. Thy piles in heaps of rubbish lay ; The roofless fragments of each wall Bore many a dint of shell and ball ; With blood were all thy gate-ways red. And thou — a city of the dead ! With fire and sword thy walks were swept ; Exploded mines thy streets had heaped In hills of rubbish ; they had been Ti-aversed by gabion and fascine. ST SEBASTIAN. 135 ^Vith cannon lowering in the rear In dark array — a deadly tier — Whose thunder-clouds, with fiery breath, Sent far around their iron death ! The bursting shell, in fragments flung, Athwart the skies at midnight sung. Or, on its airy pathway rent. Its meteors swept the firmament ! Thy castle, towering o'er the shore. Reeled on its rock, amidst the roar Of thousand thunders — for it stood In circle of a fiery flood ; And crumbling masses, fiercely rent From its high, frowning battlement. Smote by the shot and whistling shell, With groan and crash, in ruin fell ! Through desert streets the mourner past Midst walls that spectral shadows cast. Like some fair spirit weeping o'er The faded scenes it loved of yore. No human voice was heard to bless That place of waste and loneliness. 130 ST SEBASTIAN. Save the loud sob that oft would start. Convulsive, from her quivering heart. Whose waters, rushing from their fount. Swift to her throbbing eyes would mount. Whence fell those dews of Sorrow's night. The roses of her cheek to blight. I saw at eve the night-bird fly. And vulture dimly flitting by. To revel o'er each morsel stolen From the cold corse — all black and swolen. That on the streets and ramparts lay — Of him who perished yesterday, Of him whose pestilential steam Rose reeking on the morning beam — Whose fearful fragments, nearly gone. Were blackening from the bleaching bone ! The house-dog bounded o'er each scene. Where cisterns had so lately been ; Away in frantic haste he sprung. And sought to cool his burning tongue ST SEBASTIAN. 137 In vain — for the fountains, refreshing and pure, With the life they cherished, had ceased to en- dure ! He howled — and to his famished cry The dreary echoes gave reply. And owlet's dirge, through shadows dim. Rolled back in sad response to him ! THE STEAM- BOAT. If smack to London thou would'st wish to go. Then, gentle reader, go not in a Smack, Because accommodation's but so-so. And if the wind's not fair, she can but tack : And if (as sometimes does) it comes to blow. Long sickness makes thee wish that thou wert back ; So, taking all things into view, I deem Thy best and wisest plan's to go by Steam. THE STEAM-BOAT, 139 Four guineas and a-half the cabin fare ; And when thy parthig friends sigh ontfareiiell, The wish is granted. Seated on thy chair. When sounds the breakfast or the dinner-bell, With roasted, boiled, and baked, I know not where Thou could'stya?'e better, save in a hotel ; — But men of moderate incomes it don't suit To pay maids, waiters, and somewhat to boot. Her mighty engine-wheels, with splash and splutter. And power of hundred horses, churn the ocean ; ('Tis pity that such churning makes no butter ;) On, on, she sweeps, with vibratory motion. Much faster than a pleasure-boat or cutter ; And yet, for all her speed, I have a notion She would not " walk the waters" in high gales So well as vessels fitted with good sails. Hark to the summons, " Dinner's on the table !" Hark to the clattering of the knives and forks — The rising uproar of the ocean Babel ; The only silent one is he that works. 140 THE STEAM-BOAT. Shutting his moxith as fast as he is able ; While ever and anon, the starting corks Fired in your face by furious ginger-beer. Cause sudden starts of momentary fear ! But hapless he, the wight, whose lot is cast Before a mighty round of corned beef, He, luckless wretch, must help himself the last ; His time of eating, too, be very brief. And half the dishes from the board be past. Ere general taste yet sated, gives relief : Warned by his fate, choose thou position where Potatoes only claim thy humbler care. Another scene succeeds : a sudden qualm Comes o'er each bosom, with the rising squall ; Sea-sickness comes, for which there is no balm. Not even the Balm of Gilead, curing all Our other ills — alike in storm or calm. It baffles human aid, and you may call For aught that medicine has art and part in, You'll find 'tis all my eye and Betty Martin. THE STEAM-BOAT. 141 Then Beauty's head declines ; her pensive eye Looks sadly o'er the dai'k and heaving billow ; And through her tresses, as the rude winds sigh. She leans above the wave like drooping willow ; " And dull were he that heedless passed her by," Nor handed her a chair, and brought a pillow ! 'Tis strange, a meal prevented from digesting. Should make a woman look so interesting ! She seems so helpless, and so innocent. Still as a lake beneath the summer even ; A bright and beautiful embodyment. Of calm and peace, and all we dream of Heaven ; — A sight to shake an anchorite or saint, 'Gainst Beauty's smiles successful who has striven : A pretty woman, like a sight of wonder. Makes men turn up their eyes like ducks in thimder. The bark is at Blackwall ; and so adieu ! My song and subject cease together there. 142 THE STEAM-BOAT. Oh ! wonder-working steam, what thou may 'st do Where is the Prophet Spirit to declare ? By thee we make broad-cloth — hatch chickens too ; We roam the seas — we yet may traverse air ; Nay, do not laugh, if I should fondly dream, We yet may manufacture poems by steam ! FERGUSSON'S LAST LUCID INTERVAL. How drear, within this dungeon wall,' Comes on my lucid interval ! In pale review my parted years Arise wuth all their clouds and tears. The cup of joy I madly quaffed. Exhausting the delusive draught ; But, mingled in the fatal bowl, I found that poison of the soul, Which sears the heart, until its core Is Feeling's glowing shrine no more ! Then gloomy thoughts rose up between My spirit and this earthly scene. 144 FERGUSSON'S LAST LUCID INTERVAL. And wide and wild they compassed me- A dim, immeasurable sea. O'er whose all-restless, troubled tide. Did Melancholy's phantoms glide. In festal hall — amidst the fair — I dwelt— T lived— I breathed but there ; Lone as a rock amidst the seas — Lone as the desert's deadly breeze — Or as a solitary tree Upon its blank immensity — Or evening's star, when first it sparkles In the dome that round it darkles — Or as the Hebrew, doomed to stray O'er earth until the Judgment-day ! Then did my soul begin to see The face of dire Insanity ! The fiend impatient seemed to wait, And knock upon the Spirit's gate. And in the brain's dark portals gleam. Till Reason sank into a dream : But oft, o'er my forsaken soul. In glimpses heavenly visions stole. FERGUSSON'S LAST LUCID INTERVAL. 145 Bright as the midnight meteor flies Along the scowl of wintry skies. At times, from sight all nature sank ; Around me lay a boundless blank, For light, and shade, and shape were gone. And nought was left to look upon — Not ev'n a visionary shore. Whose mists the eye might wander o'er : No flitting shadow came, to cast Ev'n darkness o'er the void so vast, Where I to dwell long days was doomed In bleakest solitude entombed ! But life's last sands are nearly rvm — Delusion's gone — and truth begun — Though all too late ; the light but dawns To show the grave e'en now that yawns ! Alone- — unseen by human eye. Comes on life's latest agony. From this cold cell, at dead of night. My soul must take her lonely flight ! K 146 I'ERGUSSON'S LAST LUCID INTERVAL. The last sad sounds that reach my ear The maniac's scream — or laugh more drear ; While darkness round my spirit rolls. That soars into the Land of Souls — And morning's glad and glorious ray Above my stiffened corse shall play ! SONG OF THE SPANIARD. They come — like the locusts, the cloud of their number. To darken and desolate Freedom's fair land ! Though the graves are scarce green when their veterans slumber. Led on to the charge by a mightier hand. They come through deep glens, where the moun- tains frown o'er them ; Echoes start at the tread of the tyrants accurst; But the red cloud of war is fast gath'ring before them. The thunders of battle concentre to burst. 148 SONG OF THE SPANIARD. Is it for this, that the tempest was weathered. Through long years of suffering, bloodshed, and dread ? Is it for this, that the ravens were gathered. With vultures and wolves, to the feast of the dead ? Is it for this, that young Freedom's aspirants, Poured out their best blood at her altars in vain. That Peace should but bring a mutation of tyrants. Ambition's make way but for Bigotry's reign ? Yet think not, weak despot, to awe the bright regions Whose banners of battle, so lately unfurled. In victoiy waved o'er the wreck of Gaul's legions. And vanquished Himself — the proud lord of the world ! What did he gain when he Avon Zaragoza, But hills of black rubbish, and heaps of the slain ? SONG OF THE SPANIARD. 149 What lost he ? — as thick as thy " leaves, Val- lombroso/' His best and his bravest lay dead on the plain Think not the nations will still sleep in error ; Thy night. Superstition, is passing away ! Proud spirits no more brook thy dark reign of terror. Thy death of the dungeon, and auto-da-fe ! Sierra Morena ! thy passes are dreary ; 'Tis long ere the hand of Guerilla wax weak ; The eagle that shrieks in his cloud-curtained eyrie. On the high rock of ages is whetting his beak ! LINES TO LORD BYRON. Dark, wayward spirit ! who can read Thy mighty and immortal song. Nor feel his rising bosom bleed That all its woes to thee belong. Whose genius takes the lightning's form. And gleams through thunder-cloud and storm ? On thee in vain Creation's smile Is shed, where endless summers bloom ; E'en beauty's self no more can wile Thy heart from woe, thou child of gloom : LINES TO LORD BYRON. 151 Spring thaws the ice around the Pole, But not the winter of the soul. No rays of hope the shades dispel, That rest upon thy future years ; Thy heart alike hath sighed farewell To all that woke its hopes and fears ; And, oh ! if truth is in thy strain, iMan, hapless man, was made in vain ! With talents gifted as thou art. Unmatched, the glorious boon of Heaven, And with fair woman's hand and heart. To thee in being's blossom given — In want and woe though thousands pine. Oh ! who would change his lot with thine ? Vain, vain thy wealth and noble birth, And fame as never man possest. E'en in thy youth, which filled the earth. They soothe not that mysterious breast ; And yet thy heart (strange warbler !) sings Most sweetly with its broken strings ! ir*2 LINES TO LORD BYRON. Alas for Genius ! Fate still weaves A mournful wreath, her brow to bind ; The nightshade and the cypress leaves Are with her laurels closely twined : Formed for a highei*, happier sphere. She needs must droop, and wither here ! LINES ON THE LOSS OF A 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 the hour of parting pain. That bark 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 ; 154 LOSS OF A SHIP. And, oh ! the thousand hopes untold Of ardent youth, that vessel bore ; Say, were they quenched in waters cold ? For she was never heard of more ' When on her wide and trackless path Of desolation, doomed to flee, Say, sank she 'midst the blending wrath Of racking cloud and rolling sea ? Oi-, 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 ! LOSS OF A SHIP. 155 Oh ! were her tale of sorrow known, 'Twere something to the broken-heart, 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 ! LINES ON NAPOLEON. Mighty Spirit ! first in story. Woe and wonder to inspire. Far from all thy fields of glory. Quenched like a volcano's fire ! In a distant island sleeping, Cold and senseless lies that form. Which, through war's wild thunders sweeping. Passed like angel of the storm. Of a world to thee pertaining. Where thy soul could scarce find room, What to thee is now remaining But a far-forsaken tomb .? LINES ON NAPOLEON. 157 'Midst the dead and dying blended Should have been thy fall of fame. Where thy spirit had ascended On the battle's wing of flame : — In the shock where nations reeling Fought beneath the pall of Hell, Where a thousand thunders pealing Rung the Hero's parting knell : — Where thy war-steed, wildly rearing, Dashed through battle's red array, — Should thy soul of fire careering, jMeteor-like, have blazed away ! But a captive sea surrounded ! Soon thy spirit, with a smile. Bursting every chain that bound it. Soared from its lone prison Isle ! TO MARY. Thou art lovely in youth, as the morning in May, And mild as the eve of a calm summer day. And pensive and pure is the beam of thine eye As twilight's soft star looking down from the sky. Oh ! the bloom of thy cheek, and the heaven of thy smile. The heart from the dreams of its sorrow would wile ; Thy voice's soft magic is sweet as the tone Of the music of days that are faded and gone. TO MARY. 159 And near thee to linger, all fair as thou art. Would still be the first — dearest wish of my heart; But Ocean's wide wastes must between us expand. And the sigh heave for thee in a far foreign land. Oh ! then will I welcome the visions of night, That give thee a while to my Fancy's fond sight; But sorrow will come with the bright morning beam. And my poor cheated heart wake to weep o'er its dream. STANZAS TO SCIO. SwKET Isle ! thy hearths are cold, thy halls are bare, Thy bowers are broken, and thy dwellers gone : O'er thee hath Ruin passed her burning share ; And where soft Biusic breathed lier sweetest tone. Through blackened walls is heard thehollow moan Of the lorn breeze; man's tread hath died away. Save when perchance some mourner steals alone Through thy mute dwellings, at decline of day. When evening's curtain falls o'er earth and ocean gray. STANZAS TO SCIO. 161 Deserted is thy hallowed, haunted shore, Where heaves the hero's solitary mound, — Where Ocean sings his dirge for evermore. And cypress waves and weeps o'er sacred ground. That wraps his slumbers, dreamless, dark, and sound — Where o'er the lonely place of his repose. The moon, through veil of vapours floating round. Sheds a dim halo, which all feebly glows. As doth the light that Fame through mists of Time bestows. When day had set along the distant sea. There lovers hied, and hailed the blessed hour, When to the evening star, from shady tree. The bird of music 'plains in her green bower. When dewdrops are the guests of leaf and flower; Through waveless woods when dying breezes sigh, When melts the heart beneath the blended power Of sound and silence, and the melody Of nature soaring sweet into the dark-blue sky. 162 STANZAS TO SCIO. JMethinks I see thenij seated side by side ; A few brief suns shall see their fates made one : So hearts will dream, though one short hour may hide A gulf to yawn — a headlong tide to run Between fond bosoms : snow-drops in the sun Not faster melt than fairest hopes decay. Like April gleams — a moment seen and gone ! Eve found them happy — ere another day Waned o'er the wave, they too had passed j^way ! More blest their lot, who bloomed to wither there — Who in their birth-place found an early grave. And lingered not that worst of woes to share. Felt by the young, the beautiful and brave, Who lived the captives of the Moslem slave. When of their own loved Isle each sound and sight Waxed faint and far ; and tombed beneath the wave Was its sweet shore — the scene of past delight. And all was one dark waste of ocean, sky, and night. STANZAS TO SCIO. 163 From that sad hour they ne'er were heard of more ; The tears that fall for them must fall in vain. For they were wafted to the Paynim shore. Whence they shall never be restored again ; Dragged to the distant clime and desert plain ! To friends — as years of sorrow wander by — Shall Fancy paint the youth in slavery's chain. Doomed in a weary land to droop and die, — Oh ! for oblivion's drop, to quench dark memory ! And thy fair daughters, Scio ! where ai*e they ? Say, dwells in Tyrants' domes their deep despair, Where, when the blooming charms of youth decay. The sack and sea await the fading fair ? So black a dream the bosom may not bear. And can but hope, when they were torn away. The heart, with links that twined around it were, Must needs have broken, and the lovely lay Like flowers some ruthless hand hath strewed on the cold clay ! 164 STANZAS TO SCIO. Ye moaning echoes of the mouldering wall ! Ye faded garlands of the ruined land ! Are ye not felt, e'en now, a sacred call To fire the patriot's heart — to arm his hand With red Extermination's blade and brand ? Does not the howling wilderness reveal The deeds of murder ? — can the heart withstand. Each wordless, but all-eloquent appeal. That doth its burning core to tenfold vengeance steel ? LtNES ON VIEWING THE TOMB OF SIR JOHN MOORE. How sound is thy sleep on the shore Of the land that thou perished to save ! Whenthy tempest, O War ! has rolled fearfully o'er. How blest is the rest of the brave ! The cannon whose death-bolts were driven. From clouds, shedding lightning and gloom. Now point, like thy fame, to the four winds of Heaven, And silently crouch at thy tomb.* * A structure of about five feet in height and six in length, with a cannon placed at each corner of its base, and pointing to the four cardinal points, constitutes this simple but sublime monument. 166 TOMB OF SIR JOHN MOORE. Ungraved with thy name is its stone, — 'Twere as mockery to tell in that clime A name, o'er the land like a meteor which shone, And will shine o'er the regions of Time ! Oh ! what are the wreaths on his brow, Whom the fates to his country restore. To the laurels immortal that Death can bestow On him that returneth no more ! SONG ON HIS MAJESTY'S PROCESSION TO HOLYROOD. Hark ! — hark ! it rises from the shore, A voice like many waters' roar. The shouts of myriads hail once more The Sovereign of the Free ; The cannon from the Castle high Peal out the news from earth to sky. And Sal'sbury's cliffs give glad reply. And far their echoes flee. 108 PROCESSION TO HOLYROOD. He comes ! he comes ! the King of Isles, Where banners wave and beauty smiles. Through fair Edina's proudest piles. In march of majesty ; He comes ! 'mid noble, knight, and squire, 'Mid blushing youth and gray-haired sire. And chiefs of Roman garb and fire. And martial minstrelsy. He comes ! in pomp of ancient days, 'Mid gold and crimson's sunset blaze. That flash their glory on the gaze. From robes of chivalry. High swells the heart, the tear of joy Is starting into every eye, And blessings flow in many a sigh. As glides the pageantry. A moment silence reigned profound. Then woke at once wild rapture's sound. And " Welcome ! welcome !" all around Electric-like did fly. PROCESSION TO HOLYROOD. 169 Oh ! 'tis a nation's proudest tale. When rise her shouts upon the gale. Her Sovereign — as her sire, to hail ; " God save the King !" her cry. LINES ON THE DISAPPEARANCE OF A FEMALE CHILD. She's gone from hall — she's gone from bower. As flits the viewless wind. That breathes the sweets of every flower, And leaves no trace behind ! E'en as a shadow at noonday — A moment seen, then fled away — She passed — unheard her last farewell — But where — -nor earth nor ocean tell ! They missed her when the evening dew Was wept o'er lawn and lea. They missed her when the twilight drew Its veil o'er earth and sea ! — DISAPPEARANCE OF A FEMALE CHILD, l?! But every voice of her is mute — No traces of her little foot. So light, the flowers might scarcely feel Her path — her parting steps reveal •' They sought her in the valley lone — They sought her in the wood, — They sought her where the stream steals on In silence to the flood ; — They sought her by the dizzy height. Where ocean climbs the rock of night — They saw but blackening sea and sky — They heard but wild-bird's moaning cry ! Could heart and hand all ruthless be To harm so fair a thing ? To pluck the blossom from the tree And keep it withering ? In woe and wandering lives she still ? The voices of the rock and hill, Grove, glen, and cavern of the main. Have called on her — but called in vain ! 172 DISAPPEARANCE OF A FEMALE CHILD. A mother's tears ne'er pass away. Her sorrows ne'er depart ; Her dream by night — her thought by day This lost one of her heart ! No balm can soothe the deep despair That dwells like deadly nightshade there. Till from her burning brain at last Shall death or madness blot the past. LINES ON BIOSCOW. The day had set;, and Night unfurled Her curtain o'er a sheeted world. When, from the Kremlin, wreaths of smoke In tall and tow'ring columns broke, Like blackness bodied into form, Huge as the Angel of the Storm, Grim as the hideous shapes of night, When fever comes in burning might. And flitting o'er the wand'ring eye. Glides past each gloomy phantasy ! 174 LINES ON MOSCOW. The city, sadd'ning in a cloud. Seems swathed ah'eady in her shroud. Till struggling forth all fiercely came. Through crackling domes, the prisoned flame ; As the red lava's burning waves. That roar and boil through Etna's caves. Dash on his rocks their fiery flood. Like ocean in its stormy mood ! And fast the tow'r and flaming fane Cast their fierce lustre o'er the plain ; Those giant tapers of the night. Bathe the wan wastes in crimson light ; Their blood-red gleams are wildly sent Far up into the firmament ; Riding upon the night- wind's wing. They soar with frightful thund'ring. And fast the sombre cloud assault. That speeds along the midnight vault ; While swiftly darting through the air. The northern streamers gather there ; Like demons shed a ghastly smile. And revel o'er the funeral pile ! LINES ON MOSCOW. ]75 It seemed as central fires had riven Their prison walls, and rose to Heaven — That second deluge, in whose womb The world shall find a fiery tomb ; When Earth, that many an age hath fled. With all her living and her dead. And with unslacken'd speed hath spun In giant circles round the sun, One mighty hell shall wildly roll Away — away like flaming scroU, And blaze upon her last career — To distant worlds a sight of fear ! Speeding like meteor of the night. With hurried step and troubled mien. Amidst the fearful gleams of light The cause of all was seen : Is it the blush of rage or shame. Blent with the dusky glow of flame. That lends his face th' unearthly glare, — Or demon passions quiv'ring there ? Smote by the fierce and fiery blast, Breathed on by curses as he past. 17<> LINES ON MOSCOW. He seemed the everlasting foe Amid lost souls, in place of woe ! There, like a headlong wintry stream. When snows dissolve in solar beam. The varied tide of life rolls by — Frail tott'ring Age and Infancy — The matron and the new-made bride. By agony to madness smote. Her hapless lover by her side. And yet she knows him not ! The hurrying tramp of flying foot. And the shriek of death were there. And forms with breathless terror mute. And moveless with despair ! And they that 'scape escape in vain. For wildered on the savage plain. O'er them Night's bleakest breezes roll Down from the dead and darksome Pole,- Arresting, with their icy spell, The ocean waters while they swell, — Binding the river's rushing force. Chaining the life-blood in its course. LINES OS MOSCOW. 177 But with his fair, his promised bride. The lover rests where Slander's tongue. Although they slumber side by side. Yet spares the beautiful and young : The hollow blast and freezing sleet Their funeral-song and winding-sheet ! Pure as that pale shroud Heaven hath spread O'er each cold form and tombless head, Unsullied by an earthly stain. Their memory and their names remain ! Yet, Moscow ! thou wert well avenged. When Winter's petrifying hand In ranks of dead thy foemen ranged, Like statues on the lifeless land : When they in ghastly groups were piled. To feed the vultures of the wild. Where each dread night to thee did doom Full many a human hecatomb ! M GREECE. Land of the mighty dead ! whose fame Hath filled the earth with thy great name ; Around thy region lingers yet The twilight of a sun that's set ; O'er all thy beauteous scenes is cast The hallowing halo of the past- Reflected from a glorious day— A long— bright summer past away. Land of the laurel ! faded now Upon thy pale dejected brow. GREECE. 179 Another wreath is wove for thee E'en of the mournful cypress-tree. Which waves in solitary gloom Above the dim and mouldering tomb, Where the high heart that beats no more Lies cold upon the silent shore. Land of the Lyre ! all silent long, Thine is the Bard's immortal song. Whose voice hath pealed o'er earth and sea. The music of Eternity ! No more awake thy minstrels' strains. They sound not 'midst a nation's chains. And lorn upon the willow hung, Thy harp is silent and unstrung ! Land of bright forms ! that sleep beneath, But still in living marble breathe, Whate'er our fancy dreams of fair Is yet more sweetly pictured there, — Shaped by the wonder-working hand. The gaze of many a distant land, — 180 GREECE. Things of immortal beauty beam — The mighty mind's embodied dream. Land of lost shrines ! departing domes — Of sepulchres and silent homes. The spirit of the past pervades Thy shores, thy mountains, and thy shades. And, kindling in thy hearts again, Hath caused the crescent's light to wane ; Soon may it fade o'er field and flood. And as it rose, so set in blood ! SONG ON THE 42d REGIMENT. They come ! the glorious band, But few their numbers be. Their thousands sleep on foreign land Far — far beyond the sea. But weep not for the dead. Whose toils and pains are o'er. For them alone should tears be shed Who live but to deplore, — For hearts of hope bereft, — The love of woman flown, — For youth and beauty early left To droop and die alone. 182 SONG ON THE 42d REGIMENT. Youth's laurels bloom in tears, Its memory breathed in sighs. Lives on with Friendship's fleeting years. And with fond Friendship dies. But what is Fame to those Its voice who cannot hear. Which breaks not on the long repose. Nor sooths the " dull — cold ear !" Yet weep not for the dead. For they are past all pain. No breaking heart, no aching head. Lies on the battle plain ! STANZAS ON A LADY. She was a thing of morn, with the soft calm Of summer evening in her pensive air ; Her smile came o'er the gazer's heart like balm. To sooth away all sorrows save despair ; Her radiant brow scarce wore a trace of care — A sunny lake, where imaged you might trace, Of hope and iKiemory, all that's bright and fair — Where no rude breath of passion came to chase, Like winds from summer wave, its heaven from that sweet face. 184 STANZAS ON A LADY. As one who looks on landscapes beautiful Will feel their spirit all his soul pervade. E'en as the heart grows stiller by the lull Of falling waters when the winds are laid, So he who gazed upon this heavenly maid. Imbibed a sweetness never felt before ; — Oh ! when with her through autumn's fields I've strayed, A brighter hue the lingering wild-flowers wore, And sweeter was the song the wild bird warbled o'er. Then came Consumption with her languid moods. Her soothing whispers and her dreams that seek To nurse themselves in shades and 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, e'en while she past away, Amidst the closing clouds, and faded ray by ray. STANZAS ON A LADY. 185 She died i' the bud of being, in the spring, The time of flowers, and songs, and bahny air, 'Mid opening blossoms she was withering ; But thus 'twas ever with the good and fair — 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 lapped in some Elysian dream ; And still the glory of a vanished beam. The lingering halo of a parted ray. Shed o'er her lonely sleep its latest gleam. Like evening's rose-light when the summer day Hath fled o'er sea and shore, and faded far away ! OCEAN. Hail, dread abyss ! far circling into space. All hail, thou homeless, howling -wilderness ! Vain would we trace thee with the march of mind, Thou leav'st the lagging fancy far behind. Ere yet from out thy mighty womb arose The hills, like giants starting from repose. Thy tide began to flow with that of time, And doomed to roll upon its course sublime From land to land, from pole to pole, away, Far as the empire of the night and day, Until the Archangel stand on sea and shore. And swear, that Time itself shall be no more ! OCEAN. 187 A world is thine ! beneath thy billows lie Blysterious realms, unseen by mortal eye : Man treads the globe's great heights — thy waters flow O'er its green vales and central glens below ; Amidst whose coral groves and sunless cells. The sea-nymphs wander, and the mermaid dwells : — Save when she soars, to hail the ev'ning star. And on some rock to lure the mariner. To pour the siren song along the wave That wiles him onward to a wat'ry grave ! Returning from the scenes where mountains bound. Like prison walls, the landscape all around. How have I hail'd afar the pathless sea. And felt my rising bosom breathe more free ! Oh ! then and there, as on the wings of morn. To earth's remotest shores in fancy borne. The soul, like captive eagle 'scaped his chain. Exults in freedom o'er the mighty main ! 188 OCKAN. T]iine are the distant islesj whose lonely strands Ne'er heard a passing sound of other lands^ Which list but to the murmur of thy floods. And the wind's night-song voicing all the woods. And hum of insects, and the hymn of birds. Whose calls and far replies, the only words. Heard in their green and summer groves, that lie Embosomed in the wastes of sea and sky. And, oh ! to him who, having tried, hath found How vain and worthless is the world's dull round. How sweet, methinks, were such a lonely isle. With one fair friend, and only one, to while The hours away ; and, in the solitude And grateful gloom of some low whispering wood. Where crystal rills made music to the ear. And fed each stem a little bower to rear ; There, in sequestered vales and woodlands wild. Regain once more the feelings of a child. Whose heart, untutored, hath a sympathy E'en with the life that's in a flower or tree ; OCEAN. 189 There, when the sun shed down his parting beam On silent sea, green hill, and glassy stream. And sounds and odours peopled all the air — A sacrifice of perfume and of pray'r. Ascending from the altar of the earth. To Him who breathed all nature into birth ; 'Twere sweet to list each lonely summer sigh Wafting a sweet and solemn harmony — Low varied sounds, but all of pensive tone, With which the heart is tuned in unison ; To mark, as day was lapsing o'er the sea. The long dim shadows stretching from the tree ; In silence pointing to the flight of Time, Nor startling ear and heart like ev'ning chime : Two lovers, thus enshrined from every eye. Left to their early heart's society. In some such ocean Eden well might deem A Paradise restored — its joys no dream. And such are thine, where varied races dwell. Though whence, or how they came, oh ! who shall tell ! 190 OCEAN. For many a thousand miles from every shore. Their secret places how could man explore, Without such deep, unerring instinct giv'n. As guides o'er distant seas the fowls of heaven ? Oh man ! — from earliest moments of thy birth, Until thy form returns again to earth. Body and sovxl, beginning, end of thee. Are marvels all and midnight mystery : And vain we seek to pierce that mighty cloud That swathes thee from the cradle to the shroud ! THE WARRIOR'S DIRGE. Last of a high and noble name ! We may not shed a tear for thee. Thy fall was in the noon of fame. As Warrior's fall should be ; — O'er thy fair morn, like cloud of night, A while thy youthful errors lay. But, touched like that by Heaven's own light, Were early wept away ! — Thy steps are missed by wood and wave. Lost to the scenes thy youth loved best. The torrents weep, the tempests rave. Above thy bed of rest. — 192 THE WARRIOR'S DIRGE. " The hounds howl sadly at thy gate," The echoes of the chase are o'er. In vain the long, long night they wait — The Hunter comes no more ! No voice is heard amidst thy halls. Except the wild wind's fitful sigh, The morning beam that gilds thy walls. It cannot glad thine eye ! All lonely bloom the summer flowers Thy garden's silent walks along, The wild bird warbles through its bowers. Thou canst not hear her song !— Cold is the heart that loved thee now, 'Twas broken ere it ceased to breathe ; Alas ! what bids the Hero's grow, Must blight the bridal wreathe ! From blood the Warrior's laurel sprung, 'Midst blood and tears can only bloom, 'Tis but a funeral garland hung Above his mouldering tomb. THE WARRIOR'S DIRGE. 193 Thou wert not made through wintry years To wither till the heart grows old^ To weep until it hath no tears, — To feel the blood run cold. Who would not wish like thee to die. And leave a deathless name ? To live like thee while life was joy, And fall when death was fame ?" N MUSIC. It comes — it comes upon the gale. That pensive voice of days gone by. With early feelings down life's vale. On Arab airs as odours sigh. Oh ! on this far and foreign shore How doubly blest that song appears. Long days and distance wafting o'er The sweetness of departed years. The scene around me fades away. As at the wave of magic wand — I see the glens and mountains grey And wild woods of my native land. The summer bower, the silent stream, The scenes of youth, are on the strain ; MUSIC. 195 And peopled is my waking dream With forms I ne'er shall see again ! As on my wanderings when a child, That music comes at close of day, Along the dim and distant wild. And wafts my spirit far away. And o'er the heart as it distils. Dear as the dewdrop to the leaf, — Oh ! how the rising bosom thrills Beneath the mystic joy of grief. So sweet — so hallowed 'tis to feel The gentle woe that wakes the sigh. That e'en in Heaven, methinks, 'twill steal Upon the spirit's dream of joy ! But hark ! — that soothing strain is o'er. And broken is the lovely spell : So fades from off our native shore The accents of a friend's farewell. EVE OF BATTLE AMONG THE PYRENEES. On the lone Pyreneans, when Eve was reposing, And smiled from the gates of the west a fare- wellj O'er the regions below while the twiUght was closing. And masses of shade brooded deep o'er the dell, I stood where, beneath me, two kingdoms were lying. All was mute, save the breeze o'er the solitude sighing. Or shriek of the eagle in far echoes dying. Where silence more deep and more desolate fell. THE PYRENEES. 197 Adown to the sea Bidassoa was stealings Dividing the foes on its margin that lay. Its calm, silent wave, like a mirror revealing Of four banded nations the battle array ; And the crimson and gold of their garments were shining With the last blaze of day in its glory declining. The tall rocks, with light, like a rose-wreath en- twining. Ere it faded o'er earth and o'er ocean away. And strains from each band of soft music ascended. Such as wail for the brave when the battle is o'er. Whose notes with the voice of the desert were blended. The murmur of rills, and the torrent's far roar. Thy song, Roncesvalles, all wildly was weeping. Where the hills o'er thy slumbers their vigils are keeping. On the field where thy mighty in silence are sleeping. Whom sound of the trumpet awakens no more. 198 THE PYRENEES. To many an ear that hung over its numbers. That song of the dead was the last lorn lay, Young heroes that sighed o'er the place of their slumbers. Next eve lay as cold and as silent as they : They slept with their fame on a low grassy pillow. Their requiem sung by the stream's little billow, Where sighs, to the night- wind, the desolate wil- low. That waves and that weeps o'er their moulder- ing clay. CHANGE. Time that dims the brightest eye. And Beauty's rose doth blight. Will quench the stars in yonder sky, And veil their orbs in night. The same effacing, palsied hand. That wastes the flower upon the wold. O'er suns and systems shakes his sand. Till worlds themselves grow old. Then, for us, while seasons run Their round of joy and pain. Ere, for us, yon circling sun Shall shed his beams in vain ; — Let us cull life's scattered flowers To its summer which belong, Ere we qviit those blooming bowers Where none may linger long. LINES ON THE DEATH OF LORD BYRON. The sun goes forth, but Conrad's day is dim, And the night cometh, ne'er to pass from him. CORSAIH. He's gone ! the glorious spirit's fled ! The Minstrel's strains are hush'd and o'er. And lowly lies the mighty dead Upon a far and foreign shore. Still as the harp o'er Babel's streams^ For ever hangs his tuneful lyre. And he, with all his glowing dreams, Quenched like a meteor's fire ! So sleeps the great, the young, the brave. Of allbeneath the circling sun, A muffled shroud — a dungeon grave- To him— the Bard, remain alone. ON THE DEATH OF LORD BYRON. 201 So, genius, ends thy blazing reign — So mute the music of the tongue, Which poured but late the loftiest sti'ain That ever mortal sung. Yet musing on his early doom, Methinks for him no tears should be. Above whose bed of rest shall bloom The laurels of eternity. But, oh ! while glory gilds his sleep, How shall the heart its loss forget ? His very fame must bid it weep. His praises wake regret. His memory in the tears of Greece, Shall be embalmed for evermore. And till her tale of troubles cease. His spirit walk her silent shore. There e'en the winds that wake in sighs. Shall still seem whispering of his name ; And lonely rocks and mountains rise His monuments of fame ! 202 ON THE DEATH OF LORD BYRON. But where is he ? — ye dead — ye dead. How secret and how silent all ! No voice comes from the narrow bed — No answer from the dreary pall. It hath no tale of future trust. No morning beam, no wakening eye. It only speaks of " dust to dust," Of trees that fall — to lie. " My bark is yet upon the shore," And thine is launched upon the sea, . Which eye of man may not explore. Of fathomless Eternity ! Perchance, in some far-future land. We yet may meet — we yet may dwell ; If not, from off this mortal strand, Immortal, fare thee well ! THE END. PRINTED BY OLIVER !t BOYD. TK;, UnnV IS DUE on the last University of Caiifornia SOUTHERN REGiONAL LIBRARY FACiLITY 405 Hilgard Avenue, Los Angeles, CA 90024-1388 Return this material to the library from which It was borrowed. APR 2 5 2DG0 DUE2mSFR0uA0A REC'DYRL MAYlS IE riECEiVELj kBLE m 4 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY AA 000 370 508 4 PR 4972 I^845b LTni i