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 FITFUL FANCIES, 
 
 BY 
 
 WILLIAM KENNEDY. 
 
 4>(WV»j (howvros £V Tr, ipriu.ii- 
 
 EDINBURGH; 
 
 > L'liLlSHED l!V 
 
 OLIVER & BOYD, TWEEDDALK COURT; 
 
 AND 
 
 GEO. B. WHITTAKER ; LONDON. 
 1827.
 
 ENTERED IN STATIONERS' HALL. 
 
 OLIVER & BOYD, PRINTERS.
 
 
 TO 
 
 THE RIGHT HONOURABLE 
 
 ROBERT PEEL, 
 
 THIS LITTLE BOOK 
 
 IS INSCRIBED WITH RESPECT, 
 
 MY 
 
 WILL. KENNEDY. 
 
 7754 8C !
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 Page 
 
 The Solitary, \ 3 
 
 Earth and the Seraph, 7 
 
 Inscription for Monuments to Neglected Bards, 11 
 
 The Poet's Prayer, 15 
 
 The Great Farce, 19 
 
 Amor Patriae, 23 
 
 A Wish, 25 
 
 The Flight of Philosophy, ." 28 
 
 To a Lady, 33 
 
 Past Pleasure, 35 
 
 The Beautiful Actress, 3 7 
 
 On seeing a Nettle spring from a Lady's Grave, 43 
 
 To , 46 
 
 My Mother, 50 
 
 Love's Pleading, 53 
 
 The Comforter, 54 
 
 To Evening, 59 
 
 A South-Sea Parting, 61 
 
 Family Likeness, 64 
 
 O that I were the great Soul of a World! 65 
 
 Well '—well I will name thee the Land I like best, 66
 
 VI CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 Ned Bolton, 67 
 
 Perplexity, 72 
 
 Altered Feelings, 75 
 
 The Mourner, 77 
 
 A Lesson, 80 
 
 Byron, 84 
 
 The Joys of the Summer, 89 
 
 No — come not, my Life, 92 
 
 Epithalamium, 94 
 
 The Violet, 97 
 
 Fidelity in Death, 100 
 
 To a Contemptible, 103 
 
 First Love, 104 
 
 The Friend, 108 
 
 To a Disconsolate Fair, 110 
 
 The Flower of my Birth-day, 113 
 
 A Satanic Battle-Chant, 117 
 
 Strange Nuptials, 120 
 
 A Peep at Fortune, 126 
 
 SONGS. 
 
 Thou know'st it not, Love, 143 
 
 The Pirate's Serenade, 146 
 
 I'll tell thee the Hour, 149 
 
 I would not have thee dry the Tear, 151 
 
 Page's Song, 153 
 
 follow her not ! 155 
 
 Why stood 1 fixed ? 157 
 
 1 hear it yet, , 158
 
 CONTENTS. Vll 
 
 Page 
 
 Though mine are the Years, 160 
 
 I crave not a Promise, 162 
 
 Nay, Sweet, if thou lovest me, mix not in the Dance, 164 
 
 Why walk I by the lonely strand ? 166 
 
 Would'st keep the deep Dye of thine Eye in its Brightness ? 168 
 It was not for the Diamond Ring, 170 
 
 NATIONAL SONGS. 
 
 The iron Despot of the North, Polish, 175 
 
 Tell me not of Stamboul's Towers, Turkish, 177 
 
 O'for the merry Moonlight Hour, Italian, 179 
 
 Look, Maiden, on these laughing Fields, Russian, 181 
 
 Och! while I live I'll ne'er forget, Irish, 182 
 
 The Arab to his Horse, 184 
 
 It speaks to my spirit, the Voice of the Past. ...Irish, 186 
 
 1 dearly loved a Garden-Flower, Spanish, 188 
 
 Song of the Switzer, 190
 
 POEMS.
 
 POEM S. 
 
 THE SOLITARY. 
 
 In a sheltered nook, near a restless brook, 
 
 Which freely speeds on its way, 
 Far remote from strife, I have made my life 
 
 A perpetual holiday. 
 Green summer is gone, and brown autumn come, 
 
 Since the world and I were twain, 
 Yet my worst and my only wish is, that 
 
 We never prove one again. 
 
 In the farce of state, let them emulate 
 
 The revelry of a king, 
 Who are only blest when a lofty crest 
 
 Nods over their banquetting.
 
 4 poems. 
 
 Much luck may they have of their sickly smiles, 
 
 False hearts and poisonous fare ! 
 But, freed from their touch, may the fiend me clutch 
 
 When next I their pastimes share ! 
 
 Dame Nature is good ; she hath given me food, 
 
 To keep the wild spirit still ; 
 And hallows the night with slumberings light, 
 
 And visions unmai'red by ill. 
 And she fills the holiest cup on earth 
 
 From the waters of the well, 
 Which, to suckle the new-born primroses, 
 
 Through the rock's rude bosom swell. 
 
 In the days long sped I would fain have led 
 
 A maid to the altar-stone ; 
 She smiled on me too, but I could not woo 
 
 With wealth, so was left alone. 
 She wedded another who loved her not, 
 
 And I lived, alas ! to see 
 Her beauty a waste, and her soul a wreck 
 
 Of sin and of misery.
 
 POEMS. 5 
 
 Then I vowed no more should my heart feel sore 
 
 For a piece of varnished clay ; 
 And, in a deep mood of my solitude, 
 
 I laboured both night and day, 
 Until a creation all faultlessness, 
 
 Stood full in my fancy's view; 
 And to it I turn, in the hour of dreams, 
 
 With devotion warm and true. 
 
 Here no faithful friend doth his counsel lend 
 
 To strike roused Reflection pale, 
 As his tender breast makes the ear possessed 
 
 Of some dark accusing tale : 
 Nor is one of the kind, acquainted crowd 
 
 Ever seen to pass the door, 
 Where a treasure of loving and peaceful thoughts, 
 
 Is its owner's only store. 
 
 But though man come not to this placid spot, 
 
 There be choice society 
 Both in earth and air, that cheerfully share 
 
 Their gladsome company.
 
 G POEMS. 
 
 In the joyous morn, from the cherry-tree 
 
 Thrills the robin's piercing call ; 
 And they bid me hail, like a kindred thing, 
 
 The wild-wood carollers all ! 
 
 In the cloudless night, with the orbs of light, 
 
 As they marvellously roll, 
 I hold converse strange, and the thought of change 
 
 With deep hope fills my soul. 
 Then the pride of my wayward nature dies, 
 
 I am as an infant meek, 
 And it seems not the breeze, but the hand of God 
 
 Approving, that sooths my cheek. 
 
 I'll long bless the hour which gave me power 
 
 The truth to value and know, 
 That a small measure of simple pleasure 
 
 Is the rai*est boon below. 
 Let him off to the world who thinks not so, 
 
 And, when kneeling at its shrine, 
 With his heart's best hope obtained, let him ask, 
 
 If his lot half equals mine.
 
 TOEMS. 
 
 EARTH AND THE SERAPH. 
 
 Twixt orbs of the banned and spheres of the blest, 
 A Seraph had taken her airy rest ; 
 She heard a strange whisper of mourning and mirth, 
 And asked whence it came of the wandering Earth ? 
 " At an angel's summons I may not pause, — 
 Pierce through my cloud-robe and know the cause : 
 
 Man's a stern Hunter !" 
 
 The mad old world went whirling on, 
 
 The Seraph breathed, and the clouds were gone ; 
 
 The clouds were gone, and she saw below 
 
 An innocent thing in a vest of snow ; 
 
 A dove that through sunshine shot with glee 
 
 To its home in the heart of a pleasant tree. 
 
 " Now speed thee, bright creature!" the Seraph said, 
 
 Ere the words were spoken the dove lay dead ;
 
 8 POEMS. 
 
 And loud was the laugh that exultingly 
 Rose from the foot of the pleasant tree. 
 
 Man's a stern Hunter ! 
 
 The Seraph turned, with a holy frown, 
 To the wooded haunts of a mountain brown : 
 With a fetterless step, a stately deer 
 There bounded in beauty that saw no peer ; 
 It browzed on the red moss, it drank of the spring, 
 It pained not, it grieved not a living thing ; 
 And the pure one hoped that its days might be 
 From harm, as its nature from evil, free. — 
 The mountain echoes swelled thundering 'round 
 To the Forester's shout at the deer's last bound. 
 
 Man's a stern Hunter ! 
 
 O sad was her heart as that wild halloo 
 
 From hill-side to hill-side redoubling flew ; 
 
 Her clear glance settled, far, far away, 
 
 On a place remote from the glare of day. 
 
 There were tall trees above, and deep waters below, 
 
 With breast never heaving to ebb or to flow ;
 
 POEMS. y 
 
 And in that most tranquil element. 
 Of curious colours serenely blent, 
 Numberless rare shapes of life were seen, 
 Grateful and glad that they ever had been ; 
 The smile of the Seraph shed light on the lake, 
 As she wished it repose for its children's sake. 
 The song of the Fisher is heard on the land, 
 And death is at work on the harmless band. 
 
 Man's a stern Hunter ! 
 
 From heaths of the hill, from depths of the glen, 
 Her eye sought for peace 'mong the homes of 
 
 men; 
 It fixed on a silent and lovely spot, 
 Where the blue wreath spun from a lonely cot, 
 Two children of Adam, of equal age, 
 There passed through the days of their pilgrimage. 
 They were fair as the lilies they flung at each other, 
 And both were the pride of a single mother. 
 " Be blessed !" prayed the daughter of Heaven. — A 
 
 scream 
 Was heard by the little cot's garden stream ;
 
 10 POEMS. 
 
 Of the twain on its bank there remained but one, 
 And he grinned like a fiend at a dark deed done. 
 " Oh ! wo for this world of mourning and mirth !" 
 Sighed the Seraph, and fled from the aspect of earth 
 
 Man's a stern Hunter !
 
 POEMS. 11 
 
 INSCRIPTION FOll MONUMENTS TO 
 NEGLECTED BARDS. 
 
 Here stands a tribute from the sculptor's hand, 
 To one whose birth does honour to his land ; 
 Would'st know whose bounty reared the work of 
 
 pride. 
 Look the subscription-roll, or ask the guide ; 
 And would'st thou learn for whom its columns 
 
 swell, 
 Read this recording tablet— it will tell. 
 
 Of a strange family, the gifted child, 
 Was he to whom this monument is piled ; 
 His tale is nothing new, he lived and died 
 Like all the race to which he was allied. 
 The world had found him heir to a hard lot, 
 And something more its luckier sons had not ;
 
 12 POEMS. 
 
 Then, cheering the great impulse of his heart, 
 Bade him come forth and play his proper part ; 
 Bade him come forth — as summer beams intrude 
 On the poor flow'ret's woodland solitude, 
 Luring its sweetness with a glance of fire, 
 To blossom for a moment, and expire. 
 Misled by vivid dreamings, forth he came, 
 And bartered life's true blessings for a name ; 
 Spurned the contentment of a village-home, 
 To act a statue in a gilded dome ; 
 Abased his majesty of mind, to gain 
 Exemption from nobility's disdain. 
 What were his triumphs ? — for a day to stand 
 The last rare sight arrived from Wonder-land, 
 And soon deserted for a newer face, 
 To feel that, faultless, he had met disgrace, 
 Half deeming, with this transitory sway, 
 The charm that ruled his being past away. 
 
 He could not brook obscurity, so bowed 
 His lordly spirit to the meaner crowd ;
 
 POEMS. 13 
 
 The herd that cling to genius in decline, 
 As rank weeds to a long-forsaken shrine ; 
 Things that would rot unheeded and unknown, 
 If faithful to the sphere which is their own. 
 They fastened on him, like the sluggish beast 
 Which makes the generous deer a living feast ; 
 Urged him to haunts where good holds no control, 
 And turned to shame the splendour of his soul. 
 In pity, fate ordained this should not last, 
 His powers of life and pleasure failed him fast; 
 And it was told, how, in a wretched shed, 
 Men found the Poet pennyless and dead. 
 
 Such was his course ; but now he ranks with those 
 
 Whose glory in death's desolation rose. 
 
 With him whose wit procured a royal treat 
 
 Of goodly stone, in lieu of vulgar meat ; 
 
 With him — old Scotland's son — who dropped the 
 
 plough, 
 To point a stanza and to round a bow, 
 Plodding, before his grateful country's eyes, 
 Through the low labours of the vile excise ;
 
 14 POEMS. 
 
 With him— the boy of promise — left undone 
 
 By frigid Walpole — hapless Chatterton ! 
 
 These are his mates, and jointly he may claim 
 
 The equal honours of an equal fame. 
 
 Store of dull speeches and gross tavern-cheer 
 
 Shall mark his Dinner through each coming year ; 
 
 And, with his name, the sentimental sot 
 
 Will gild his homage to the frequent pot. 
 
 This is his high award, for whom arise 
 
 These glancing columns to the wondering skies; 
 
 The spot is picturesque, and suits them well ; 
 
 Yes, and if laughter ever visits hell, 
 
 'T would rouse a peal to shake a better sphere, 
 
 Were fiends acquainted with what's written here.
 
 POEMS 15 
 
 THE POET'S PRAYER. 
 
 I stand, among the hills, alone, 
 
 Calm, as this blessed summer even, 
 That my rapt heart may find a tone 
 
 Meet to convey, its thoughts, to heaven. 
 In softer climes and younger ages, 
 
 'Twas to the mountain steep and still, 
 Journeyed, with hermit-steps, the sages. 
 
 Whose spirits warred with nought but ill, 
 And there, in holy solitude, inquired their Master's 
 will. 
 
 These were indeed the wise of earth, 
 
 Who life's consoling secret knew, 
 Which half dispels the gloom man's birth, 
 
 O'er all his days of travel threw.
 
 16 poems. 
 
 What must have been their lofty feeling, 
 'Tranced 'midst thy cedars, Lebanon, 
 
 Or, Carmel, on thy brow revealing 
 Their burning love to God alone, 
 
 When I, even I, in lowlier scenes, this hour, such 
 raptures own ! 
 
 Above, there's but a Northern sky ; 
 
 Below, the humble heath in flower ; 
 Yet all around, Divinity ! 
 
 I trace Thy hand's transcendent power. 
 It is not the cold sense of duty 
 
 Works, at this moment, in my breast, 
 But a deep passion for the beauty 
 
 Through Thy mutations manifest, 
 Which forms its own sublime reward, and makes 
 me more than blest 
 
 O little know they of the fire 
 
 That glows within the child of song, 
 
 Who haply marking him retire 
 
 From the dull anthems of the throng,
 
 POEMS. 17 
 
 Think that he shares not the emotion 
 
 Which some with saintly boldness claim ; 
 
 They little know the strong devotion 
 He must inherit with his frame, — 
 
 Must with that mould of mind which gives the 
 impress to his name 
 
 Being ! whom I do feel and love, 
 
 Seeking my nature's happiness, 
 Whose force no will of mine can move 
 
 To diminution or excess, 
 From my soul's temple faint, but tender, 
 
 Music is floating to the sky ; 
 And though nor crowd, nor solemn splendour 
 
 Assist its feeble notes, yet I, 
 In humbleness, believe that Thou wilt deem it 
 harmony. 
 
 My all of good Thy hand hath wrought, 
 
 The sad, the sinful, were my own ; 
 Fruits of the time when Folly brought 
 
 A willing vassal to her throne.
 
 18 POEMS. 
 
 The good remains— the ill is parted 
 
 Far from me, by a gulf of shame ; 
 And now before Thee, tranquil-hearted, 
 
 Father of Hope ! I've learned to frame, 
 Out of life's lore, a creed in which fear lives not 
 even in name,
 
 POEMS. 19 
 
 THE GREAT FARCE. 
 
 Around me rolls a nameless mass, 
 
 A sea of anxious men ; 
 I watch them as they onward pass, 
 
 Hundreds and thousands ten. 
 Misguided race ! I grieve to see 
 That, reckless of futurity, 
 
 You seek destruction's den ; 
 I grieve to think how soon this scene 
 Shall be as it had never been ! 
 
 I look amazed upon the world : 
 Here Wisdom holds its state ; 
 
 There War's red standard is unfurled, 
 And Monarchs talk like Fate ; 
 
 While blistered hearts are everywhere, 
 
 And shapes of famine and despair 
 On all sides congregate :
 
 20 POEMS. 
 
 God ! 'tis wondrous there should be 
 Such madness and such misery. 
 
 1 mark one, in his blooming prime, 
 With passion fade away ; 
 
 'Tis sad to note, at such a time, 
 
 So fair a form decay. 
 I seek those eyes, whose moonlight gleam 
 Hath lent the melancholy beam 
 
 Which leads his soul astray, 
 And find that their celestial ray 
 Hath power o'er nought save frenzied clay. 
 
 For what is love ? — go ask its name 
 
 From children of the Pole ; 
 Or where the sun with kindred flame 
 
 Inspires the Eastern soul : 
 The fires that warm the reptile's blood. 
 To hug its mate, and have its brood, 
 
 Cause their blue veins to roll ; 
 Start not, nor turn thine head away — 
 For what art thou, and what are they ?
 
 POEMS. 21 
 
 A thousand met on yesterday 
 
 To place a dead man's stone ; 
 It was triumphant holiday 
 
 For all but me alone. 
 When crowds, with raptures most intense, 
 Brought forth their myrrh and frankincense 
 
 To honour him that's gone, 
 I asked the cause of such a coil. 
 And laughed to scorn their pious toil. 
 
 What cares he for earth's pageantry, 
 
 Who soundly sleeps below ? 
 The gifts heaped to his memory 
 
 Might lessen living wo. 
 'Tis true, example draws, and then 
 Our light should shine before all men, 
 
 As holy writings show : 
 There, there it is, — the poor display 
 Lures actors to the public play. 
 
 Behold yon melancholy man, 
 He walks the world alone;
 
 22 POEMS. 
 
 Though formed on nature's choicest plan, 
 
 Unhonoured and unknown. 
 O I could weep, but that his eye, 
 Fixed calmly, yet disdainfully, 
 
 Seems proudly looking on, 
 In stern derision of the fate 
 Which leaves him thus to meditate. 
 
 The woes of human destiny 
 
 May crave a human tear ; 
 The monster called Society 
 
 Claims nought beyond a sneer. 
 The golden calf, by Folly framed, 
 Which man, in abject mood, proclaimed 
 
 His god and glory here ; 
 The senseless idol that his power 
 Hath raised to rule the passing hour.
 
 POEMS. 23 
 
 AMOR PATRIAE. 
 
 Thou fool ! I care not for the soil that bore me, 
 Or more, or less, than I do care for thine ; 
 
 What strand should lie beneath, what sky hang o'er 
 me, 
 Was Chance or Fate's allotment, and not mine ; 
 
 A toad, within a rocky hollow pent, 
 
 As well might boast of its stone tenement. 
 
 I pray thee spare thy breath the dull narration 
 Of holy ties to one spot linked alone ; 
 
 Thou lovest thy spouse, thy offspring, and thy nation, 
 For a most sovereign reason — they're thy own : 
 
 And thus the fervid sons of Afric's race 
 
 Of ebon beauty prize the lusty grace. 
 
 No land for me where things like thee are wearing 
 The form that I must for a brief time wear,
 
 24 POEMS. 
 
 The crust of every crime — I turn despairing 
 
 From earth to dream of a dear world elsewhere, 
 To which the struggling spirit fain would fly, 
 From kindred scenes to claim nativity.
 
 POEMS. 25 
 
 A WISH. 
 
 I have a wish ungratified, 
 
 One wish, and nothing more ; 
 O ! would that wish were satisfied, 
 
 And hope and terror o'er ! 
 Tis not a gem from Fortune's crown 
 
 So earnestly I crave ; 
 The prize I seek to make my own 
 
 Is but an early grave. 
 
 O ! may I never live to show 
 
 The locks of reverend grey ! 
 But, like a vernal fall of snow, 
 
 Ere evening, pass away ; 
 A sickly passenger afloat 
 
 On a tempestuous sea ; 
 The motions of life's bounding boat 
 
 Are heaviness to me.
 
 26 POEMS. 
 
 Ay, smile, and say 'tis but the wild 
 
 Caprice of fleeting pain ; 
 And that bright eyes will charm the child 
 
 To happiness again : 
 Thou know'st me not ; — in vain the spark 
 
 Of woman's love may shine ; 
 It cannot light a soul so dark, 
 
 So desolate, as mine. 
 
 There is no greater misery 
 
 For human heart to bear, 
 Than be condemned to live and see 
 
 Things as they truly are ; 
 How Ignorance, in vulgar state, 
 
 Proclaims the general lie, 
 Which Cant and Dulness consecrate, 
 
 In base idolatry. 
 
 If there's a man who can employ 
 A serious thought on earth, 
 
 May he abundantly enjoy 
 The blessings of his birth.
 
 POEMS. 
 
 Were he the one I loathed the most 
 My blackest prayer should be, 
 
 That he, on life's accursed coast, 
 Might roam eternally ! 
 
 Almighty God ! whose mystic form, 
 
 By wretched mortals viewed, 
 Seems but the ruler of a storm, 
 
 A reveller in blood ; 
 I hold thee not what creeping Fear 
 
 And Folly picture thee, 
 But as a friend, to dry the tear 
 
 Of helpless misery. 
 
 Then let the elements that war 
 
 Within me, be at peace, 
 And let the busy fiends of care, 
 
 Their useless labours, cease. 
 From thee, the Merciful, the Great, 
 
 An only boon I crave : 
 O take me from a world I hate 
 
 Into an early grave ! 
 
 27
 
 28 POEMS. 
 
 THE FLIGHT OF PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 I gazed, as is my use to do, 
 
 One pleasant eve in June, 
 Upon a sky of sober hue, 
 
 Cheered by the stars and moon. 
 
 In deep abstraction raising oft 
 
 My looks and thoughts from earth, 
 
 With a faint hope, to find aloft 
 The secret of man's birth. 
 
 That hope was nought ; no new light broke 
 
 Upon my anxious brain, 
 No voice through the still ether spoke 
 
 To ease my spirit's pain. 
 
 Up rose a melancholy breeze, 
 Making the blood run chill,
 
 toems. 29 
 
 While, through the green tree's lattices, 
 It wandered at its will. 
 
 Up rose the breeze, and I arose 
 
 To bid the heavens adieu, 
 As maidens, ere they seek repose, 
 
 In pensive mood, will do. 
 
 Ye powers, who watch o'er sinful men, 
 
 Be merciful to me ! 
 It is no vapour-figure then, 
 
 Fair moon, that shadeth thee ! 
 
 Nor is it aught mine eye hath seen, 
 
 Or fancy dreamed before, 
 Which, light as snow, drops on the green, 
 
 Three paces off or more. 
 
 I felt a reverential fear, 
 
 When the dim stranger cried ; 
 ' 'Tis mine to speak, and thine to hear, 
 
 Both shall be satisfied.
 
 30 POEMS. 
 
 Thou art, I know thou art, imbued 
 
 With deep philosophy ; 
 And therefore is thy solitude, 
 
 This hour, disturbed by me, 
 Who am the perfect plenitude 
 
 Of what the Wise would be. 
 
 Upon the central world of all 
 
 That move in mystic air, 
 Two had their great original, 
 
 A transcendental pair. 
 
 They came direct from Nature's hand, 
 And offspring they have none ; 
 
 For each there is a like command, 
 And business to be done. 
 
 Command we have o'er worshippers 
 Of knowledge grave and high ; 
 
 To us flock all philosophers 
 When— as men say— they die.
 
 POEMS. 31 
 
 Our business is to ascertain!, 
 
 Though by a different race, 
 That frenzy only can maintain 
 
 Illimitable Space. 
 
 The partner of my toils pursues 
 
 An opposite career ; 
 'Twas his, yon nether path to choose, 
 
 And mine, this upper sphere. 
 
 Myriads of ages have whirled past 
 
 Since first our task had birth, 
 And now, delightedly, at last, 
 
 I've reached the towering Earth.' 
 
 ( The towering Earth !' I quick exclaimed, 
 
 ' My lord, your hopes dispel, 
 Alas ! this sorry globe is framed 
 
 But one point over hell, 
 And that is ever so inflamed 
 
 No one its bounds may tell.'
 
 32 POEMS. 
 
 I heard a sound, as of the wings 
 
 Of eagles, in their flight ; 
 I saw a mass of shapeless things 
 
 Thickening the vesper light, 
 And the dim figure rose in rings, 
 
 Like a huge paper kite. 
 
 Just like it — for its form was thin, 
 
 To cut the denser air, 
 Yet stretched out, like a parchment skin, 
 
 To float where it was rare. 
 
 I deemed it strange he should mistake 
 
 The bottom for the top ; 
 Stranger — the philosophic flake 
 
 Of dead men's souls should drop 
 No word, in their long flight, to make 
 
 Their sage conductor stop.
 
 POEMS. 33 
 
 TO A LADY. 
 
 Though my young cheek's untimely faded, 
 It owes it not to cankering care ; 
 
 And though a cloud my brow hath shaded. 
 Nor pain nor sorrow placed it there. 
 
 'Tis weariness of all around me, 
 
 Which loathes, but fears to leave, the earth, 
 That, in "its leaden grasp, hath bound me, 
 
 To mourn no wo, yet feel no mirth. 
 
 Thy ivory hand, with music's power, 
 
 Strikes on my heart's dull chords in vain, 
 
 Stirring the memory of some hour 
 I would not have recalled again. 
 
 And vainly are thy blue eyes turning 
 Their starry radiance unto mine ;
 
 34 POEMS. 
 
 I've coldly greeted glances burning 
 With other fires than light up thine. 
 
 Yes, — lovelier lips have bent to bless me 
 Than even thy mirror sees in bloom ; 
 
 Yet did they at this hour caress me, 
 
 'Twould shed no sunshine o'er my gloom. 
 
 For, like to some unholy spirit 
 
 Condemned to walk the world awhile, 
 
 I but the form of man inherit, 
 
 Without his heart to sigh or smile. 
 
 O no ! for I might hope to borrow 
 A balsam to my soul's despair, 
 
 Could mortal joy, or mortal sorrow, 
 Awake one kindred feeling there.
 
 POEMS. 35 
 
 PAST PLEASURE. 
 
 Rememberest thou the evening 
 
 We met in the shady glen ? 
 'Twas the only time we ever were there, 
 
 Or ever shall be again. 
 Thy eye and cheek, so beautiful, 
 
 A glorious lustre wore; 
 And deeper and quicker my young heart beat, 
 
 Than ever it beat before. 
 
 The Sun went down unheeded 
 
 To his chamber in the West ; 
 We lived in the light of each other's looks, 
 
 And we felt that both were blest. 
 The far-off voice of the waterfall, 
 
 And the bird's song warbled nigh, 
 Were drowned in the passionate tones that gushed 
 From our bosoms swelling high.
 
 3ti toems. 
 
 Years have rolled by since we parted, 
 
 Years, many a weary one ; 
 And I sigh for rest, as the seaman sighs 
 
 For land, ere his course is run. 
 No heart is there now, to love me, 
 
 Or be beloved by me; 
 Not one to stir the spirit that watched, 
 
 In the glen's lone haunts, with thee. 
 
 I'll never forget that evening ! 
 
 No — though the thought be vain — 
 I would still be thine, all lost as thou art, 
 
 Could I feel, what I felt, again. 
 Sorrow and shame have followed it, 
 
 Yet, like a desolate star, 
 That floats in the wake of a thunder-cloud, 
 
 Its memory shines afar.
 
 POEMS. 
 
 37 
 
 THE BEAUTIFUL ACTRESS. 
 
 She plays to-night ! and, therefore, pours along, 
 To the bright theatre, a motley throng ; 
 Dames of high ancestry, but rarely there, 
 Descend to smile upon a favourite fair : 
 And other dames, less lofty in degree, 
 Are bent to know if fair indeed she be. 
 Abstractedly, the youth of soft eighteen, 
 Sighs for the entrance of his player-queen, 
 Fostering the daring hope, that he may yet 
 Shine as the Romeo to her Juliet ; 
 While, by his side, the practised debauchee 
 Gives his loose soul to visions still more free ; 
 But all eyes sparkle with unusual light — 
 The angel-actress rules the scene to-night ! 
 
 The tedious prelude's past, and she is here ; 
 No voice but hers attracts the public ear ;
 
 38 POEMS. 
 
 Connubial love forgets his vows awhile, 
 
 And hangs, delighted, on her thrilling smile ; 
 
 The plighted swain, unconscious, fires the pride 
 
 Of the neglected damsel by his side, 
 
 As questioned oft, to win his truant eye, 
 
 His lip is writhed into a brief reply : 
 
 Yet blame him not, fair maid ! for he were less 
 
 Or more than man to see her loveliness, 
 
 Her step's voluptuous cadence in the dance— 
 
 Her eye's fine lightning flashing in each glance- 
 
 Those ruby portals, whence a tide of tone, 
 
 Flows, meet to issue from such source alone — 
 
 More or less far than man he were, whose gaze 
 
 Could turn, in coldness, from perfection's blaze. 
 
 But is the syren happy, who imparts 
 A subtile rapture to a thousand hearts ? 
 Oh ! yes ; look to the mimic scene ; thy sight 
 Is gladdened in her eye's rejoicing light. 
 Blest she must be whose task is to employ 
 Her gravest moments on a work of joy ;
 
 POEMS ;{<) 
 
 But if thou yet art dubious, list the sound, 
 
 The signal of her triumph thundering 'round, 
 
 And ask of those who watch the curtain's fall, 
 
 If it descend not like a funeral pall, 
 
 Which shrouds some blighted blossom, prized in vain, 
 
 Seen for a little, and ne'er seen again ! 
 
 True, true, — it is her business to be gay, 
 To while her own and others' griefs away ; 
 And richly hath the admiring throng repaid 
 The smiler for the pleasant part she played ; 
 But she appears in scenes more trying still, 
 Where nature acts without the aid of will — 
 All grace and archness in the Muses' dome, 
 How moves the Actress in her silent home ? 
 
 'Tis midnight, and the workings of the mind, 
 In that lone chamber, need not be confined ; 
 Nor are they ; for the roses in her hair 
 Seem most unfitted to her brow of care ; 
 And, strange the contrast of her tinselled state 
 With the lorn look which speaks her desolate,
 
 40 POEMS. 
 
 As, from the mirror, she averts her head, 
 Shocked by pale lips, and cheeks of shameless red. 
 
 No longer, oh no longer ! feels she queen 
 Of arts that tinged with life the varied scene ; 
 No longer, oh, no longer ! can the smile, 
 Which smoothed the general brow, herself beguile ; 
 Quick from their secret cells, with added force, 
 Like Arab steeds impeded in their course, 
 Rush the reflections of a wayward life, 
 With all that is, and much that was, at strife : 
 Pain rules the hour ; remembered pleasures seem 
 The guilty transports of an impure dream. 
 
 It is the curse peculiar of her lot, 
 
 Still to affect the being, she is not ; 
 
 To fling a dazzling veil upon her woes, 
 
 And wear her features, as she wears her clothes. 
 
 For dark experience hath the Actress told, 
 
 A piteous tale will ne'er win public gold ; 
 
 And those who wish the crowd's applause to wake, 
 
 Must not betray it, should their bosoms ake.
 
 POEMS. 
 
 41 
 
 'Twas once my hap by Leman's lake to roam, 
 
 And on its shore to note a rural dome, 
 
 Such as is only painted, in romance, 
 
 And rarely seen, but 'mong the hills of France : 
 
 With purple clusters, the tenacious vine 
 
 Did, lovingly, around the lattice twine ; 
 
 The trellised porch, which hid the antique door, 
 
 Was jessamined and honeysuckled o'er ; 
 
 In front a sheet of living crystal gave 
 
 Heaven's changeless children, mirrored in its wave ; 
 
 The stalwart mountains leagued to bulwark in 
 
 One little Eden from a world of sin. 
 
 Imagination seized it for its own, 
 
 Its roof, I thought, must be Contentment's throne, 
 
 And most devoutly deemed, that, 'round its hearth, 
 
 Were ranged all virtues ever known on earth. 
 
 Alas ! for the young vision ! chance conveyed 
 My step to where my fancy oft had strayed, 
 And never did I disappointment bear 
 More unrelieved by circumstance, than there ;
 
 42 POEMS. 
 
 A sottish husband, and a slattern wife, 
 Waged in my paradise perpetual strife ; 
 And cradle-music, dear domestic sound ! 
 With kindred lays, profaned the sainted ground. 
 
 Even thus the Thespian Circe's outward guise 
 
 Of happiness, her secret mood belies. 
 
 Though laughing loves around her light lip play, 
 
 A ravening vulture eats her heart away ; 
 
 Her sunny glance hradiates every breast, 
 
 But one, to her more near than all the rest : 
 
 As, throned on high, the peerless queen of night 
 
 Cheers distant worlds with showers of grateful light; 
 
 Yet, while her silver treasure copious flows, 
 
 Shares not, herself, the blessing she bestows.
 
 POEMS. 43 
 
 ON SEEING A NETTLE SPRING FROM A 
 LADY'S GRAVE. 
 
 I thought that on her home of death, 
 Earth's loveliest plants would grow, 
 
 That Spring would twine its choicest wreath, 
 Her resting-place to show. 
 
 In life all did so worship her, 
 
 I deemed the very sepulchre 
 
 Such glorious guest would know ; 
 
 And its least dismal costume wear, 
 
 In honour of a form so fair. 
 
 But no ! she sleeps as others sleep ; 
 
 Of flowers profusely strown, 
 On the fresh turf, when grief was deep. 
 
 The odour long hath flown. 
 No more the envied one of all, 
 Who bless the bower, or grace the hall, 
 
 She keeps her state alone ;
 
 44 POEMS. 
 
 While o'er her nods the church-yard weed, 
 And foul worms on her red lip feed. 
 
 Is this, high dame ! the place of pride 
 
 Thy flatterers promised thee ? 
 The slimy forms that by thee glide 
 
 Must they thy love mates be ? 
 'Tis even so ; the smiling sway 
 Of Beauty's sceptre could not stay 
 
 Thy step, Mortality ! 
 In token of thy conquest, here 
 This rank plant riseth rude and drear. 
 
 It riseth, to all living men, 
 
 A symbol and a sign 
 Of what hath been, shall be again, 
 
 Till suns no longer shine. 
 Lords of the shore, and of the sea ! 
 It treats with cruel levity, 
 
 Your attributes divine ; 
 Its rampant root and loathly stem, 
 Whence come they ? what hath nourished them ?
 
 POEMS. 45 
 
 O wide and far extends the realm 
 
 That rears thee from its gloom 
 Herb of the grave ! the Warrior's helm 
 
 May boast its battle-plume ; 
 But when the triumph-tale is told, 
 And when the Minstrel's lip is cold, 
 
 Regardless of their doom, 
 Thou'lt wave, as thou art wont to do, 
 
 O'er Minstrel, and o'er Warrior too. 
 
 No flatterer thou, — stern honesty 
 
 Lies in thy dark-green vest ; 
 Let Pride and Passion look on thee, 
 
 And learn, and be at rest. 
 Should they pronounce thee vile, then tell 
 How she, who loved their empire well, 
 
 But pampers thee at best ; 
 And ask them, while they own thy stings, 
 What nobler fate awaits on kings.
 
 4(j POEBIS. 
 
 TO 
 
 Thou wert in rosy womanhood, 
 And I in life's advancing spring, 
 
 When, by thy side, a tale I read 
 Of passion, sad and wildering ; 
 
 A legend of a beauteous dame, 
 Bound to a cold, regardless lord, 
 
 And a poor harper boy, by whom, 
 For years, that lady was adored. 
 
 We felt the tale — thou wert the bride 
 Of one who cared not for thy love, 
 
 And I was young, and prized thy smile, 
 All that the earth could give, above. 
 
 Where the dark chronicle had drawn 
 A moving picture of the twain,
 
 POEMS. 47 
 
 I paused, and both, in silence, traced 
 The passage o'er and o'er again. 
 
 Our cheeks half met, your silken curls 
 Sent tiuglings to my inmost core ; 
 
 I heard the beating of your heart, 
 And felt as mine would beat no more. 
 
 But when the story told, how fate 
 Wrought ruin on the hapless pair, 
 
 You turned your eyes from me, and wept, 
 While I pronounced a burning prayer. 
 
 Then there was bliss, new, wondrous bliss, 
 As drooping on my neck you lay ; 
 
 And your soul spoke in sighs, and I 
 Your tears kissed, one by one, away. 
 
 It was but for a moment's space 
 
 Till the deep rapture dream was o'er ; 
 
 You prayed me, by our nameless ties, 
 To leave you, and return no more.
 
 AH POEMS. 
 
 And I obeyed thee, though a fire 
 Was raging in my heart and brain, 
 
 Never, from that Elysian hour, 
 
 To meet thy matchless glance again ! 
 
 Now are my autumn days come on, 
 I stand a lonely, branchless tree ; 
 
 The revels of a kindless storm 
 Have turned me into mockery ; 
 
 But thou abidest in thy bower, 
 
 With goodly shoots beneath thy shade, 
 
 Whose hearts' young blossoms fill the waste, 
 By ill-returned affection made. 
 
 And 'tis the only fit of joy 
 
 That breaks on dull affliction's moan, 
 To know thou hast escaped the storm, 
 
 And I have felt its force alone. 
 
 Surely, whate'er my doom shall prove, 
 Whatever blight consumes my fame,
 
 POEMS. 
 
 49 
 
 Thou wilt not smile on those who strive 
 To fix derision on my name. 
 
 When thou dost bless thy youngest child, 
 Thy dark-eyed boy, I hope to share, 
 
 In memory of these by-gone times, 
 A portion of his mother's prayer.
 
 50 POEMS. 
 
 MY MOTHER. 
 
 At last, O my Mother ! thou sleepest ! 
 
 At last, thy poor heart is still ; 
 No longer, dear Mother ! thou keepest 
 
 A watch in a world of ill. 
 Though I feel of all love forsaken, 
 
 When thine is no longer near ; 
 Yet I thank my God, who hath taken 
 
 Thee hence, and I shed no tear. 
 
 I smile with a sorrowful gladness, 
 
 While I think thou never more 
 Shalt drink from the black cup of sadness, 
 
 Which, through thy whole life, ran o'er. 
 When a hard lot pressed severest, 
 
 O little had been my care, 
 Had I known that thou, best and dearest ! 
 
 Did'st a lighter portion share.
 
 POEMS. 51 
 
 But as there ne'er was another 
 
 On earth more gentle and kind, 
 So none, my own dove-hearted mother ! 
 
 Did a heavier burthen find. 
 Yet it woke no voice of complaining, 
 
 Nor changed thy passionless air, 
 At a time, when to image thy paining, 
 
 Was more than I well could bear. 
 
 There needed no whisper of duty 
 
 To summon me to thy side ; 
 To dwell near thy soul-stilling beauty, 
 
 Was a rapture and a pride. 
 Often now, when his peace is riven, 
 
 With visions of shame and fear. 
 The thought that thou'rt happy in heaven, 
 
 Doth thy son's dark bosom cheer. 
 
 A thousand would call the spot dreary 
 Where thou takest a long repose ; 
 
 But a rude couch is sweet to the weary, 
 And the frame that suffering knows.
 
 52 POEMS, 
 
 I never rejoiced more sincerely 
 Than at thy funeral hour, 
 
 Assured that the one I loved dearly, 
 Was beyond affliction's power.
 
 POEMS. 53 
 
 LOVE'S PLEADING. 
 
 My fancy woos the violet, 
 
 In stainless vest of tender blue, 
 
 And I but gaze upon thine eyes 
 Because they're of its hue ; 
 
 Then, lady, shrink not thus ; for see 
 
 Thy sister-beauty smiles on me ! 
 
 I kiss the honey-drops of morn 
 
 From the fresh lip of the young rose ; 
 
 And I but long to try how sweet 
 Is thine which like it glows : 
 
 You can't refuse this poor request, — 
 
 Your rival blushes on my breast !
 
 54 POEMS. 
 
 THE COMFORTER. 
 
 I. 
 
 He's in hot youth, who, with a hasty step, 
 
 A heavy look, and lip which moves, but speaks not, 
 
 Strides down a mountain face, and takes his stand 
 
 Above a narrow pass. A foe, — a foe, — 
 
 A powerful deadly foe, is pledged alone 
 
 To journey thither at the set of sun, 
 
 And he will greet him on his way. He grasps 
 
 His blade, and pulls his beaver o'er his brow, 
 
 And turns impatient to the orb of day. 
 
 No traveller yet ! — he bends him to the earth 
 
 To catch the echo of the falling foot — 
 
 All's still as death. 
 
 How came that stranger there 
 With his long scythe, bald head, and garb of gray ?
 
 POEMS. 1)5 
 
 He needs must be a bold one to confront 
 The armed watcher in his mood of blood ! 
 Whate'er he be he lacks not power, — he tells 
 The young man to depart, — he points the path, 
 And is obeyed like one whose will is law. 
 'Tis marvellous, — the tiger-spirit yields ! 
 The stranger takes the avenger's vow on him — 
 There lies the mystery. 
 
 II. 
 
 The scene is changed 
 To a more favoured clime. The self-same youth, 
 With massier frame and cheek of darker dye, 
 Is leaning, pensively, where the rich moonlight 
 Streams on a lofty lattice. There she sleeps, 
 The cherished madness of his feverish heart. 
 He strikes the notes of her land's minstrelsy, 
 And sings, in fitful strains, her peerlessness 
 And his o'erpowering love. She heeds him not,— 
 Her heart is in the keeping of another. 
 He beats his forehead with extended palm,
 
 56 POEMS. 
 
 Then speeds him, with a purpose desperate, 
 To a gaunt cliff that lowers upon the flood. 
 
 'Tis he again, the old man with the scythe, 
 The bare bald head and garb of rustic gray ; 
 Upon the summit of the cliff he stands, 
 And warns him hence, that passion-stricken son 
 Of a less genial soil. He speaks of peace, 
 Bought by forgetfulness, which he can give, 
 He, who avenged the wrongs of other days, 
 And saved him from the fearful murder- stain, 
 When, in the gloomy mountain-pass, he took 
 The burthen of his vow. 
 
 He hath his will ; 
 The young man quits the country of his love. 
 
 III. 
 
 A mighty city and a festival — 
 The bells are jubilant with glad ding-dong ! 
 And holiday-smiles are on with Sunday coats. 
 Thousands of joyous creatures here are met :
 
 POEMS. 57 
 
 But who is he that mars the general mirth ? 
 
 It is the man, — it is the very man, 
 
 Though young, or strong, no longer. He is bowed 
 
 With sore infirmity, — the mountain-heath 
 
 Will never spring to his light step again ! 
 
 Nor woman's beauty rack his soul with pain ! 
 
 He leaves, as he best may, the giddy throng, 
 
 And, dragging his shrunk limbs to scenes apart, 
 
 Curses his fate, himself, and all mankind. 
 
 The ancient stranger, with the garb of gray, 
 Bald head and scythe, is by his side once more. 
 
 " I did avenge thee on thy mortal foe, 
 I turned thee from the last act of despair, 
 And now what aileth thee ?" 
 
 " Ills,— ills,— all ills 
 Which light on man in his extremity !" 
 " Cheer thee ! there still is hope — behold this glass ; 
 The sands are falling that will set thee free : 
 One hour thy pains are gone."
 
 58 POEMS. 
 
 " And who art thou, 
 The friend so wedded to my wretchedness ? 
 Whence got thy hand the strength to lay him low 
 Whose life was poison to me ? Whence the balm 
 That eased me of affection's hopelessness ? 
 How hast thou skill to know my woes shall cease ? 
 What is thy name ? 
 
 Mortal ! my name is Time."
 
 roEMs. 
 
 50 
 
 TO EVENING. 
 
 Come, Evening, come ! how I long to feel 
 
 Thy balmy hand o'er my temples steal ; 
 
 I shrink from the night, its fearful dream 
 
 Makes Terror's form more ghastly seem ; 
 
 And I hate the summer's burning day, 
 
 Whose sun shines as if he'd shine for aye, 
 
 Luring each self-adoring worm 
 
 Forth to the scenes that its looks deform, 
 
 Mocking the face of sorrow and care, 
 
 Smiling on many a sepulchre. 
 
 Come, Evening, come ! I have sought thee here, 
 
 Where the mountain- streamlet dasheth clear, 
 
 Where the solemn pine-grove riseth high, 
 
 In its native Alpine majesty ; 
 
 Where of man there's nothing seen, or heard, 
 
 Save a scarce-distinguished hum, 
 Soon lost in the song of thy sweet bird, — 
 
 Come, Evening, come !
 
 CO 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 Speed, Evening, speed ! on thy gentle breast 
 
 I'll lean, till my wandering soul's at rest ; 
 
 Till I half forget that wrong hath been 
 
 The lord of the world I sojourn in ; 
 
 And hope of the future gleams afar, 
 
 As, high in the heaven, thy favourite star. 
 
 I'll call the shades of the dear-loved dead, 
 
 And times and scenes that, for years, have fled, 
 
 I'll speak to them, while thou lingerest by, 
 
 Of all that is sacred to memory. 
 
 Perchance a silent tear or two, 
 
 Like sinless drops of thy crystal dew, 
 
 May flow from my nature's sweet excess 
 
 In a grief twin-born with happiness ; 
 
 That hour my thoughts shall repose from pain, 
 
 My bosom forget to bleed, 
 Then here to assume thy peaceful reign, — 
 
 Speed, Evening, speed !
 
 roEius. G\ 
 
 A SOUTH-SEA PARTING. 
 
 " Surely thou dost not mean to go 
 
 For ever from thy island maid ! 
 And yet I've heard it must be so, 
 
 But 'tis not truth they said : 
 I cannot, will not, e'er believe 
 
 I'm doomed so deep a pang to know ; 
 Thy voice will quickly undeceive 
 
 Those who would whisper wo." 
 
 " O that it could ! but 'tis too late 
 To temper, or conceal, our fate ; 
 Those eyes that turn to me and weep, 
 May note our war-bark on the deep,— 
 Soon, soon she'll pass into a speck,— 
 Would I had never paced her deck !"
 
 02 POEMS. 
 
 " Fly from thy ocean-palace ! fly 
 
 To shades where love hath had its fill ; 
 We'll seek the fan-palm's canopy, 
 
 In clefts of the far hill. 
 Thy blue-eyed brothers of the wave 
 
 Will search in vain for our retreat, 
 The water-spirits have no cave 
 
 So secret, or so sweet !" 
 
 " The fearful ties thou can'st not learn, 
 Which bind me to my comrades stern ; 
 My island girl ! earth owns no spot 
 Their demon-power reacheth not; 
 Grot, cliff, or cave, it boots not where 
 This foot would fly, they'd track me there." 
 
 " Then, then, 'tis true ! no more, no more, 
 For thee, shall shine Taheite's sun ! 
 
 Thy step will vanish from the shore 
 Where first, our souls were one. 
 
 But thou hast told me of a bower, 
 In lands whose children all are fair,
 
 POEMS. 
 
 6'3 
 
 If thou must hence, ah ! take thy flower, 
 Ah ! take and plant it there." 
 
 " Blossom of life ! it may not be, 
 My taskers call me to the sea, 
 And man and fate, my artless bride, 
 Are leagued to tear me from thy side ; 
 I dare not stay, — words cannot tell 
 This moment's agony, — farewell !"
 
 64 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 FAMILY LIKENESS. 
 
 Were I but qualified for shining, 
 
 In golden hues, before her eyes, 
 And every thing besides combining 
 
 To make me that brutes might despise ; 
 Yes — were I the terrestrial brother, 
 
 To some foul shape loathed even in hell ; 
 I do believe, sweet nymph ! thy mother 
 
 Would, for my grace, commend me well. 
 
 And were I moulded in all beauty 
 
 Ascribed to man's least earthly form ; 
 A soul, true to each point of duty, 
 
 Head, cool and clear, heart, pure and warm, 
 But yet found wanting in the treasure, 
 
 Thy parent's household deity, 
 I feel words could not mark the measure 
 
 Of thy deep-seated scorn for me : 
 Now which to woo — thee or thy mother— 
 I know not, you're so like each other.
 
 POEMS. 
 
 65 
 
 O THAT 1 WERE THE GREAT SOUL OF 
 A WORLD ! 
 
 O that I were the great soul of a world ! 
 
 A glory in space ! 
 By the glad hand of Omnipotence hurled 
 
 Sublime on its race ! 
 Reflecting the marvellous beauty of heaven, 
 
 Encircled with joy, 
 To endure, when the orbs shall wax dim, thatare given 
 
 Old Time to destroy. 
 
 O that I were this magnificent spirit I 
 
 Embodied to prove 
 The measureless bliss they were sure to inherit, 
 
 Who lived in my love; 
 With elements infinite, fitted for taking 
 
 All forms of my will ; 
 To give me, for ever, the rapture of making 
 
 More happiness still !
 
 66 POEMS. 
 
 WELL,— I WILL NAME THEE THE LAND I 
 LIKE BEST. 
 
 Well, — well, I will name thee the land I like best, 
 The home where the foot of the pilgrim would rest ; 
 It is not the elime where the glories of day 
 Give place to a night-beam, as brilliant as they ; 
 It is not where Nature is blessed with a dower 
 Of all that is fairest in field, or in bower : 
 
 O no ! 'tis not there that my soul hopes to be, 
 From the cares and the woes of its sojourn free ; 
 But 'tis where the fancy is ceaselessly bright, 
 And no speck appears on its pure mellow light; 
 Where, better than all in the field, or the bower, 
 The hearts of our choice are for ever in flower.
 
 POEMS. 67 
 
 NED BOLTON. 
 
 A jolly comrade in the port/ a fearless mate at sea; 
 
 When I forget thee, to my hand false may the cut- 
 lass be ! 
 
 And may my gallant battle-flag be stricken down in 
 shame, 
 
 If, when the social can goes round, I fail to pledge 
 thy name ! 
 
 Up, up, my lads ! — his memory ! — well give it with 
 a cheer, — 
 
 Ned Bolton, the commander of the Black Snake 
 privateer ! 
 
 Poor Ned ! he had a heart of steel, with neither flaw 
 nor speck ; 
 
 Firm, as a rock, in strife or storm, he stood the quar- 
 ter-deck ;
 
 68 POEMS. 
 
 He was, I trow, a welcome man to many an Indian 
 
 dame, 
 And Spanish planters crossed themselves at whisper 
 
 of his name ; 
 But now, Jamaica girls may weep— rich Dons se- 
 curely smile- 
 Hi s bark will take no prize again, nor e'er touch 
 Indian isle ! 
 
 'S blood ! 'twas a sorry fate he met on his own mo- 
 ther wave, — 
 
 The foe far off, the storm asleep, and yet to find a 
 grave ! 
 
 With store of the Peruvian gold, and spirit of the 
 cane, 
 
 No need would he have had to cruise, in tropic climes, 
 again : 
 
 But some are born to sink at sea, and some to hang 
 on shore, 
 
 And Fortune cried, God speed ! at last, and wel- 
 comed Ned no more.
 
 POEMS. 69 
 
 Twasoff the coast of Mexico — the tale is bitterbrief— 
 The Black Snake, under press of sail, stuck fast upon 
 
 a reef; 
 Upon a cutting coral-reef — scarce a good league from 
 
 land- 
 But hundreds, both of horse and foot, were ranged 
 
 upon the strand : 
 His boats were lost before Cape Horn, and, with an 
 
 old canoe, 
 Even had he numbered ten for one, what could Ned 
 
 Bolton do ? 
 
 Six days and nights, the vessel lay upon the coral-reef, 
 
 Nor favouring gale, nor friendly flag, brought pros- 
 pect of relief; 
 
 For a land-breeze, the wild one prayed, who never 
 prayed before, 
 
 And when it came not at his call he bit his lip and 
 swore : 
 
 The Spaniards shouted from the beach, but did not 
 venture near, 
 
 Too well they knew the mettle of the daring privateer !
 
 70 POEMS. 
 
 A calm ! — a calm ! — a hopeless calm ! — the red sun 
 
 burning high, 
 Glared blisteringly and wearily, in a transparent 
 
 sky; 
 The grog went round the gasping crew, and loudly 
 
 rose the song, 
 The only pastime at an hour when rest seemed far 
 
 too long. 
 So boisterously they took their rouse, upon the 
 
 crowded deck, 
 They looked like men who had escaped, not feared, 
 
 a sudden wreck. 
 
 Up sprung the breeze the seventh day — away ! away! 
 to sea 
 
 Drifted the bark, with riven planks, over the waters 
 free ; 
 
 Their battle-flag these rovers bold then hoisted top- 
 mast high, 
 
 And to the swarthy foe sent back a fierce defying 
 cry
 
 POEMS. 71 
 
 " One last broadside !" Ned Bolton cried, — deep 
 
 boomed the cannon's roar, 
 And echo's hollow growl returned an answer, from 
 
 the shore. 
 
 The thundering gun, the broken song, the mad tu- 
 multuous cheer, 
 
 Ceased not, so long as ocean spared, the shattered 
 privateer : 
 
 I saw her-— I — she shot by me, like lightning, in the 
 gale, 
 
 We strove to save, we tacked, and fast we slackened 
 all our sail — 
 
 I knew the wave of Ned's right hand— farewell !— - 
 you strive in vain ! 
 
 And he, or one of his ship's crew, ne'er entered port 
 again !
 
 72 POEMS. 
 
 PERPLEXITY. 
 
 Above, below, earth, sea, and sky 
 Affect my spirit wondrously ; 
 The grass that grows, the bird that flies, 
 The fish that in its cavern dies, 
 Do, each and all, compel me still 
 To moods most foreign to my will, 
 To quests which trouble the dim brain 
 With prayers for light, invoked in vain ! 
 
 Yet dreams, like these, might haply pass,- 
 I'm neither fish, nor fowl, nor grass, — 
 Nor care I what may be their fate, 
 Beyond this momentary state ; 
 But we, perforce, deep interest take 
 In self, dear self! for its own sake, — 
 And thoughts of man, and death, and life, 
 Rouse my internal world to strife.
 
 POEMS. 
 
 That I have lived, that I shall die, 
 I do believe, but know not why, 
 For aught I yet have heard, or seen, 
 Such a strange creature should have been ; 
 With but a fraction more of evil, 
 I might have fairly served the devil, 
 And, with a dash of colder blood, 
 Have won the epithet of Good. 
 
 Each day some will-o'-wisp pursuing, 
 For ever doing and undoing ; 
 Perceiving, whether gay, or sad, 
 Man is, and ever will be, mad — 
 For any fit cause that appears 
 "To call forth human smiles or tears — 
 Yet conscious that, in this same madness, 
 Exists the only chance of gladness. 
 
 Thrice blessed he, whose sluggish eye 
 Pries not into life's mystery, 
 To whom the temple is but stone, 
 The incense smoke, and smoke alone^ 
 
 73
 
 74 POEMS. 
 
 Who takes not his adventurous course 
 In search of Fate's forbidden source, 
 But, when the Sun breaks on his shell, 
 Admits, he serves him passing w ell !
 
 POEMS. 75 
 
 ALTERED FEELINGS. 
 
 It gladdened me more than I well can express, 
 
 The smali river, 
 With its green sloping margin, which sought the caress 
 Of the light-hearted stroller, whose free foot to press 
 
 It failed never. 
 When the warmest of months, brought the long 
 happy days, 
 
 On its bosom 
 The drooping laburnum still showered a blaze 
 
 Of rich blossom : 
 No, I cannot express how its aspect did bless 
 the heart, when first touched by its loveliness. 
 
 It gladdened me not when I saw it again, 
 
 The small river; 
 It was cursed to my sense, I beheld it in pain, 
 Though its bright little waves, unprofaned by a stain, 
 
 Flowed as ever;
 
 76 POEMS. 
 
 And the days were life-long, and the pale golden 
 shower 
 
 In profusion 
 Poured down as before, but away was their power 
 
 Of illusion : 
 Then I marred the clear wave, and indignantly gave 
 the tree and its blossoms within it a grave. 
 
 I was wrong ! I was wrong ! though you gladdened 
 me not, 
 
 Humble river 
 To cloud your fair waters, and ruin the spot 
 Where your drooping laburnum in golden flowers 
 shot, 
 
 Bright as ever 
 A maid, long adored, and this moment disdained, 
 
 Is a token, 
 That in me, not in you, was the sweet spell contained 
 
 Which is broken : 
 'Tis my fate to enthral my fond spirit, with all, 
 on which the warm hues of its own beauty fall.
 
 POEMS. 77 
 
 THE MOURNER. 
 
 I do not sigh 
 
 That I catch not the glance of woman's eye ; 
 
 I am weary of woman, — I know too well 
 
 How the pleasant smiles of the love-merchant sell, 
 
 To cast a serious thought on her, 
 
 Though I've been, like others, a worshipper. 
 
 I do not sigh for the silken creature, 
 
 The tinge of good, in her milky blood, 
 
 Marks not her worth, but a feeble nature. 
 
 I do not pine 
 
 That the treasures of India are not mine ; 
 
 I have feasted on all that gold can buy, 
 
 I have drained the fount, men call Pleasure,, dry,
 
 78 POEMS. 
 
 And I feel the after-scorch of pain 
 On a lip which would not drink again. 
 
 ! wealth on me were nought but wasted ; 
 I'm far above the usurer's love, 
 
 And all other love, on earth, I've tasted. 
 
 1 do not weep 
 
 That apart, from the noble, my walk I keep ; 
 That the name I bear, shall never be set 
 'Mid the gems of Fame's dazzling coronet ; 
 That I shall slink, with the meanest clay, 
 To a hasty grave, as mean as they : 
 The Joys of the Sepulchre do not grieve me ; 
 I have that, within, a name might win, 
 And a tomb — if such things could deceive me. 
 
 I do not groan, 
 
 Though I Life's poison-plant have known ; 
 
 Though, in my spirit's drunkenness, 
 
 I ate its fruits of bitterness, 
 
 Nor knew, until it was too late, 
 
 The ills which on such banquet wait —
 
 POEMS 79 
 
 Tis not for 'his I cherish sadness; 
 
 I've taught my heart to endure the smart 
 
 Produced by my youth's madness. 
 
 But I do sigh. 
 
 And darkly, deeply, pine — weep — groan — and why ? 
 
 Because, with unclouded eye, I see 
 
 Each turn in human destiny ; 
 
 The knowledge of which will not depart, 
 
 But lingers, and rankles in my heart, — 
 
 Because it is my chance to know 
 
 That good and ill, that weal and wo, 
 
 Are words which nothing mean, below, — 
 
 Because all earth can't buy a morrow, 
 
 Nor draw from death, or the vital breath, 
 
 Aught, save uncertainty and sorrow !
 
 80 POKMS. 
 
 A LESSON. 
 
 Away, while yet thy days are few, forsake thy quiet 
 
 home, 
 And in a bark of buoyant hope on Life's wide 
 
 waters roam ; 
 With Passion at the rudder, boy ! steer bold for 
 
 every shore 
 Which to thy ardent fancy seems with sunghine 
 
 glistening o'er, 
 And gladden thee and madden thee with all the 
 
 earth can give, 
 Nor let thy bosom feel repose till thou hast learned 
 
 to live. 
 
 O'er many a glancing summer wave, thou'lt find an 
 
 island fair, 
 A paradise of living flowers most beautiful and rare ;
 
 POEMS. 81 
 
 Its beacon-fires are numberless, all lighted up by 
 
 Love, 
 And brighter than the brightest stars that grace 
 
 the heavens above ; 
 And free to thee its flowers shall be, — the choicest 
 
 thou may'st wear, 
 If thou wilt stay thy morning course, and take thy 
 
 haven there. 
 
 If onward still thy bark must go — then onward lies 
 
 a strand 
 Whose towers and domes, of burning gold, proclaim 
 
 a royal land, — 
 Ambition holds a gallant sway o'er that imperial 
 
 soil, 
 And, loftily, will he repay thy danger and thy 
 
 toil: 
 His power can frame, from out thy name, a spell of 
 
 joy, or pain, 
 To make, or mar, a nation's lot, if thou wilt bear his 
 
 chain.
 
 82 POEMS. 
 
 But if, in Beauty's fairy isle, from blossoms fondly 
 
 pressed — 
 Though of all hues the sky hath known — thy soul 
 
 should rise unblessed — 
 And if, in the gigantic halls that zone Ambition's 
 
 state, 
 Thy heart, beneath a diamond's blaze, feel cold and 
 
 desolate ; 
 And if thy will incline thee still for other shores to 
 
 steer, 
 Yet no spot, like the fancied one, to welcome thee 
 
 appear ; 
 
 Then — I implore thee, by the name thy father gave 
 
 to thee, 
 And by the dust of her, who bore thy weakness on 
 
 her knee, 
 That thou wilt not, however late, persuade thyself 
 
 to stay, 
 In recklessness, where joy, or peace afford no lasting 
 
 ray;
 
 POEMS. 
 
 83 
 
 But, though estranged, and something changed, haste 
 
 to thy quiet home, 
 And spend thy days, as they were spent, ere thou 
 
 had'st learned to roam.
 
 84 POEMS. 
 
 BYRON. 
 
 The cry of grief hath died away 
 
 Which rose upon thy fall, 
 And high and low have said their say 
 
 Above the Poet's pall. 
 If I the latest mourner prove, 
 'Tis not that least, though last, in love 
 
 I come behind them all, 
 But that my spirit's gift should be 
 The purer, and the worthier thee. 
 
 Thine was a free-born soul : it spurned 
 
 The tyrant bonds of clay, 
 Felt their vile force, and inly burned 
 
 To cast these bonds away : 
 And had'st thou, to thyself, been true, 
 And done, what thou wert pledged to do, 
 
 I might not see to-day,
 
 POEMS.- 
 
 85 
 
 That of the herd, — thy scorn, — scarce one 
 But lives and laughs, while thou art, gone ! 
 
 Unequal to your giant span, 
 
 You burst the narrow shell, 
 In which the creeping creature, man, 
 
 Loves punily to dwell. 
 Indignantly you soared abroad, 
 And had you left the base abode 
 
 For ever, it were well ; 
 But, stooping from a sphere of pride, 
 Pollution touched you, and you died ! 
 
 I know, 'twas on the Grecian coast — 
 What business hadst thou there ? — 
 
 If hog, or dog were uppermost, 
 Twas not thy place to care. 
 
 There was no lack of knaves, or fools, 
 
 To practise Slaughter's hellish rules, 
 For either of the pair ; 
 
 Heaven, in its mercy, closed thy life, 
 
 Degraded in a savage strife.
 
 86 POEMS. 
 
 As armed, with pen of proof, to smite 
 
 A core- corrupted age, 
 Recording moralists may write 
 
 Its grossness on their page. 
 Though fitted least, perchance, of all 
 Bound by the swarming city's wall, 
 
 A righteous war to wage ; 
 So he, who mocked the adoring crowd, 
 Before the self- same idol bowed. 
 
 The forfeit's paid, — we pardon thee, — 
 
 Thy faults shall fade away ; 
 The beauty of thy memory 
 Will never know decay. 
 Thy errors, like a cloud or two, 
 Upon a heaven of holiest blue, 
 
 But intercept the ray, 
 To make its fervour less intense, 
 For trembling mortals' shrinking sense. 
 
 The Monarch of the Melody 
 Is risen from his throne,
 
 POEMS. 87 
 
 And who shall lead the harmony, 
 
 When he, our feast, hath flown ? 
 His harp obeys no stranger hand, 
 Nor have we one whose chords command 
 
 The wild heart-piercing tone, 
 That swelled above each heavy hymn 
 Of those, who would have rivalled him. 
 
 Attendant on the minstrel's form, 
 
 A band of spirits came, 
 From Earth and Air, in calm, in storm, 
 
 In water and in flame. 
 The children of the Universe 
 Obeyed the magic of his verse, 
 
 And, at his will, became 
 Things lovely, to the wondering eyes 
 Which gloried in their mysteries. 
 
 He died too, as he wished to die, 
 
 A fair and full-grown tree, 
 Whose stem shot proudly to the sky. 
 
 And bloomed luxuriantly.
 
 88 POEMS. 
 
 No dotage of a slow decay, 
 No canker of rebellious clay, 
 
 E'er fixed its taint on thee ; 
 Thy spirit sprung from its abode, 
 In summer beauty to its God. 
 
 And in that latest, loneliest hour, 
 
 When human aid is vain, 
 There lives, for me, a thought, with power 
 
 To sooth the sense of pain — 
 The consciousness that I shall be, 
 In realms of immortality, 
 
 Permitted to obtain 
 A place in thy community, 
 With those who most resemble thee.
 
 POEMS. 89 
 
 THE JOYS OF THE SUMMER. 
 
 O welcome the joys of the Summer again ! 
 Her smile is abroad, over mountain and plain ; 
 The blithe birds are met in the fair forest tree. 
 Proclaiming, to all things, how jocund they be ; 
 While the faithless bee, for its amber dower, 
 Mocks the fond ear of the love-sick flower, 
 And the clustering stars, so pure and so pale, 
 Sympathize with the querulous nightingale, 
 And the flight of the young'spirit knows not pain,— 
 The joys of the Summer are with us again ! 
 
 Awake ! O awake ! 'tis the voice of the Morn ; 
 
 She comes o'er a pathway of rose-blossoms borne, 
 
 Gayly unfurling her banner of light, 
 
 Playfully chasing the phantoms of Night. 
 
 From his home in the meadows, the lark hath flown, 
 
 'Mid mountains of ether, to worship alone;
 
 90 v POEMS. 
 
 And the wanton Sun, through the lattice peeping, 
 Laughs at unconscious maidens sleeping. 
 Who turn abashed from his frolicksome beam, 
 When they wake and remember the morning dream. 
 
 Away to the green-wood ! away with me ! 
 To the mossy couch, and the spreading tree, 
 Where, with echoless steps, through the leafy halls, 
 Young zephyrs are dancing at intervals, 
 Rouzed from repose, by the natural glee 
 Of the little brook piping cheerily, 
 Who brawls for his largess, and freely receives, 
 From a thousand fair flowers, a thousand leaves ; 
 Of all that bloom by his banks, there is none 
 Refuses the tribute he calls upon. 
 
 Let thy heart take its rest — 'tis the hour of even, 
 And peace is triumphant, on earth and in heaven ; 
 The day-god reclines in his proud pavilion, 
 Of topaz, and sapphire, and rich vermilion : 
 And the breeze that ripples those locks of thine, 
 Is as soft, as the little palm pressed to mine ;
 
 POEMS. 
 
 91 
 
 And thy tremulous accents creep on the ear, 
 Like far-distant music, one pauses to hear ; 
 And the glory enthroned on thy cloudless brow, 
 Is a pledge thou art happy, as I am now ! 
 
 O blessings on Summer ! she bids us rejoice ; 
 
 With her lovesome look and her lightsome voice, 
 
 She comes, in a bright robe, the hearts to cheer 
 
 Of the care-worn creatures who journey here ; 
 
 And ever she singeth a holy song, 
 
 To Life's poor pilgrims wending along : 
 
 " When storms are at work on a wild Winter day, 
 
 Droop not, despair not, ye children of clay ! 
 
 For Winter will pass, with his burthen of pain, 
 
 And joy and the Summer be with you again.'
 
 92 POEMS. 
 
 NO—COME NOT, MY LIFE. 
 
 No — come not, my life ! till the gay sun is waking 
 
 The slumbering flowers of a distant land ; 
 Till the pensive moon on the still heaven breaking, 
 
 Greets, like a mother, her starry band. 
 As the planet of love leaves, silent and lonely, 
 
 The coral caves of a waveless sea ; 
 So come to the bower, where thou art the only 
 
 One that will ever be met by me. 
 
 Thy voice is the music of Memory, swelling, 
 
 Through clefts, a grief-stricken heart hath known, 
 
 Like the autumn winds through some tenantless 
 dwelling, 
 Making, by fits, a desolate moan.
 
 POEMS. 93 
 
 And pleasant it is, in the moments of sorrow, 
 To have thy spirit to meet with mine, 
 
 That its dream may be blessed, and its dark mood 
 borrow 
 A beam from the holier light of thine. 
 
 Then come all alone, when the happy lie sleeping, 
 
 When night-dews sparkle on flower and tree ; 
 One tear from thine eye, while our sad watch we're 
 keeping, 
 
 More than dew to the flower, will be to me. 
 Let the icy of soul, or the hopeful-hearted, 
 
 Sport in the blaze of the regal sun ; 
 'Tis meet, love, that we, from whom joy hath de- 
 parted, 
 
 Should wait and weep when his course is run.
 
 94 POEMS. 
 
 EPITHALAMIUM. 
 
 Press thy hand to this heart, love !— it feels like lead; 
 
 I am weary of walking a journey of pain ; 
 I'll smooth my earth-pillow, and lay down my head, 
 
 And sleep, not to wake in this bleak world again, 
 Till the trump of the archangel peal through the 
 
 gloom, 
 And break, with its echo, the trance of the tomb. 
 
 Nay, start not, my maiden — the mansion is poor— 
 The couch not so lightsome as royal ones be ; 
 
 But Death, the old warder, will stand at the door, 
 And watch, through whole ages, thy lover and 
 thee. 
 
 The Priest is in waiting — creep close to my side, 
 
 Nor shrink, though Eternity make thee a bride.
 
 POEMS. 95 
 
 The night may be lonely and long — do not fear — 
 We cease from all sorrow — our labour is done — 
 
 Tis true that the loves of the worm are here, 
 And spring, from our bosoms, shall many a one. 
 
 Yet, what are the masters of ocean and earth, 
 
 Save forms that are fashioned to give worms birth ? 
 
 Place thy cold lip to mine, and lie close — closer still — 
 Come ! seal up thine eye from the false fleeting 
 day- 
 To-night we shall slumber — ay, slumber our fill — 
 
 From thepoor wretched dreamers of life, far away — 
 We may laugh, when we think, that we never again 
 Shall see their cursed realm of sorrow and pain ! 
 
 Good night to them all ! Let them cloud their blue 
 
 sky, 
 
 And trample their green earth. — Good-night ! 
 
 Good-night ! 
 
 There are few in their caves shall sleep sounder than I, 
 
 Or care less what hour brings back the daylight,
 
 96 POEMS. 
 
 Unheeding, though even Mortality's tread 
 Should mix with the reptiles to blacken our bed. 
 
 Hark ! — the clock strikes the hour — adieu to thee, 
 Time ! 
 
 The dotard is ringing his drowsy farewell ; 
 To-morrow the bells of Eternity chime, 
 
 To sooth each wan pilgrim asleep in his cell ; 
 And soft, as the music of heaven, shall glide, 
 That chime to their spirits who lie side by side. 
 
 Thou art drooping, pale flower ! then lean on my 
 breast — 
 She sleeps — so the day of her trial is o'er ; 
 Two travellers are sped to the chamber of rest, 
 To mingle their ashes, and part never more ; 
 Right glad of the home which refuses no guest, 
 Though, of sad ones, least happy, of sinners, least 
 blest.
 
 POEMS. 97 
 
 THE VIOLET. 
 
 An evil destiny, had thrown 
 
 A modest Violet, alone, 
 
 Upon a hateful spot, where rose 
 
 Each noxious weed the rank earth knows. 
 
 The giant thistle reared its head, 
 
 Contemptuous, o'er its lowly bed ; 
 
 Nettle and fatal hemlock lay 
 
 Between it and the summer ray. 
 
 In vain, it sought, with azure eye, 
 
 For skies as azure, piteously ; 
 
 In vain, with aromatic breath, 
 
 Called upon winter's grasp of death ; 
 
 Imprisoned still, it suffered long, 
 
 Unfit to cope with tyrants strong, 
 
 Its timid worth, and hapless fate, 
 
 Unseen, unvalued, till too late .'
 
 98 POEMS. 
 
 I found it, in an after-hour, 
 
 The wreck of a departed flower ; 
 
 But from it, not so soon to die, 
 
 The odours of its memory, 
 
 Rose o'er its tyrants' broken pride, 
 
 Now shorn and scattered, side by side ; 
 
 Nor noted, save in generous scorn, 
 
 Of the vile sway they long had borne, 
 
 Over a sad forsaken creature, 
 
 Of nobler race and kindlier nature, 
 
 Whose life had been one vain endeavour, 
 
 To gain the right, denied it ever, 
 
 The privilege to hold on earth, 
 
 A place congenial to its birth. 
 
 It was a childish thing, in wrath, 
 
 To spurn these foul weeds from my path, 
 
 To bend, with looks of earnest grief, 
 
 O'er the sear Violet's latest leaf; 
 
 Yet in my madness there was measure, 
 
 And in my sorrow, silent pleasure.
 
 POEMS. 
 
 99 
 
 The weeds did image to my mind, 
 The trampling rabble, gross, unkind, 
 Who bear, with envious sneer and frown, 
 The struggling heart of genius down. 
 The withered leaf, thus left alone, 
 Spoke of that genius, dead and gone, 
 While the aroma of its breath, 
 Proclaimed its triumph even in death.
 
 100 POEMS. 
 
 FIDELITY IN DEATH. 
 
 If, lady, 'tis thy fate to go 
 
 Before me, from a world of care ; 
 
 To solitude alone, I'll show 
 
 The love I, to thy beauty, bear. 
 
 I will not join the funeral throng, 
 Nor to our wonted haunts retire, 
 
 Nor bid the Muse of grief one song, 
 For memory and thee, inspire ; 
 
 But shrouded in the gloom of night, 
 I'll, on the sexton, steal a march, 
 
 And, by the lantern's furtive light, 
 
 Ensconce me 'neath the church-yard arch. 
 
 The sombre coffin-lid I'll raise, 
 And stow thee, cautious, in a sack,
 
 POEMS. 101 
 
 Then, like Mneas, from Troy's blaze, 
 Speed, with love's load upon my back. 
 
 When Fame has ceased to speak thy worth, 
 
 I'll seeth thee in a spacious pot, 
 With pious toil ; for though all earth 
 
 Neglect thy ashes, I will not. 
 
 As, of the dance, thou art the queen, 
 
 Thy neat bones shall on wires be strung, 
 
 Never, by vulgar optic, seen, 
 But, in my dormitory, hung. 
 
 Thy brain I'll carefully convey 
 
 Into a china vase, and set 
 The same where sunbeams liveliest play, 
 
 Sowing it o'er with minionette. 
 
 This will display a rare conceit — 
 The brain, that thinking cauliflower, 
 
 I then may, not unaptly, greet 
 A tiny, intellectual, bower.
 
 102 POEMS. 
 
 From skull of monk did Byron drain 
 Deep draughts of the blood-burning wine ; 
 
 But I, adored ! will not profane 
 
 With such, that gentle head of thine. 
 
 Perhaps, in pain's distressful hour, 
 
 A sacred caudle-cup 'twill be, 
 Having, if aught can have, the power 
 
 To work a miracle on me. 
 
 Lady ! if thou may'st place thy trust 
 In words composed of human breath, 
 
 Believe thy slave is barely just 
 To his fidelity in death.
 
 POEMS. 
 
 103 
 
 TO A CONTEMPTIBLE. 
 
 Be satisfied ; for love, or hate, 
 
 To thee, I cannot show — 
 Spare further pains — r feel that fate 
 
 Hath ruled the matter so. 
 To love — I must in form, or mind, 
 
 Discover something dear ; 
 To hate — I must, though loathing, find 
 
 An object worth a fear.
 
 ]04 POEMS. 
 
 FIRST LOVE. 
 
 Thou think'st that nought hath had the power 
 
 This heart to softness move ; 
 Thou'rt wrong — no knight more faithfully 
 
 E'er wore his lady's glove, 
 Than I within my breast have borne 
 
 A first, an only love. 
 
 Her form — I cannot paint her form — 
 
 In life I was but young, 
 Even when I last knelt at her feet, 
 
 And on her accents hung. 
 I would not swear her beautiful, — 
 
 Yet such she must have been, — 
 And in my dreams of paradise 
 
 She mingles in each scene.
 
 POEMS. 
 
 This present time, in crowded halls, 
 
 Surrounded by the gay, 
 I follow, in forgetfulness, 
 
 Her image far away ; 
 And if I list a touching voice, 
 
 Or sweet face gaze upon, 
 'Tis but to fill my memory 
 
 With that beloved one. 
 
 For days — for months — devotedly 
 
 I've lingered by her side, 
 The only place I coveted 
 
 Of all the world so wide ; 
 And in the exile of an hour, 
 
 I consolation found, 
 Where her most frequent wanderings 
 
 Had marked it holy ground. 
 
 It was not that in her I saw 
 Affection's sovereign maid, 
 
 In beauty and young innocence 
 Bewitchingly arrayed ; 
 
 105
 
 106 POEMS. 
 
 'Twas more — far more ; — I felt, as if 
 
 Existence went and came, 
 Even when the meanest hind who served 
 
 Her father, breathed her name. 
 
 I longed to say a thousand things, 
 
 I longed, yet dared not speak, 
 Half-hoped, half-feared, that she might read 
 
 My thoughts upon my cheek. 
 Then, if unconsciously she smiled, 
 
 My sight turned faint and thick, 
 Until, with very happiness, 
 
 My reeling heart grew sick. 
 
 O days of youth! O days of youth ! 
 
 To have these scenes return, 
 The pride of all my riper years 
 
 How gladly would I spurn ! 
 That form — the soul of my boy-life — 
 
 Departed, and none came, 
 In after-time, with half the charm 
 
 Which cleaves unto her name.
 
 POEMS. 
 
 107 
 
 Nor vanished she, as one who shares 
 
 The stain of human birth, 
 But, like an angel's shade, that falls 
 
 In light, upon the earth ; 
 That falls in light, and blesses all 
 
 Who in its radiance lie, 
 But leaves them to the deeper gloom 
 
 Whene'er it passes by.
 
 108 POEMS. 
 
 THE FRIEND. 
 
 I have a friend, — a faithful friend,— 
 
 His truth hath long been tried, 
 He moves, where'er my footsteps wend, 
 
 A shadow by my side. 
 The loved of early years are gone — 
 
 The one, of all, most dear — 
 Yet fly who may, he lingers on 
 
 My last companion here. 
 
 He greets me from his hiding-place, 
 
 In eyes that lightly roll ; 
 I call the wine, and, lo ! his face 
 
 Is mirrored in the bowl. 
 It recks not where, by sea, or shore, 
 
 On banned, or holy ground, 
 I rest ; he pauses not before 
 
 My presence he hath found.
 
 POEMS. 109 
 
 But most his ever- watchful love 
 
 Attends me in the night, 
 When tempests shake the spheres above, 
 
 And stars shed forth no light : 
 When broods, upon a troubled brow, 
 
 The dread of coming ill, 
 Then — then — I doubly feel, as now, 
 
 That with me he is still. 
 
 Recording devil ! how he glares 
 
 Upon me in that time, 
 And stamps, in burning characters, 
 
 Each perpetrated crime ; — 
 And spits abasement on my cheek, 
 
 And turns my soul from prayer. 
 In utter hopelessness, to seek 
 
 A refuge in despair.
 
 110 POEMS. 
 
 TO A DISCONSOLATE FAIR. 
 
 I care not though 
 Thy tears o'erflow 
 
 For love of me ; 
 In vain thou'lt mourn, 
 I'll ne'er return 
 
 To look on thee. 
 
 When last we met. 
 The sun had set 
 
 On distant hills ; 
 The memory yet, 
 With wild regret, 
 
 My bosom fills. 
 
 With smiles of love, 
 The stars above
 
 POEMS. Ill 
 
 Did sweetly shine. 
 And as they burned, 
 I, fondly, turned 
 
 To worship thine. 
 
 Before that even, 
 
 I thought, that heaven 
 
 Woke passion's flame ; 
 But now, too truly, 
 The month of July 
 
 Tells whence it came. 
 
 The kiss you gave me, 
 Could not deceive me, 
 
 My pretty one ! 
 On cheeks of roses 
 Each fool reposes, 
 
 When I am gone. 
 
 In vain thou'lt mourn, 
 I'll ne'er return
 
 ]12 POEMS. 
 
 To look on thee ; 
 The tears of woman 
 Are far too common 
 
 A bait for me.
 
 POEMS, 113 
 
 THE FLOWER OF MY BIRTH-DAY- 
 
 I was a wild, yet tender thing, 
 
 In childhood's early day ; 
 I loved the free bird's merry wing, 
 The gentle tear of infant Spring, 
 
 And the blithe look of May ; 
 I loved our cottage in the glen— 
 'Tis ruined now — 'twas smiling then— * 
 
 No matter ! — once there was a flower 
 
 My mother gave to me, 
 'Twas planted on my natal hour, 
 And was, of all our summer-bower, 
 
 The favourite of the bee ; 
 My mother oft, in sport, would say, 
 " You're children of the self-same day !'
 
 114 POEMS. 
 
 I prized it well — it was, in faith, 
 
 A peerless little flower ; 
 I sought to shield its fairy wreath 
 From the chill north wind's angry breath, 
 
 And the approaching shower ; 
 Blooming beneath a sunny sky, 
 I never dreamt to see it die. 
 
 At last, methought its roseate hue 
 
 Waxed fainter every morrow ; 
 I saw it fade — the morning dew 
 Fell cheerly — but the flow'ret grew 
 
 Into a thing of sorrow ; 
 I watched it till, by slow decay, 
 Its fragrant spirit passed away. 
 
 Its spirit passed — I wept the fate 
 
 Of my poor garden-brother ! 
 It was so beautiful a mate, 
 That, when it left me desolate, 
 I might not find another
 
 POEMS. 115 
 
 To rival the departed one — 
 
 My heart was in it — it was gone ! 
 
 Tis strange — Time hath sped far and fast 
 
 Since that ill-fated flower, 
 Yielding its bosom to the blast, 
 Sickened, and drooped, and sunk at last 
 
 Within its native bower ; 
 'Tis strange — how all of good, that I 
 Since found, hath shared its destiny. 
 
 I've marked it well — each morn hath led 
 To some new cherished treasure, 
 
 Some promise-bud, which flowered and fled, 
 
 Ere the first evening sky grew red, 
 With all its plighted pleasure, — 
 
 Leaving the hope-sick heart in pain, 
 
 To seek — and be deceived again. 
 
 i 
 
 And this is life — and this is love — 
 And this is beauty's power !
 
 1 ] 6 POEMS. 
 
 And thus must fame and fortune prove, 
 False lights, that lead the soul to rove, 
 
 Then vanish in an hour ! 
 Our earliest tear and latest sigh, 
 Spring from one sad fatality •'
 
 POEMS.- 117 
 
 A SATANIC BATTLE-CHANT. * 
 
 Satan. — Powers ! that sway the dominions of ill, 
 Whose bounds — thanks to man ! — are increasing still, 
 From your thrones, in the thunder-cloud, look be- 
 neath, 
 On the ample work of your kinsman Death ; 
 A host of Earth's children have met in hate, 
 They'll banquet, on blood, ere they separate. 
 
 Chorus of Fiends. 
 
 The better for thee ! 
 
 And the better for thine ! 
 The wolf quits his lair, 
 And the vulture speeds there, 
 
 On their tyrant to dine. 
 Their fangs shall be red 
 In the flesh of the dead ! 
 
 Ho ! good luck to the sign !
 
 118 POEMS. 
 
 Satan. — Powers ! whose doom is ever to bear 
 The wish to impart your own keen despair ; 
 Your pangs, while you yonder scene behold, 
 May loosen a moment their scorpion-fold. 
 See and rejoice at the blackening sky ! 
 Hear and bid hail to the murder-cry ! 
 
 Chorus of Fiends. 
 
 Hail ! Hail ! to the cry — 
 
 Ne'er was music so sweet, 
 As the battle-yell, 
 And the bannings fell, 
 
 When great heroes meet ; 
 For a name, or for ore, 
 To make fat, with their gore. 
 
 The turf at their feet. 
 
 Satan. — Powers ! whose sole joy's to people well, 
 With slaves, the bitumen soil of hell, 
 Pray that Earth's reptiles may never know, 
 How madly they work each other's wo,
 
 POEMS. 
 
 Damning themselves for a specious name, 
 Religion — Liberty — Fortune — Fame ! 
 
 Chorus of Fiends. 
 
 May the wretched race, 
 To the last, never see, 
 
 'Tis a lie that leads 
 
 To whatever deeds 
 Engender misery ; 
 
 And ne'er may they know 
 
 How little of wo, 
 
 Did love rule them, would be ! 
 
 119
 
 1 20 POEMS. 
 
 STRANGE NUPTIALS. 
 
 Below the cheerful surface of the earth, 
 
 Within a dank and dismal charnel-vault, 
 
 I sat a lonely watcher. It was still, 
 
 Beyond what dead men's homes are used to be. 
 
 Forgetful of the upper air, and eve 
 
 Of summer, dozed in heaviness the bat ; 
 
 The toad lay torpid in its slimy lair, 
 
 The briny drippings of the arch had ceased, 
 
 And even the ravening worm, gorged at length, 
 
 Paused, for a little, from its loathsome feast, 
 
 And coiled itself within a putrid bower. 
 
 Coffins lay 'round me with their mouldering heaps ; 
 There were such multitudes, I could not guess 
 How many there might be; foi*, though a light 
 Of subtile vivid green, unnatural,
 
 POEMS. 121 
 
 Proceeding whence the dead alone could tell, 
 Made nearer things to vision palpable, 
 Yet, in the far- off distance of the vault, 
 That strained the sight to measure, this strange 
 
 light, 
 Faded in darkness, which, with it compared, 
 Seemed holy. 
 
 But of all I gazed on there, 
 Two forms divorced from life, and in a niche 
 Placed near each other, though most opposite 
 In what, on earth, do wide distinction make, 
 Sex, and the term of years, and outward pomp, 
 Fixed my especial wonder. They did lie 
 Raised high above their gloomy tomb-fellows ; 
 Lids there were none on their sarcophagi, 
 Which showed like variance in the workmanship 
 As, in their aspects, those who slept within. 
 The one contained a corpse of hideous feature, 
 On which disease, and time, and cruel passions 
 Had wrought their worst. 'Twas once an aged man, 
 And life's vain splendour cleaved unto him still ;
 
 122 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 Stones, the most precious, mocked the rigid brow, 
 
 Rich swathings, from the cunning Indian's loom, 
 
 Encompassed him ; and of the burnished gold 
 
 His grave-bed, broad and massy, had been framed. 
 
 The other, a thin shell of common wood, 
 
 Girt, in white weeds, what erst had been a maid — 
 
 A village-girl, nipped in her April beauty, 
 
 By freezing, pitiless Death. Twas my fate 
 
 To watch, perforce, beside this fearful pair. 
 
 Sudden the elfin light of ghastly green 
 
 Forsook the distant windings of the vault, 
 
 And settled, with a hateful brilliancy, 
 
 In the same niche where the two corpses lay. 
 
 Then rose the strangest music ever heard 
 
 By ear of living man. It was so low, 
 
 I could not say I felt the silence broken, 
 
 And yet it pierced the inmost core of sense, 
 
 Thrilling with joy, most like a pleasant madness. 
 
 The author of that wondrous minstrelsy 
 
 Showed, I doubt not, his potence in the scene 
 
 Which followed at its close.
 
 POEMS. 
 
 123 
 
 As I expect 
 To meet my Maker at a judgment-seat, 
 With the last note of awful melody, 
 I saw the rich-clad corpse of the old man 
 Sit upright in the coffin ; yet no more 
 Of life, in its grim visage, than had been 
 Heretofore, save that now two glairy eyes, 
 Mashed by foul putrefaction, were unveiled, 
 And they did rest upon the clay-cold girl, 
 Who, as if stirred by an all-powerful spell, 
 Rose likewise in her shroud, and bared the things, 
 Which once received God's blessed light, and gave 
 Gladness to all they looked on. Then there came 
 Voices from out the blue lips of the twain, 
 Speaking that I dare not repeat, what fiends, 
 Alone, could utter in their damned mirth ; 
 But what the theme was I may tell — 'twas love ! 
 Ay, love from gelid corpses ! 
 
 The old man, 
 Rich clad, did seem to call on the young maid, 
 Tinctured in humble cerements, to partake
 
 ] 24 POE MS. 
 
 His gorgeous coffin, as a bridal bed. 
 Longcommuned they, with monstrous form of speech, 
 As lovers, in perdition's pit, might commune, 
 Till she, the maid, consented to be his. 
 Then flamed, to paining, the thin light of green. 
 I closed my eyes, just while a star might twinkle ; 
 The old corpse and the young lay side by side, 
 In the broad grave-bed of red burnished gold, 
 When they were oped again. 
 
 The thin green light waxed dim ; 
 But, by its fading gleam, I saw the pair, 
 Embedded in their rottenness, embrace, 
 And heard the meeting of their clammy lips, 
 And a hell-peal rung to their wedding joys; 
 And I did shriek, even as a dying man, 
 Whose last word is despair ! and then awoke, 
 And blessed myself, wiping my cold damp brow. 
 
 It was high noon. Loud chimed the village-bells, 
 With merry music, on my waking ear, 
 And to the question, " Why these sounds of mirth ?"
 
 POEMS. 
 
 125 
 
 There came a quick reply : " Master, Od's pity ! 
 You o'erslept yourself! — sure the cross old Squire, 
 Who coins an oath for each day i' the year, 
 This morn, in spite of his fast friend, the gout, 
 And summers seventy notched upon his front, 
 Led to the church the parson's youngest daughter, 
 The pretty mistress Jane. Her father's poor, 
 And if she love another, as some say, 
 Why she can marry him, when old one's gone." 
 
 My dream — my dream — my horrid dream— was 
 read !
 
 ] 26 POEMS. 
 
 A PEEP AT FORTUNE. 
 
 Scene, A wretched Hut on a Heath — Time, Mid- 
 night. 
 
 Nicholas, a reputed Wizard, solus. 
 
 Enter Young Vauntington in Disguise. 
 
 Nich. What would'st thou in the hut of an old man, 
 That rudely thus, at night's most solemn hour, 
 Thou dost intrude thy presence ? 
 
 Y. Vaun. Good master, 
 Pray excuse me, if, without book-learning, 
 I do make mistakes — honest, though rough, am I ; 
 As for my business, that I'm sure thou knowest 
 Better than I can tell. 
 
 Nich. Again, I ask, 
 What would'st thou in the hut of an old man?
 
 POEMS. 127 
 
 Y. Vaun. Well, since I must, I must. — In good 
 sooth, Sir, 
 But under favour of thy famous craft, — 
 Which I do much respect, — if, as 'tis said, 
 Thou art acquainted with futurity, 
 Or him who knows it, be he black, or white, 
 I care not, I shall live thy grateful slave, 
 If thou wilt give me, a poor village lad, 
 A peep at coming fortune. 
 
 Nich. Modest youth, 
 By the complexion of thy natal star, 
 Great things, and soon, I find, are waiting thee. 
 At the first breaking of the morning dawn, 
 Thou shalt arouse thee to the hunter's horn, — 
 A jocund train shall own thee for their lord, — 
 A mettled courser bear thee far a-field, 
 And men will call thee young Squire Vauntington, 
 Sir Philip's son, whose pleasure it hath been 
 To masquerade in groom's habiliments, 
 And break his jest on age and penury.
 
 128 P0EA1S. 
 
 Y. Vaun. Sharp-sighted seer ! they make false 
 reckoning 
 Who count on cheating thee. But to the point. 
 Though I have wrapt me in a menial's weeds, 
 I come no menial's errand. Nicholas, 
 The world avouches, and I do believe, 
 That thou hast learned,— how it imports me not,— 
 To penetrate the dark and teeming depths 
 Of unsunned time, and with a lucid glance 
 To note the image of what is to be. 
 There is a thing on which my heart is set, — 
 Nor set in sport, but sober thoughtfulness, — 
 Thy art can help me to it. 
 
 Nick. Name it, Sir. 
 
 Y. Vaun. I need not tell thee how, by birth alone, 
 A world of hope is mine. This is well known. 
 But my soul plumes her for a nobler flight 
 Than the unlaurelled state of ancestry. 
 Most think me eloquent — I know I'm young—
 
 POEMS. 129 
 
 Brave enough too, and something popular — 
 Generous perhaps, nor hated by the sex, 
 Whose favour's better than a barony ; 
 And sure, a concert of such notes as these 
 May well keep Fortune dancing at my heels. 
 But more — I have within that confidence, 
 That high assurance of complete success, 
 Which earth's exalted never were without, 
 And which, in truth, is three-thirds of life's battle. 
 
 Nich. Whither leadeth this ? 
 
 Y. Vaun. To the conviction, 
 That infant fancies will grow into facts ; 
 That I shall stand in fate's good hour erect, 
 Where even the haughtiest of our antique name 
 Had gladly bent the knee. 
 
 Nich. Well, be it so— 
 Success attend thee and thy aspirations ! 
 
 Y. Faun. Thy manner smacks of mockery, old man. 
 
 i
 
 130 POEMS. 
 
 Nich. Not mockery, good youth, but weariness : 
 I pr'ythee make me master of thy wish, 
 Or cease to break upon my quietude. 
 
 Y. Vaun. My wish runs briefly thus. Reveal 
 to me, 
 Through the potential spirit of thine art, 
 A portraiture of what the time will show 
 When my young honours reach maturity, 
 And nothing can be added to their growth : 
 Give me to see myself with a true sight, 
 As, at that moment, I shall seem to all 
 Who gaze upon my greatness. 
 
 Nich. Could I grant 
 What thou dost ask, in sooth 'twould serve thee 
 
 nought. 
 But, even say increase of happiness 
 Would follow the fulfilment of desire, 
 How should a frail obscure memorial 
 Of Time's career, and Fortune's perverseness, 
 Compass so strange a matter ?
 
 POEMS. 
 
 131 
 
 Y. Vaun. Hark ye, Sir ! 
 I have not sought, nor will accept, thy counsel, 
 Regarding what may be, or well, or ill, 
 For my high state to know. I am assured 
 The power is thine to do the thing I ask. 
 If, like a gracious wizard, you comply, 
 Five pieces of the red gold shall be thine ; 
 But if thy seer-ship choose dull obstinacy, 
 By good St George I swear, at a cart's tail, 
 Unless thy black liege hasten to the rescue, 
 I'll have thee soundly whipt. 
 
 Nich. Ho ! ho !— ho ! ho ! 
 What, have me scourged, Sir, scourged, and placed 
 
 i' the stocks, 
 For pastime to the rabble ! — you but jest, 
 Just as I did when I framed my answer. — 
 Enough of these loose words — I'll to the work ! 
 Let's see ; thou would'st, I think, behold thyself, 
 As thou shalt to the admiring world appear 
 At the blest moment when tired Fortune saith 
 My task is perfected — I can no more !
 
 132 POEMS. 
 
 Y. Vaun, Most true — I would — I would. 
 
 Nick. Come, stand then here ; 
 Move not thy foot from off this sable mantle. 
 'Tis well — now fix thine eye right on the moon. 
 
 (He gazes on the moon while Nicholas mutters an 
 incantation; at the conclusion of which, he places a 
 pitcher of water before Young Vauntington.) 
 
 Nich. It prospers — thou'rt a favourite of thestars — 
 Enough — enough of moonlight ! — bend thy knee, 
 Still resting on the mantle. — What do'st mark ? 
 
 Y. Vaun. (Looking into the pitcher.) 
 A mirror, larger and more beautiful, 
 Than e'er was fashioned by Venetian skill. 
 
 Nick. Owns not that mirror some strange qualities? 
 
 Y. Vaun. It does ! it does ! — clearer it seems than 
 crystal,
 
 POEMS. 
 
 133 
 
 Yet, to my eye, reflection gives it none ! — 
 Now a soft haze is gathering on its surface — 
 
 Nich. Keep thy glance steady, else we toil in vain. 
 Watch well the haze, — 'twill disappear anon. 
 
 Y. Vaun. 'Tis gone already — God ! how like to life 
 Is this brave fiction of thy matchless skill ! 
 
 Nick. Thine eye doth sparkle in the quiet light 
 Of the night's noon — what vision gladdens thee ? 
 
 Y. Vaun. Another Eden ! an unrivalled scene ! 
 Whose perfect parts compose a heavenly whole — 
 This truly is deception's masterpiece ! 
 The purple hills lie dimly in the distance ; 
 Yet, by some sweet device, my sight takes in 
 All, even the sheep which pasture on their slopes. 
 Oaks, sturdy chieftains of the olden time, 
 List the stern music of the cataract, 
 And rear their crests, as if prepared to face 
 The heavy onslaught of the winter-storm.
 
 134 POEMS. 
 
 The soil is quickened with fertility, 
 
 And vegetation showers most bountiful 
 
 Its richest juices in the fairest shapes, 
 
 Within this lovely landscape's princely bounds. 
 
 The deer, that riot in the ample chase, 
 
 Seem not unconscious of their owner's lot, 
 
 So taperingly they bear their untamed heads. 
 
 Lakes, rivers, and star-gleaming waterfalls, 
 
 Green woods, and flowering meads, and sudden glades, 
 
 Apparelled are in hues of mutual beauty. 
 
 To talk of gardens, where all looks like one, 
 
 Were vain perhaps ; yet there's a spot so bright, 
 
 So exquisite, where every thing is rare, 
 
 That I'll describe it by comparison, — 
 
 A priceless diamond set in purest gold ! 
 
 Nick. The grounds will do. What say'st thou 
 to the mansion ? 
 
 Y. Vaun. The mansion ! — there is none ! 
 
 Nick. Nay, Sir, there is,
 
 POEMS. 
 
 135 
 
 And one whose regal style of architecture 
 Doth mingle deftly with the sylvan pomp 
 Of the surpassing landscape, which awakes, 
 What I must call, the wonders of thine eloquence. 
 
 Y. Vaun. Quick ! let me see it then. In faith 'tis 
 here ! 
 By my best hopes, a proper dwelling-place ! 
 This is the fitting harmony of taste : 
 The stately columns' Greek magnificence 
 Is rightly wedded to the fairy site. 
 In such a dome as this, one covdd not feel 
 The vulgar ills that wait on vulgar life. 
 
 Nich. Thou'lt know betimes. Fate says, the 
 lordly pile, 
 The broad domain, from the remotest hill 
 To the first field, with the umbrageous woods, 
 Exuberant meads, transparent streams and lakes, 
 Gardens, the cabinets of many a gem, 
 Prized by more sense than one, shall yet be thine— 
 This Fate says, and I swear !
 
 136 POEMS. 
 
 Y. Vaun. I dreamt as much, 
 And, for externals, rest me satisfied. 
 But, Nicholas, where am I ? — haste ! show me. 
 My chief wish Avas, to view my proper self, 
 As men shall view me when the pinnacle, 
 The golden point of life's advancement's, gained. 
 
 Nick. Read me the mirror. Tells it no new tale ? 
 
 Y. Faun. A new one and a strange one ! There's 
 a whirl, 
 As all were far from right, within the mansion, 
 Where the scene lieth now. Above, below, 
 With the rapidity of thought, are shown 
 Suites of imperial rooms, wanting in nought, 
 Claimed by the state domestic, but the light 
 Of human faces in the mood of joy. 
 Why, there's no lord to do the honours here ! 
 But wretched menials, few and hunger-stricken, 
 With tapers in their hands, creep through the halls, 
 Which seem, at once, vast, grand, and comfortless.
 
 POEMS. 137 
 
 Nich. I pray you to peruse the mirror well. 
 
 Y. Vaun. Ne'er trust me but I do. Another 
 change ! 
 An aged man at prayer, kneels in his night-dress ; 
 A single lamp scarce shows the dusk apartment, 
 Of spacious size, and with odd furnishing 
 On its high walls, of gaping blunderbuss, 
 Small sword and broad, and pistols hung in pairs, 
 111 gear, methinks, for a saint's neighbourhood ! — 
 In faith I wrong him ! for he prayeth not, 
 But bends him o'er his hoarded money-bags, 
 His arid fingers poising each dear coin, 
 As though it had the health-sustaining virtue 
 Given by crazed chemists to their fabled stone. 
 Beyond all doubt, this is the griping steward ; 
 Look how he chuckles o'er the spoils of place ! 
 Well done, old sinner ! what a rogue it is ! 
 He must to bed, and to secure his love, 
 He tugs it forth from its diurnal prison, 
 Stowing it 'neath the pillow. How he shakes
 
 138 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 All over wi th the miser's passion-fit, 
 
 Whose marks lie deeply in his verjuice visage, 
 
 Commingled with infirmity and fear. 
 
 Now he makes fast each doubtful bolt, and trims 
 
 His feeble lamp, and draws his weapons nigh. 
 
 As one to serve me in an after hour, 
 
 I like not this skin-dried anatomy, 
 
 Whose blasted form seems to have left the grave 
 
 To keep its watch in penance for the past. 
 
 Nich. He thinks himself as distant from the grave 
 As thou ; and, what is more, thy equal, Sir. 
 
 Y. Vaun. Would that I saw the face with youth 
 upon it ! 
 I tell thee, whatsoever he might think, 
 His damned avarice should not feed on me. 
 
 Nich. Thennotehis aspect ere the moongoes down. 
 (The Moon is seen sinking behind a hill.)
 
 POEMS. 139 
 
 Y. Vann. The face ! accursed juggler ! 'tis my 
 
 i 
 
 own 
 
 (Young Vauntington rushes out, overturning 
 the pitcher.) 
 
 Nich. Hallo ! why frightened at your age's grace ? 
 You've cracked my only pitcher, and retained 
 The five broad pieces which you promised me. 
 I've given you all you asked, a pleasant peep 
 At your proud fortune's rich maturity. 
 Haply thou'lt wedge old Nicholas in the stocks ! 
 Or at the cart's tail whip him ! — Ho ! ho ! ho !
 
 SONGS.
 
 SONGS. 
 
 THOU KNOWST IT NOT, LOVE. 
 
 Thou know'st it not, love, when light looks are 
 around thee, 
 When Music awakens its liveliest tone, 
 When Pleasure, in chains of enchantment, hath 
 bound thee, 
 Thou knowest not how truly this heart is thine 
 own. 
 It is not while all are about thee in gladness, 
 While shining in light from thy young spirit's 
 shrine,
 
 ] 44 SONGS. 
 
 But in moments devoted to silence and sadness, 
 That thou'lt e'er know the value of feelings like 
 mine. 
 
 Should grief touch thy cheek, or misfortune o'ertake 
 thee, 
 How soon would thy mates of the Summer away ! 
 They first, of the whole fickle flock, to forsake thee, 
 Who flattered thee most when thy bosom was gay. 
 What though I seem cold while their incense is 
 burning, 
 In depths of my soul I have cherished a flame, 
 To cheer the loved one, should the night-time of 
 mourning 
 E'er send its far shadows to darken her name. 
 
 Then leave the vain crowd, — though my cottage is 
 lonely, 
 
 Gay halls, without hearts, are far lonelier still ; 
 And say thou'lt be mine, Mary, always and only, 
 
 And I'll be thy shelter, whate'er be thine ill.
 
 SONGS. 1 45 
 
 As the fond mother clings to her fair little blossom, 
 The closer, when blight hath appeared on its bloom. 
 
 So thou, love, the dearer shalt be to this bosom. 
 The deeper thy sorrow, the darker thy doom. 
 
 K
 
 J 46 SONGS, 
 
 THE PIRATE'S SERENADE. 
 
 My boat's by the tower, my bark's in the bay, 
 And both must be gone ere the dawn of the day ; 
 The moon's in her shroud, but to guide thee afar, 
 On the deck of the daring's a love-lighted star ; 
 Then wake, lady ! wake ! I am waiting for thee, 
 And this night, or never, my bride thou shalt be ! 
 
 Forgive my rough mood ; unaccustomed to sue, 
 I woo not, perchance, as your land-lovers woo ; 
 My voice lias been tuned to the notes of the gun, 
 That startle the deep, when the combat's begun ; 
 And heavy and hard is the grasp of a hand 
 Whose glove has been, ever, the guard of a brand,
 
 SONGS. 147 
 
 Yet think not of these, but, this moment, be mine, 
 And the plume of the proudest shall cower to thine ; 
 A hundred shall serve thee, the best of the brave, 
 And the chief of a thousand will kneel as thy 
 
 slave ; 
 Thou shalt rule as a queen, and thy empire shall last 
 Till the red flag, by inches, is torn from the mast. 
 
 O islands there are, on the face of the deep, 
 Where the leaves never fade, where the skies never 
 
 weep ; 
 And there, if thou wilt, shall our love-bower be, 
 When we quit, for the greenwood, our home on the 
 
 sea; 
 And there shalt thou sing of the deeds that were 
 
 done, 
 When we braved the last blast, and the last battle 
 
 won. 
 
 Then haste, lady ! haste ! for the fair breezes blow, 
 And my ocean-bird poises her pinions of snow ;
 
 ]48 SONGS. 
 
 Now fast to the lattice these silken ropes twine. 
 They are meet for such feet and such ringers as thin*.'. 
 The signal, my mates — ho ! hurrah ! for the sea ; 
 This night, and for ever, my bride thou shalt be !
 
 SONGS. 149 
 
 I'LL TELL THEE THE HOUR. 
 
 I'll tell thee the hour I love the best — 
 When the Sun sleeps upon Ocean's breast, 
 When evening echoes repeat the tale 
 That's told by the wakeful nightingale, 
 When through the forest the green leaves lie 
 At rest on their branches droopingly, 
 
 And, in worlds above, 
 No star is abroad, but the star of Love. 
 
 I'll tell thee the spot where I would be 
 When this holy hour descends on me, 
 By the deep glade in a lone retreat, 
 Where the sweetest flowers are sure to meet, 
 Where the jasmine, circled round and round, 
 Is still with the amorous woodbine found, 
 
 And no one is near 
 To dash from the wild rose the starting tear.
 
 ] 50 SONGS. 
 
 I'll tell thee the one I'd have to share, . 
 
 At that blest time, in a scene so fair, 
 
 The downcast glance of whose bashful eye 
 
 Would lend to twilight a softer dye, 
 
 Whose tone, half-heard, in its passionate tale, 
 
 Would charm to silence the nightingale ; 
 
 'Tis thee, Mary ! thee ! 
 I'd have at that hour alone with me!
 
 SONGS. 
 
 151 
 
 I WOULD NOT HAVE THEE DRY THE TEAR. 
 
 I would not have thee dry the tear 
 
 Which dims thine eye of blue, 
 I would not that thy cheek should wear 
 
 A smile at our adieu. 
 Yet cheer thee, love ! — the past was bliss, 
 
 And though we part in pain, 
 A happier hour will follow this, 
 
 And we shall meet again. 
 
 O think not that the wild sea-wave 
 
 Shall bear my heart from thee, 
 Unless its cold breast prove my grave, 
 
 'Twill work no change on me. 
 The troubled music of the deep 
 
 Is now our farewell-strain, 
 And fond affection well may weep, 
 
 Yet I'll return again.
 
 152 SONGS. 
 
 I go to seek a bower of peace 
 In lovelier lands than thine, 
 
 Where cruel Fortune's frowns shall cease- 
 Where I may call thee mine ; 
 
 And when, to crown my fairy plan, 
 But one thing shall remain, 
 
 Then, love, if there be truth in man, 
 I will return again !
 
 PONGS. 
 
 153 
 
 PAGE'S SONG. 
 
 The Baron is lord of a royal domain, 
 
 With many good lances his right to maintain, 
 
 And gallant alike at the battle, or board, 
 
 He drains the last flagon, he draws the first sword ; 
 
 But, far above all, he's the sire of a maid, 
 
 Whose glance dims the flash of the Baron's best blade. 
 
 I serve not the Baron — I wait at the call 
 
 Of his beautiful daughter in bower and hall ; 
 
 Aroused to the chase, by her palfrey I stand, 
 
 With hound at my foot, and with hawk on my hand, 
 
 And in festival-hours, the duty is mine, 
 
 To strike the glad harp, and present the red wine. 
 
 When near her, a thousand thoughts whirl through 
 
 my brain 
 Sometimes full of pleasure, sometimes full of pain ;
 
 154 
 
 SONGS. 
 
 I mark, on the goblet, the print of her lip, 
 
 And kiss it away as in secret I sip ; 
 
 Yet I tremble to touch but her glove, and I sigh, 
 
 Like a sad stricken deer, when her wooers are nigh. 
 
 Ah ! loud were the jest, from the knight to the squire, 
 Did they hear how a poor silly page dare aspire ; 
 But bound shall my soul, like a shaft from the bow, 
 Ere one, on the broad earth, that secret shall know, 
 Though hard I'll still think it, thatbeauty should prove 
 The prize of high fortune, and not of true love.
 
 iONGS. 155 
 
 O FOLLOW HER NOT ! 
 
 O follow her not ! O follow her not ! 
 
 Though she lure thee with smile and song; 
 Fair is her cheek, but her heart is black, 
 
 And the poison of death's on her tongue ; 
 She'll leave on thy innocence many a blot — 
 Then folloAv her not ! O follow her not ! 
 
 Some call her Pleasure, and some call her Sin, 
 
 Some call her a Lady gay, 
 For her step is light, and her eye is bright, 
 
 And she carols a blithesome lay. 
 " Away to the bower where care is forgot!' 
 But follow her not ! O follow her not ! 
 
 Though her step invite, though her eye burn bright, 
 Though green be the leaves in her bower
 
 ] 56 SONGS. 
 
 Yet that step is false as a meteor-light, 
 
 And that eye hath the rattle- snake's power. 
 Her bower ! O wild and unblessed is the spot- 
 Then follow her not ! O follow her not !
 
 SONGS. 
 
 157 
 
 WHY STOOD I FIXED? 
 
 Why stood I fixed, as the slave of a spell, 
 Listening the notes that were warbled so well ? 
 'Twas that to fancy they summoned a scene, 
 Lovely and happy, and thou wert its queen ! 
 
 Why, in the valley, when Morn was awake, 
 Watched I the small ripple dimple the lake ? 
 Why longed a home by its waters to share ? 
 'Twas from the deep wish to dwell with thee there! 
 
 And why, at this hour of silence and night, 
 Glows my full heart in the snowy moonlight ? 
 Tis from the hope of our meeting on high, 
 Even should the light of these day-visions die.
 
 ]58 
 
 SONGS. 
 
 1 HEAR IT YET. 
 
 I hear it yet, that bugle-note, 
 Far down our peaceful valley float ; 
 And 'tis the self-same mournful blast 
 
 They blew, the very day 
 My love upon me looked his last, 
 
 And went away. 
 
 Again it peals — so wild a strain 
 Were fitter for the battle-plain : 
 Alas ! 'tis thence, indeed, it comes, 
 
 Mixed with the cannon's roar, 
 And maddening shouts, and deafening drums, 
 
 Heard evermore ! 
 
 No marvel they should haunt me still, 
 In sadness, wander where I will,
 
 SONGS. 
 
 These notes, to love's last deep adieu, 
 So closely, darkly bound ; 
 
 No marvel if all senses grew 
 Absorbed in sound. 
 
 O wo ! his was a bloody bed ! 
 
 With Spain's far earth beneath his head 
 
 Not one to watch by him, and mourn, 
 
 Not one to say, farewell ! 
 But that heart-breaking bugle-horn, 
 
 And battle's swell ! 
 
 159
 
 160 SONGS. 
 
 THOUGH MINE AltE THE YEARS. 
 
 Though mine are the years of the young and the gay, 
 Yet I have not the heart to proceed on my way ; 
 O where is the beacon inviting me on .' 
 This moment I neared it — and now it is gone ! 
 
 Much may I suffer, 
 
 Far may I roam, 
 
 But the Traveller never 
 
 Can find a home ! 
 
 Down by the green bank, the violets spring, 
 Far in the forest, the merry birds sing ; 
 The wild rose is blushing in proud purity, 
 Turning her cheek from the kiss of the bee; 
 
 Each has its kindred, 
 
 All have their home, 
 
 But the Traveller ever 
 
 Is doomed to roam !
 
 SONGS. 1G1 
 
 I've journeyed, since morn, in quest of a spot 
 Where the pure-hearted dwell, and the vile are not ; 
 The walks of the world I have wandered o'er, 
 But ray search is vain, and I'll toil no more : 
 
 Scorched in the desert, 
 
 Dashed on the foam, 
 
 The Traveller never 
 
 Can find a home ! 
 
 I've heard there is rest for the wearied one, 
 Where the rank grass grows by the church-yard 
 
 stone ; 
 When the shadows of Even are all abroad, 
 I'll lay me down there in my last abode ; 
 
 Glad that, no longer , 
 
 Condemned to roam, 
 
 The Traveller at last 
 
 Shall find a home.
 
 162 SONGS. 
 
 I CRAVE NOT A PROMISE. 
 
 I crave not a promise, I ask not a token, 
 In pledge of a faith to be always unbroken ; 
 I know thy affection will never depart, 
 While the flame of true love burns clear in thy heart; 
 And should it grow dim, may mischance overtake me, 
 If, more than the light breeze, thy falsehood will shake 
 me ! 
 
 Nor think that I dream of a license for ranging, 
 Though sealing no vow, and no love-gift exchanging; 
 My passion, for thee, sprung not up in a night, 
 To die in the blaze of a single day's light ; 
 It rose with a sense of thy worth, and shall blossom 
 While that keeps its place, as at first, in thy bosom. 
 
 Then leave, to Love's children, the vow and the token, 
 We may yet think it meet that our ties should be 
 broken ;
 
 SONGS. 
 
 163 
 
 Neither symbol, nor oath, could my free spirit bind, 
 If it found that deception had tainted thy mind ; 
 Nor would I, maid, have thee to cling to me longer, 
 Should'st thou meet one whose passion was truer, or 
 stronger.
 
 164 SONGS. 
 
 NAY, SWEET, IF THOU LOVEST ME, MIX NOT 
 IN THE DANCE. 
 
 Nay, sweet, if thou lovest me, mix not in the dance ! 
 Though to grace it to-night 
 
 Flock the high and the fair ; 
 Yet go not ! O go not ! 
 In its madness to share, 
 To change thy calm look for a Circean glance !— 
 Nay, sweet, if thou lovest me mix not in the dance ! 
 
 I worship the light of thy spirit alone, 
 And ne'er would I see thee, 
 
 So deprived of its rays, 
 As thou must be, when lost, 
 In that blood-stirring maze ; 
 There never was woman more lovely, I own ; 
 But, O, 'tis thy spirit I worship alone !
 
 SONGS. 1 65 
 
 Believe me, 'tis not for thy faith that I fear ; 
 I care not, though round thee 
 
 Fashion's gayest bands move, 
 And smilers, by hundreds, 
 Take the palm of my love : 
 If true to thyself, thou'lt thy nature revere, — 
 O trust me, 'tis not for thy faith that I fear ! 
 
 Then, sweet, if thou lovest me, mix not in the dance ! 
 Alone, in thy beauty, 
 
 Give thy voice to the song, 
 Or go forth and dazzle 
 
 Where fairest ones throng ; 
 But change not thy step, the still might of thy glance, 
 For the frenzy that whirls, and leers in the dance
 
 166 SONGS. 
 
 WHY WALK I BY THE LONELY STRAND? 
 
 Why walk I by the lonely strand ? 
 
 He comes not with the tide, 
 His home is in another land, 
 
 The stranger is his bride. 
 The stranger, on whose lofty brow 
 
 The circling diamonds shine, 
 Is now his bride, whose earliest vow, 
 
 And pledge of hope, were mine': 
 
 They tell me that my cheek is pale, 
 
 That youth's light smile is gone ; 
 That mating with the ocean gale 
 
 Hath chilled my heart to stone ; 
 And friendship asks what secret care 
 
 There is to work me wo, 
 But vainly seeks a grief to share 
 
 Which none shall ever know.
 
 SONGS. 107 
 
 Ye waves, that heard the false one swear, 
 
 But saw him not return, 
 Ye'll not betray me, if a tear 
 
 Should start in spite of scorn. 
 Yet, no — a wounded spirit's pride, 
 
 Though passion's pangs are deep, 
 Shall dash the trait'rous drop aside, 
 
 From eyes that must not weep. 
 
 In vain, alas ! I have no power 
 
 To quit this lonely strand, 
 From whence, at the wild parting hour, 
 
 1 saw him leave the land. 
 Though he has ta'en a stranger bride, 
 
 My love will not depart ; 
 Its seal, too strong for woman's pride, 
 
 Shall be a broken heart !
 
 168 SONGS. 
 
 WOULD' ST KEEP THE DEEP DYE OF THINE 
 EYE IN ITS BRIGHTNESS? 
 
 Would'st keep the deep dye of thine eye in its 
 
 brightness ? 
 Thy cheek in its love-hue, thy step in its lightness ? 
 Thy heart that lies sleeping, with hope for its pillow, 
 From shock of the blast, and from bound of the 
 
 billow ? 
 
 Then come not with me ! 
 My spirit is wilder than storm of the sea ! 
 
 Would'st have a fair home, — see each sun set in 
 
 gladness, 
 And morning awake thee, — but never to sadness; 
 Where thy life, all unrippled, might wimple away, 
 Like a pure little stream on a soft summer clay? 
 
 Then flee, maiden ! flee ! 
 Go wed with the whirlwind, but mate not with me !
 
 SONGS. 
 
 169 
 
 But wouldst thou, to gain thee a bliss without telling, 
 
 Take far in the desert thy desolate dwelling, 
 
 And worship the fierce-flaming orb which rose o'er 
 
 thee, 
 Though frenzy should follow the smile that he bore 
 
 thee? 
 
 Away then with me ! 
 No spouse, for the rover, more fitting can be !
 
 1 70 SONGS. 
 
 IT WAS NOT FOR THE DIAMOND RING. 
 
 It was not -.for the diamond ring upon your lily 
 
 hand, — 
 It was not for your noble name, — it was not for your 
 
 land, — 
 I saw no gem, no lordly name, no broad domain 
 
 with thee, 
 The day you stole my trusting heart and peace ot 
 
 mind from me. 
 
 You came — I knew not whence you came — we met — 
 
 'twas in the dance — 
 There was honey in each word of yours, and 
 
 glamour in each glance ; 
 Though many were around me then, I nothing saw 
 
 but him, 
 Before whose brow of starry sheen fresh-fallen snow 
 
 were dim.
 
 SONGS. 171 
 
 You're gone ! — it was a weary night we parted at 
 
 the burn ; 
 You swore by all the stars above, that you would 
 
 soon return ; 
 That you would soon return, light love ! and I your 
 
 bride should be, 
 But backward will the burnie roll, ere you come 
 
 back to me ! 
 
 They say, that soon a smiling dame of lineage like 
 to thine, 
 
 Will take thee by the fickle hand, thy falsehood 
 placed in mine ; 
 
 The music and the rose-red wine to greet her will 
 appear — 
 
 For wedding-song, a sigh I'll have — for bridal- 
 pledge, a tear. 
 
 O would that thou had'st passed me by, in coldness 
 
 or in pride ! 
 Nor wrought this deadly wrong to her, who on thy 
 
 truth relied :
 
 172 SONGS. 
 
 The hunter's to the greenwood gone, his spear is in 
 
 its rest, 
 But he'll not wound the trusting dove, that shelters 
 
 in his breast.
 
 NATIONAL SONGS.
 
 NATIONAL SONGS. 
 
 THE IRON DESPOT OF THE NORTH. 
 
 The iron Despot of the North 
 
 May on his vassals call,, 
 But not for him will I go forth 
 
 From my old castle hall. 
 Though sabres, swayed by Polish hands, 
 
 Have battled for the foe, 
 There's one, at least, Oppression's bands 
 
 Shall ne'er see brandished so ! 
 
 I fought in Freedom's farewell field, 
 
 I saved a useless life ; 
 No weapon from that hour to wield, 
 
 In a less noble strife.
 
 ljti NATIONAL SONGS. 
 
 When hostile strangers passed my gate, 
 On Hope's red grave I swore, 
 
 That, like my ruined country's fate, 
 This arm should rise no more. 
 
 I flung into the bloody moat, 
 
 A flag no longer free, 
 Which centuries had seen afloat, 
 
 In feudal majesty. 
 The sword a warrior-race bequeathed 
 
 With honour to their son, 
 Hangs on the mouldering wall unsheathed, 
 
 And rust consumes my gun. 
 
 The steed that, rushing to the ranks, 
 
 Defied the stubborn rein, 
 Felt not on his impatient flanks, 
 
 The horseman's spur again. 
 And I, the last of all my line, 
 
 Left an affianced bride, 
 Lest slaves should spring from blood of mine, 
 To serve the Despot's pride.
 
 NATIONAL SONGS. ]J7 
 
 TELL ME NOT OF STAMBOUL'S TOWERS. 
 
 Tell me not of StambouTs towers, 
 
 Rising o'er the sea; 
 Fields there be whose simplest flowers 
 
 Are more dear to me. 
 Home of bliss, once wildly straying, 
 Where thy pleasant brooks are playing, 
 
 Oft I turn to thee ; 
 Fate may sever us for ever, 
 
 But the spirit's free ! 
 
 Still, when Eve its curtain closes, 
 
 By the star-light pale, 
 In my own loved Georgia's roses 
 
 Sings the nightingale. 
 'Mid these scenes of hateful splendour. 
 
 Fancy hears that music tender 
 
 M
 
 178 NATIONAL SONGS. 
 
 In my native vale ; 
 Tears awaking while 'tis speaking- 
 Its most mournful tale. 
 
 Though the Turkish lord hath bound me 
 
 With a golden chain, 
 Other, dearer ties are round me, 
 
 And I pine in pain. 
 In the palace there is sadness, 
 And, its queen, the voice of gladness 
 
 Welcomes not again : 
 Grandeur grieves me — Hope now leaves rae- 
 
 Love and Life are vain !
 
 NATIONAL SONGS. 
 
 179 
 
 O FOR THE MERRY MOONLIGHT HOUR ! 
 
 O for the merry moonlight hour ! 
 
 O for the hearts that warmest glow ! 
 O for the breath of the summer flower, 
 
 Far floating in the vale below ! 
 Hail to the clime where Beauty's power 
 
 Is stamped on every plant and tree ; 
 Joy's rosy throne — Love's wedding bower — 
 
 Land of our choice, fair Italy ! 
 
 O for the dance !— the dance at even !— 
 
 Woman's smile is loveliest then ; — 
 O for the notes which came from Heaven, 
 
 Which came — but ne'er returned again. 
 Blessed be these notes ! they long have striven 
 
 To keep the young heart warm and free ; 
 And never was boon to mortals given, 
 
 Like the song of fervid Italy.
 
 180 
 
 NATIONAL SONGS. 
 
 O for the morn ! the glorious morri ! 
 
 When souls were proud, and hopes were high, 
 Ere the Eagle's fiery plume was torn, 
 
 Or his course grew dark in the western sky. 
 That wild bird's wing is shrunk and shorn, 
 
 Yet our empire winds from sea to sea ; 
 Fame's wandering torch o'er earth is borne, 
 
 Love's, shines alone for Italy ! 
 
 Then hail to the merry moonlight hour ! 
 
 And joy to the hearts that warmest glow ! 
 Ever bright be the bloom of the summer flower, 
 
 And sweet its breath in the vale below ! 
 And long may our maidens' evening bower 
 
 Echo the song of the gay and free ; 
 And long may Beauty's dazzling power 
 
 Reign over blooming Italy !
 
 NATIONAL SONGS. 
 
 LOOK, MAIDEN, ON THESE LAUGHING 
 FIELDS ! 
 
 Look, maiden, on these laughing fields ! 
 
 But late they slept in winter's snow, 
 And now each opening blossom yields 
 
 Rich fragrance, as the breezes blow. 
 What sing the birds ?— " it is the time 
 
 When Pleasure woos our northern sky, 
 A moment woos, then quits a clime 
 
 Too stern to hold her constantly !" 
 
 Forth let them speed ! who wish to wake, 
 
 In summer shades, their woodland glee ; 
 For Autumn will his elf-locks shake, 
 
 Ere many moons the young flowers see. 
 And, maiden of the snow-cold heart, 
 
 Turn to thy life, perchance 'twill prove 
 Useful, to think how small a part, 
 
 Is the glad season given to love.
 
 ]82 NATIONAL SONGS. 
 
 OCH ! WHILE I LIVE, I'LL NE'ER FORGET. 
 
 Och ! while I live, I'll ne'er forget 
 
 The troubles of that day, 
 When bound unto this distant land, 
 
 Our ship got under weigh. 
 My friends I left at Belfast town, 
 
 My love at Carrick shore, 
 And I gave to poor old Ireland 
 
 My blessing o'er and o'er. 
 
 Och ! Avell I knew, as off we sailed, 
 
 What my hard fate would be ; 
 For, gazing on my country's hills, 
 
 They seemed to fly from me. 
 I watched them, as they wore away, 
 
 Until my eyes grew sore, 
 And I felt that I was doomed to walk, 
 
 The shamrock sod no more !
 
 NATIONAL SONGS. 183 
 
 They say I'm now in Freedom's land, 
 
 Where all men masters be ; 
 But were I in my winding-sheet, 
 
 There's none to care for me ! 
 I must, to eat the stranger's bread, 
 
 Abide the stranger's scorn, 
 Who taunts me with thy dear-loved name, 
 
 Sweet isle, where I was born ! 
 
 Och ! where— och ! where's the careless heart 
 
 I once could call my own ? 
 It bade a long farewell to me, 
 
 The day I left Tyrone. 
 Not all the wealth, by hardship, won 
 
 Beyond the western main, 
 Thy pleasures, my own absent home ! 
 
 Can bring to me again !
 
 184 NATIONAL SONGS. 
 
 THE ARAB TO HIS HORSE. 
 
 Thou art fit for a son of Ismail ! 
 
 Thou art fit for the desert's own son ! 
 Whose vengeance, so swift, strikes the morning all 
 pale, 
 
 At the deeds which the night hath seen done. 
 Fleeter far than the fleetest, the wind 
 
 Would keep pace with thy shadow in vain ; 
 The scorching simoom thy light hoof cannot bind, 
 
 When the caravans melt on the plain. 
 
 Through long ages, my fathers and thine 
 Have controlled the dominions of sand ; 
 
 The tribute they claimed, at this moment, is mine, 
 And my second thou art in command. 
 
 As the black-pinioned angel of Death 
 Wings with fate his invisible spear, —
 
 NATIONAL SONGS. 
 
 185 
 
 So thou, steed of pride ! urgest on, in his wrath, 
 Thy dread lord when the foeman is near. 
 
 Alia loves us, my matchless Jereed ! 
 
 Thou dost joy in the feeling of might, 
 Which thrills through us both in the whirl of thy 
 speed, 
 
 When the moon can scarce follow our flight. 
 I shall still sweep the desert alone, 
 
 Against me no power can prevail ; 
 The bare blade my sceptre, the saddle my throne, 
 
 As becomes a true son of Ismail !
 
 18() NATIONAL SONUS. 
 
 IT SPEAKS TO MY SPIRIT. 
 
 It speaks to my spirit the Voice of the Past, 
 
 As I listlessly move on my way ; 
 And pleasures, that were far too pleasant to last, 
 
 Shine again, as they did in their day. 
 In an isle of the West, there's a tangled retreat, 
 
 Which the sweet sun looks bashfully on, 
 And my soul has flown thither, in secret to meet 
 
 With the feelings of years that are gone. 
 
 Across the broad meadow, and down the green lane, 
 
 I have sped on the light foot of love, 
 And I stand, as I stood long ago, once again, 
 
 By the old mossy seat in the grove. 
 Ah ! yonder' s the oak-tree, and under its shade 
 
 One with looks full of welcome, I see ; 
 Yes — yes — 'tis my Ellen, in beauty arrayed, 
 
 As she was, when she first met with me.
 
 NATIONAL SONGS. 187 
 
 Remembrance is rapture — nay, smile if you please, 
 
 While you point to my thin locks of gray, 
 Yet think not a heart, with emotions like these, 
 
 Ever knows what it is to decay. 
 The furrow lies deep in my time-stricken cheek, 
 
 And the life-blood rolls languidly on, 
 But the Voice of the Past has not yet ceased to speak 
 
 With the feelings of years that are gone.
 
 188 
 
 NATIONAL, SONGS. 
 
 I DEARLY LOVED A GARDEN-FLOWER 
 
 I dearly loved a garden-flower 
 
 Which near my summer casement grew; 
 Of all, that dwell in field or bower, 
 
 None half so sweet I ever knew ! 
 Many a time, with fond delight, 
 
 I've bent its faultless form above, 
 And kissed its leaves, and deemed it might 
 
 Still bloom for me, and be my love. 
 
 The autumn winds blew high, and bore 
 
 My fairest from my sight away ; 
 I mourned its fate an hour or more, 
 
 Then gave my heart to other sway. 
 A bird, with an enchanting note, 
 
 The minstrel of an orange grove, 
 Became my captive, and I thought 
 
 He'd live and share a maiden's love.
 
 NATIONAL SONGS. 189 
 
 But one night, to my window, came 
 
 The tinkle of a soft guitar, 
 And tones that hung upon my name — 
 
 My bird's notes were less pleasant far ! 
 I gave the warbler leave to go, 
 
 In freedom, to his native grove. 
 And sighed, " Poor thing ! ah ! now I know, 
 
 Thou wer't not meant to be my love !"
 
 190 NATIONAL SONGS. 
 
 SONG OF THE SWITZER. 
 
 Above are the Alps, and their snow, 
 Broad Leman reflects them below, 
 And O may its waters be blessed ! 
 
 They span 
 The fields, by thy merry maids pressed, 
 
 Lausanne ! 
 
 Long leagues of the shore and the sea, 
 Divide my loved country from me ; 
 But Hope hath a sail and a steed 
 
 At hand, 
 That will bear me to thee with speed, 
 
 Sweet land ! 
 
 We've toiled, and our labour is done ; 
 We've fought, and the battle is won ;
 
 NATIONAL SONGS. 191 
 
 Tis time that the soldier should cease 
 
 To roam, 
 'Tis time that he rest him in peace 
 
 At home. 
 
 O soon for the Alps, and their snow, 
 Shall the step of the war-exile go ! 
 Where joy, in the years that are o'er, 
 
 Began., 
 His spirit shall bless thee once more, 
 
 Lausanne ! 
 
 OLIVEB.& BOYD, PHINTEKS.
 
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