4 00 7 
 A62 e
 
 • 
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 EMMET, 
 
 THE IRISH PATRIOT 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 BY THE LATE 
 
 HENRY PLAYSTED ARCHER 
 
 CANTERBURY : 
 
 PUBLISHED BY R. COLEGATE. 
 M.DCCC.XXXII.
 
 CANTERBURY' '. 
 PRINTED BY R. COLEGATE, PARADE.
 
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 PREFACE. 
 
 The Poem which occupies the greater portion of 
 this volume, was commenced and finished by the Au- 
 thor, at a time of life when the poetical powers will 
 hardly be expected to have reached that intellectual 
 eminence, which a maturer age, and a more practical 
 judgment, might eventually have achieved. 
 
 Me. Archer undertook the poem of Emmet when 
 he had not attained his eighteenth year. Had he 
 lived to revise the MS. he would no doubt have de- 
 tected, and corrected many inaccuracies which, in 
 the first draft, had escaped his notice. He would 
 have expunged those redundancies of jingling ver- 
 biage into which young poets are often betrayed, and 
 which has been permitted to pass for fear of injuring
 
 VIII, 
 
 it continuous and unbroken narrative, such , in fact, 
 a> the writer thought proper to adopt. Indeed, re- 
 spect for the memory of a departed friend, and a re- 
 pugnance to mutilate his work, determined the editor 
 to give Emmet nearly as he came from the hands of 
 the writer. The metrical errors, on strict examina- 
 tion of the MS., were found to be numerous, and it 
 would have become a delicate and difficult task tho- 
 roughly to castigate the Poem, without in a manner 
 new casting it — without frequently trenching upon 
 the Poet's ideas, repressing the manifestations of his 
 genius, or obstructing the flow of his imagery. 
 
 But, with all its defects, the poem is not without 
 merit, nor assuredly without beauties. As the work 
 of a young Author, the volume is respectfully sub- 
 mitted. It comes before the Reader, not with arro- 
 gance or high flown pretensions — not with that 
 sternness of aspect which sets criticism at defiance — 
 but, under a sincere sense of gratitude for support 
 already liberally bestowed, it earnestly solicits the 
 further patronage of a liberal public, who, it is con- 
 fidently hoped, will feel disposed to receive it under 
 their protection, with indulgence and kindness. 
 
 J.W.
 
 CANTO I. 
 
 Robert Emmet, the subject of the present Tale, 
 projected the insurrection in Ireland, in 1803. 
 He had been bred to the bar, and was a friend 
 of Mr. Ctjrran's, with whose youngest daughter 
 he had formed an attachment unknown to him ; 
 nor was he aware of it until some letters found 
 on Emmet, led to a search of Mr. Citrran's 
 house— the first intimation of the melancholy 
 attachment, in whicli one of his own children 
 had been involved. A popular Novel, based 
 upon Irish history, details minutely the parting 
 scene between Miss Cvrran and Emmet, the 
 evening preceding his execution. That Mr. 
 Curran permitted an interview is extremely 
 questionable— the scene was introduced doubt- 
 less to affect the passions. It has furnished 
 our Author with a character, without whose 
 presence the Poem would lose much of its in- 
 terest.-— Eo. 
 
 Oh, Erin ! green Erin, thou land of the free, 
 Thou fairest of islands that checker the sea : 
 Land, land of the ocean, I love thee as one 
 Who doats on the lip where his passion begun, 
 And finds that his pleasure is breath'd in the sigh, 
 VVhen the bosom confirineth the tale of the eye.
 
 10 EMMET, 
 
 I love thee— and finger the strings of my lyre 
 With some of thy passion— may be of thy lire ; 
 Vet fain would rejoice if a mightier name 
 Would sing in thy glory the song of thy fame : 
 And tell unto others how loyal and brave 
 Are the sons that inhabit the gem of the wave ; 
 And carol a happier tribute than mine 
 Can hope to bestow in a juvenile line, 
 Of all that are noble and gallant of thine. 
 
 The sun had shed his latest ray 
 On Dublin's steeples high and gray, 
 And plunging 'neath the distant wave 
 Was sinking to his ocean grave, 
 Yet seein'd amid the vapour gloom 
 To court the quiet of his tomb, 
 Nor deign 'd to cast along the deep 
 One halo, ere he sunk to sleep, 
 For twilight, fading more and more, 
 Mingled the ocean and the shore ; 
 And cast that " dim religious light," 
 Whose glow is neither day or night, 
 On rocky steep, on hill and glade, 
 In all the mmkiness of shade. 
 Then not a trace could well be seen 
 Of ocean's surf, or valley's green ; 
 The distant crag, no longer riven, 
 Had vanished in the space of heaven; 
 And vision failing, hardly drew 
 One outline in the nearer view ; 
 For Nature, mellow'd into night, 
 Had lost the charms that glow iu light ;
 
 THE IRISH PATRIOT. 11 
 
 Like maiden's beauty lost in years 
 By sorrow's blight, or early tears, 
 And nousht remains by which you'd trace, 
 The former beauty of her face, 
 Xor e'n one jealous tear can flow, 
 In all its witchery of woe, 
 To tell us of that happy day 
 When she had gain'd the poet's lay, 
 And lovers too had bow'd the knee, 
 As worshipping some deity ; 
 When soul and passion seem'd to rise, 
 In blushing cheek and laughing eyes, 
 And bound us in the fatal chain, 
 Whose weight is either love or pain. 
 Ah, theit ! too oft the smile, the sigh 
 Will fade to gloomy apathy, 
 As if a smile should never shed 
 Its magic o'er the nuptial bed- 
 As if a tear should quench the flame 
 Of love— if it deserve the name. 
 
 Ah, woman's charms are like the ray, 
 Which glitters bright in sunny day ; 
 In infant years a gentle beam, 
 In maiden prime a wanner gleam ; 
 In woman age the chasten'd fire 
 Which fills the heart with fond desire, 
 And causing with its heat intense 
 In other souls, a glowing sense 
 Of its sweet spreading influence. 
 In eve of life a mellow 'd ray, 
 The twilight of an autuum day,
 
 ]2 EMMET, 
 
 That gleams in ruin'd grandeur high, 
 Siill clinging lo its gloomy sky ; 
 Then fading in the borrow 'd light, 
 Love is age— -and heav'n is night: 
 Or like the flow 'ret in the vale 
 That's nursed by Zephyr's spicy gale, 
 Whose waking charms and infant dye, 
 Will scarce attract the passing eye ; 
 'Till bursting from its verdant bed, 
 It rears aloft the blushing head; 
 Then bee and insect flying o'er, 
 Will stoop them in their airy soar, 
 And revel in the sweet perfume, 
 Midst all the paradise of bloom— 
 Clinging amid the painted flow'r, 
 The nectar'd circle of an hour, 
 To view, and ravish, one by one, 
 The charms which so divinely hung ; 
 And then, to pass like man away 
 From her he could too well betray, 
 And seek another blossom, where 
 He still could smother all his care ; 
 And then in spite of love and shame 
 To tarnish and to serve the same.— 
 Too oft like woman, gentle flow'r, 
 Thou'rt gather'd from thy vernal bow'r : 
 Ah, better had it been for thee 
 If but a weed— then wild and free, 
 You might have dar'd the robber's clutch, 
 As all unworthy of his touch; 
 But now that sweet and fairy glow 
 Attracts the eye with gaudy show,
 
 THE IRISH PATRIOT, 
 
 And cull'd, you deck his haughty breast 
 Till blossom's gone and love's at rest ; 
 Then faded leaf is thrown away, 
 Like beauty wrinkled, old and gray ; 
 And lost to love and joy and praise, 
 The woman dies, the flow'r decays. 
 
 The sun was down, and o'er the bay, 
 The latest sail had died away — 
 Had faded into distant air, 
 Like hope withdrawing from despair, 
 And seeking other gayer isles 
 Where peace or love, or beauty smiles, 
 Had trimm'd its gently swelling sail 
 To steal a pinion from the gale ; 
 And dashing surf and foam away, 
 Sped lightly o'er its ocean's spray. 
 The sturdy boatmen near the shore, 
 Hung careless on each resting oar, 
 And gazing on the dark blue wave 
 (The tomb of th' unretuming brave) 
 Who're resting deep beneath the billow, 
 On some rude coral's icy pillow, 
 And heaving as the waters sweep, 
 Seem grisly spectres of the deep, 
 Their white heads rocking to and fro, 
 As greeting of their mates below, 
 And beck'ning to the sons of men 
 To come and share their ocean den, 
 And leave the world of care and gloom 
 To slumber in their ocean tomb. 
 He thought of dangers, perils past, 
 When every hour was deem'd his last— 
 
 13
 
 1 I EMMET, 
 
 When souls of hardy frame had quail 'd, 
 And stonier hearts than his had fail'd — 
 When ghastly face and hopeless eye 
 Were turn'd to Cod in agony ; 
 Then wonder 'd that his briny sea 
 Could rest so calm and silently. 
 Tor still was heaven, sea and earth, 
 As smiling Nature's infant birth ; 
 AVhcn field and forest, weed and flow'r, 
 Were growing, blooming in an hour ; 
 And lofty trees were foliag'd seen, 
 As if for ages they'd been green, 
 And younger days had nurs'd the bough 
 Which never grew or leaf'd till now. 
 They little thought who view'd the sight, 
 In all its loveliness of night, 
 That man could ever dare defile 
 The peaceful nature of its smile, 
 Or break upon the stillness round, 
 One rude but momentary sound ; 
 Not so it passed — for folly dread, 
 That night the rage of battle spread, 
 That one would deem the fiends of hell, 
 Were shouting some terrific spell ; 
 And not that sons of frailer clay 
 Were battling such a night away : 
 Yet so it was — of such shall be 
 The harpings of my minstrelsy. 
 
 In Hubert's hall no voice arose 
 To wake the visions of the sleeping ; 
 
 For they were in a calm repose, 
 The clock alone its vigil keeping ;
 
 THE IRISH PATRIOT. 15 
 
 Which in the still and solemn hour, 
 Obfain'd a superstitious pow'r, 
 And gave unto the scene around, 
 With all its loneliness of sound, 
 An air that well might seem to be 
 Of more than earth's reality — 
 So true the verberating chime 
 Betray 'd the nimbleness of time, 
 That one would start to hear the tone 
 Repeated there, so dull and lone, 
 As if it mock'd the might, the pow'r 
 Of those who never count the hour, 
 Nor hear thenyynnber'd, one by one, 
 Much less to heed or think upon 
 That half of life which passes by 
 Unreckoned in our memory, 
 Without a trace— save those that cling 
 The sign of mortal withering, 
 And stamp upon the brow of age 
 The closing of our pilgrimage, 
 The seal that's ne'er effac'd till we 
 Are crumbling in mortality, 
 And all that rots, or ever must, 
 Is like its habitation— dust. 
 
 How still— but, ah, along the floor 
 
 There streams a light, there opes a door ; 
 
 And now a figure passes by 
 
 With cautious step and straining eye, 
 
 And gliding on, with motion light 
 
 Appears a spirit of the night. 
 
 Jt stops — and now with smother'd breath 
 
 Is list'uing with the calm of death j
 
 16 EMMET, 
 
 Vet on its brow there is a (lush, 
 And on its cheek there glows a blush, 
 Which speak it not a form of air, 
 But one of earth— and oh, how fair : 
 
 Her raven tresses unconfin'd, 
 Are streaming; o'er her brow of snow, 
 
 And as they flutter in the wind, 
 Give to her cheek a softer glow, 
 And lend an air of as mild a graee ; 
 As ever spread on a human face, 
 Much like the tinge that is often seen 
 In (he evening- sky, the clouds between, 
 When the brighter tint hath pass'd away, 
 And red nor white is the solar ray. 
 Right well 1 deem thy lover's tongue 
 Is soft, as thou art fair and young, 
 And that his eye of love can shine 
 As bright, but ne'er so sweet as thine ; 
 Or else that fairy form and brow 
 Would ne'er be rob'd, as they are now ; 
 Nor Hubert's daughter dare appear 
 So late at night — not even here. 
 
 Fair and pure as a being from heaven, 
 She paces along the dreary hall, 
 
 To which her feeble light hath given 
 The gloomy tinge of a cavern wall, 
 While the shadows appear to her startled eye 
 To flit on the wall as she passes by, 
 And to revel around with an airy tread, 
 In the ghastly dance of the bony dead, 
 
 While here and there, but dimly shewn 
 
 By the feeble light upon it thrown,
 
 THE IRISH PATRIOT, ]" 
 
 Some grisly skull would seem to grin 
 Among the rude old sculpturing, 
 And mock the glance of the trembling maid, 
 Whose cheek is pale— yet not for the shade 
 That rose on the wall — nor the ghastly stare 
 Which scowl'd in the frame of the oaken chair : 
 But her brow is chill'd in the very fear 
 That her step should light on her father's ear ; 
 That the grate of the lock which the key turned in, 
 Should awaken her sire from his slumbering. 
 Tiie latch is raised — ah, who is he 
 That leans against the linden tree, 
 With folded arms and brow of hate- 
 Is that her lover 1 — and here so late : 
 Tis \\ ell that all— no, day or night 
 Are much the same to lovers' sight ; 
 For guilt will n'er pollute the face 
 
 Of her whom love cannot disgrace 
 
 Or stain the breast with fear or shame 
 Of her who never knew its name. 
 She placed,the lamp upon the floor, 
 And softly slided from the door, 
 Her lips betraying scarce a sigh, 
 To rouse him from his apathy : 
 But there she stood with cheek of flame, 
 Not daring e'en to breathe his name : 
 But feeling— ah, she felt and knew 
 
 'T was but to see and love him too 
 
 And that she did — aias, how true. 
 He marks her not, for in his eye 
 There's neither joy nor ecstacy ; 
 But what you'd deem a glance of ire 
 Is shedding there its ray of fire, 
 c
 
 18 EMMET, 
 
 And lending to his darken'd brow, 
 Which bends in sullen anger now, 
 So fierce, so grim and fell an air, 
 That love indeed might wither there : 
 And her's — nay she could never own 
 One thought but what was his alone. 
 He turns — ah, in his warm embrace 
 The blushing maiden hides her face. 
 And now she dares his look of flame, 
 That brow, that eye — are they the same : 
 How chang'd — the glance upon her thrown 
 Is full of love — yea, as her own. 
 
 What Marion here — my love, my life 
 I'll call thee by a dearer tie, 
 
 Nay — blushing at the name of wife, 
 And veiling too that azure eye, 
 
 'Tis true that man hath never heard 
 
 The priest of Gon pronounce the word 
 Thour'tmine — nay, start not — fori vow 
 
 By all the powers of heaven now — 
 That guilty deed, or act of shame 
 Shall never stigmatise your name ; 
 Nor cause upon that angel face 
 A blush for mine — or your disgrace. 
 Yet this — and this — may better prove 
 How much I hope — and how I love. 
 And do you so ! I scarce believe 
 The tongue which Bids me not to grieve, 
 E'en now thy Marion at your side — 
 Your only love — your destin'd bride, 
 There beams from that proud eye of thine 
 A secret — may it ne'er be mine.
 
 THE IRISH PATRIOT. 19 
 
 For truly something's brooding (here 
 
 Which I could never wish to share : 
 
 Whose flashes give a fiercer glow 
 
 Than ever pity dar'd to know — 
 
 So felt, that gazing on thy brow 
 
 I've trembled — nay, I tremble now — 
 
 And yet that eye is calm and still, 
 
 Which lately breathed the wish to kill : 
 And flash'd upon the passing wind 
 The gloomy tempest of your mind. 
 
 Yea, looking on thy haggard smile, 
 
 I've shrunk into myself the while, 
 And e'en pourtraying feel ifspow'r 
 As thrilling in this anxious hour ; 
 As even when it scowl'd in hate 
 The ghastly prototype of fate. 
 There's something, Emmet, in thy soul 
 That scorns, that dares defy controul, 
 And even now doth seem above 
 The soft advice of maiden's love. 
 Nay, Marion, nay, and on her brow 
 He breath'd a kiss — he sigh'd a vow, 
 .Nay, Marion, nay, my grosser mind 
 Must stoop to what's more fair and kind, 
 As man must bow to heav'n's decree — 
 So, Marion, Emmet yields to thee. 
 And say you so— but no, I feel 
 There's something you can ne'er reveal — 
 Some deed of— nay, thy thirst for fame 
 Would never quaff the bowl of shame : 
 And yet that haughty brow and stride, 
 That eye of fire, that step of pride, 
 The talk of battle, fierce and fell 
 May surely— what \ you know too well.—
 
 20 
 
 EMM1 T. 
 
 God grant that no'cr ['11 live to see 
 The name of rebel linked with thee. 
 He started as she said the word, 
 And eye'd her with a wild surprise ; 
 
 Say, maiden, say— who told— who heard- 
 Who babble'd this ? — my own surmise !- 
 Your own — and then his wond'ring eye 
 Regain'd a milder brilliancy. 
 And brow and cheek no more were red 
 With the fiery rage that o'er them spread, 
 But seem'd as fair, as when just now 
 He printed kisses on her brow, 
 And dar'd believe that gush of love 
 Was equal to the bliss above, 
 And (bat to her young soul was given 
 A form to equal those of heaven ; 
 So fair, that they who knelt before, 
 Had but to worship and adore ; 
 Nor suffer e'en a thought of earth 
 To taint her pure ideal birth ; 
 Or rank her in the world below 
 As one that's born to feel its woe. 
 
 Yes, Marion, yes— but, ah, why now 
 Contract a frown upon your brow ; 
 I've sworn — and can I break my vow ; 
 Nay, maid, e'en nay — recal that tear, 
 'Tis but a patriot standing here : 
 One whom to-morrow's parting sun 
 Will see triumphant or undone — 
 Will hail a chieftain or a slave ! 
 A crown of glory, or a grave 
 Are mine — no matter how or why, 
 I have but to possess, or — die.
 
 THE IRISH PATRIOT. 21 
 
 What think you of your Emmet now — 
 Does Marion's heart repent its vow ] 
 But stay, and throwing cloak aside, 
 He stood confess'd in all his pride. 
 His form another vesture wore, 
 From that which grac'd his limbs of yore, 
 Green as the shamrock's triple leaf 
 Was dagger's case and sabre sheath, 
 While the dark vest his bosom grac'd, 
 Was Erin's green, with gold enlac'd ; 
 So changed, alas! the form the mind, 
 Of Emmet, erst so mild and kind, 
 That gazing on his troubled eye, 
 She scarce could deem her lover by. 
 Marion ! he cried, and gently prest 
 The weeping maid unto his breast, 
 We part — but then, my only love, 
 To meet — and soon. Yes, there above, 
 She said — and from her azure eye 
 There beain'd the light of prophecy : 
 And Emmet started half afraid, 
 The truth might follow, as she said : 
 The gushing tear now tills her eye, 
 Her snowy hand was rais'd on high, 
 And pointing up, appear'd to show 
 The path of virtue's angel glow. 
 To which she seem'd the spirit given, 
 To trace the spankled path to heaven, 
 So light, so gentle, and so fair, 
 She seem'd in all her sorrow there. 
 She stirred not, scarce drew her breath, 
 But stood a living mould of death, 
 So still, and yet so sweetly glowing, 
 The heart almost betray'd its throeing ;
 
 2? BMMBT, 
 
 And but for the waving of her dress, 
 
 And (he dark locks' neglected tress, 
 
 That flitted o'er her Parian br< 
 
 Like tomb entwin'd with the cypress bough ; 
 
 You might hare deem'd that maid to be 
 
 Another senseless Niobe. 
 
 And yet the maiden's gentle eye 
 
 In all her signless agony, 
 
 Was breathing love in very glance, 
 
 Despite of sorrow, stony trance, 
 
 And the translucent tears that dew'd, 
 
 Were with a hundred words endued, 
 
 And as they gently lav'd her cheek, 
 
 Did more than lover's tongue could speak. 
 
 He saw — and in that moment's bliss, 
 
 Felt more than earthly happiness ; 
 
 And as he kiss'd those tears away, 
 
 Such tears as love can only pay, 
 
 Felt more than poets pen could say. 
 
 Yes, Marion, we must part — adieu 
 
 For ever ! No, it can't be true; 
 
 The soul that's fir'd with heav'nly love, 
 
 Can n'er be call'd so soon above, 
 
 But must prolong its genial ray, 
 
 To warm the sons of colder clay, 
 
 And shed its pure and angel light, 
 
 Nor ever know forgetting night — 
 
 But live with time and fame for ever, 
 
 A deathless love forgotten never. 
 
 Marion, adieu — one kiss and then 
 
 We part — but soon to meet again. 
 
 Farewell — 'twas all that tongue could say, 
 
 For firmness there had died away, 
 
 And left his spirit worn and weak, 
 
 Without the pow'r or wish to speak ;
 
 TI1E IRISH PATRIOT. 23 
 
 Vet as the maiden clung to him, 
 Like jasmin on the oaken limb, 
 Shedding its dew tears en the bough 
 Like those she wept on Emmet now : 
 He almost wish'd that like the flow'r, 
 She'd hang there to her latest hour, 
 And never know a joy or care, 
 Except what he might with her share, 
 For ever clasp 'd — and ever there. 
 Oh, who can feel as lovers feel, 
 When parting moments quickly steal, 
 And flattering time commands to sever 
 For months, for years, p'rhaps for ever, 
 The hearts that glow'd and puls'd together ; 
 As if one thought alone possess'd 
 The pure affections of the breast, 
 And bade them to imagine love 
 A ray from heavenly grace above, 
 Whichgleaming in the raptur'd soul, 
 Spreads light and virtue through the whole, 
 And firing bosom, mind, and eye, 
 With thoughts that have a sympathy, 
 Could almost make each breast disown 
 The other's heart was all its own, 
 But that they liv'd and breath'd the same, 
 And differed nothing but in name : 
 One mind, one soul, together blended, 
 One heart, one life, together ended. 
 Oh, yes ! in parting there's a bliss, 
 A kind of grieving happiness, 
 When struggling voice is heard to die 
 In broken word and bursting sigh, 
 And tears are all that grace the eye 
 With silent — yet a true reply :
 
 24 EMMET, 
 
 For ihe tongue maj nil a tale of woe, 
 \\ hen 'ho soul is dead (o feeling, 
 
 Yet (ho eye betrays the bosoms's throe ; 
 When the tears are from it stealing, 
 
 And they that young and lovely fair, 
 
 Whomel in pure affection there, 
 
 And linger'd in the last adieu, 
 
 As if presentiment were true, 
 
 Felt deeply in that speedy hour 
 
 The thrilling magic of its pow'r : 
 
 So calm the bliss -so pure the sigh 
 
 That breath'd their silent ecstacy, 
 
 That angels for the fall of Eve, 
 
 Could not a softer sorrow grieve, 
 When the first on earth we're doom'd to the grave, 
 And they mourn'd for the fall they could not save. 
 
 Yes for the love of that blue ey'd maid 
 
 Was as pure as the. sky of the poet, 
 When neither a cloud nor a vapour is there, 
 
 To prove there's an ocean below it ; 
 Or ever reveal that a portion of earth 
 Should sully its beauty— or tarnish its worth. 
 Andhis— the passion that gleam'd in his eye, 
 Was calm'd by the blush of her modesty - 
 Like the glossy breast of the smiling wave, 
 High ting'd with the color that heav'n gave. 
 Ah, well I reck that far or near, 
 
 No love could equal this, 
 Or ever that a brighter tear 
 
 Could follow lovers' kiss ; 
 Or ever from young affection's breast 
 
 Could rise a purer sigh, 
 Than that which drown'd the parting word, 
 In speechless agony.
 
 TllC I II 1 S II PATRIOT, i~J 
 
 (WTO II. 
 
 Still and clear was the Heaven above, 
 
 And calm was the breast of the waters ; 
 And the breeze that whisper'd on Erin's coast, 
 
 Was as sweet as the breath of its daughters. 
 The Moon as she sail'd in the ierial lake, 
 
 That slumber 'd above in its beauty, 
 Seem'd in the heavenly ray of her light, 
 
 To smile in the track of her duty. 
 The stars that bespangled the robe of the sky, 
 
 Were shedding the beams of their brightness ? 
 And the zephyr that play'd on the heather hill, 
 
 Scarce trembled a leaf in its lightness. 
 And many an eye was veiled in sleep, 
 
 Concealing its joy and its sorrow ; 
 And many a bosom that heav'd in its love, 
 
 Awoke but to grieve on the morrow. 
 Uncertain — unsteady the balance of fate, 
 
 That vibrates to grief or to gladness — 
 For care in the gliding of only a day, 
 
 May harrow our breasts in its sadness. 
 The calmer lli;> lake that glasses its wave, 
 
 The sooner i ts surface is bubbled ; 
 The purer the bosom that's liv'd but in joy, 
 
 The surer — the deeper its troubled. 
 
 c
 
 2G JTMMF.T, 
 
 'Tis midnight— and the languid breeze 
 
 But trembles in its Sight, 
 Writhing amid its bow'r of trees 
 
 Inexplicably light, 
 And rustling in the leafy spray, 
 Sighs there its infant breath away, 
 Yet merely stirs the weakest bough 
 In gentle undulation now ; 
 Then dies, and not a branch is seen 
 To move — or say it breathes between, 
 Except the dewy tears that glide 
 From stem to stem in silver tide ; 
 And sink into the leafy ground, 
 In all their dreariness of sound : 
 So quiet and so lone they fall, 
 Mourning the kiss they can't recal, 
 That pearly stream from beauty's eye 
 Can hardly flow more lucidly, 
 As o'er the cheek they gently steal, 
 And tell what tongue could ne'er reveal, 
 When cherish 'd hopes are raz'd in grief, 
 And pain hath blighted summer's leaf; 
 When smiling joy hath had its share, 
 And faded life's a night of care, 
 And all that mortal wish can crave, 
 Is but a friend to turf its grave. 
 Who hath not felt, when stilly night 
 Veils Nature from the straining sight, 
 Confusing forest, hill, and glade, 
 In one continued dusky shade ; 
 And making earth and sky appear 
 A desert chaos, dark and drear ; 
 As if the world again had been 
 A blank—a nothingness of scene—
 
 THE IRISH PATRIOT. 27 
 
 Yourself a solitary soul 
 The feeble monarch of the whole 
 Of space — when all beside have fled, 
 The only mourner for the dead, 
 For those with whom you soon may be 
 No more than mere mortality : 
 A putrid corse like them the same, 
 To rot in that from whence you came, 
 Without a friend behind, to shed 
 One bitter tear above your head ; 
 Or grace your long and last repose 
 With griefs that never own a close. 
 Who hath not felt in such an hour, 
 The feeble might of human pow'r, 
 Which cannot pierce the ebon gloom, 
 When but a step may seal his doom, 
 And end the brief, the sad career 
 Of all his summer visions here, 
 Which, at the best, are but a dream, 
 And never truly what they seem — 
 A bauble, that to human sight 
 Presents a surface clear and bright — 
 Which, worn away, too soon at best, 
 Will shew the grossness of the rest; 
 And tell of what his joys are made, 
 Which gleam — but only gleam to fade. 
 And will not then his courage quail — 
 His boasted might — his grandeur fail ? 
 Yes, courage — grandeur float away, 
 And manhood's but a mould of clay, 
 And finds the worm he spurn'd to death 
 Like human nature — clay and breath : 
 And so thought Emmet — as he stood, 
 His dark eye resting on the flood,
 
 -2S 
 
 HMVr.T, 
 
 Which roll'd in crystal tide helow 
 
 With nil its majesty of flow, 
 
 Heaving its wave in nature's rest, 
 
 Like sleeping beauty's snowy breast ; 
 
 While scarce a ripple seem'd to lave 
 
 Its margin with a foamy wave, 
 
 Or sound upon the pebbled shore 
 
 With e'en one echo of its roar : 
 
 And there were on its bosom gleaming 
 The golden stars of night, 
 
 Far far across the ocean beaming, 
 A mockery of light ; 
 
 Seeming as if to earth were given, 
 
 Another and as fair a heaven, 
 
 As that which glitter'd grandly high 
 
 Jn all its native brilliancy; 
 
 And flung below it magic rays 
 
 To view the glory of their blaze ; 
 
 And offer to the pow'r divine 
 
 Which bade their angel beauties shine 
 
 Those very gems — that starry zone 
 
 Which he had form'd— and he alone. — 
 
 He sighed, and there was in his eye 
 
 A deep, — a thrilling agony ; 
 
 And o'er his fair and pallid face 
 
 The lines of pity you might trace ; 
 
 Yet blended with a darker shade 
 
 That now would scowl, and soon would fade. 
 Passing along on his forehead of care, 
 Like the clouds that flit in the azure air, 
 And trace their shadows below on the plain, 
 Which gleams for a while and is shaded again ; 
 Or the boughs of the willow, that turn to the sky, 
 Whon the breath of the morning is passing them by ;
 
 THE IRISH PATRIOT. 29 
 
 Now dark to its pressure — and now as it heaves 
 Betraying the beauty that silvers its leaves. 
 
 And there was by him one whose brow 
 
 Was of another cast ; 
 Seeming as if along its front 
 
 The storm of years had past. 
 For care and sorrow you might trace, 
 Amid the furrows of his face, 
 Not faintly stamped, for they had been 
 Through all variety of scene 
 Gaining a deep and darker dye 
 From every year tiiat passed them by; 
 And priming there through every stage 
 The lines of anguish, not of age ; 
 Nay forty summers could no claim 
 Their numeration to his name ; 
 And yet his hairs were nearly white, 
 
 Much like the silver glare 
 That streaks the cloud on a winter night, 
 
 When the moon is shining there: 
 His form although from year to year 
 
 By care and pain pursued, 
 Had learnt the lesson not to fear, 
 
 Was strengthened not subdued. 
 And he look'd on him who pac'd beside 
 With something like an eye of pride, 
 As if he were his child — his own, 
 Who pac'd andcommun'd there alone ; 
 And held deep thoughts within his breast, 
 Gloomy, wild and unexpress d ; 
 And clasp 'd his hand on his burning brain, 
 \s if 'twould burst in its throe of pain ;
 
 SO EMMET, 
 
 And bent his brow as if (lie thought 
 Were e'en beneath the pang it brought — 
 Unworthy of the heart — the soul 
 That scorn 'd — delied a king's controul. 
 
 " And can I then advance my name, 
 
 " Upon the bloody scrolls of fame, 
 
 " Stab thousands in my fiendish hate, 
 
 " And circumscribe the bounds of fate; 
 
 " I who am but a form of clay, 
 
 " But live and breathe and pass away, 
 
 "Much like a bubble on the wave, 
 
 "That floats awhile above its grave, 
 
 " Then sinks into the mighty sea, 
 
 "That gave it a reality : 
 
 " Without a trace or spot to tell 
 
 " Where ere it rose, or where it fell. 
 
 '• I who — but now it matters not, 
 
 " I've dar'd — and shall I dread my lot ? 
 
 " Nay, that were worse than craven fear, 
 
 " I'll die or live a victor here. 
 
 " Compassion ! nay the seal of fate 
 
 " Is fixed — and now — it is too late, 
 
 " They die — ah, ere a day be run, 
 
 "Their bodies blacken in the sun, 
 
 "And blood shall — ah, upon the night, 
 
 " There steals a beam of silver light ; 
 
 "And now the uncorrupted ray 
 
 " Just glitters on the verge of spray ; 
 
 " And see it flings a broader gleam, 
 
 " Which glistens in the mountain stream, 
 
 " And brighter, brighter now its glowing 
 
 "An angel halo round it throwing,
 
 TIIE IRISH PATRIOT. SF 
 
 " Illuming; half the purple sky 
 
 " With lucid streams of brilliancy ; 
 
 " And now the rays are spreading higher — 
 
 " See there she bares her brow of tire, 
 
 " And like a Venus to the sight, 
 
 " Arises more than mortal bright. 
 
 " Now Lomor now the torch apply, 
 
 " And hurl one signal to the sky : 
 
 " Here take the lamp-^no prying eye 
 
 "Obtrudes upon our secrecy, 
 
 " 'Tis done !" — and mid the gloom of night, 
 
 The rocket sparkled in its flight, 
 
 Like some huge serpent coiling high, 
 
 Darting defiance to the sky, 
 
 And writhing upward seem'd to claim, 
 
 A more than sublunary name ; 
 
 Mocking the meteor's lucid ray, 
 
 That dies in dreary gloom away, 
 
 And like the rotting corse of man, 
 
 Finds life and glory but a span. 
 
 Ah ! oft the brightest sons of earth, 
 
 Who beam of heaven from their birth, 
 
 A minute blaze, then pass in gloom, 
 
 Without a ray to light their tomb, 
 
 Or shew to grosser sons of clay, 
 
 That such have had an earthly day, 
 
 And liv'd — but that alone to die, 
 
 Without a claim to memory ; 
 
 Or breathe in other years the line, 
 
 Which they had made almost divine. 
 
 It flam'd, and like the haggard gloom, 
 Which cankers early beauty's bloom, 
 When sunken cheek and glassy eye, 
 Reveal consumption's agony !
 
 S2 EMMET, 
 
 And stamp the seal of quick decay, 
 Ere sense or reason float away. 
 How often, ere the soul lias fled, 
 Ere Fate hath oleav'd the flaxen thread, 
 Which, partly broken, soon may sever, 
 Forsaking earthly ties for ever : 
 How oft to beauty's veiling eye, 
 Returns its wonted brilliancy : 
 How oft her cheek will blush, the glow 
 That love before could only know, 
 When soul and sense are freed again 
 From all their misery of pain, 
 And life and beauty seem to brave 
 The ghostly quiet of the grave — 
 Deceptive joy ! that tide of thine 
 Is but the ebb of quick decline, 
 Which, flow ins; onward, bears away 
 
 The love and life that now are beaming, 
 And like the sun's all glowing ray, 
 
 Withers the flow'r on which 'tis gleaming. 
 Oh, beauty ! bright and lovely boon, 
 Blushing, glowing, fading soon, 
 Most like a vision from the sight, 
 Sinking gradually to night, 
 Yet still impressing on the soul 
 The spell, the charm that form'd the whole, 
 And stamping on the heart for ever 
 The thought which sorrow cannot sever — 
 A thought that beauty must reveal — 
 A thought which love must ever feel, 
 
 In spite of what may ere betide, 
 In all this world of sadness, 
 
 Which on his raptur'deye must glide, 
 And tune his soul to gladness.
 
 25 
 
 An age of years — a world of pain 
 Are lost, forgot in seeming heaven, 
 
 When beauty glads the sight again, 
 And smiles with azure eyes eljsian ; 
 
 Too like the flow'r that lives a day, 
 In calm and sunshine only glowing, 
 
 Then withers in the night away, 
 And never more in beauty's blowing. 
 
 But love will oft retain the gleam 
 Of early charms — of fairy lightness, 
 
 As the stone at night reveals the beam 
 It gain'd from all the solar brightness 3 ; 
 The dew of night destroys the flow'r 
 That liv'd but in the sunny hour ; 
 The briny tear absorbs the trace 
 Of lovely woman's angel face ; 
 Shrouding with early felt distress, 
 The features of her loveliness; 
 And making love and life appear 
 A gloomy, wither'd, short career: 
 For objects in the mist of night 
 Appear unto the startled sight, 
 More near and ghastly than when they 
 Are shining in the glow of day. 
 So death when love and joy are gone, 
 And all that hope could rest upon, 
 Seems nearer than when life had been 
 A sunny and a gayer scene, 
 With shades — but only those which throw 
 A brighter and a wanner glow ; 
 And make the softly happy whole 
 A fairy landscape of the soul. 
 
 It passed away — and then in air 
 Young Emmet's sword was gleaming 6are;
 
 96 EMMET, 
 
 The moon-beam shining on the blade, 
 Seem'd dazzled with the light it made. 
 For as he war'd the steel on high 
 As if the scope of hilt to try — 
 Bright and vivid was the ray 
 That flashed upon the ocean spray, 
 And shone around him standing there 
 A kind of halo in its glare. — 
 *Tis well, and now my humble name, 
 Shall sparkle in the glow of fame, 
 And live for ages yet to be 
 In honored immortality. 
 I go — and perhaps an early grave 
 May end what I have dared to brave ; 
 No matter, for 'twere worse a fate 
 To live and own the pow'r I hate, 
 Yet not alone — for thousands more 
 Shall stiffen in their clotted gore, 
 And writhe amid the battle cry, 
 With faint and dying agony ; 
 And never view again the day, 
 Which soon shall shine upon their clay ; 
 No more than that on which they lay 
 Rotting, as all must rot away. 
 
 The guard-room fire was blazing bright, 
 
 Cheering the soldiers round it seated; 
 And many a tale of bloody light, 
 
 Oft told, was now again repeated : 
 And the song went round from man to man, 
 
 With a right good will and hearty chorus ; 
 And as they pass'd the flowing can, 
 
 They drank — <f the friends that are before us."
 
 THE IRISH PATRIOT. 27 
 
 And young and gay were those, I ween, 
 
 That laughed so happy there ; 
 As if their sorrows here had been 
 
 But visions in the air. 
 Gaining no tribute as they flew, 
 Except a tear the moment drew ; 
 Then fled, nor left a single trace 
 Of sorrow on the smiling face. 
 To mark the furrows woe must steal 
 The cares which time can never heal— 
 Which stamp upon the brow and eye, 
 The features of their history ; 
 In truth they were a reckless band, 
 Yet bold in heart and firm in hand, 
 And light as the songs of which they Sung, 
 And gay as the laugh which round them rung : 
 And some were grey — ah, they had been 
 Through many a tried and bloody scene ; 
 Had strove in all their early pride, 
 To face what none would dare beside, 
 And stand amid the foe alone, 
 With all the chivalry — their own ; 
 And they would tell of the escalade, 
 Of the fierce sortie and the ambuscade, 
 And their eyes would flash, and their hands 
 would clench 
 As they told to the young how they carry 'd the trench. 
 For well they tell a tale of strife, 
 Who've felt the goadings of the knife, 
 And point to where the stars proclaim 
 The honor'd trophies of their fame, 
 I illustrate the deed with signs 
 That words could never give ;
 
 28 
 
 And tell unto the gazer's view, 
 
 Of what he'd done and still might do ; 
 
 Tor where the wreath of valor twines, 
 
 Glory will ever live. 
 Though grey'd the head and somewhat bare, 
 Though lank and scatter'd grow the hair ; 
 And though the hand through toil and pain, 
 With higher swell disclosed the vein ; 
 And though perhaps the look of ire 
 Had lost some portion of its fire, 
 And could not kindle in its gaze, 
 So fierce a glance, so bright a blaze ; 
 There yet was something proudly high, 
 As they told of the deed and the pang gone by, 
 That well I reck at hour of need, 
 They still could dare heroic deed, 
 And prove themselves the very same 
 That long were lost to the field of fame — 
 That years and peace could not efface 
 Ambition, although they had wrinkled the face — 
 Nor weaken the limb, although on the head 
 The silvery shade of age was spread ; 
 Nor deaden the eye — which still would flash 
 As the steed of the trooper would onward dash, 
 And writhe on the steel of him below, 
 Whose courage is high and whose pulse is slow ; 
 Nor quails when the pistol shot rings by, 
 Though loud be the scream, and shrill the cry 
 Of the dying wretch in his agony. 
 
 They start — and why— ah, sharp and clear 
 A'musket shot rings on the ear ; 
 And then the quick repeated shout 
 Of guard to arms — and guard turn out ;
 
 the irish Patriot. 29 
 
 And deep is the curse — and ready the hand 
 Of every one of the soldier band — ■ 
 And firm was the step and loud the clang 
 That round about on the stillness rang ; 
 And shrill was the bugle's long alarm, 
 And fierce the cry of to arm to arm ; 
 And hurried the step of those who came 
 With a curse on the lip, and their eye in flame : 
 And soon are the ranks filled up — not one 
 Is left behind when the muster's done ; 
 And fell's the oath, as they pass the gate 
 Where the sentry kept his post of late, 
 But now is lying stiff on the ground, 
 With the pool of his blood congealed around ; 
 And the men as they pass by the corpse of the dead , 
 Hear the noise of it splash as they hasten their tread, 
 And vow by his body with muttering breath, 
 They'll die in the cause of revenging his death.
 
 30 EMMET, 
 
 CANTO III. 
 
 Fierce was the shout, and loud the cry 
 Which rose upon the evening sky ; 
 And thick the smoke, and red the glare 
 Which flicker'd in the dewj air, 
 As if the world were burning there. 
 There is agrandness in the light 
 Which flows across the gloom of night- 
 Now faint, and now in fiery glow 
 Illuming all the world below, 
 That heather hill and glassy stream 
 Are painted in the crimson gleam ; 
 And distant rocks that catch the ray, 
 Are far more beautifully gray ; 
 The craggy outline mellow'd then 
 Appears, and now is lost again — 
 Much like the visions gay and bright, 
 Which glow in all their fairy light, 
 And for a while will seem to be 
 A gay and sweet reality ; 
 Till tower and castle, hill and spray, 
 Fade one by one to sober grai
 
 THE 1RISR PATRIOT. 31 
 
 And nought remains, to catch the eye, 
 Of all their former brilliancy. 
 How mellow 'd is the faint decay 
 Of distant glare when it dies away ; 
 Just gilding with its yellow light, 
 The grim solemnity of night ; 
 And shedding o'er the space below 
 A soft resplendency of glow : 
 How beautiful to see it fade 
 Fainter and fainter amid the shade 
 Like hope surviving, though the past 
 Young golden dreams are o'ercast, 
 And all the fairy worlds of bliss 
 
 Have dwindled to the cares of this. 
 
 Yet when the crimson-yellow rays 
 On nearer objects hotly blaze ; 
 
 When dill and dingle, wood and glade, 
 
 Shew brighter light and deeper shade, 
 
 Its colors shedding o'er the spray 
 
 A fearful mockery of day ; 
 
 Stamping a wildness on the soul 
 
 Which feels the magic of the whole, 
 
 And shedding in its nameless might 
 
 A kind of fierceness of delight. 
 
 Yes, some would feel a sense of care, 
 
 That nearly borders on despair, 
 
 Degrading life and happiness 
 
 Into a worldly nothingness, 
 
 And making all they love or prize 
 
 But sharers in their miseries. 
 
 Ah, hope indeed is but a dream, 
 
 And life no more than a sunny beam — 
 
 A vision of uncertain stay 
 
 That gleams awhile and fades away,
 
 32 EMMET, 
 
 Nor leaves behind one single glow, 
 The twilight of the mind below, 
 And cares the cloud of mental gloom 
 That wasteth beauty's rosey bloom ; 
 The noisome shade that withers all 
 Where'er its poison vapours fall, 
 Which follows joy in passion's flight, 
 Like evening closing on the light — 
 A gloom that shadows life and bliss, 
 The night of sunny happiness, 
 Which deadens all we've felt and feel, 
 Making the wound too deep to heal, 
 Defying time which leaves behind 
 The scar, the gangrene of the mind, 
 And never can efface the seal 
 Of thoughts we would — yet can't conceal. 
 
 The muskets rang, and the sabres clash 'd, 
 
 And fierce was the peeling yell ; 
 And the rebel laugh 'd, as the bay 'net gash'd 
 
 Him, through and through as he fell. 
 Yet still his hand on the steel would clasp, 
 As he clutch'd his foe \rith a dying grasp, 
 And a fiendish smile would light the eye, 
 As he heard him moan in his agony ; 
 And the stones were wet with the crimson stain 
 That had flow'd from the wounds of the stiffened 
 
 slain. 
 For here it reak'd in a smoking stream, 
 
 And there t'was cold and clotted ; 
 And the ground that lay the dead between, 
 
 The gush of blood had spotted ; 
 And the wounded wretch as he grasp'd the sand, 
 In the phrenzied clench of his writhing hand,
 
 THE IRISH PATRIOT, S.i 
 
 Would mingle a curse in the feeble pray'r, 
 That rose to God, in his anguish there. 
 
 With faulchionin his gory hand, 
 
 How gallantly he speeds ; 
 
 How fearlessly his noble band 
 
 Dash on the track he leads ; 
 
 Nor flinch, although at ev'ry tread 
 
 They step upon the icy dead, 
 
 And feel around their feet the clasp 
 
 Of those who fix the dying grasp, 
 
 And weakly twine to what may be 
 
 A proof of earth's reality, 
 
 To which they blindly, fondly cling, 
 
 Despite of all their suffering. 
 
 Say, does he start, or does he fear, 
 Though the musket balls are ringing near ; 
 And a thousand shouts are heard to cry 
 Death to the traitor — let him die ? 
 No, full's the pulse and firm the hand 
 Of him, the first of the rebel band, 
 And curl'dthelip of high disdain, 
 That scorns to feel or shew its pain, 
 Or once betray to vulgar eye 
 The faintest line of misery. 
 But blindly mad indeed are they 
 Who stand beside him in the fray, 
 And yell with all the party rage, 
 That blood and spoil cannot assuage ; 
 Who sternly bandy blow for blow, 
 And firm in death begripe the foe, 
 Too happy if (ho last embrace 
 May hold a foeman face to face ;
 
 34 n-.niET, 
 
 And as he feels (ho soul's decay 
 
 And sees his life blood ebli away, 
 
 lie smiles to hear the gurgling tone 
 
 So very weak, so like his own, 
 
 And gasp for gasp, and breath for breath, 
 
 Thateehos back the pulse of death. 
 
 Like to a rock by the tempest riven, 
 
 Bounding from summit and ridge to the plain, 
 Obtaining from every check that is giv'n, 
 Fresh motion that urges its fury again. 
 They came, and rank was crowded on rank 
 Unbroken, contin'd as the stream to its bank ; 
 Bay'net on bay'net was levell'd — and bright 
 In the glittering beams of the silvery night ; 
 They charge — ah, now the glimmer has fled, 
 For the points are imbued in the blood of the 
 
 dead ; 
 Onward they throng — now redoubles the strife ; 
 The passion for lame and the struggle for life — 
 Hand unto hand, and blade unto blade, 
 For the rebels were bold in the battle they made, 
 Nor flinch'd, though the dearest of friends too 
 
 had died 
 On the steel they had rashly and vainly defied. 
 On ! onward ! see now they waver, they fly, 
 Some few are remaining, but only to die. 
 They rally — but no they are yielding — all, 
 
 where 
 Is the chieftain that now should be combatting 
 
 there ? 
 Has lie been dastard to flee, when his band
 
 THE IRISH PATRIOT. 35 
 
 [Host needed (he skill, and the pow'r of 
 
 command ? 
 So bold in appearance — so feeble in hand ! 
 
 With sabre high flashing-, 
 
 And hurrying bound, 
 The foremost he's dashing 
 
 A corpse to the ground, 
 And another, another that sabre has found. 
 The flame of his pistol is blazing- — and oh, 
 A chieftain of valor is writhing below. 
 Its fellow is leveird, and see at his feet, 
 The blood of the bravest is flooding- the street. 
 He shouts for a rally, but no, not one, 
 Comes forward to second what he had begun. 
 Alone ! does he fly ? oh, no, for now 
 The frown of defiance hath knit on his brow ; 
 His cloak hath envelop'd one arm, and see 
 A foeman his sabre hath brought to the knee ; 
 And now it has gor'd him through and through 
 For quick as the lightning ray it flew — 
 Again it is sweeping — and now they stand 
 Aghast at the force of a youngster band. 
 So many ! and shrink at a single brand ? 
 But one, but one, they shout, and see 
 Their shame hath giv'n them bravery. 
 But one, but one, and on they fly, 
 Yet theirs is the boon the first to die, 
 Who think to dash that sabre by. 
 Still, still it waves, and round him lay 
 The dead who dar'dto meet his bay. 
 Si, irk and stiff from right lo left 
 They fell hi heaps as his sabre swept,
 
 36 EMMET, 
 
 And the bloody curve the circle made, 
 Was like the bending of his blade. 
 I3u( now, ah, now the thrust, the blow, 
 A re weaker — fainter few and slow : 
 And see there's blood too on his brow — 
 Say, can his strength be failing now 1 
 For the cheek is pale, yet still his eye 
 Is unsubdued in its majesty ; 
 And still on his lip of pride there's bent 
 A curl of high and proud contempt ; 
 As if it scorn'd the very form 
 That thus could quail before the storm ; 
 Nor keep aloof when eye and soul 
 Were far above the base control. 
 Yes, now 'tis vain — for ah, his foes 
 Prepare to dare him in the close. 
 They rush — and one is forward thrown 
 On the point that now can brave their own 
 No more — for see, they press him round — 
 What yelling ! but behold he's bound, 
 Yet not alive ! — oh, no, his eye 
 Is clos'd in dull vacuity, 
 His features droop, and e'en his breath 
 Seems aller'd to the change of death ; 
 Right boon for him whose life had been 
 Avery wilderness of scene, 
 Without a spot where he could rest 
 His cares, or venture to be blest. 
 Save one — and that he lov'd — but no, 
 E'en that he made a wreck of woe ! 
 
 Yes, there he lies — his haggard eye 
 !s lix'd in gloomy vacancy ;
 
 THE IRISH PATRIOT. 37 
 
 How chang'd from him who once had been 
 
 The life, the glory of the scene ; 
 
 For lie was of a brighter soul, 
 
 Perfect and lovely in the whole — 
 
 A being form'd for love and bliss 
 
 In other worlds — but ne'er in this : 
 
 For care and fate had chas'd away 
 
 The sunshine of his brightest day, 
 
 And mingled in his cup of life 
 
 Ingredients of the dreadful strife, 
 
 Or he'd have been — perhaps would now 
 
 Shine brightest of the bright below, 
 
 Breathing the fire, the soul of wit, 
 
 The line that inspiration lit, 
 
 And beaming in this world alone 
 
 Glorious in radiance, all his own. 
 
 Yes, there he rests, the pale cheek leaning 
 
 Upon his clench'd and bloody hand ; 
 With ghastly look too well revealing 
 
 The bootless effort of his band ; 
 And there's a quiv'ring deep and dread, 
 
 That steals along his senses now, 
 Or else you'd deem him of the dead 
 
 And lost to all the pangs of woe. 
 Say, who can paint the sad distress 
 That haunts the rebel's loneliness, 
 And racks the heart e'en to its core, 
 Which never p'haps had quail'd before, 
 And thrills thro' every nerve and vein 
 The agonizing throb of pain, 
 Seeming in torture's groaning sigh 
 An earthly hell of misery, 
 And more than mortal well can bear, 
 In all his pilgrimage of care ?
 
 38 EMMET, 
 
 Yes, deep and racking is the ihouglit, 
 
 And worse than cVn the death ho sought ; 
 
 Tor shame pollutes his early bier, 
 
 And pity hardly deigns her tear 
 
 O'er him, however fair or brave, 
 
 That rottetli in a rebel's grave. 
 
 And Emmet thought of death— of all 
 
 That wept or sorrow 'd for his fall ; 
 
 lie knew them few, extremely few, 
 
 That knowing him had lov'd him too— 
 
 For he was of the fiery soul, 
 
 That scorn'd in friendship a controul, 
 
 And knew the medium for a share 
 
 Of love or hate that harbour'd there ; 
 
 And then he thought of her his own, 
 
 Helpless, and in the world alone — 
 
 Her for whom he liv'd, had dar'd 
 
 The strife of war— and who had shar'd 
 
 The glory of the battle day, 
 
 Had ho but conquer'd in the fray. 
 
 But that is pass'd — and where is she, 
 
 The partner of his agony ? 
 
 Why comes she not to lave his brow, 
 
 And share his latest moment now 1 
 
 Has she forgot ? — nay, look, the fair 
 
 Is weeping in her sorrow there. 
 
 And there she stood, her raven tress 
 Stream 'd loosely on her ashen cheek, 
 
 A monument of sad distress, 
 
 Living without the pow'r to speak. 
 
 She saw — and oh, how wild her eye, 
 
 Dilated in its agony,
 
 THE IRISH PATRIOT. 3V 
 
 And roll "das if 'twould tear away 
 
 Its trembling boundary of clay ; 
 
 And start for ever from the brain, 
 
 That madden'd in its gush of pain, 
 
 And quiver 'd in the temple's throe 
 
 With all its pulsatory woe, 
 
 So deep, that not a tear's relief 
 
 Would burst the passion of her grief, 
 
 Or cool the rackings of despair 
 
 That raged in fev'rish tumult there. 
 
 She breath'd — and yet the balmy breath 
 
 Would scarce belie the sign of death ; 
 
 So stilly faint that lip and breast 
 
 Seem'd torpid in eternal rest ; 
 
 And that they'd never sigh nor move 
 
 For earthly joy or maiden's love. 
 
 He rose — she saw — and then her trance. 
 
 Was bright with momentary glance ; 
 
 And the warm blood's returning flow 
 
 Rush'd back with hot and fever glow, 
 
 And dyed her cheek with flaming red, 
 
 And o'er her neck its flushes spread, 
 
 So quick a change that sense and eye 
 
 Seem'd reeling in vacuity! 
 
 Oh, then she saw, she felt, she knew 
 
 Her worst surmise was passing true ; 
 
 And he that she should live to see 
 
 Was lost to all felicity, 
 
 And doonTd p'rhaps the death to die 
 
 Ere sunset glimmer in the sky. 
 
 And what a fate — she dashed in pride 
 
 The thought of such a death aside,
 
 40 emmet, 
 
 And sank upon her lover's breast 
 
 To hide the thought her tears express 'd. 
 
 Oh, then lie felt, but who can tell 
 
 Of pangs that harrow passion's hell, 
 
 And paint the wretchedness of pain, 
 
 Which festers in the swelling vein, 
 
 When all of earth we love or bless, 
 
 Are lying in forgetfulness, 
 
 O'erwhelm'd by agonizing thought 
 
 From cares which we ourselves have wrought ? 
 
 And Emmet parted her dark hair, 
 Which wav'd across her snowy brow, 
 
 Like the leaves that flit in the dewy air 
 Across the silver birchen bough. 
 
 And he thought of her at yesternight, 
 
 So fair, so lovely, and so bright, 
 When all her (ale of love she sigh'd, 
 
 And wish'd and blush'd to be his bride ; 
 And then of her who slumber'd there, 
 A victim of the heart's despair. 
 Her eye was iixed in strong gaze, 
 Seeming of life to be forsaken, 
 And o'er it pass'd that heavy glaze, 
 
 Which dims the sight by death o'ertaken. 
 And her lips had lost the living dye 
 Which once had glow'd in witchery — 
 Had lost that sweet and ruby red 
 Which on them once a charm had spread, 
 And now were pale and breathless seen, 
 As the snowy pearls that shone between.
 
 11 
 
 He wept — I wish'd, but 'tis in vain 
 That trance for ever would remain : 
 And that you'd never wake to shed 
 One tear upon my earthy bed, 
 Or know the death — ah, there I feel 
 The pang- which glory cannot heal, 
 To die, the bitter jest of all 
 That glory in a traitor's fall, 
 And hear the taunting laugh arise 
 Amid my dying agonies. 
 Yet this — nay more my soul could bear, 
 If thou wert dead to earthly care — 
 Thy gentle spirit broke and riven, 
 And gather'd to its native heaven, 
 No more confin'd to sordid clay, 
 But living in the hallow'd ray 
 Which shines in angel realms above 
 Amidst eternity of love : 
 But left unfriended and alone, 
 With all my enemies — your own, 
 The jest, the butt, the passing scorn 
 Of those who knew thy summer morn, 
 And that your fate of joy or grief 
 Was link'd with mine — the rebel chief. 
 And yet that gentle form of thine, 
 Could never live bereav'd of mine, 
 Or know one thought of joy or care 
 Which I could never with thee share. 
 Thou liv'st — and yet so short the time 
 You'll sorrow in this world of crime, 
 That even now, though sleeping here, 
 I ?oem but weeping o'er thy bier, 
 And mourning for the grief, the woe 
 That I have caus'd for thee below.
 
 42 EMMET, 
 
 He who hath seen clown manhood's ohrek, 
 
 The tear of sorrow stealing, 
 Hath view'd the pain which ne'er again 
 
 He'd wish to see revealing — 
 The pang which pride cannot retain — 
 
 The bitter grief— the woe there's no concealing. 
 
 'Tis sad when vision's lost the ray 
 
 That gilded once its brighter day, 
 
 And spread with Nature's gayest dress 
 
 The springtide of his happiness ; 
 
 Leaving behind not e'en a smile 
 
 To cheer his memory the while ; 
 
 Or shed amid the clouds of care 
 
 One beam to lighten his despair. 
 
 'Tis sad to think what years of grief 
 May scowl when (lying o'er us, 
 
 When hope is not for our relief, 
 And all is gloom before us. 
 
 'Tis sad when beauty fades away, 
 
 With slow but palpable decay, 
 
 To mark the furrow, trace by trace, 
 
 Invade the beauty of the face, 
 
 And stamp, in spite of all her tears, 
 
 The proof, the damning proof of years. 
 
 'Tis sad the maiden's blighted fame, 
 
 The tear of grief the blush of shame, 
 
 The deep remorse, the fallen name, 
 
 The bitter pang of wounded pride 
 In her young breast, 
 
 Which years can never dash aside, 
 Or set at rest. 
 
 But wither 'd hope and sorrow's day, 
 
 And beauty's gradual decay, 
 
 In furrow'd cheek and locks of grey ;
 
 THE IRISH PATRIOT. 43 
 
 And maiden's grief for blighted love, 
 The sighs, the woes that never move 
 
 A sister's tear, 
 Are not so deep as those which prove 
 
 Man's sorrow here. 
 How keenly felt, how dark the source 
 
 From whence they rain ; 
 E"en those who mark their silent cource 
 
 Must grieve for pain ; 
 And wish them buried, smother'd low 
 
 Down in the ground, 
 Exchang'd for where the pang of woe 
 
 Is never found — 
 That narrow melancholy spot, 
 Where all his fame and beauty rot, 
 And where he rests — and is forgot. 
 
 Morn came — the cannon roar'd — and low, 
 
 Low was the roll of the drum ; 
 And the troopers were galloping to and fro, 
 
 Long ere the day had begun ; 
 And brows in haughty bend were knit, 
 While flash'd the gleam that fury lit 
 
 Beneath their scowl, 
 As lightning glances from the cloud, 
 When warring at the thunders loud 
 
 With angry growl. 
 For ill conceal'd was the curse which stole 
 From many a fierce and haughty soul, 
 Too proud to own that brand or spear 
 
 Could make them fail, 
 Or ever that a coward-fear 
 
 Could make them pale.
 
 44 EMMET, 
 
 And hands were clench'd, as if again 
 
 They'd grasp the steel. 
 But no — they're clos'd in very pain 
 
 Of what they feel. 
 Fix 'd in despair, that all had been 
 Deceptive as a fairy scene, 
 And they the same, the very same 
 
 That bow'd before, 
 Without one single ray of fame 
 
 To gild them o'er. 
 Their leader ! — he who once had led 
 Them on to fame and glory's bed, 
 His crimson sabre waving far 
 The flashing beacon of the war, 
 Now captive ! — say what brought them here 
 
 With evil eye ? 
 Revenge ! — oh, no ! to drop a tear, 
 
 And see him die. 
 He came, and not the slightest shade 
 
 Of sorrow cross'd his cheek ; 
 No sign of anguish there betray 'd 
 
 The grief which cannot speak. 
 'T was clear as if he'd never known 
 How few of moments were his own, 
 Or ever dream 'd how soon that death 
 Should claim his last expiring breath. 
 His step how light — his eye how clear 
 From thoughts of woe, or throbs of fear, 
 For ev'ry line upon his face 
 Seem'd more of joy's than summer's trace ; 
 And ev'ry curl his lip essay'd 
 Was more in pride of feeling made, 
 Than any proof of what might be 
 A signal of timidity.
 
 THE IRISH PATRIOT. 45 
 
 And he — and the aged father there 
 Are kneeling down in holy pray'r, 
 Addressing him whose pow'rcan scan 
 The silent thoughts of erring man ; 
 And well discern the pious tone 
 That rises to his mighty throne, 
 From words that are but words alone. 
 He pray'd — and yet the lip was still — 
 Not even there the slightest thrill 
 
 Was seen a thought to quiver : 
 Itseem"dasif the giant pow'r 
 Of Death had claim'd his latest hour, 
 
 And seal'd them up for ever. 
 His glance wasfix'd upon the ground, 
 
 Nor rose it once to heaven, 
 Save when he heard the cheering sound, 
 
 " My son you are forgiven." 
 And then a tear was seen to rise, 
 And dim the lustre of his eyes ; 
 A moment there 't would only play, 
 Then vanished on his cheek away. 
 Say was it the pang of coward fear, 
 That gave emotion to that tear : 
 The bitter thought— the throe of pain 
 Which grieves when grieving is in vain, 
 
 And sighs are unavailing ; 
 When nature cannot well contain 
 The woe that ices ev'ry vein, 
 
 And chills the heart to failing. 
 Or was it the grief which passion wrung 
 From cruel deeds already done, 
 Mourning that they had e'er begun. 
 Or was it the woe that wept in shame 
 For such a failing: — such a name
 
 46 EMMET, 
 
 As now must wither down to fame. 
 Oh, no, 't was neither woe nor pain, 
 For death a struggle here in vain, 
 That claim 'd a tear— unfelt, unknown : 
 It fell for griefs— but not his own — 
 Escaping all the frost of pride, 
 It fell for her— the maid— his bride. 
 
 He rose— yet still that eagle eye 
 
 Was calm as tho' 'twere ne'er to die. 
 
 No empty glance — no vacant stare 
 
 Was seen to shrink or tremble there. 
 
 Steady and fix'd as if 't had been 
 
 Surveying but a gayer scene ; 
 
 And clear as if the clouds of pain 
 
 Could never there impress a stain, 
 
 Much more through any cause of fear 
 
 Unite their grossness in a tear. 
 
 Firmly he trode — no muscle shook — 
 
 Cool contemplation was the look — 
 
 No feature trembled, though around 
 
 His neck the cord of guilt was bound. 
 
 No sigh escaped — although the spring 
 
 Was 'bout to hurl him quivering • 
 
 Yet eye and brow and limb and vein 
 
 Were hot in fever rage again, 
 
 When round his sight they wish'dtobind 
 
 The coward shackles of the blind. 
 
 " Away ! away ! what think you I 
 
 " Can fear the death I'm doom'd to die ; 
 
 " And quail because my eyes can see 
 
 " The bonds that are to set me free : 
 
 " Think you the soldier owneth fear, 
 
 " When blood and carnage dim the spear.
 
 THE IRISH PATRIOT. 47 
 
 " Say can he fail, and that too here."'' 
 Fiercely and proudly flash'd his eye, 
 As he hurl'd the hated bandage by ; 
 And stern the look that seem'd to wait 
 Impatient for the pang of fate. 
 His lip still writhing in the curl, 
 Which shook to passion's bitter whirl — 
 That eye unclosed, though 'neath his tread, 
 
 He felt the boarding quiver, 
 No start reveal'd the shrink of dread, 
 
 Not e'en the faintest shiver : 
 Though many a glance was seen to fail, 
 Which ne'er before was known to quail — 
 Though many a tongue could not suppress 
 The language of its bitterness — 
 Though not e'en one averted eye 
 Was seen to drop its lashes dry ; 
 How calm were his, when loud and clear 
 The clank of iron smote the ear ; 
 When ev'ry hand was rais'd before 
 The glance which could not venture more ; 
 How slow, how calm the one which gave 
 
 Its last farewell, 
 Ere sunk into an early grave — 
 
 What need to tell 1 
 
 They're gone, and not a stone doth tell 
 The place where they are sleeping ; 
 
 Or mark the spot where beauty fell 
 In death's own icy keeping. 
 
 Unknown the place — for who would raise 
 
 A tablet to a rebel's praise ? 
 
 Or sculpture o'er his bed of clay 
 
 One line to honor his decay.
 
 48 EMMET, 
 
 lie's gone — no matter where or what 
 
 The turf or tomb that spreadetho'er him ; 
 His name can never be forgot, 
 
 And those who live will die before him : 
 He'll live — but then the taunt of shame 
 Will cling for ever to his name, 
 And blight the fairer better part 
 That spoke the language of his heart, 
 And shone amid the baser whole, 
 The sunny checker of his soul, 
 As oft amid the cloudy air, 
 When fogs are floating hero and there, 
 Some purer spots are blue and fair. 
 He died — nor that 'till he had known 
 How Sorrow claim'd him for her own — 
 And how he'd drain'd the cup of care, 
 E'en to the wormwood of despair ; 
 And knew too well the curse of Cain 
 Was stamp'd upon his madden'd brain ; 
 And that he brought but care and woe 
 To those who clung to him below. 
 He died — how base a death to close 
 Young vision in its long repose. 
 How sad to live in after times, 
 So young in death — so old in crimes — 
 And be renown'd as he who died 
 A rebel's death with rebel pride : 
 And she — that maid whose very love 
 Was far the claims of earth above ; 
 Who felt for him that pulse of soul 
 Which blush'd too plainly its controul, 
 And told with throbbing breast and eye, 
 The ardour of its fervency.
 
 THB IRISH PATRIOT, 4'J 
 
 Oh, no, her breast would never own 
 A love but what was his alone. 
 She too is gone — a lovely flow'r 
 That breath'd the sunshine of an hour — 
 Leaving behind no other fame, 
 Save that which beauty gives her name, 
 And the sorrowing tear from those who love— and 
 cannot blame. 
 
 And time will shed o'er passion's throes, 
 
 The misty oil of years : 
 And other hearts and other woes 
 
 Shall claim and merit tears. 
 
 The song, the dance, the festal scene, 
 Shall come and have their sway, 
 
 Much like the western cloud that's seen 
 To glow and pass away. 
 
 And care will blight the sunny slopes 
 
 That gave to life its joy, 
 And shadow all our earthly hopes 
 
 With clouds that must destroy : 
 
 And other names shall stamp the mark 
 
 Upon the leaf of crime, 
 And keep, like figures on the bark, 
 
 Their traces for a time : 
 
 And poets too will strike the lyre, 
 
 And swell the glowing line, 
 With all the elegance and fire 
 
 Which make the lay divine.
 
 50 EMMET. 
 
 The words, the notes, the tale, the glee, 
 The griefs which sorrow wrung, 
 
 Will come and live their hour — may be 
 No longer than they're sung. 
 
 And beauty too shall bloom again, 
 The soul of charming rhyme ; 
 
 And love, with all her flow'ry train, 
 Shall deck the scythe of time. 
 
 War ! war shall sweep with bloody arm 
 
 That fairy wreath away, 
 And love and joy, and rosy charm 
 
 Shall wither and decay. 
 
 But can the tale of him who died, 
 
 The legend of his fame, 
 Be lost — when Erin's eye of pride 
 
 Must glisten— though in shame. 
 
 Oh, no, with her he'll ever live — 
 The young, the fair, the brave — 
 
 While love and pity both shall give 
 Their laurels to his grave. 
 
 Long, long in after time, his woes 
 
 Shall dim the tender eye ; 
 While e'en among his bitter foes 
 
 That name will never die. 
 
 THE END.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 51 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS 
 THE DUKE OF YORK. 
 
 Strike ! strike the proud banners that flaunted in glory, 
 Let them droop where they triumph'd, o'er mountain 
 and wave ; 
 
 Whilst the death-bell and muflled drum tell the sad story 
 Of a Chieftain gone down to the sleep of the grave ! 
 
 If the splendours of ancestry, honours, and power, 
 Could avert for a period mortality's doom ; 
 
 Oh, distant indeed would have been the dark hour 
 That open'd before him the steps to the tomb. 
 
 Ye spirits of Brunswick ; — the fearless — the glorious ! 
 
 Whose deeds left a long track of brightness behind, 
 Who rode through the storm of the battle victorious, 
 
 And your fame with the freedom of England entwin'd. 
 
 Receive him, whose heart was as brave as his sire's ; 
 
 Who never the plume of his ancestry stain 'd, 
 When the storm of war flash'd around him its fires, 
 
 And the foementhe furies of battle unchain'd.
 
 52 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Receive him, whose spirit was gentle and mild, 
 When the war-clouds roll'd far from the carnage- 
 spread plain : 
 
 To whom the poor orphan lias look'd up, and smil'd, 
 And the tears of the widow not pleaded in vain. 
 
 Though stern when believing his country in danger, 
 Once the strife of the held or the senate was o'er, 
 
 His bosom to every dark feeling a stranger, 
 Remember 'd the foe he confronted no more. 
 
 Though his fame for a season by error was clouded, 
 Yet long years of virtue his raem'ry shall save 
 
 From malice, which, while its cold victim lay shrouded, 
 Craw I'd forth, like a vampire, to feed on his grave. 
 
 Yet where'ver the flag of his country unfurl'd, 
 The sip;n of the free floating grandly along, 
 
 Unfolding the red cross in light through the world, 
 That never can stoop to oppression and wrong. 
 
 There — there — shall the proof of his labours be shewn, 
 Who, when the high fame of the land was o'ercast, 
 
 So marshall'd thy chivalry, England ! that none 
 Were left to contend with thy glory at last ! 
 
 And thou, Royal Mourner! who fondly attended 
 The death bed, and watch'd the life ebbing away, 
 
 Who left all that earth has most honor'd and splendid 
 To weep like a man o'er a brother's decay. 
 
 Not all the 'right glow of thy triumphs endear thee 
 To England, so muoh as thy agony now —
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 53 
 
 And less for thy grandeur thy people revere thee, 
 Than the sorrow that shadows thy diadem'd brow. 
 
 'Tis not the gilt 'scutcheon and trapping of pride 
 That honor the brave, like the natural tear 
 
 Of the mourner who lays e'en the monarch aside, 
 And the soldier that droops o'er the warrior's bier. 
 
 Raise ! raise the proud banners again in their glory, 
 Again let them float o'er mountain and wave ! 
 
 For his name shall live in his country's bright story, 
 While its people are free, and its soldiers are brave ! 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 A pearly dew drop's fairy gem, 
 Hung glitt'ring on the leafy tree; 
 
 Embossing bright the woody stem, 
 With Nature's gay embroidery. 
 
 An infant at its mother's breast, 
 Was clinging in its silent bliss ; 
 
 Disturb'd not in that witching rest, 
 But by her fond maternal kiss.
 
 54 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 The glowing sun's absorbing beam, 
 Hath shone upon that dewy spray ; 
 
 And playing with its sultry gleam, 
 Hath stol'n that pearly gem away. 
 
 And pale disease with noisome breath, 
 Hath breathed upon that sleeping boy ; 
 
 And the fierce clutch of icy death, 
 Hath wither'd all his mother's joy. 
 
 A rainbow's varied arch hath spread, 
 
 Its bow across the azure sky ; 
 And there again that drop doth shed, 
 
 A more than earthly brilliancy. 
 
 The thread of life— the flaxen thread 
 Of that pale infant boy is riven ; 
 
 But say, is he for ever dead, 
 Oh no, he lives, he breathes in heav'n.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 55 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 There is a shriek upon the blast 
 
 And a struggling in the wave, 
 The yell had ceased, the pang is past, 
 
 And the waters are a grave. 
 I look and say what meets my view 
 
 Across that foamy sea ? 
 A wreck, a scattered wreck — brave crew ! 
 
 A long good night to thee. 
 
 I saw a maid as pure and fair 
 
 As the very thought of honor, 
 Yet as I play'd with her golden hair 
 
 The hue of death was on her. 
 She died away ! and the soul which fled 
 
 Was pure as a soul can be, 
 And I lav'd her brow with the tear that said 
 
 A long good night to thee. 
 
 The sun was up amid the sky, 
 
 And I traced his course along — 
 The fields were all embroidery, 
 
 And the woods were tun'd with song. 
 He sunk behind the western hill — 
 
 That was a sight to see ! 
 Where is the man who dares fill 
 
 A parting cup to thee ? 
 
 I stood on the plain — the battle plain, 
 Where the bloody strife had been ; 
 
 The clotted gore and the shatter 'd brain 
 On the grizzly scull were seen.
 
 56 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 And I said, ■when these areas the clay, 
 What will their glory be ? 
 
 Ah ! let the mirj/ity chief tain say — 
 A long good night to thee. 
 
 There is a leaf, a yellow one, 
 
 Clinging unto its bough ; 
 The clouds are rolling o'er the sun, 
 
 And it rides the tempest now. 
 But yet you once were young and green, 
 
 Upon that noble tree ! 
 Let those who are as you have been, 
 
 Bid a long night to thee. 
 
 I saw her whom I lov'd alone — 
 And the parting cheek was wet : 
 
 Those tears, for love — away have flown, 
 Like a dream we can't forget. 
 
 She greets — yet with a changeless eye-^ 
 And her words are cool to me : 
 
 Love ! hopeless love ! I cannot sigh- 
 E'en one good night to thee.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 57 
 
 THE SOLDIER'S GRAVE. 
 
 The evening sun was sinking low, 
 On crag and mountain shining ; 
 And he seein'd amid the western glow 
 A god on couch reclining. 
 
 The lower vales were ting'd with the shade, 
 
 Deeper and deeper grading ; 
 And the yellow beam on grassy blade, 
 
 Was fainter, fainter fading. 
 
 At morn he rose from his orient bed, 
 
 Ere echo 'gan replying ; 
 At eve he shone on the stitfen'd dead, 
 
 And writhing 1 forms of the dying. 
 
 How chang'd in scene, since the matin ray 
 
 Its golden light was beaming ; 
 For then it shone on heath and spray, 
 
 But now in blood 'twas gleaming. 
 
 Oh, then it danc'd from the silver wave, 
 To cranied crest of the mountain ; 
 
 But now it glanc'd from gory glaive, 
 To redden 'd stream of mountain. 
 
 On every side the mangled form 
 
 Of foe with foe was blended ; 
 And the frown which scowl'd in battle storm, 
 
 Still on the brow Mas bended.
 
 58 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 The sinewy hand, though chain'd by death, 
 The torn per 'd blade was grasping : 
 
 And wounded heaps for the lingering breath 
 Were sternly, faintly grasping. 
 
 The ivory brow — whose contour high 
 
 The damps of death were laving ; 
 Was smear'd with gore ; while the zephyr's sigh 
 
 The clotted locks were waving. 
 
 Oh, mark yon troop with their batter'd crests, 
 
 To camp, the field preferring : 
 The wounded bear to the couch of rest, 
 
 And dead in graves interring. 
 
 The hand, which late in the battle fray, 
 
 The blow of death was dealing ; 
 Now raised the foe, and it wash'd away, 
 The blood in wound congealing. 
 
 They dig the grave on the spot they fell, 
 Their war cloaks folding round them ; 
 
 And the echo mocks the peeling knell, 
 Which flashing guns are sounding. 
 
 They fill the grave — and the sanguine mould, 
 
 With tear of soldiers teeming ; 
 For thoughts of the mind are truly told, 
 
 When eye for heart is pleading. 
 
 For the tongue may tell a tale of woe, 
 While the breast may nought be feeling ; 
 
 But the eye betrays the heart-felt throe, 
 When tear down the cheek is stealing.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 59 
 
 Then rest thee, warriors, in your tomb, 
 
 That sips the dewy moisture ; 
 For the hero seeks no mausoleum, 
 
 The soldier needs no cloister. 
 
 The heather plain is the trooper's bed, 
 
 And strife of war's his glory ; 
 The battle field is his grave when dead, 
 
 And he lives in song and story. 
 
 THE SAILOR'S GRAVE. 
 
 The silvery beams of night's lunar orb, 
 
 Were glimmering over the deep ; 
 Contention of storm was; lull'd into rest, 
 
 And hush'd as the billows in sleep. 
 
 The breezes of night were sighing in shrouds, 
 Scarce kissing the track on our lee ; 
 
 And night's fairy queen had spangled her stars, 
 On the emerald breast of the sea. 
 
 He saw not the wave, nor heeded the scene, 
 Weak nature had yielded its breath ; 
 
 The thoughts of the eye were senselessly glazed, 
 And veLTd in the slumbers of death.
 
 r,o 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS 1'OEMS. 
 
 We bore him on deck ; — the Union flag 
 
 Was pall for the gallant and brave ; 
 We told of his fame — we number'd his deeds, 
 
 We sigh'd o'er his tomb — the dark wave. 
 
 He fell from our grasp, and the angry foam, 
 
 In the eddying circles swung : 
 While slumbering planets gleam 'd on the spray, 
 
 And zephyr his requiem sung. 
 
 Oh, smooth grades the deep, for the gurgling wave 
 
 Hath ceased on its surface to bend ; 
 Yet retrospect's warmth — distilleth the tear 
 
 That flows for the loss of a friend. 
 
 Be honour'd that breast which heaves for the dead, 
 
 And haMows with sorrow the bier ; 
 May pleasure ne'er stint the balm of that sigh, 
 
 Or drain the'pure source of that tear.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 61 
 
 A SONG OF CHIVALRY. 
 
 To horse ! oh to horse ! ere the break of fair day, 
 Doth spangle the dew-tear of night on the spray ; 
 
 And tinges the hue of the wave. 
 Come ! leave the gay revel, and wassailing's charms ; 
 For shouting of combat and clinging of arms ; 
 And cursd be the coward who fears the alarms, 
 
 That wait on the bold and the brave. 
 
 We leave the fair banquet for red battle strife, 
 We leave the soft pleasures of indolent life, 
 
 For chivalric battle and fray. 
 So fleet be the charger, and loose hang the rein, 
 Till the crests of our foes are seen on the plain ; 
 Then spear gleam in rest — and be glory our gain : 
 
 Speed onward ! speed gallants ! away ! 
 
 For tried is the temper of hauberk and lance, 
 
 Our brands have reap'd bays 'gainst the battle of France, 
 
 In melee of tourney and ring : 
 And ere rosy eve draws the curtain of night, 
 The edge of our swords will be hack'd in the fight, 
 And bards with grey minstrels shall tell of our might, 
 
 And tales of our chivalry sing. 
 
 Then forward brave gallants, nor shun the bold leap, 
 Fear not the rough dingle or rock shelving steep, 
 
 Success is resultive of speed. 
 Then dash through the morass, the torrent, and ford, 
 With ken on alert, and with hand upon sword, 
 On ! on ! to the battle ! for fame and your lord, 
 Your ladies, your knighthood, and creed.
 
 62 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 Lone leaf, art thou the only one, 
 
 That weathered out the gale ; 
 Art thou the only leaf that clings, 
 
 So sweet, so fair, so frail. 
 
 Yes, all but thee have shrunk away, 
 
 Are with'ring on the ground ; 
 Yet still you quiver as the breeze 
 
 Plays with its pinion round. 
 
 Forsaken — yet when sunny rays, 
 Shed o'er thee summer's glow, 
 
 Thy beauty seems again to live, 
 Thy leaf again to blow. 
 
 Alone ! alone — yet when the sigh 
 
 Of zephyr waves the flow'r, 
 Thy breath doth shed a sweet perfume 
 
 Upon the evening hour. 
 
 Deceiving bloom — deceptive sweets — 
 
 Fair beauties of a day : 
 They smile but with a fairy dream, 
 
 Seduce thy strength away. 
 
 Well may'st thou shed that trickling dew, 
 Those tear-drops of your woe ; 
 
 They fall like thee, no more again 
 Upon that stem to glow.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 63 
 
 How like young beauty when she fades, 
 From life and love's elysian ; 
 
 And the pure heart hath centered all 
 Its angel hopes in heaven. 
 
 How oft again the cheek will flush 
 
 Its crimson hue of health; 
 And the dull eye again will gleam 
 
 With intellectual wealth. 
 
 But beauty like that fallen leaf, 
 
 Revives but to decay — 
 And from the earth she bloom 'd upon, 
 
 For ever fades away. 
 
 Thou fall'n, rosy leaf, farewell, 
 
 Thy day of life is o'er ; 
 Shatter'd, wither'd, rosy leaf, 
 
 You'll scent the gale no more.
 
 64 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 Oh, Death! thy keen arrows are sure; 
 
 How deep is the pang they impart ; 
 For the streamlet of sorrow ne'er fails, 
 
 That flows from the font of the heart. 
 
 Time mantles the castle with green, 
 And crumbles the highbattl'd tow'r; 
 
 Undermines (he steep rock to its base, 
 And seers Autumn's leaf in the bow'r. 
 
 Stern, Saturn, what changes arise 
 On nature's exuberant womb ; 
 
 What kingdoms commence and are lost, 
 What numbers are swept to the tomb. 
 
 The wealthy, the proud and the gay, 
 Submit to thy giant controul ; 
 
 While the lapse of a year may efface 
 Their names from futurity's scroll. 
 
 Like a bubble that floats on the deep, 
 Like a flow 'ret that sweetens the gale, 
 
 Man floats on uncertainty's wave, 
 And sinks 'neath the sod of the vale.
 
 After page $2, the folio, instead of being printed 25, 
 should have been 33. The error does not affect the 
 'natter.
 
 64 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 Oh, Death! thy keen arrows are sure; 
 
 How deep is die pang they impart ; 
 For the streamlet of sorrow ne'er fails, 
 
 That flows from the font of the heart. 
 
 Like a bubble that floats on the deep, 
 Like a fiow'ret that sweetens the gale, 
 
 Man floats on uncertainty's wave, 
 And sinks 'neath the sod of the vale.
 
 1 IMS M.'UN IS 1 J \~ 1— V/U 
 
 date stamped beiovv. 
 
 REMINGTON RAND INC. 20 
 
 213 (533) 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 AA 000 369 389 2 
 
 PR 
 
 i;007 
 
 A62e 
 
 I