1 
 
 ai*=r ^ rr
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 
 ALBERT: ^ 
 
 A POEM IN TWO CANTOS. 
 
 HILDA ; 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS, 
 
 BY 
 
 JOHN BUCHANNAN. 
 
 Yet other secret griefs had he. 
 Oh, Pillow ! only told to tbee : 
 Say, did not hopeless love intrude 
 On his poor bosom's solitude? 
 Perhaps on thy soft lap reclined, 
 In dreams the cruel Fair was kind. 
 That more intensely he might know 
 The bitterness of waking woe. 
 
 Montgomery. 
 
 EonlKon : 
 
 BALDWIN AND CRADOCK, PATERNOSTER ROW. 
 
 1828.
 
 WHITBY: 
 HL IXirbp, printer, 13riBgt= Street.
 
 DEDICATORY SONNET, 
 
 /5r 
 
 TO PSYCHE. ^20xC^e 
 
 There is a thought, a fancy it may be, 
 Which binds my spirit like a magic spell. 
 And ever in my bosom's deepest cell 
 
 Maintains the empire of its witchery: 
 
 It haunts me in my dreamsj and then I see 
 Beautiful forms and things ineffable. 
 Such as may never in earth's confines dwell : 
 
 Yet one bright creature seems to cast on me 
 A look of earthly radiance : — canst thou guess 
 
 Who that sweet paragon of earth may be ? 
 
 Alas, I feel too well that nought but thee 
 
 Could charm me with such witching loveliness ! 
 
 Forgive me, then, sweet girl, if thus I dare 
 
 To place my humble muse beneath thy gentle care 
 
 8GG149
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 As many, perhaps, may deem it presumptuous ia 
 me to bring before the public the following pro- 
 ductions of a very youthful muse, it seems at least 
 advisable, if not absolutely necessary, to lay before 
 them, in a fair and candid manner, the reasons 
 which induced me to obtrude myself thus prema- 
 turely on their notice. 
 
 I am well aware, that the plea of youth, and 
 want of opportunity, will avail me nothing at the 
 impartial bar of criticism. I know that with the 
 world in general, my little volume must sink or 
 swim according to its own intrinsic value ; but I 
 would fain hope, that there are some gentle bosoms 
 which can sympathize with the doubts and fears 
 of an individual who has scarcely completed hi& 
 eighteenth year ; and to such it may not be unin- 
 teresting to know, that the first canto of the Poem 
 which stands at the head of the following Collec* 
 tion, and many of the smaller ones, were written 
 before the Author's seventeenth birthdavj and that
 
 VI PREFACE. 
 
 ihe remainder of the volume was finished within a 
 few months of that time. I may add, too, that my 
 hours of composition were restricted to the inter- 
 vals allowed by the necessary attendance on the 
 duties of my profession j and that many of the 
 jjieces were composed without the most distant 
 viqw of their afterwards appearing in print. 
 
 i)iicouraged by the favourable reception of some 
 trifles which I had occasionally sent to the Whitby 
 Repository, and urged by the solicitations of many, 
 it may be, over kind friends, I have, at length, 
 ventured to come before my fellow townsmen, (for 
 vanity itself does not lead me to expect that my 
 productions will be known far beyond the limits 
 of my native place,) in the formidable character of 
 an author. 
 
 I t-hould scarcely obtain the belief of my rea- 
 ders, if I were to assert, that I do not look forward 
 with some degree of anxiety to the reception which 
 my humble efforts are likely to meet with 3 but I 
 can say with truth, that however humiliating that 
 reception may be, I shall be prepared to meet it, 
 if not with equanimity, at least with resignation, 
 
 WniTBv, May 22iid, 1828-
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Page. 
 
 Albert, Canto 1. _^ 3 
 
 Albert, Canto 2. 29 
 
 Hilda _ _ _ _ 55 
 
 Notes to Hilda 1Q3 
 
 Wallace to his Countrymen 109 
 
 Stanz^ to Psyche — — — II3 
 
 Stanzas, supposed to be written by one of the Cove- 
 nanters, in Scotland, in the reign of Charles II. 116 
 
 There is a Glance — 12o 
 
 To a Young Lady, on her requesting me to write a 
 
 Poem " on Disappointed Love." 123 
 
 On seeing a Lady Weeping — I27 
 
 Sonnet, written in a Blank Leaf of Bernard Barton's 
 
 Poems — — — — 130 
 
 To a Friend, on the Anniversary of his Rirth-day, 
 
 9th April, 1827 — — 131 
 
 Sonnet to a Child — — 10 < 
 
 A Vision — — . js'- 
 
 A Midnight Storm — Ioq 
 
 Sonnet, on seeing a Beautiful Young Lady 142;
 
 viii CONTENTS. 
 
 Page. 
 
 Lines, on the Anniversary of my Birthday, 11th 
 
 July, 1827. — — — — 143 
 
 Stanzas, from a Tale entitled " The Suicide," in the 
 
 Whitby Repository, for July, 1827. — — 146 
 
 Adelaide, a Ballad — — — — 149 
 
 Sonnet, written in a Lady's Album — — 157 
 
 Stanzas — — — — — 158 
 
 A Sketch — — — — 160 
 
 Stanzas to Psyche — — — — 161 
 
 My Mother's Grave — — — 163 
 
 Melancholy Thoughts — — — 170 
 
 A Fragment — — — 173 
 
 To a Lady — — — — 178 
 
 To Death — — — — 183 
 
 To a Friend, on his Departure — — — 187 
 
 All is Vanity — — — — 191 
 
 Stanzas to Psyche — — — — 196 
 
 Lines, written in a Lady's Album — — 199 
 
 Poetic Musings — — —- — 203 
 
 Stanzas to the Memory of an Infant Sister — 207 
 
 A Ballad — — — — 212 
 
 Lines, written on Rcrisiting Mulgrave Woods — 222 
 
 A Fragment, in Imitation of Spenser — — 227 
 
 Stanzas, for Music No. 1. — ■ — 230 
 
 Stanzas, for Music No. 2. — — — 232 
 
 Stanzas, written in Affliction — — 234 
 
 The Chieftain's Return, a Fragment — — 237 
 
 Moonlight Imaginings — — — 239
 
 iaitiett J 
 
 CANTO L
 
 ALBERT: 
 
 CANTO I. 
 
 — 0- 
 
 Oh^ 'tis most sweet to waish the setting sun 
 Throw his last glance upon the ocean's breast, 
 Then, like a trav'ller, when his journey's done, 
 He slowly sinks into the glowing west. 
 Now twilight deepens o'er the mountain's crest. 
 And the pale moon-beam glimmers on the wave. 
 The songsters of the grove are gone to rest. 
 And all around is silent as the grave, — 
 Save, now and then, the breeze in some lone mountain- 
 cave. 
 
 B
 
 ^ ALBERT. 
 
 This is the time, when, stealing from the crowd, 
 I love to muse upon the days gone by ; 
 And, often, in my soul's serenest mood, 
 Methinks I see that mildly-beaming eye^ 
 Whose very glance could soothe my agony. 
 And still the throbbings of my wayward heart ; 
 But whither shall I now for comfort fly, 
 Since e'en the smiles which bade my grief depart. 
 Add but a deeper pang to its envenom'd smart ? 
 
 Yes, gone for ever is that blessed dream ; 
 Which used to cheer me in my loneliness ; 
 And I now gaze on thee, as on a beam, 
 Lovely indeed, but which can never bless 
 My aching bosom with its loveliness. 
 Oh, why was it ordain'd, that man should owe 
 To woman's love his choicest happiness, 
 Which, though at intervals it may bestow 
 An hour of joy, will yet far oftener cherish woe.
 
 ALBERT. O 
 
 Weil, 'tis enough ; thou never canst be mine. 
 And other thoughts must now my mind employ ; 
 I will not vainly o'er my fate repine, 
 But meet it with a melancholy joy. 
 There is one hope which time can ne'er destroy, 
 Our surest refuge in this vale of tears ; — 
 And, though the world may frown and pleasure cloy, 
 Faith high amid' the storm her standard rears. 
 Dispels our rising doubts, and banishes our fears. 
 
 Surely, amid' those desolated spires,* 
 The splendid relics of the olden time. 
 The soul might well forget her vain desires. 
 And turn her thoughts to objects more sublime. 
 In vain ambition lures us on to climb. 
 And full as vain the syren pleasure calls ; 
 We sink beneath the great destroyer. Time, 
 And man, with all his little greatness, falls 
 And moulders into dust like those forsaken walls. 
 
 • Whitby Abbey.
 
 t) AkBKKT. 
 
 Must 1 forget thee, then ? — I'll not forget, 
 I doat on that luxuriance of sorrow. 
 Which, when the star of hope itself has set, 
 Can from despair a new existence borrow : 
 Sweeter, oh, sweeter far is such a morrow. 
 Than life, in all its gaudiest hues array'd ; 
 And rather would I feed that pensive sorrow, 
 As a pure offering on love's altar laid, 
 Than aught that earthly joy has ever yet display'd ! 
 
 Begone, ye fierce disturbers of my rest, — 
 Ye warring tempests of my troubled brain ; 
 What, will ye haunt me with your cares unblest. 
 Even here in gloomy desolation's reign ? 
 lift me a little while at peace remain ; 
 Whilst, musing o'er the memory of the past, 
 1 wake once more a melancholy strain ; 
 And who can tell but it may be the last 
 That e'er my humble muse from her rude harp may 
 cast.
 
 ALBERT. 
 
 And thou, majestic Ruin, whilst on thee 
 I look with awe-8truck soul-subduing gase, 
 I feel a deep and solemn witchery, 
 Such as belongs not unto thoughtless days : 
 And, as my solitary footstep strays 
 Within thy walls, I catch the hollow moan 
 Of the vast ocean, or the breeze that plays 
 Around thee, with its long low wailing tone, 
 As if a spirit mourn'd o'er sorrows not its own. 
 
 I love to stand beneath thy crumbling arch, 
 When day, with all its busy toils, hath fled ; 
 Watching the pale moon on her stately march, 
 In silver majesty above my head : 
 Whilst all around her trembling beams are shed, 
 Making a fairy land of light and shade ; 
 And then, raethinks I see the buried dead 
 In all their ghostlike panoply arrny'd, 
 Rise u)) before my eyes to sudden view display 'd.
 
 $ ALBERT, 
 
 All-powerful Fancy ! how thy magic wand 
 Can people nature with ideal things ; 
 Thou hast a thousand realms at thy command, 
 And each of them a diflFerent tribute brings 
 To aid thee in thy ceaseless wanderings I — 
 TJiou flittest like a dream from shore to shore. 
 And, aye upborne upon their silken wing«, 
 Of airy phantoms an unbounded store, 
 Attends upon thy flight and will for evermore. 
 
 But whither do I roam ? Another theme — 
 A tale of no imaginary care ■ — 
 Awaits me now ; 'tis not a poet's dream, 
 As unsubstantial as tlie viewless air; 
 No, Albert, thou on earth too long didst bear 
 Thy load of misery ; but thou art gone 
 Where the keen touch of anguish and despair 
 Can ne'er disturb thee more ; yet, there is one 
 Still living, whom thy soul was wont to dwell upon.
 
 ALBERT. 
 
 Tliou wert no son of pride, nor does thy name 
 Engrav'd in monumental marble stand ) 
 But if a heart, as pure as ever came 
 From the Almighty's wonder-working hand. 
 Can aught of tribute from the muse denuiud, 
 Thy virtues shall not long remain unsung ; 
 For even slander has not dared to brand 
 Thy spotless memory with her poisonous tongue. 
 Nor o'er thy deeds of light her fiendish covering ilung. 
 
 Come hither. Pomp.— See'st thou yon humble stone. 
 Where the rude chisel scarce hath done its part, 
 To make the owner's birth and exit known ? 
 Vet, 'neath that lowly stone there slecjis a heart 
 Which oft has borne affliction's direful smart. 
 And j)0verty itself without a sigh ; 
 Let this a lesson unto thee impart. 
 Not always on thy riches to rely, 
 Since men like Albert can their utmost jiow^^r defy. 
 
 9
 
 10 ALBERT. 
 
 His was a soul, form'd for a nobler sphere, 
 Enrich'd with ev'ry warm and Dielting thought ; 
 And well bis open glance and forehead clear 
 Bespoke a mind with purest feeling fraught. 
 Oh, how his dark and pensive eye would float 
 lu heartfelt tears at human misery ; 
 And aye the young enthusiast would doat 
 On nature iu her wildest scenery. 
 Viewing her ev'ry charm with undissembled glee. 
 
 Yet, there was something io his look, that seera'd 
 At times so full of bitterness and woe. 
 That had you gaz'd on him, you would have deem'd 
 His heart had cberisf*'d long some inward foe. 
 Which prey'd upon his soul securely slow. 
 Till o'er the heyday of his years it cast 
 A sadness, which the young but seldom know. 
 Drying the springs of life where'er it past. 
 And with'ring every flower like Ihc hot dtscrt-blast.
 
 ALBERT, 11 
 
 He was not form'd for mirth ; — he could not bear 
 The boisterous laugh of festive revelry j 
 He found no kindred thoughts and feelings therc^ 
 And though his spirit was as wild and free 
 As aught beneath the ethereal canopy. 
 Yet would he never trespass on those laws, 
 .Whose word, the fiat of divinity, 
 Man's grov'lling soul from earthly things with- 
 draws, 
 And turns his thoughts on high to their great moving 
 cause. 
 
 It was his chief delight to steal away 
 In the grey twilight, or the silent dawn, 
 As if he sicken'd at the face of day ; 
 And he would stand and gaze for hours upon 
 The rolling billows, — whose unceasing tone 
 Came like a dream of sadness o'er his mind, — 
 Thinking the while on that beloved one. 
 Whose image wa» around his heart-strings twin'J, 
 And tasting in that thought a pleasure how refin'd I
 
 1 2 alJsert. 
 
 'Tis true, he ne'er liad breatli'd his vows to her. 
 The goddess of his fond idolatry ; 
 JJiit if a glance may be love's messenger, 
 Ah most believe it can, — how fervently 
 His eyes did homage to her ! You might see 
 The flush of passion on his boyish cheek, 
 Anil he in tliat could plead more tenderly 
 The love which he in language durst not speak, 
 As if he found that words were passionless and weak. 
 
 There is a feeling most divinely sweet 
 In the fust gush of youthful tenderness, 
 V;hen the eye turns with rapturous joy to meet 
 The one lov'd being. Oh, who could repress 
 T!i:it overflowing tide of happiness I 
 
 ■ Alas, why should we hasten its decay ? 
 Fur soon the lightest bosom must confess 
 That earthly pleasure is but for a day, 
 
 And like a nictcor-fire v.-ill puickly pass away.
 
 ALBERT. 13 
 
 t 
 
 Yes, all the hopes which we so fondly deeni'd 
 In our youth's wanderings, would last for ever. 
 One after one forsake us, — all that seem'd 
 Most fair and sinless on life's fleeting rirer. 
 Has. vanish'd in our course ; and we shall never 
 Again partake those visions of delight 
 Which the all- wise and ever-bounteous Giver 
 Has caus'd to shine so gloriously and bri^fht, 
 In the first dawn of life to cheer our onward 
 flight. 
 
 Yet still, 'tis sweet at times to dwell upon 
 The cherish'd visions of our earlier years, 
 Musing on many a lov'd and loving one. 
 Whose image through the lapse of time, appears 
 More beauteous still. Oh, those are grateful tears. 
 And scarcely mix'd with sorrow, which the eye 
 Sheds o'er the memory of our hopes and fears ; 
 When disappointment with its gloomy dye. 
 Had strove not yet to stain life's virgin purity.
 
 14 ALBERT. 
 
 Oil, Love! thou art a strange mysterious thing; 
 As full of changes a$ an April day ; — 
 Now, like a native Eden blossoming, 
 And strewing flow'rets in the wanderer's way, 
 Till thou hast conquer'd him beneath thy sway r 
 Anon, thou bid'st a different prospect rise, 
 Where furious jealousy and black dismay 
 Unveil their gorgon terrors to his eyes. 
 And view with stern delight his added miseries. 
 
 But Albert, though he knelt before thy shrine, 
 Had mourn'd not yet thy darker influence; 
 He felt a something he could scarce define, — 
 A silent burst of rapturous eloquence, 
 Appealing untxi ev'ry finer sense. 
 With most enchanting and resistless power. 
 As flov/ers unseen their hidden sweets dispense 
 From many a thorny brake or woodland bower. 
 Filling the air with balm at evening's dewy hour.
 
 ALBERT. 15 
 
 He lov'd with all that pure romantic feeling, 
 That mute and overwhelming ecstacy. 
 Which, like unto a heavenly revealing-. 
 Enchains the spirit with its witchery. 
 And scarcely leaves a thought at liberty. 
 HiS; though a bright, was not a transient flame ; 
 It flourish'd e'en in nature's agony j 
 And when the last decisive struggle came. 
 His soul was breath'd to heaven in blessings on her 
 name. 
 
 And she was worthy of his love ; her mind 
 Was stor'd with ev'ty soft becoming grace ; 
 Meek, noble, unassuming and refin'd. 
 Just such an one as poets love to trace 
 In moonlight musiugs by some lonely place. 
 Where high-born beauty dwelt in days of yore; 
 Whilst fancy pictures many a beauteous face. 
 Whose reign of loveliness has long been o'er. 
 And whose once cherish'd name is worshipp'd now 
 no more.
 
 IG ALBERT. 
 
 Thus have I often spent an idle hour. 
 Dear Mulgrave ! in thy solitary pile :* 
 And as I gaz'd on each nnajestic tower, 
 Which ev'n in desolation seem'd to smile,— 
 Thoughts of thine ancient grandeur would beguile 
 My spirit, through the live-long summer's eve. 
 Oh, 'tis most pleasing, though but for awhile. 
 The world and all its vanities to leave, 
 And from thy moss-grown walls a nobler joy receive. 
 
 There is a still small voice in ev'ry stone. 
 Which speaks a thousand volumes. Who can look 
 On thy decaying beauty, and alone, 
 As I have dune, — nor feel his vain hopes shook? 
 Here we may read in time's unerring book. 
 The fragile tenure of our earthly fame ; 
 And though the proud, perchance, may little brook 
 So stern a lesson, yet they cannot blame 
 The better-judging few who own its solemn claim. 
 
 * The ancient Castle of Mnlgravc.
 
 ALBERT. 
 
 17 
 
 Where are the mighty chieftains, who of old, 
 
 In all the pomp and pride of chivalry. 
 
 With waving plumes and armour streak'd with 
 
 gold, 
 Maich'd forth in almost kingly dignity, 
 FoUow'd by all their vassal company, 
 Whose gorgeous banners floating on the breeze. 
 Spread o'er them, like a shadowing canopy — 
 Whilst hasting on some adverse fort to seize. 
 Or in the tourney strive their lady-loves to please ' 
 
 Where is the speaking eye, — the soul of fire ? 
 Where are the young, the noble, and the brave ? 
 Oh, for a sweep of Byron's matchless lyre. 
 To bid one deathless laurel o'er them wave ! 
 But no ; they sleep, each in his lonely grave. 
 Unwept, unsung by the immortal muse ; 
 And higher powers than mine the task would crave. 
 Their combats and their vict'ries to diff"use ; — 
 Such themes as these mij harp must evermore refuse.
 
 ]§ ALBERT. 
 
 Not unto me belongs the magic power. 
 To seize, to quicken, and to melt the soul ; 
 Alas, 1 cannot boast so rich a dower ! 
 Yet busy fancy sometimes will unroll, 
 When free from reason's stern, severe control, 
 Visions of fame unto my soaring mind j 
 And I have quafif'd imagination's bowl. 
 Till scarce a drop of sweetness could I find ; — 
 Tasteless or bitter dregs alone were left behind. 
 
 My harp is but a rude one ; yet 'twould be 
 More worthless still, if it refus'd to pay 
 The heartfelt tribute which I owe to thee. 
 Immortal bvron ! — Years may pass away, 
 And time may strew these youthful locks with 
 
 greyi 
 But never can I then forget to feel 
 The witching influence of thine earlier lay. 
 Which, like a talisman, was wont to steal 
 Into my inmost heart, its hidden wounds to heal.
 
 ALBERT. 19 
 
 Thou standest on the pinnacle of fame, 
 Join'd with the mightiest bards of other days j 
 Down to remotest ages shall thy name 
 Be wafted by thine own unequall'd lays. 
 Fruitless indeed would be the attempt to praise 
 The beauties which to ev'ry heart are known } 
 Thou need'st no puny scribbler's aid to raise 
 Yet higher, the flame of glory thou hast shown — 
 The toil and the reward alike are all thine owb. 
 
 Now to my tale : — 'Twas an autumnal eve. 
 And the blue sea was sparkling 'neath the blaze 
 Of the departing sun, who seem'd to leave 
 Its waves reluctantly, as if his rays 
 Had hung enamour'd o'er that lovely place. 
 In truth, it was a most enchanting scene. 
 And nature seldom to the eye displays 
 Such finished loveliness, or well I ween. 
 More scanty would be they who leave her charms unseen.
 
 20 ALBERT. 
 
 But Albert was not one who long could view 
 A scene like this, nor feel that magic thrill. 
 Which none but an enthusiast ever knew : 
 He gaz'd awhile, absorb'd in thought, until 
 The fountains of his tears began to fill 
 With the pure gushings of that hidden love 
 Which he had cherish'd long, and which was still 
 To him a beam of radiance from above. 
 Which nought of earthly change might ever dare re- 
 move. 
 
 ISIeantime the waves, which but awhile ago 
 Had scarcely seem'd to reach the pebbly shore. 
 Began to rear their foamy heads, as though 
 'Twas time their transient slumber should be o'er: 
 The breeze too, which so gentle seem'd before, 
 That it might kiss e'en beauty's blushing cheek, 
 Mingled its wailing with the ocean's roar. 
 And stirr'd it into rage, as if to speak 
 Unto vain-glorious man liow poor he U anil weak.
 
 iT-BERT. 
 
 There was a little bark upon the wave, 
 Which late had floated on with streamers gay ; 
 But when the angry'surge began to rave. 
 Bore on before the breeze her backward way. 
 To seek the sheltering covert of the bay ; 
 And now her keel has alnoost reach'd the strand. 
 When lo, the angry breeze asserts its sway, 
 And, touch'd as 'twere by an enchanter's wand, 
 She sinks into the deep beneath its dreadful hand. 
 
 One glance — one hurried glance — young Albert 
 
 gave } 
 'Twas but a moment ere he gain'd the shore. 
 Another saw him plunge into the wave — 
 Breathless with haste, and from its deaf'uing roar, 
 A lifeless female in his arras he bore: 
 'Twas she, — the one whom he had lov'd so well, 
 In bitterness and grief; but now she wore 
 Death's pallid livery, and her bosom's swell 
 Heav'd not, as if the soul had left its earthly cell. 
 
 n
 
 291 ALBERT. 
 
 And there she lay, reclin'd upon bis breast. 
 Cold as a statue, pale and motionless3 
 Whilst he, with grief that would not be repress'd, 
 Hung o'er that form of passing loveliness, 
 And strain'd it to him with a wild caress : 
 " Oh, blessed spirit ! none can blame me now 
 That I indulge in life's last wretchedness ; 
 Let me once more imprint that marble brow 
 With love's own hallo w'd kiss, ere I be cold as thou!" 
 
 Again he madly clasp'd her to his heart, 
 With all a lover's frantic agony. 
 As if he never could endure to part 
 With that bright relic of mortality ! 
 'Tis few indeed, who know the misery. 
 The sinking misery of such an hour. 
 When hope seems gone for ever, and the eye 
 Is tearless, and refuses still to pour 
 l^'rom out its hidden stores the soul-reviving shower.
 
 ALBERT. 23 
 
 1 would not taste of that heart-rending woe 
 Which knows no pause — no interval of rest. 
 For all the pleasures that the world can show ; 
 Yet such was Albert's feeling, as he prest 
 His hapless beauty closer to his breast, — 
 But soft, — what means that wild convulsive throe ? 
 And that deep sigh, half breath'd and half suppress'd? 
 She lives ! she lives ! fond youth, and thou may'st 
 know 
 A gleam of pleasure yet whilst wand'ring here below! 
 
 She rais'd her head, and faintly strove to speak 
 Her endless gratitude for all his care ; 
 And though her voice was tremulous and weak, 
 His ear has caught each word that linger'd there : 
 " Lady," he said, " I could have joy'd to share 
 With thee in life or death; and now, thank Heaven, 
 Thou liv'st ; but as for me, I cannot bear 
 To see my fond imaginations riven, 
 And tliose angelic charms unto another given."
 
 24 
 
 ALBKRT. 
 
 All this was calmly spoke ; but you might see 
 In his fix'd eye and bloodless countenance, 
 A token of that inward agony, 
 Which his proud spirit felt ; the fever trance 
 Of his young heart was o'er, and that sweet glance, 
 Which us'd to beam so bright from his dark eye. 
 Was chang'd beyond all power of Htterance 3 
 And, 'stead of it, the gazer might espy 
 A never-varying look of stern despondency. 
 
 And yet he had not quite forgot to feel ; 
 For, when he gaz'd upon that pallid face, 
 'Spite of himself, a melting tear would steal 
 Adown his cheek, the last, the holiest trace 
 Of that bright flame, which nought could e'er efface. 
 They gain'd her father's door, and then the spell 
 Seem'd broken, for he snatch'd a fond embrace : 
 " Pardon me, 'tis the last ! words cannot tell 
 How warmly I have lov'd — and now, for aye, fare- 
 well !"
 
 ALBERT. 
 
 " He knew not that I lov'd him ;" fondly cried 
 The maiden as he vanish'd from her sight ; 
 " His faith has been, indeed, severely tried; 
 And now when it would be nay chief delight, 
 His deep and warm devotion to requite. 
 He leaves me, and, alas, my boding fears 
 Whisper — for ever ! oh, there is a weight 
 Upon my soul, which finds no vent in tear?;, 
 But each succeeding day more comfortless appears." 
 
 Such was their parting ; apd I here must end 
 The first part of my tale; but if the breeze 
 Shall briskly blow, and prosp'rous gales attend. 
 Once more my rudely-breathing harp I'll seize. 
 And strive to 'wake a nobler strain to please 
 The indulgent few who list' my humble lays : 
 Meanwhile, I well may boast of rhymes like these, 
 If Psyche does but condescend to raise 
 My weak and wavering hopes by her enliv'ning p.alse. 
 
 25
 
 26 ALBERT. 
 
 Oh thou, ray first, my last, my only lore ! 
 Though thou may'st ne'er bestow a thought on me, 
 Yet still I feel that I shall ever prove 
 A passionate attachment unto thee. 
 Alas ! the tale of Albert's misery 
 Has been too true a counterpart of mine; 
 I've struggled oft to set my spirit free. 
 But aye, the bloodless victory was thine. 
 And I have found thy chains still closer round me 
 twine.
 
 ^ibttt t 
 
 CANTO ir.
 
 ALBERT: 
 
 CANTO II- 
 
 
 The moon is beaming from a cloudless sky. 
 Upon the slumb'ring ocean's broad expanse ; 
 Whilst many a sound of mirth and minstrelsy, 
 Echoes above the waters as they dance 
 Beneath the queen of heaven's majestic glance. 
 How beautiful yon vessel seems to lie. 
 In motionless repose ; and yet, perchance, 
 A few short hours, and wintry storms may fly 
 Across the scene, and mar its calm tranquillity.
 
 30 ALBERT. 
 
 Such is the heart of man ; awhile it sleeps, 
 Like the smooth surface of a breezeless sea, 
 Till passion, like a raging; whirlwind, sweeps. 
 And 'wakes the latent storm of misery. 
 E'en 'midst the blithe and mirthful company 
 That crowds yon vessel's deck, there standeth one 
 Who seems to sicken at their melody. 
 As if his spirit loatli'd its lively tone, 
 4nd rather would be left to languish all alone. 
 
 'Tis Albert ; he hath climb'd that vessel's side, 
 A weary wanderer from his native land 3 
 Fix'd in his mind, whatever ills betide 
 His reckless footsteps on a foreign strand. 
 Though he should sink beneath the wasting hand 
 Of slow disease, or pestilence more dire. 
 Though poverty, vice, scorn, a hideous band^ 
 Should all assail lilm with resistless ire, — 
 'Never again to sec old Albion's cliffs aspire.
 
 ALBERT. 31 
 
 And now he takes a last departing view 
 Of the fair valleys of his native isle. 
 And sees, from far, its hills and mountains blue 
 Fade off into the darkness ; whilst a smile 
 Of bitterness sat on his face the while, 
 Marking the warring thoughts that rag'd within. 
 But there is one bright thought which can beguile 
 The wanderer, and his gloomy spirit win 
 From brooding o'er the world of wretchedness and 
 sin: 
 
 Ay, when he thought of many a boyish year. 
 And the lov'd playmates of his infancy. 
 His heart was conquer'd, and a silent tear 
 Fell from his eyelids to their memory : 
 He seiz'd a lute and wak'd its harmony. 
 And as his fingers, with a master's hand. 
 Swept o'er the chords, he breath'd a melody 
 Of soothing softness, whilst at his command 
 The lute responsive sent its echoes to the land.
 
 32 ALBERT. 
 
 The moen which late unclouded. 
 
 Shone in the midnight sky, 
 Hath now her lustre shrouded 
 
 Like a thing- that passeth by j 
 And darkness dimly covers 
 
 The ocean and the shore, 
 Whilst many a black cloud hovers 
 
 On the path she travell'd o'er. 
 So hath mi/ beam of gladness 
 
 Forsaken me below, 
 And a deep and wasting sadness 
 
 Is my dreary portion now : 
 
 Oh, that I ne'er had tasted 
 
 Of passion's witching power. 
 Which my fond heart hath wasted 
 
 As the mildew blights the flower. 
 Then had my hopes been springing. 
 
 With youth's gay verdure crown'd. 
 And each day would be flinging 
 
 A new fragrance all around. 
 But ah ! the touch of anguish 
 
 Hath seared my 'wilder'd brain. 
 And I am left to languish 
 
 In misery and in pain.
 
 XLBSRT. 
 
 Yet still I must adore thee, 
 
 And own thy soft control. 
 For thine image still comes o'er me. 
 
 Lovely ruler of my soul ! 
 And though all else should perish 
 
 Of beautiful or fair, 
 I'll ne'er forget to cherish 
 
 Thine angelic semblance there. 
 Nor shall it cease to blossom 
 
 Till life itself be gone, 
 But deep within my bosom, 
 
 It shall lire and reign alone. 
 
 What, though the mighty ocean 
 
 JMay roll 'twixt thee and me, 
 In sj)ite of its commotion, 
 
 I will think of nought but thee ! 
 And when I wander sadly 
 
 Upon a foreign shore, 
 My thoughts will turn, how gladly. 
 
 To the maid whom I adore : — 
 'Twill soothe my hour of sorrow. 
 
 To think that thou art blest, — 
 And from that thought I'll borrow 
 
 A new talisman of rest ! 
 
 9
 
 34 ALBBRT. 
 
 l^reathes there a soul that ne'er hath tasted love, 
 But like an icicle, unthaw'd remains > 
 Why, let him boast of what I ne'er shall prove, 
 I envy not his pleasures nor his pains : 
 No, rather would I hug the heaviest chains 
 That passion e'er hath forg'd to bind the heart, 
 Than share the cold indifiFerence that reigns 
 With those who ne'er have felt the pleasing smart. 
 Which love, and love alon€, is gifted to impart. 
 
 I ask not riches ; — no, let others take 
 The sparkling dross ; I care not for its charms : 
 Were India's wealth mine own, I'd freely slake 
 The prize, to win my Psyche to my arms. 
 Oil, dearer far 'midst trouble and alarms. 
 Art thou to me, than all the world besides ; 
 And even now a thrill of rapture warms 
 My bosom, as thy gentle image glides 
 Before my mental eye, and in my heart abides.
 
 ALB'fiRt. 55 
 
 Talk not to me of low ambition's power ; 
 What is the kingly sceptre, but a toy ? 
 A vain and empty bauble of an hour. 
 Which he who wields it never can enjoy. 
 I'd rather be the meanest shepherd -boy. 
 That wanders lonely on his native hill^^ 
 Whose peace of mrnd no racking cares destroy — 
 Content with nature's bounty, meads, and rills, 
 Than he whose potent name a mighty nation fills. 
 
 Yes, 'tis a happy lot to range at will. 
 Unshackled by the forms of pomp or pride, 
 TJy the smooth river, or t he wood-crown'd lull, 
 And taste the varied charms diversified. 
 Which the great Architect has spread so wide 
 O'er all his works, — in earth, or sea, ur sky : 
 Or, standing by the foamy ocean's side, V 
 
 To watch the rainbow, ere it pasBeth by. 
 Marking the low'ring heavens with many a mingled 
 dye.
 
 36 ALBERT. 
 
 Scenes of my childhood ! how I love to rore 
 Amidst your untamed beauties : to my eyes 
 Not half so pleasing does the proud alcove, 
 In all its artificial grandeur, rise. 
 Let me have nature in her rudest guise, — 
 Rocks, trees, and mountain-torrents wildly roaring; 
 'Tis then the mind is lifted to the skies. 
 And, from creation to its Maker soaring. 
 Views all his wondrous works, their mysteries ex- 
 ploring. 
 
 Nature ! I lore thee, whether thou appear'st 
 
 Clad in thy winter livery, or crown'd 
 
 With summer's glowing charms, thine head thou 
 
 rear'st ; 
 Whilst hills and vallevs echo to the sound 
 Of woodland music, breathing a'l arjund, 
 And faintly borne upon the zephyr's w^ng, 
 From the lone hamlet's cultivated ground, 
 A thousand rich perfumes their odours fling, 
 And each fair herb, or flower, is sweetly blossoming.
 
 AliBKRT. 
 
 37 
 
 Oh, who would spend the spring-time of his life. 
 Within the noxious city's crowded walls ? 
 Coiidemn'd to listen to the eternal strife 
 Of idle wretches, or the ceaseless bawls 
 Of busy commerce, till each rumour palls 
 Upon his ear with its monotony — 
 And heartless apathy at length enthralls 
 The guileless feelings, that could ne'er deny 
 E'en the scarce whisper'd claims of sensibility. 
 
 Almighty Father ! grant it to ray prayer, 
 My fervent, heartfelt orisons to thee. 
 That I may never, never cease to share. 
 The pure delights of sensibility. 
 For though my lot in life has order'd me 
 To enroll myself amongst the bustling train 
 Of worldly denizens, I still must be 
 A stupid votarvj for \vc strive in vain 
 To bind the thouglits with aught but an ctherial 
 chain.
 
 ^8 ALBERT. 
 
 'Tis true, tlie heartless worldling cannot know 
 The cares anU sorrows which to nie are given ; 
 But rather would I taste of unniix'd woe, 
 Than mar my spirit with his earthly leaven : 
 Wiio would excliange the eternal bliss of heaven 
 For the dim, vain, and fleeting things of earth ? 
 Alas, those boasted joys are quickly riven, 
 And youth's gay laugh, and age's glance of mirth, 
 3Iust fade away like that from which they take their 
 birth. 
 
 And such were Albert's thoughts, though grief was 
 
 preying 
 Upon his vitals like the canker-worm. 
 And not a ray of hope, itself displaying, 
 Shed e'ena glimpse of brightness through the storm : 
 Yet, still, tliat ne'er-to-be-forgotten form. 
 He cherish'd as his dearest earthly treasure : 
 "Would he have chang'd those feelings pure and warm. 
 The impassion'd tenderness that knows no measure. 
 For all the world can give of happiness or pleasure'-
 
 ALBERT. 
 
 39 
 
 He would not : — though alone and desolate, 
 With many a sorrow rankling in his breast. 
 That feeling still was his ; the hand of fate 
 Which robb'd him of the joys he once possess'd, 
 Had left him this, the loveliest and the best ; — 
 The last fair relic of his youthful flow'rs ; 
 And he, perchance, might quaff with purer zest. 
 Of all those thrilling witcheries which it pours 
 Into the soul, than he had done in happier hours. 
 
 There was a fixed expression in his face. 
 Of firm, determin'd anguish ; but the glow 
 Of youth was not yet gone, and you might trace 
 In those still features, and that pallid brow. 
 The wreck of former happiness : but now 
 No lingering ray of pleasure seem'd to hover. 
 And not a gleam of bliss was seen to throw 
 Its soothing radiance o'er the hapless lover ; 
 A waste of cheerless gloom was all you could discover.
 
 40 ALBERT. 
 
 He stood upon the vessel's deck, and gaz'd 
 Upon the sun which now began to rise, 
 Like beauty, from his eastern couch, and rais'd 
 His head in crimson glory to the skies ; 
 A signal for creation's harmonies 
 To rouse them from their slumbers, and salute 
 His glorious orb with all their symphonies : 
 But Albert heard them not, for all was mute 
 Upon the ocean's breast, save the rude sea-boy's flute. 
 
 And, as he look'd upon the unruffled sea. 
 Which, like a golden mirror, seem'd to shine. 
 He thought of those unclouded days, when he 
 Was wont by its smooth margin to recline. 
 And ail his mind to fancy's power resign — 
 Tasting the melting luxury that springs 
 From pictiu'd scenes of happiness divine, 
 Wl»en, wrapt amid' those bright imaginings, 
 'I'iie soul fur^^ets, awhile, to think of earthly things.
 
 AI-BBRT. 
 
 41 
 
 But those day-dreams were over, and he felt 
 That life had not a joy which he could share ; 
 The rude hand of adversity had dealt 
 But harshly with him, and he knew not where 
 To seek a place of refuge from despair. 
 Alas ! the child of fortune caiuiot tell 
 Half of the sufferings he is doom'd to bear, 
 Who, close confin'd in stern misfortune's cell. 
 Hath tasted all her woes and griefs unspeakable. 
 
 Five days had Albert watch'd the dark blue sea 
 Sparkle beneath the glorious orb of day j 
 But on the sixth, no longer could he see 
 Its cheering radiance all around him play; 
 Confin'd within his humble couch he lay, 
 The hapless victim of a fell disease j 
 To every melancholy thought a prey. 
 Seeking in vain an interval of ease. 
 With not a friendly hand to soothe his agonies.
 
 42 ALBERT. 
 
 The hand of death was o'er him 5 care and grief 
 Had conquer'd him at last, and he foresaw 
 That his lone pilgrimage must now be brief. 
 In this abode of wretchedness and woe : 
 Yet, even then, when every passing throe 
 Seem'd fraught with death, he thought of her alone. 
 Who still had been his guiding star below, 
 And whose unfading lustre aye had shone 
 i\Iore brightly o'er his head, when hope itself was 
 gone. 
 
 And then he drew a jewel from his breast, 
 Which bore within a lock of auburn hair ; 
 And wildly to his burning lips he press'd 
 That treasur'd relic of his dearest care ; 
 Then, with uplifted eves, he breath'd a prayer 
 For her, the object of his fondest love. 
 With such a fervent and impassion'd air, 
 Tii;it the rude sailors' hearts began to move — 
 ^\nd manr a kindlv wish was breath'd for hira above.
 
 ALBERT. 43 
 
 Blethinks, I said, but now, he had no friend 
 To soothe his dying hours witli pious zeal — 
 No sympathizing being to attend 
 His last, sad moments, who could truly feel 
 For the deep sorrows which he could not heal ; 
 But there was one amid' that boist'rous crew, 
 Oblig'd, by adverse fortune, to conceal 
 The gentler feelings which his spirit knew, 
 Within his silent breast from every human view. 
 
 He was a widow'd mother's only child ; 
 And she had sent him forth with many a sigh; 
 For unto her he still was kind and mild, 
 Though in his countenance you might descry 
 Exalted thoughts and aspirations high. 
 Floating in quick succession o'er his brain ; 
 But since he roam'd beneath a foreign sky, 
 He sought those buoyant feelings to restrain, 
 Lesk he should 'wake the mirth of the untutoi'd train.
 
 44 
 
 ALBERT. 
 
 Yet, with iiis utmost care, he could not win 
 The love of those who shar'd his weary lot ; 
 For spite of him the flame that hurnt within, 
 Thougli buried deep, C6uld not be quite forgot; 
 They deem'd him hau^htv, and they lov'd him not ; 
 And he had liv'd a sol'tary thing-. 
 Till Albert came ; but theu the Gordian knot 
 Was loosen'd, and his hopes began to spring — 
 With newer verdure crown'd more gaily blossoming. 
 
 They were two youthful beings, left alone 
 Upon the ocean, there was not another 
 With whom their hearts could beat in unison ; 
 No wonder, therefore, that they lov'd each other. 
 With all the fond affection of a brother ; 
 For each had found a friend with whom to share 
 The griefs whicli he had been compeli'd to smother ; 
 And when i)Oor Albert yielded to despair. 
 The youth had watch'd liis couch with more than 
 friendlv care.
 
 ALBERT, 
 
 45 
 
 And Albert, when he found that death was near. 
 Gave him a letter for the maid he lov'd ; 
 The youth receiv'd it with a silent tear, 
 A tear which angels would not have reprov'd : — 
 He told her how her beauty first had mov'd 
 His heart, but that he still had kept repress'd 
 The passion which could never be reraov'd. 
 Till — but he had no need to speak the rest, 
 She knew it all too well, 'twas fate's supreme behest. 
 
 And, to conclude, he said, that Ion* ere she 
 Receiv'd this token of his dying flame, 
 His disembodied soul would wander free, 
 Beyond the reach of worldly fear or shame — 
 That he had nothing but himself to blame. 
 For all his hours of sufif'ring and of pain; 
 But that, perchance, he would have done the same 
 If he might live those moments o'er again, 
 And then he pray'd that she might never love in vain.
 
 46 ALBERT. 
 
 Such were his parting words, his parting prayer; 
 For when he saw that he must shortly die, 
 He begrgd the pitying crew his couch to bear 
 Upon the deck, that he, once more, might spy 
 The beauties of the ocean, and the sky. 
 Ere yet his spirit bade a last adieu 
 To al! of earthly power or majesty. 
 And other scenes were op'nitig to his view. 
 More full of real bliss, more lasting, and more true. 
 
 They plac'd him gently down, whilst on his cheek 
 The mid-day sun shone with a glance of flame; 
 His eyes were sunken, and his voice was weak. 
 And a convulsive tremor o'er him came, 
 Whicli agonized his worn exhausted frame : 
 One indistinct, low murmur they could hear, 
 AVhich seem'd to syllable his Mary's name ; 
 As if, e'en then, she still was most, most dear,— 
 Thry listen'd ; but the soul had left its earthly sphere!
 
 AI-BKRT. 47 
 
 Yes, it had left this world of grief and woea, 
 To seek a more congenial d ivelling-place ; 
 And there he lay, in beautiful repose. 
 With that angelic smile upon his face, 
 Which even death itself could not efface. 
 And where is the enthusiast's lonely grave ? 
 Alas, you strive in vain the spot to tracej 
 He sleeps beneath the ocean's roaring wave. 
 Whilst o'er his mould'ring bones the unheeded storm 
 may rave. 
 
 His faithful friend had watch'd his cold remains. 
 Till they were plung'd into the sullen deep — 
 Far, far beyond the reach of mortal pains. 
 Till the great judgment day in peace to sleep. 
 And inly he had mourn'd, yet could not weep ; 
 But when the current of his grief was o'er, 
 And reason had begun once more to keep 
 The wonted channel which she held before, 
 He breath'd a pensive strain his sorrows to deplore.
 
 48 ALBERT. 
 
 For, in his better days, he us'd to woo 
 The melancholy muse ; and she had thrown' 
 A shade of badness o'er his youthful brow. 
 Which suited well with features that had grown 
 More sad than gayer bosoms love to own. 
 As for himself, he heeded not the scorn 
 Of the world's minions, one pure heart alone 
 Had shar'd his love ; and when that stay was torn 
 From him, all other ills he could have tamely borne. 
 
 Not oft, of late, had he awak'd the chords 
 
 Of his neglected lyre ; his heartfelt woe 
 
 Was long ere it could find a vent in words ; 
 
 I]ut when, at length, his tears began to flow 
 
 More freely, and his heart had ceas'd to know 
 
 The tearless agony of unmix'd pain, 
 
 He touoh'd the strings once more, and bade them 
 
 throw 
 A note of lamentation o'er the main ; 
 And the?e were the wild words which form'd lii* 
 pensive strain : —
 
 ALBBRt. 40 
 
 The zephyr's sigh 
 
 Is passing by. 
 The cloudless heavens above are glowingj 
 
 Whilst o'er the seas. 
 
 The gentle breeze 
 Full many a rich perfume is blowing : 
 And all creation seems to raise 
 A note of rapture and of praise j 
 All, but this wretched heart of mine. 
 Which still is destin'd to repine. 
 
 Far, far from home, 
 
 'Twas mine to roam. 
 When scarce my boyish days were over j 
 
 Without a friend, 
 
 With whom to blend 
 The anguish which I could not cover J 
 And when that boon, so long denied, 
 Was given, and I was satisfied, 
 It was but granted for a day, — 
 Juit seen, and then to pats away<
 
 10 AliBBRT. 
 
 He was a light. 
 Too pure and bright. 
 To linger in this world of sadness ; 
 Yet when the thought 
 To me is brought. 
 It almost turns my brain to madness : 
 For he was all, — nay more to me 
 Than aught I e'er again shall see ; 
 A soul of more transcendent worth 
 Has ne'er adorn'd this spot of earth. 
 
 But he is gone, 
 And there is one. 
 To whom T bear a mournful token j 
 A messenger. 
 That opes to her. 
 The noblest heart that e'er hath broken ! 
 And when that heavy task is o'er, 
 I'll think of earthly things no morej 
 My ev'ry thought shall then be given 
 To Albert and the joys of heaven.
 
 ALBBRt. £1 
 
 Smooth was the eea, and gentle was the breeze, 
 He bore the token to Old Albion's shore : 
 But who can paint the agonies that seize 
 That hapless damsel as she conn'd it o'er ? 
 Breathless she falls^ as if to rise no more ; 
 And, though her spirit quickly came again. 
 Reason was gone for aye j nought could restore 
 Her consciousness of pleasure or of pain,— 
 'Twas madness that had seiz'd upon her burning brain ! 
 
 Better that she had died, for now she strays 
 A wild, heart<broken maniac ; her pale cheek 
 Has lost its wonted hue, and though some rays 
 Of meek intelligence, at times; may break 
 From her dark hazel eye, in vain you seek 
 To rouse the latent spark of consciousness. 
 Ill-fated maid ! I cannot, will not speak 
 Of all thy sorrows, and thy deep distress ; — 
 Oh, may'st thou quickly leave this world of wretched- 
 ness !
 
 £»2 
 
 ALBERT. 
 
 Our mournful tale is ended ; yet, in truth. 
 Though sad, I linger o'er it with regret j 
 For unto me the joyous days of youth 
 Have been with many a care and grief beset; 
 And oh, how often has my eye been wet 
 With bitter tears, unbroken by a smile ! 
 *Twas then, when ev'ry ray of joy was set, 
 The tale of Albert's suflf 'rings could beguile 
 My heart, and make it lose its sorrows for awhile. 
 
 Again my wand'ring lay returns to thee, 
 Dear inmate of my bosom's deepest core ! 
 Again, before thy shrine I bow the knee, 
 And like an humble suppliant adore. 
 My melancholy dream will soon be o'er. 
 And I shall sleep within the quiet tomb; 
 Nor would my weary soul its fate deplore. 
 But turn with joy to meet its welcome doom ; 
 For mine has been a life of solitude and gIoom<
 
 ALBERT. 53 
 
 Farewell, sweet vision ! I have Inv'd thee well ; 
 Perchance the more that I have lov'd in vain : 
 And now it needs no prophet's tongrue to tell 
 I'he close of all my anguish and my pain. 
 Farewell : — a word I ne'er shall speak again 
 To thee: may ev'ry happiness be thine ! 
 Thy name shall hallow my departing strain ; 
 And when my mounting spirit shall resign 
 All earthly things beside, that name shall stil! be 
 mine !
 
 mtttfii*
 
 HILDA. 
 
 I. 
 
 Hah. to thee, sparkling fuunt of inspiration, 
 Source of the poet's most delightful dreams,— 
 
 Woman! sweet woman ! when, in contemplation, 
 We turn to thee, how the rich fancy teems 
 £ With many a thought, which, nurs'd by meditation, 
 
 Far above earth's divinest visions seems 5 
 
 h\ truth, there is a touch of witchery, 
 
 In «vcry Ihinj which aj)pertajns te the«,
 
 58 
 
 ■ILDA. 
 
 II. 
 
 As for myself — I freely must confesi. 
 Whether the matter may be right or wrong', 
 
 Whene'er I gaze upon thy loveliness, 
 I feel a thousand wild emotions throng 
 
 Across my soul, which I can ne'er express 
 In prose or verse, in sonnet or in song; 
 
 One thing is sure^ and I'll maintain it still. 
 
 It shoots into the heart a magic thrill. 
 
 III. 
 
 Oh, there is nought so full of fascination. 
 In all the wide round of the spacious earth, 
 
 'Midst all the loveliest objects of creation. 
 
 That waken thoughts of sadness or of mirth, — 
 
 None — none, which in the soul's deep habitation, 
 Can raise such feelings of celestial birth, 
 
 Or grant us such divine imaginings, 
 
 As thou — the fairest of all earthly things I
 
 niLVA. 
 
 59 
 
 IV. 
 
 Methinks it is a most ecstatic pleasure. 
 
 To sit and gaze on some surpassing creature. 
 
 Hanging upon each charm as 'twere a treasure, 
 And marking ev'ry word, and look, and feature, — ■ 
 
 Till the heart feels that love beyond all measure, 
 Which, 'neath the influence of so fair a teacher, 
 
 Reaches the bosom's innermost recess, 
 
 And opes the springs of hidden tenderness. 
 
 ^ V. 
 
 I'm very fond of beauty, and I love 
 To view a bright eye's soft yet speaking ray. 
 
 Now — full of liquid softness like the dove. 
 And now — more mirthful, innocent, and gay: 
 
 Sometimes, indeed, I've found its influence move 
 My pen to scribble on a rainy day; 
 
 But yet, for I would have the world to know it, 
 
 I am but very little of a poet.
 
 AO HILDA. 
 
 VI. 
 
 rerlia|»s tlie critics may not deem me wise, 
 
 To treat the woild with such a frank confession } 
 
 J5ut 1 must own I hate all sorts of lies; 
 And, iiult',{)ei)dently of that impression, 
 
 Tf may be belter just to sacrifice 
 
 A little for the sake of prepossesion, 
 
 Than leave them to go on without a hint. 
 
 And find it out, that you're a fool in print. 
 
 TIL 
 
 But T was speaking of sweet woman's glory, 
 Her loveliness, and all her charms expressive ; 
 
 And, 'faith, I've got a very pretty story, 
 Whose interest, ho doubt, will be excessive : 
 
 'Tis of a princess, and a ruin hoaryj 
 Only one's very apt to grow digressive 
 
 |u this same sort of wandering metre, I 
 
 Adors it for its ease and fliiciu'v. 
 
 I
 
 VIH. 
 Well, 'twas about twelve centuries ago, — 
 
 A year or two is neither here nor there 
 In poetry, whate'er it be iu law, — 
 
 And, as to that, I stick not to declare. 
 You should be pretty accurate ; a flaw 
 
 Is oft of vast importance to an heir ; 
 But I'm inform'd, the poet's Corporation 
 Is under quite a different regulation. 
 
 IX. 
 
 I'm glad of it ; for I could never bear 
 
 To be restrain'd or cramp'd by bonds or fetters j 
 I would be free, as is " the viewless air," 
 
 Or as man was before he learnt his letters. 
 Methinks I've filch'd these similes; but where 
 
 I cannot tell ; perchance among ray betters ; 
 For 'tis a task of great facility. 
 To steal a little — like the houev-bee.
 
 62 MILPA. 
 
 X. 
 
 Indeed^ it saves a monstrous deal of study,— 
 Particularly when the brains are dry. 
 
 Or one's ideas waxing' wondrous muddy. 
 To take an author from the shelf, and try,— 
 
 Amid his dark blue eyes and faces ruddy. 
 His host of metaphor and simile. 
 
 To pick out some convenient quotation. 
 
 Which you may use by way of illustration. 
 
 XI. 
 
 I've often done it; — but I had forgot — 
 I keep the princess and her lover waiting ; 
 
 I'm something like a tippler o'er his pot, 
 Or a staunch politician, when debating ; 
 
 For when my fancy finds a favourite spot, 
 I wander on, fresh images creating, 
 
 Till I become bewilder'd with my story. 
 
 And quite forget the princess and her glory.
 
 HILDA. 
 
 63 
 
 XII. 
 
 No matter ; when we once have got set out. 
 Our Pegasus shall find a swifter pacej 
 
 And though the knowing one may smile, no doubt. 
 To see the muses running such a race ; 
 
 If he should laugh outright, we'll turn about. 
 And tell him he's a blockhead to his face : — 
 
 But I'm afraid I've made a bad impression 
 
 Upon the reader with this long digression. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 We'll have no more of it. — 'Twas on a morn 
 Of most surpassing beauty, the young sun 
 
 Was rising in his brightness, to adorn 
 
 The cloudless heaven, the summer night was 
 done. 
 
 And on the flowery branches of the thorn. 
 The gossamer its silken web had spun, 
 
 Which, glistening 'neatb the drops of orient dew, 
 
 Seem'd like a veil of silver to the view.
 
 ^4 HII.Dl^ 
 
 XIV. 
 
 *Twas on a morn like this, when every thing 
 Seem'd fresh and fair, as Eden in its prime ; 
 
 Ere yet the accursed serpent's venom'd stinj: 
 Had banish'd man from that celestial clime. 
 
 And he, with his young bride, was wandering 
 Amid its bowers unstain'd with aught of crime. 
 
 That Hilda 'woke, and, with a heavy sigh, 
 
 Look'd up and gaz'd upon the tranquil sky :— 
 
 XV. 
 
 And, as she gaz'd, a melancholy throng 
 Of recollections came across her mind, — 
 
 Of fair hopes blighted in their bud, and long 
 Buried within her breast from all mankind ; 
 
 She could not weep, although her grief was strong. 
 And her young heart in secret long had pin'd, 
 
 Till her fair cheek had lost its roseate dye, — 
 
 And oh, how sadly beamed her dark blue eye.
 
 XVI. 
 
 Where are the sparkling rays which us'd to flow 
 So brightly through its long dark silken lashes ? 
 
 Where is the haughty and indignant brow. 
 
 Which each presumptuous thought so well abashes ? 
 
 And where is all that mirth, whose sinless glow 
 Was wont to break in unremitting flashes ? 
 
 All — all are changed, and o'er her pensive soul, 
 
 A deeper shade of feeling now must roll. 
 
 xvn. 
 
 The maid had tasted sorrow ; she was born 
 Amid a scene of bloodshed and of slaughter j 
 
 And though her mind was fitted to adorn 
 
 The meek religion which her master taught her. 
 
 Yet did she brave the haughty pagan's scorn. 
 As well became a Saxon prince's daughter, 
 
 ^Vliose fearless glance reveal'd to every eye, 
 
 The marks of her illustrious ancestry.
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Her Fathers name was Hereric, a peer 
 Of right good name and noble reputation ; 
 
 That is to say, he fought, and drank strong beer, 
 Lov'd his own family, and eke the nation ; 
 
 And join'd the wittenagemote whene'er 
 
 They had some deep affair in cogitation ; — 
 
 You know this ancient court, in its intent. 
 
 Was something like our modern parliament. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 He was King Edwin's nephew, and, of course, 
 
 PoHsess'd a little interest at court. 
 Which he was sometimes apt to put in force. 
 
 For the coercion of the meaner sort : 
 In short, it was his dernier resource. 
 
 To which he clung for succour and support. 
 Whene'er he happen'd to be low in cash, 
 Or when his lady wish'd to cut a dash.
 
 MILDi. 
 
 «7 
 
 XX. 
 
 For though she was a reasonable woman. 
 With more of sense than often is the case; 
 
 Yet, surely, 'twould have been a thing which no man 
 Could have expected, in her husband's place. 
 
 That she should quit all that she held in common 
 With the less gifted members of her race: 
 
 Indeed her husband was not such a fool. 
 
 As to disgust her by so strict a rule. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Besides, he doated on his favourite child, 
 With all a father's fondest predilection ; 
 
 And oft her winning sweetness had beguiled 
 His heart, e'en in its hour of deep reflection : 
 
 How could he, then, resist her when she smiled^ 
 And begg'd of him with infantine affection. 
 
 To take her to the court that she might sec 
 
 Her uncle and his warlike chivalry.
 
 CS MILOA. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 'Twould have been cruel ; so he took her there. 
 And as she seem'd to like the situation. 
 
 And was beneath her watchful mother's care. 
 Secure from every danger and temptation, 
 
 He thought it better she should stay, and share 
 The advantage of a courtly education ; 
 
 And in a few short years she grew, I ween, 
 
 A fair and blooming girl of seventeen. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 And she was lovely, — if a bright blue eye. 
 
 Beaming with passionate tenderness and feeling, 
 
 A form of blended grace and dignity. 
 And such a glance as was for aye revealing, 
 
 With all a young heart's fond simplicity. 
 
 The playful fancies that were o'er her stealing, — 
 
 If these, and such as these, can 'waken love. 
 
 But few had been the hearts she could not move.
 
 HILDA. 
 
 69 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Yet, sooth to say, she did not seem to know 
 
 The influence which her charms were exercising. 
 
 Though many a noble lord began to bow. 
 
 And some were matrimonial schemes devising — 
 
 It had an odd appearance, you'll allow. 
 
 In fact, the ladies deem'd it quite surprising ; 
 
 But as 'tis neither sacrilege nor treason, 
 
 We'll just acquaint you with the real reason. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 She lov'd, ay deeply — fondly — fervently, — 
 With more than even woman's tenderness ; 
 
 The flame had long been burning silently, — 
 Twas nurs'd in secresy and loneliness ; 
 
 None would have dreamt of half its energy. 
 For e'en her lady-mother could not guess, 
 
 What was the matter with her wayward child ; — 
 
 She thought her young, and fanciful, and wild.
 
 »• 
 
 MLVA. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 But as to love, so well had she conceal'd 
 The workings of her bosom's dearest thought, 
 
 That 'twas to none, and least of all, reveal'd 
 To hira from whom the flame itself was caught: 
 
 Her heart was like a precious casket sealed. 
 Which, though with many a gem it may be 
 fraught. 
 
 Is kept apart from ev'ry human eye. 
 
 And hid in darkness and obscurity. 
 
 XXVI I. 
 I own, 1 do not like this hidden love, 
 
 'Tis oft the cause of great disquietude ; 
 Would that it ne'er had been my lot to prove 
 
 Its troubles and its dark solicitude ! 
 Or that, e'en now, I could at once remove 
 
 The ihoughts which haunt me in my solitude — 
 Turning the cup of life to bitterness 
 And making earth seem like a wilderueki,
 
 ■ILDA. 71 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Oh, Love ! how many a noble heart has broke — 
 Beneath thy gilded chains, condemn'd to pine. 
 
 Thine is, indeed, a stern and heavy yoke 
 
 To many who have worshipp'd at thy shrine : 
 
 Yet others still press on to meet the stroke. 
 And hail thee as a potentate divine ; — 
 
 But what art thou^ in truth ? A blended thing. 
 
 Of winter's storms and summer's blossoming. 
 
 ■ 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 'Tiri sweet to gare upon the glowing sky. 
 When the tir'd sun is sinking in the west ; 
 
 'Tis sweet to view the full orb'd moon on high, 
 Shedding her beams upon the ocean's breast ; 
 
 'Tis sweet to rove, in fancied liberty. 
 Through the delightful regions of the blest; — 
 
 But 'tis most sweet, when other joys are flown. 
 
 To call one gentle bosom all your own !
 
 2 nii.PA. 
 
 XXX, 
 
 To know that there is one with whom the heart 
 May hold communion in its hour of woe ; 
 
 Who well can sympathize with every smart 
 Which an impassion'd spirit still must know j 
 
 To think, that though our dearest friends depart, 
 This stream of bliss will never cease to flow, — 
 
 May be to some a fount of consolation ; 
 
 But as for me I'm sick of expectation. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 And so was Hilda j all the energy 
 
 Of jsuch a mind as women seldom claim. 
 
 Was turn'd to this ingrossing witchery ; 
 It seem'd as 'twere her being's only aim ; 
 
 And oft a shade of strange perplexity, 
 Would raise upon her cheek a flush of shame : 
 
 But I've neglected, as is oft the fashion. 
 
 To lead you to the source of all her passion.
 
 HILDA. 
 
 73 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 Amid the peers that grac'd King Edwin's court, — 
 The flower of all Northumbria's chivalry. 
 
 Who round their prince's throne would still resort 
 To join the ranks of war or revelry, — 
 
 There was not one, more fitted to support 
 His country's fame in skill or bravery, 
 
 Or one, who in the battle-field could dare 
 
 A feat which Oswald would refuse to share. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 Woe to the wretch that dar'd to brave his ire. 
 Or turn'd to meet him in the front of war ; 
 
 His very glances seem'd to flash with fire. 
 Inspiring awe and terror from afar : 
 
 Yet did his generous spirit ne'er desire 
 
 God's last and fairest work on earth to mar ; 
 
 And though his manners, like his age, were rude, 
 
 He ne'er oppressed the suppliant who sued.
 
 7* BIKDA. 
 
 A'XXIV. 
 There was a firmness in his look and tone. 
 
 Which seenj'd to mock at fear, as if he thought 
 That danger was for cowardice alone j 
 
 It was his maxim, that a brave man ought 
 To seek renown ere yet his youth was gone. 
 
 And woo it as a bride, which should be sought 
 And won in fields of blood and victory: — 
 Alack I the rule would never do for me. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 For I am one who love a snug fireside, 
 
 III winter, when tiie elements are clashing, 
 
 Or wlien the young spring comes in all its piide 
 To watch the small waves o'er the smooth sands 
 dashing ; 
 
 1 should not like to be a homicide ; 
 
 The very thought of it is quite abashing, 
 
 Bat though 'twould be against my inclinaiion, 
 
 I may be forc'd to it by desperation.
 
 UITDi. 
 
 75 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 You know, one cannot tamely sit and be 
 
 Bullied by every fool who likes to bluster; — 
 
 You would be banished from society; 
 And so, 'tis better far at once to muster 
 
 A little fierceness, and you soon will see 
 
 The self-styled hero's courage lose its lustre ; 
 
 Indeed, it makes me smile when I'm alone, 
 
 To think how quickly they can change their tone, 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 But this was not the case in Oswald's time, 
 They had a different method of proceeding, — 
 
 (Plague on the muse, she will not grant a rhyme, 
 Although my credit as a bard is bleeding. 
 
 Oh nyraph, accursed ! born in a rugged clime. 
 Wilt thou not listen to "my bitter pleading?" 
 
 If thou deniest me thy assistance now, 
 
 I never more before thy shrine will bosv.)
 
 76 HILDA. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 A modern dandy would have smiled to see 
 
 King Edwin when he donn'd his robes of peace. 
 
 And muster'd all his stock of gallantry, 
 To pay attentions to his pretty niece ; 
 
 Sometimes, 'tis true, the Queen look'd rather shy. 
 And thought such courtesies had better cease j 
 
 You know, her niece's mind she could not read. 
 
 And so 'twas very natural indeed. 
 
 XXXIX, 
 
 Poor Hilda! she was thinking all the while. 
 Of something which was dearer to her heart j 
 
 And though she listen'd with a vacant smile. 
 Her soul, perchance, was wand'ring far apart : 
 
 She strove, those heavy moments to beguile, 
 As best she might ; hut, 'spite of all her art, 
 
 She still would blush if Oswald met her eye : — 
 
 This Oswald was her cousin, by the bye.
 
 niLPA. 
 
 77 
 
 XL. 
 
 Methlnks I gave a sketch of him before, 
 Which made him brave, and generous, and young, — 
 
 Just fitted for the ladies to adore ; 
 
 And one, whose acts are worthy to be sung 
 
 By mightier bards j yet I will not deplore. 
 That sweeter accents fall not from my tongue ; 
 
 For, if I reach no higher elevation, 
 
 I scarce can sink into a lower station, 
 
 XLI. 
 
 AUons ! I've made so many long digressions. 
 That I'm afraid I ne'er shall end my tale j 
 
 However, I'll not stay to pick expressions. 
 But stretch before the breeze with every sail ; 
 
 And, as a recompense for these impressions, 
 I surely ought to have a prosperous gale. 
 
 To waft me onward to a termination 
 
 Of my long-winded, whimsical narration.
 
 XLII. 
 
 Years pass'd away.— (This is a pretty phrase 
 Which I have lately got a knack of using) — 
 
 At length, the number of King Edwin's days 
 Was ended, and it really was amusing 
 
 To see the looks of trouble and amaze, 
 
 The courtiers wore ; some of them were abusing 
 
 The opportunity, with wondrous pleasure. 
 
 To enrich themselves from out the public treasure. 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 In short, the Kingdom was a scene of blood ; 
 
 All shadow of authority was gone ; 
 The outward foe no more could be withstood, 
 
 Without a king upon the vacant throne : 
 Destruction hovcr'd o'er them like a flood, 
 
 And they had but one refuge left alone ; 
 Oswald was now their last, their sole relief, 
 Their only succour in the hour of grief.
 
 7» 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 The people call'd on him with clamorous voice, 
 To be their lord, their ruler, and their king ; 
 
 The free, unbiass'd monarch of their choice j 
 Conjuring him by every sacred thing, 
 
 To bid a thousand wretched hearts rejoice. 
 And save his Bative land from perishing j 
 
 At length, he yielded to their earnest prayer, 
 
 For in their woes he long had ta'en a shar«.. 
 
 XLV. 
 He healed their feuds, and led them to the field. 
 
 To meet the foe, inspir'd with hope again. 
 And then they swore, they never more would yield. 
 
 Till the last man of all their band was slain ; 
 Whilst one was left a battle>axe to wield, 
 
 He still would fight his freedom to maintain, 
 And though they might not gain the victory. 
 Renown should dwell upon their memory.
 
 so niLDi. 
 
 XLvr. 
 
 They fought and conquer'd : 'twas a glorious day. 
 Exceeding e'en their gallant leader's aim ; 
 
 They follow'd wheresoe'er he led the way, 
 As if to emulate his honour'd name : 
 
 He was the beacon-light amid the fray, 
 Which led them on to liberty and fame ; 
 
 And from his hand the fierce Cadwallon bore 
 
 The blow which left him weltering in his gore. 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 And he was happy ; for his arm had sav'd 
 
 His much-loved, sinking country from despair. 
 
 What were to him the dangers he had brav'd. 
 Or those which yet might be his lot to share ? 
 
 Whose name was in his people's hearts engrav'd, 
 Who heard tlicir acclamations rend the air ! 
 
 It was the proudest moment of his life. 
 
 When he return'd from that successful strife.
 
 IIIIiDA. 81 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 But where was Hilda ? did not she behold 
 
 Her hero, in the arms of victory ? 
 Had all her warm affection lost its hold. 
 
 And left her nought but heartless apathy ? 
 Ah no3 a heart like hers could ne'er be cold; 
 
 She felt, too well, the thrilling witchery. 
 Which a pure, fond, and first affection brings, — 
 Its bitter and its sweet imaginings ! 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 And when her Oswald to the battle went, 
 
 Though her calm cheek bespoke no inwar j sadness- 
 
 Nor did she join the loud and vain lamen j 
 
 Which rose around her like a burst of laadness- 
 
 Yet were her solitary moments spent 
 
 In thoughts and feelings, far remov td from glad- 
 ness: 
 
 And oft, with bended knee and tea ffu! eye, 
 
 She prayed that he might gain the victory.
 
 82 HILDA. 
 
 L. 
 
 But novv, when all her fondest hopes seem'd granted. 
 When doubts and fears were sinking to decay. 
 
 And every thought which had her spirit daunted, 
 Was passing, like an empty dream, away; 
 
 Yes, even now, new terrors were implanted 
 Within her soul, which made her fear lo^stay. 
 
 Lest she should unto him — to all, reveal 
 
 The love she would have perish'd to conceal. 
 
 LI. 
 
 She durst not stay to bid him welcome home. 
 Though in her heart she lov'd him all too deailyj 
 
 And so she went to her paternal dome. 
 
 To hide the passion which she felt so nearly. 
 
 Meanwhile the dames, who'd no such cause to roam. 
 Were criticizing her, and that severely^ 
 
 They thought 'twould only have been good behaviour, 
 
 If she had stay'd to meet her country's saviour.
 
 HILDA. 83 
 
 LII. 
 
 PerchancCj 'twould have been better if she had ; 
 
 And yet, as matters afterwards fell out. 
 Things would have ended equally as bad, 
 
 Or something worse, without a shade of doubt '. 
 Poor girl ! it was enough to drive her mad, 
 
 If she had heard the clamour and the rout 
 They made about her sudden disappearing — 
 'Twas very well that she was out of hearing. 
 
 LIII. 
 
 Methinks 'tis hard upon the weaker sex, — 
 
 At least it is in some peculiar cases. 
 When dangers and obstructions may perplex. 
 
 And cast a shade across their pretty faces, — 
 That they must sufifer, what perchance might vex 
 
 An ancient sage with all his stern grimaces, 
 When but one word might banish their distresi, 
 And lift them from despair to happiness.
 
 84 nii.BA. 
 
 LIV. 
 
 I would not grant the liberty to all ; 
 
 Because for that there's not the least occasion ; 
 But tlicre are instances which loudly call 
 
 For a release from common regulation ; 
 To give one specimen which may befal : — 
 
 Suppose a lover, in a lower station, 
 Througli modesty, should keep too great adistance,- 
 Should not the lady grant him her assistance ? 
 
 LV. 
 
 'Twouhl surely be an act of courtesy. 
 
 Which might assist in setting matters right ; 
 
 And there would be no breach of modesty 
 In such a case as this ; it would be ouite 
 
 Within the verge of female liberty ; 
 
 And when one pictures the supreme delight 
 
 Which such a condescension must produce, 
 
 One can't but wish that it were put in use.
 
 HILDA. 
 
 S5 
 
 LVI. 
 
 Some strange events might happen it is true. 
 For good and bad are mostly interlarded ; 
 
 But, to prevent all ills which might ensue. 
 
 If ladies' conduct were more loosely guarded, — 
 
 Would be an easy task 3 I never knew 
 
 An outward danger which might not be wardedj 
 
 And, after all, without so much precision, 
 
 'Tis best to leave them to their own decision. 
 
 LVII. 
 
 But what has this to do with Hilda's case ? 
 
 Have but a little patience, and you'll find 
 That these remarks are in their proper place j 
 
 There is a hidden meaning lurks behind. 
 Which you might find it difficult to trace ; 
 
 And yet, 'tis with the story intertwin'd j — 
 Truth is, although to Hilda 'twas unknown, 
 Her Oswald's sentiments were like her own.
 
 86 
 
 HILDA. 
 
 LVIII. 
 
 Their love was mutual; but the maiden knew 
 Nought of her lover's secret predilection; 
 
 Therefore, 'twas wise of her, that she withdrew 
 Far from the object of her fond aflfection ; 
 
 And he, though she was present to his view. 
 In every interval of recollection, 
 
 Had been persuaded by a treacherous brother. 
 
 That she had pledg'd her love unto another. 
 
 LIX. 
 
 Thus tvere two young hearts sever'd: she was left 
 
 In secresy and solitude to pine; 
 Whilst he, of his most cherish'd hopes bereft. 
 
 Was forc'd to bow before a ruder shrine. 
 His heart was like an oak, which has been cleft 
 
 In all its freshness ; though the sun may shine. 
 And on its leafless boughs the summer-rain 
 May glisten, it shall never spring again. 
 
 i
 
 Mir.DA. %*] 
 
 LX. 
 
 Yet lie had not forgot his people's good ; 
 
 He was their father, rather than their king : 
 And, in an age of anarchy and blood. 
 
 It was, indeed, a most uncommon thing. 
 To find a potentate who understood 
 
 The best and easiest mode of governing. 
 His fellow raonarchs view'd it with amaze : — 
 Our kings, 'tis said, know better now-a-days. 
 
 LXI. 
 
 You might have thought he tasted happiness. 
 If you had seen the look of calm content 
 
 Which he assumed, to veil the deep distress 
 
 Which close confin'd within his breast was pent: 
 
 But, in his chosen hour of loneliness, 
 
 When, with its daily toils and cares o'erspent. 
 
 His soul had sought an interval of rest, 
 
 Those hidden thoughts would be no more rcpress'd.
 
 8S HILDA. 
 
 LXII. 
 
 Perchance, it was upon the self same hour 
 Which he was wont to dedicate to sorrow. 
 
 That Hilda too, within her lonely hower. 
 Was striving from the smiling eve to borrow 
 
 Such thoughts, as might enable her to pour 
 A balm into some broken heart to-morrow: 
 
 Although the wound within her own conceal'd. 
 
 Could never yet by human art be heal'd. 
 
 LXIII. 
 
 Now 'twould have been a most delightful feat, 
 If some benevolent fairy would have taken 
 
 The lady from her solitary seat. 
 
 Where she was plac'd, as if by all forsaken. 
 
 And brought her to a spot where she might meet 
 Her lorer, if she was not too much shaken 
 
 By her unwonted journey through the air. 
 
 Such an o'erwhelming interview to bear.
 
 nirnv. 
 
 89 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 Such things were nought uncnramon in their day ; 
 
 I've read of them in many an ancient story. 
 As old events that long had pass'd away. 
 
 Till e'en their memory was growing hoary : 
 Besides, in many a modern poet's lay. 
 
 You'll find them flourishing in all their glory ; 
 As, for example, you may be referr'd 
 To the Etonian ; — 'tis in volume third. 
 
 LXV. 
 
 There you will see, that these same friendly fairies,^ 
 Who kindly watch o'er mortals when they sleep. 
 
 And help the lazy milk-maids in their dairies. 
 That the good dame the benefit may reap, — 
 
 Are sometimes seiz'd with very strange vagaries. 
 When they have ventur'd just to take a peep. 
 
 Too closely, of some mortal beauty's face : — 
 
 I wonder much they should so far disgrace
 
 90 HILDA. 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 Their spiritual nature ; 'tis beyond my scope 
 The thousand wherefores and the whys to tell ; 
 
 But I may be allowed, for once, I hope, 
 Those still unanswer'd questions to repel. 
 
 As things with which 1 am not fit to cope : — 
 Meanwhile, 't may answer equally as well. 
 
 To inform the reader, that we're drawing near 
 
 The termination of our long career. 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 I wish 'twas ended ; for I'm getting tir'd 
 Of seeking for a rhyme in every cranny ; 
 
 Besides, my brain, which at the first was fir'd 
 With this one object, now has fix'd on many. 
 
 Which all may be as worthily admir'd : 
 Ergo, I will not be so gross a zany 
 
 As to plod on in such a barren season, 
 
 Lest you should think I've lost both sense and 
 reaaon.
 
 Hir.DA. 91 
 
 LXVIII. 
 
 There was a certain king-, in Oswald's time. 
 Whose memory but few will now bewail ; 
 
 Indeed, bis life was but a scene of crime, 
 If we may rest upon the historian's tale ; 
 
 It seems, he wisb'd to he — oh, thought sublime I 
 An Alexander on a smaller scale ; — 
 
 Of course, he left behind him many a mourner; — 
 
 The best account of hini's in Sharon Turner. 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 You may suppose, 'twas not without a sense 
 Of envy, that he witnessed the increase 
 
 Of Oswald's growing power and influence ; 
 Within his soul he vow'd it soon should cease. 
 
 And only waited for a fair pretence 
 
 Which might enable him to break Ihe peace. 
 
 At length, upon some trivial occasion. 
 
 He rais'd his forces for a grand invasion.
 
 92 iiir.DA. 
 
 LXX. 
 
 Our hero was not idle : he prepar'd 
 An army to defend his country's right; 
 
 And many a noble heart that long had shar'd 
 His bounty, in his hour of peaceful might, 
 
 Was with him now; and those, too, who had dar'd 
 Full oft, to be the foremost in the fight. 
 
 Thronging around their gallant leader, came 
 
 And swore to add fresh laurels to his name. 
 
 LXXI. 
 
 They march'd to meet the overweening foe. 
 As if they went into a marriage feast ; 
 
 Each melancholy look, or glance of woe. 
 Throughout the long battalions had ceased: 
 
 With sword, with target, and with bended bow. 
 When the first beams were rising in the east. 
 
 They hasted on in long and firm array. 
 
 As if in expectation of the fray.
 
 IIIIiDA. 93 
 
 LXXII. 
 
 But ere they saw one foeman's hostile spear. 
 The shades of night were gathering all aroundj 
 
 And word was quickly pass'd, from front to rear. 
 To make their bivouac upon the ground : 
 
 There was an ancient building standing near. 
 Where Oswald and his peers a shelter found ; — 
 
 A spot well known to him in happier days, — 
 
 'Twas Hilda's sad and lonely dwelling-place. 
 
 LXXIII. 
 
 I know not how they felt when first they met, 
 And look'dj once more, upon each other's face j 
 
 But they would not so readily forget 
 The blushing welcome, and the mute embrace ; 
 
 One moment told that love on both had set 
 The magic seal, which nought can e'er erase ; 
 
 And, as they gaz'd in beautiful surprize. 
 
 They scem'd transported into Paradise !
 
 94 wiLPA. 
 
 LXXIV. 
 
 It was a moment of sucli real bliss^ 
 Such urialloy'd and spotless happiness, 
 
 As few can taste in such a world as this : 
 'Twas love, in its most limitless excess, 
 
 And as they seal'd it with that hallow'd kiss 
 Of pure and undissembled tenderness, 
 
 They seem'd to soar beyond the things of earth. 
 
 To some blest realm from which they took their 
 birth. 
 
 LXXV. 
 
 Time travels swiftly in our happier hours ; 
 
 We start to find that it so soon is gone : — 
 ]3ut when adversity its deluge pours, 
 
 And we are left to brave the storm aluiie. 
 Whilst many a racking care the heart devours. 
 
 How slowly then it seems to linger on ; — 
 As if, like, some obdurate harden'd thing, 
 It seem'd to jny in l-.uman sufifering ! 
 
 I
 
 HILDA. 
 LXXVI. 
 
 Ere Hilda and her lover lialf had told 
 
 The troubles they had borne since last they 
 parted, 
 Or ere their lips had ventur'd to unfold 
 
 The thoughts, which almost left them broken- 
 hearted. 
 The eastern heaven began to shine with gold. 
 
 And Oswald, at the signal, mutely started, 
 Like one, awaken'd from a pleasant dreamy 
 So unexpected seem'd that early beam. 
 
 liXXVII. 
 
 He knelt in silent, heartfelt agony. 
 
 And seiz'd her hand, and press'd it to his lips j 
 Quenched was the wonted light of his dark eye, 
 
 And sadden'd like the sun in its eclipse. 
 He \vept not, in that hour of misery^ 
 
 Alas ] 'lis not the heart that lightly sips 
 A stinted draught from love's o'erflowing river. 
 Can tell the anguish when two fond hearts sever. 
 
 95
 
 90 HILDA. 
 
 LXXVIII. 
 
 They parted: — 'twas a moment, in whose flight — 
 (As our Montgomery so sweetly sings,) 
 
 Came the blow mysteries of years to light ; 
 A thousand strange and wild imaginings 
 
 Were conjur'd up, before their mental sight, 
 Sach as the vex'd imagination brings. 
 
 When rack'd by thoughts of anguish or of pain : — 
 
 They parted ne'er on earth to meet again ! 
 
 LXXIX. 
 
 The day pass'd o'er ; but from the camp appear'd 
 No messenger of pleasure or of woe, 
 
 To tell to Hilda what she hop'd or fear'd, — 
 All that she dreaded most, yet wish'd to know. 
 
 She felt, that he was now the more endear'd, 
 When she might lose him at a single blow; 
 
 And wildly On the setting sun she gaz'd. 
 
 Which through her latticed casement faintlv hlaa'd.
 
 HILDA. 97 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 But hark ! is that the noise of clattering steeds ? 
 
 It is •— it is, — and breathless now she stands. 
 Whilst every moment expectation feeds. 
 
 With straining eyes and with uplifted hands : 
 And now, her cheek grows pale — her bosom bleeds — 
 
 Anon, her blush returns — her heart expands — 
 As thoughts of weal or woe by turns preside; 
 Alas ! her doubts will soon be satisfied ! 
 
 LXXXT. 
 
 At length, they reach'd her solitary gate, — 
 For all her serfs had to the battle gone, — 
 
 And then she rush'd as if to meet her fate : 
 She ask'd not, if the field was lost or won. 
 
 One glance reveal'd that she was desolate ! 
 The work of vengeance was too surely done ; 
 
 And brief and scanty words sufiiced to tell. 
 
 How Oswald bravely fought, — and how he fell.
 
 dS HILDA. 
 
 LXXXII. 
 
 She never smiled again : that blow had driven 
 Each mirthful feeling from her wither'd heart ; 
 
 And all her melancholy hours were given 
 To prayers, or sorrows only breath'd apart j 
 
 She dedicated e'en her life to heaven, 
 
 As if she strove to hide her inward smart ; 
 
 Andj as she wish'd to shun the young and merry. 
 
 She founded and endowed a monastery. 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 
 And there she dwelt the remnant of her days. 
 With all her virgin sisters pure and wise, 
 
 Who, sick of earthly things, had ceas'd to gaze 
 On them, and turn'd their thoughts above the 
 skies. 
 
 How sweet, at vesper hoars, their choral lays 
 Were wont in meek simplicity to rise I — 
 
 Enough, she liv'd a life I cannot paint. 
 
 And when she died, they dubb'd h«r for a saint.
 
 flILOA. 99 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 
 The ruins of her Abbey still are seen j 
 But since her time it oft has been rebuilt 3 
 
 And in a more substantial style, I ween, 
 By superstitions piety or guilt. 
 
 It was quite common for a king or queen. 
 
 In former times, who guiltless blood had spilt, 
 
 And found their conscience rather in the lurch, 
 
 To found an abbey or endow a church. 
 
 LXXXV. 
 
 Reader ! my tale is done , and I have now 
 
 To make apologies for its duration ; 
 For, very likely, it may seem to you 
 
 A dry, unpolish'd, tedious narration. 
 To speak the truth, I have been told so too: 
 
 And once I'd made a fixed determination 
 To keep it back j — but second thoughts are best ; 
 So I resolv'd to put it to the test.
 
 100 HILDA, 
 
 Some of my friends, no doubt with good iatention. 
 Have told me in a confidential way. 
 
 That I have shewn but little of invention : 
 Your poetry is very dull, they say : 
 
 Now, as I do not wieh to make dissension 
 Between us, they go on without a B?ty: 
 
 But ere one tale is finish'd comes its brother, 
 
 As each succeeding wave brings on another ; 
 
 Lxxxvir. 
 
 Truly, I've found their sentiments so jarring, 
 'J hat two of them would ne'er unite together j 
 
 Each different opinion is warring, 
 
 Like adverse winds in wild unsettled weather : 
 
 And so, instead of sitting down and marring 
 My little work, at once and altogether, 
 
 I left them to decide as best they might. 
 
 And rush'd before the public in a fright.
 
 IIIJiDA. 
 
 101 
 
 LXXXVIII. 
 
 Of course, 1 had no time for hesitation j 
 I could not stay to soften or refine j 
 
 So, if it meets not with your approbation, 
 Pray lay the fault to their account, not mine. 
 
 Meanwhile, it is my firm determination. 
 
 To touch, retouch, and polish every line, — 
 
 If e'er I write again, — but that's a query : 
 
 My thoughts are growing stale, my muse is weary. 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 
 I'll let her breathe awhile, and then perchance 
 She may be able to do something better : 
 
 Something which may her character enhance. 
 For now I fear she's an insolvent debtor. 
 
 Suppose I take a summer tour to France, — 
 (I'm sure my muse would dot if I would let 
 her) — 
 
 And, like Sir Walter, from chateaux or hovel, 
 
 Scrape up the raw materials for a novel.
 
 102 HILDA. 
 
 xc. 
 
 And now, kind sir or madam, fare ye well 
 I've nothing more to say to you at present ; 
 
 In compliments I nerer could excel. 
 And in politeness I'm a very peasant. 
 
 Therefore, forgive me, if I do not dwell 
 On topics, which to me are so unpleasant. 
 
 I'll neither flattery nor politeness profiFer, — 
 
 A kind farewell is all I have to oflfcr.
 
 NOTES TO HILDA, 
 
 Note 1, Page 61, Stanza 8. 
 
 Well, 'twas about twelve centuries ago. 
 
 Hilda, the noble foundress of Streoneshalh Abbej', was born in 
 the year 614 ; and was baptized at York, by Paulinus, along with 
 her kinsman, Edwin, in 627 ; being then about thirteen years old. 
 Her Saxon name, which signifies battle, is supposed to have been 
 the name of a goddess of battle adored by her progenitors. — 
 Young't Hist, imtby, Vol. I., p. 129. 
 
 Note 2, Page G6, Stanza 18. 
 
 Her father's name was Hereric, 
 
 The parents of Lady Hilda were Hereric and Breguswith. We 
 have no account of the family of her mother ; but her father, 
 Hereric, was a prince of the royal family of Northumberland, 
 and nearly related to Edwin.
 
 ]04 NOTES TO HILDA. 
 
 Ilcreric was Edwin's nephew, and, consequently, Hilda was 
 his grand-niece. — Yoitug's Hist., Vol. I., p. loO. 
 
 Note 3, Page 76, Stanza 39. 
 
 This Oswald was her cottsin, by the lye. 
 
 Hereric must therefore have been Edwin's nephew, not by a 
 brother, but by a sister; and this sister must have been several 
 years older than himself. His sister, Acca, was the wife of his 
 persecutor, Ethelfrid, and bore him three sons, Eanfrid, Oswald, 
 and Oswy. — Yotmg's Hist., Vol. I., p. 132. 
 
 Note 4, Page 80, Stanza 46, 
 
 ^nd from, his hand the fierce Cadwallon bure 
 The Mow, which left him weltering in his gore. 
 
 Triumphant with the fame of fourteen great battles and sixty 
 skirmishes, Cadwallon despised the rash youth who presented 
 himself in arms to impede his full success. The blood of Ean- 
 frid, his brother, and the cries of desolated Nortbumbria, de- 
 manded of Oswald to be the deliverer of the land ; with hum- 
 ble confidence he committed his cau&e to the arbitration of 
 Providence, and calmly awaited the decision on the banks of 
 tlie Denise. There the enthraller of Lloegyr, the fierce 
 affliction of his foes, the prosperous lion, fell. The wrath of 
 slaughter hastened to make the eagles full. Cadwallon and 
 the flower of his army perished. — Txirner' a Hist. Anglo-Saxons, 
 Vol. I., P.2S7.
 
 NOTES TO HILDA. 105 
 
 Note 5, Page 97, Stanza 81. 
 How Oswald hravely fought, — and how he fell. 
 
 After giving an account of Oswald's piety and benevolence — 
 Mr. Turner, in his Anglo-Saxon History, Vol. I., p. 291, thus 
 proceeds : — " 'While Oswald was benefitting his age by a dis- 
 play of those gentle virtues which above all others are fitted 
 to ameliorate the human character, the Mercian tyrant, Pen- 
 da, was extending distress to every province v/hich his sword 
 could reach. He expelled Cenwalch, the son and successor of 
 Cynegils, from Wessex, for repudiating his sister, who lived 
 three years in exile in Essex, and he destroyed tlie benevo- 
 lent Oswald at Oswestre, in Shropshire, in the thirty-eighth 
 year of his age, and the ninth of his reign. Oswald breathed 
 his last sigh in prayer for his friends, and exchanged a tur- 
 bulent kingdom for the blissful realms of peace and love." 
 
 " Insatiable in acts of ferocity, Penda caused the head and 
 limbs of Oswald to he severed from his body, and exposed 
 on stakes." 
 
 Note 6, Page 99, Stanza 81. 
 
 The ruins of her Ablir;/ still are seen, 8^-c, 
 
 For the real History of Hilda, and the Abbey whicli she 
 founded at Whitby, — the ancient Streoneshalh — 1 may refer 
 the reader to Mr. Young's History of Whitby, and to tlie works 
 there cited. Of course, I have not conlined myself strictly to 
 historical truth, except whirc it happened to agree with my 
 own purpose.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
 
 I
 
 lOd 
 
 WALLACE 
 
 TO HIS COUNTRYMEN. 
 
 THEnE is a weight upon my soul, 
 
 A heavy load of care — 
 Which stifles every rising hope. 
 
 And drives me to despair. 
 My free-born spirit cannot brook 
 The haughty tyrant's word or look, — 
 
 No, these it shall not bear I 
 This arm may yet avenge the blow 
 That laid my country's greatness low !
 
 110 WALLACE TO HIS COUNTRYMEK. 
 
 Yes J Heaven "will bless the patriot few 
 
 Who tyranny oppose ; 
 And Scotland yet again may rise 
 
 In triumph o'er her foes. 
 Then tremble tyrant on thy throne. 
 For He, the high and mighty one, 
 
 Will visit thee with woes ; 
 And all the blood which thou hast shed. 
 Shall call for vengeance on thy head. 
 
 Rise, rise ! ye warriors ; rise to arms ; 
 
 Cast oflF yoar servile chains : 
 Let freedom be the battle-word, 
 
 To wash away your stains. 
 Remember — 'tis the blood of those 
 Who never shrunk before their foes. 
 
 That circles in your reins : 
 And can ye tamely bend the knee, 
 When your own swords should set you free ? 
 
 I
 
 WALLACE TO HIS COUNTRYMEN. Ill 
 
 Why fear ye then to strike the blow ? 
 
 Can death appal the brave ? 
 Ls it not better far to die. 
 
 Than live to be a slave ? 
 Oh, that the forfeit of my life 
 Could end this melancholy strife. 
 
 And Scotland's glory save ! 
 How freely would I lay it down. 
 Secure of an immortal crown. 
 
 Our fathers did not fight in vain, 
 
 When honour led the way ; 
 And if in hand and heart we join. 
 
 We too shall win the day. 
 It is the hero's pride to stand 
 The bulwark of his native land. 
 
 Full in the thickest fray } 
 And his shall be a spotless name 
 Amid the highest ranks ef fame.
 
 112 WALLACE TO HIS COUNTRA'MEN. 
 
 This is the last decisive stroke ; 
 
 May God defend the right ! 
 For ere to-morrow's sun has set 
 
 We mingle in the fight. 
 Now place your sentinels around. 
 And bid the warning trumpets sound 
 
 At the first dawn of light : 
 Then haste we onward to the field. 
 And let us rather die than yield !
 
 113 
 
 STANZAS 
 
 TO PSYCHE. 
 
 I WOULD not ask a greater prize. 
 
 If all earth's treasui*es lay before me, 
 
 Than, unreprov'd, to breathe my sighs, 
 And hang in speechless rapture o'er thee : 
 
 Words can but faintly, poorly tell 
 
 The love which I have felt too well ! 
 
 The visions of my youth are gone, 
 
 And life itself seems cold and cheerless j 
 
 Yet, with the thought of thee alone, 
 
 I'd brave the world unmov'd and fearless j 
 
 Thine image, stamp'd upon my heart. 
 
 Should bid all other cares depart. 
 
 1
 
 1 14 STANZAS lt> PSYCHE. 
 
 Though young in years, my soul has been 
 The sport of many a warring billow j 
 
 And oft by all, save heaven, unseen 
 I've dew'd with tcits my lonely pillow r 
 
 In vain I struggled to repress 
 
 My solitary wretchedness. 
 
 Yet still, before the unthinking cro^d, 
 I've hid my grief as 'twere a treasure ; 
 
 And even in my bitterest mood. 
 
 My face has worn the stflile of pleasure 
 
 'Twould boot but little to reveal 
 
 A pang which only thou canst heal. 
 
 Methinks I'm like a desert isle 
 
 Surrounded by the trackless ocean. 
 Where scarce n flower is seen to smile 
 Amid the tempest's rude commotion; 
 And not a sound of life is there. 
 To break tlie silence of despair.
 
 STANZAS TO PSYCHE. 115 
 
 One only solace have I found. 
 
 When grief had almost turn'd to madness ; 
 A light when all was dark around, — 
 
 A sunbeam on a waste of sadness ! 
 It came as lovely o'er my fears, 
 As beauty when it smiles through tears. 
 
 I thought, — and oh, the thought was dear. 
 That though ray earthly hopes were vanish'd. 
 
 There is a higher, holier sphere, 
 
 Where sorrow is for ever banish'd, — 
 
 Where boundless rapture never dies. 
 
 And love is pure as angel's sighs! 
 
 And if, in that abode of joy. 
 
 We aught of earth may still inherit, 
 
 'Twill be my fondest, first employ 
 To watch and guard thy gentle spirit j— 
 
 To shield thee from the touch of ill, 
 
 And be thy guardian angel still.
 
 1I« 
 
 STANZAS, 
 
 SUPPOSE* TO BE WRITTEN BY ONE OF THE COVE- 
 NANTERS, IN SCOTUAND, IN THE REIGN 
 OF CHARLES THE SECOND. 
 
 The dew of heaven is on my brow. 
 The damp grass 'neath my head j 
 My covering the wither'd leaves. 
 
 The cold earth for my bed ; 
 My quiet home in ashes lies, 
 My children, slain before ray eyes, 
 
 Are number'd with the dead j 
 But Thou, oh Lord ! wilt be my stay, 
 My shelter in the desert way. 
 
 ii
 
 STANZAS. 1J7 
 
 Twas not at mad ambition's call^ 
 
 I girded on tlie sword j 
 I fought not in an earthly cause. 
 
 Nor for an earthly Lord : 
 I did not strive for wealth or fame, 
 But for the Lord Jehovah's name, 
 
 And his most holy word ; 
 And, though he crush me to the dust, 
 In him 1 still will put my trust. 
 
 What, though the tyrant may despise 
 
 The feeble power we bring ; 
 We have a hope he cannot quench. 
 
 In our Almighty King : 
 The appointed hour will surely come. 
 When he shall strike the oppressor dumb. 
 
 And from our shoulders fling 
 The yoke which we so long have borne^ 
 In poverty, contempt, and scorn !
 
 118 STAIfZAS. 
 
 Because tv^e would not bow the knee 
 
 At each unhallow'd shrine. 
 Nor render unto man's device 
 
 The homage only Thine, 
 They sought, with persecuting rage. 
 To mar Thy chosen herit&gej 
 
 But thou would'st not resign 
 Thy sheep into the spoiler's hand. 
 To scatter them throughout the land. 
 
 The chains that bound my spirit down. 
 
 Were sever'd one by onej 
 And I have now no earthly tie 
 
 For love to rest upon : 
 Yet 1 would still one blessing crave 
 Before I seek the quiet grave. 
 
 Where all my friends are goncj 
 Then would my soul with pleasure go 
 From this abode of sin and woe.
 
 8TAH1AS. 119 
 
 The world may boast its vain delights. 
 
 Its luxury and ease; 
 My hopes aspire to higher bliss, 
 
 Than flows from such as these : 
 And, when the icy hand of death 
 Shall chill my last departing breath. 
 
 And on my body seize, 
 I'll look beyond yon starry sky. 
 And shout, "where is thy victory V 
 
 Remember, Lord ! thy little flock, 
 
 Assist them in their way; 
 And let not the destroyer come 
 
 To take them for his prey : 
 But, oh ! if prayers may aught avail. 
 Or piercing sorrow's deepest wail. 
 
 Thou wilt not long delay 
 To bid their cares and troubles cease — 
 And then shall I depart in peace.
 
 120 
 
 THERE IS A GLANCE. 
 
 There is a glance, clear, open, free. 
 The motions of the hsart revealing ; 
 
 And in that glance you well may see 
 A soul of deep and generous feeling, — 
 
 Which cherishes no hidden thought. 
 
 With aught but purest virtue fraught. 
 
 There is a glance of dreadful joy. 
 Which heroes in the front of battle. 
 
 Cast on the foe their swords destroy. 
 Whilst trumpets sound and cannons rattle ; 
 
 And scarce their looks can happier be. 
 
 When they have won the victory. 

 
 THERE IS A GLANCE. 
 
 121 
 
 There is a glance, — how warmly mild. 
 How well her anxious love expressing-, 
 
 The mother fixes on her child, 
 
 And joins it with a parent's blessing ; 
 
 Whilst fondly in its cherub face. 
 
 She strives its future lot to trace. 
 
 There is a glance of rapture sweet. 
 
 When long-lost valued friends are greeting, — 
 When faithful hearts responsive beat. 
 
 And souls unchang'd again are meetingj 
 Congenial minds to whom is given 
 A foretaste of the joys of heaven. 
 
 There is a glance of careless glee. 
 
 The young heart's innocent o'erflowing, 
 Mix'd with a sweet simplicity, 
 
 A thousand magic charms bestowing, — 
 Which, even to the wither'd heart. 
 An interval of ease impart. 
 There is a glance — a lovely glance — 
 
 From pity's clearest fountain springing, 
 Which can the mourner's thoughts entrance^ 
 
 As if a heavenly balm 'twere bringingj 
 And, oh! what bosom can defy 
 Its soft and gentle witchery ?
 
 122 THERE IS A GLANCE. 
 
 There is a glance* when age has tbrowa 
 Its deep and saddening influence o'er us. 
 
 Which brings the joys our youth hath known 
 In life's most sinless years, before us ; — 
 
 When, all our wanderings forgot. 
 
 We view again our native spot. 
 
 There is a glance of wedded love. 
 
 As fair as heaven in moonlight splendor; 
 
 And they alone who faithful prove 
 
 In adverse hours, can tell how tender, — 
 
 How dear it is to gaze upon 
 
 The face of the beloved one ! 
 
 There is a glance, — and I would give 
 All other bliss to taste its sweetness, — 
 
 Beneath it I would always live 
 
 And mock at time with all its fleetness,-^ 
 
 Secure that nought on earth could bless 
 
 Like Psyche's glance of tenderness !
 
 123 
 
 TO A YOUNG LADY, 
 
 ON HER REQUESTING ME TO WHITE A POEM 
 " ON DISAPPOINTED LOVE," 
 
 Nay, Mary, blush not j for to me 
 
 The bitterness is known; 
 And the same pang that dwells with thee, 
 
 1 too may call my own. 
 Aye, if thou could'st unfold my heart. 
 And view the deep and lasting smart 
 
 Which love has planted there, 
 Thou would'st nut deem that ihon alone 
 Wert doom'd to be the only one. 
 Its agony to bear.
 
 124 TO A TOONG LADT. 
 
 No, — Other hearts as well as thine, 
 
 Have sunk beneath its sway ; 
 And 'twould be fruitless to repine. 
 Should life's best hopes decay : 
 Yet still, amid the waste of years, 
 Their varied chain of doubts and fears. 
 
 Remembrance fondly clings 
 To those bright scenes of love and bliss. 
 Which, thrown upon a world like this. 
 Seem like celestial things. 
 
 I would not lose tlie gentle dream 
 
 That memory gives me back. 
 For all the other joys that teem 
 
 Upon life's onward track ; 
 For though my heart is dark and sear'd. 
 And hope itself has disappcar'd 
 
 And left me nought but care, 
 This lovely vision haunts me yet — 
 A spell which I shall ne'er forget, 
 
 A shelter from despair !
 
 TO A YOUNG LADY. 
 
 And oft, in fancy, I retrace 
 
 Those sunbright hours again. 
 When gazing on one beauteous face, 
 
 I knew not what was pain : 
 I lov'd,— and that I fondly lov'd. 
 My aching breast too well has prov'd 
 
 In many a lonely hour, — 
 When reason bade the dream begone, 
 But passion still would linger on, 
 
 As conscious of its power 1 
 
 Since then, my dreary lot has been 
 
 A wilderness of woe ; 
 The world, a dark and joyless scene. 
 
 And life " a fleeting show: " 
 The aspirings that were wont to raise 
 My spirit in its better days. 
 
 All, all forsake me now, 
 And leave behind a barren void, — 
 A wreck of feelings unemploy'd, 
 
 That never more shall glow. 
 
 125
 
 126 TO A YOUNG liADY. 
 
 A little while, and I shall sleep 
 
 Within the silent tomb j 
 And some brig-ht eyes perchaace may weep 
 
 At my untimely doom : 
 And she who would have scorn'd me here. 
 May o'er my ashea shed a tear 
 
 Of pitying tenderness : 
 But soon no eye shall mark the spot, 
 No heart shall mourn the hapless lot 
 
 Of buried wretchediTess ! 
 
 For thee, — whose kindred soul has strove 
 
 In sorrow's darkest hours, 
 With more than e'en a sister's love 
 
 To strew my path with flowers, — 
 For thee, may Heaven outpour its store 
 Of blessings till thy cup runs o'er 
 
 With every earthly joy! 
 And raay'st thou taste, in after years. 
 The happiness that mocks at fears — 
 
 The bliss that cannot cloy !
 
 127 
 
 ON SEEING A LADY WEEPING. 
 
 There is an hour 
 
 When beauty's power 
 Absorbs our every thought and feeling; 
 
 Then comes a thrill, 
 
 More tender still. 
 Of love and pity o'er us stealing. 
 
 *Tis not the smile 
 Which plays awhile ■ — 
 
 So fair and bright in sunny weather; 
 'Tis not the streak 
 Which dyes the cheek 
 
 Of beauty, — no, nor both together.
 
 128 ON SEEING A LADV WEEPING. 
 
 It is not these, 
 Though they may please 
 
 The wild heart in its day of pleasure j 
 They are not fraught 
 With that deep thought 
 
 Which oft is memory's choicest treasure. 
 
 But should the tear 
 
 That sparkles here — ■ 
 So full of gentle melancholy, 
 
 Attract the eye. 
 
 Oh, who could fly 
 From such a gem, so sweet, so holy ! 
 
 'Twere worth long years 
 
 Of toil and fears. 
 To gain a token so delicious ; 
 
 There's ne'er a smMe 
 
 W iiich can beguile 
 The heart with rapture half so precious. 
 
 Yes, 'tis a joy 
 
 Without alloy. 
 Which springs from woman's tear of gladness ; 
 
 But who'd forbear 
 
 Her grief to share, 
 Or see, unmov'd, her hopeless sadness ? ' '
 
 ON SEEING A LADY WEEPING. IM 
 
 Oh, it would be 
 
 More dear to me. 
 Than e'en the hopes my boyhood cheri8h'd3 
 
 Upon thy face 
 
 Again to trace 
 The lovely smile which long has perish'd. 
 
 If hearts like thine 
 
 Must always pine 
 In deep and unavailing anguish. 
 
 Oh, who can hope 
 
 With fate to cope 
 And ne'er beneath its troubles languish ? 
 
 May Heaven restore. 
 
 To fade no more. 
 The happiness which s:rief hath blighted j 
 
 And may thine eye 
 
 Its sorrows dry — 
 Again with pleasure's beams be lighted !
 
 130 
 
 SONNET, 
 
 WRITTEN IN A BLANK LEAF OF BERNARD BARTON 3 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 Tnou hast a name, to uincii my feeble praise 
 Can add but liitle ; yet I fain would twine 
 A wreath of wild flowers for that brow of thine. 
 Oihers, perchance, may boast a greater blaze 
 Of v.hat the world calls genius ; but thy lays. 
 In pure relifjion, unto none resign 
 The laurel crown ; 'tis there thou dosi outshine 
 The vraudest cluiraauts for poetic bays. 
 
 Go on and jirosper, for, though some despise 
 Thy primitive slmiilicity and zeal, 
 Thou hast a bosom which can truly feel 
 
 Our nature's kinder, belter sympathies : 
 And when thy chain of earthly joy is riven. 
 Thou well may'st look for comfort unto HeaFen !
 
 131 
 
 TO A FRIEND, 
 
 ON THE ANNIVERSARV OF HIS BIRTfl-DAYj 
 9th APRIL, 1827. 
 
 Thy bark is launch'd upon the wave, 
 Propitious gales around are blowing" j 
 
 Her sides the curling billows lave, 
 
 Whilst cloudless skies above are glowing ; 
 
 And, by no wintry stoi.ns oppress'd. 
 
 She skims across the ocean's breast. 
 
 And, oh, may life's uncertain tide 
 For thee be smooth and gentle ever ; 
 
 And may thy bark securely ride 
 At last, within its destin'd river ; 
 
 Wliere no rude tempest can destroy 
 
 Thy sweet exuberance of joy ! 
 
 I
 
 132 TO A FRIEND. 
 
 I feel the tear-drop dim mine eye, 
 To think that we so soon must sever ; 
 
 But I will bid it now be dry, 
 
 Though wc perchance may part for ever ; 
 
 Because I'd cherish nought but mirth 
 
 Upon the day that gave thee birth. 
 
 It I could frame a deathless wreath 
 Communicating endless pleasure, 
 Into thy hands would I bequeath 
 
 The bright inestimable treasure ; 
 ^rid I would joy to think that thou 
 Should'st wear it always on thy brow. 
 
 For thou hast been no heartless friend. 
 
 Whose love in darker hours would languish • 
 
 But one with whom my soul could blend, 
 Wlio sympathized in all my anguish 3 — 
 
 And tuito whom 1 could disclose 
 
 >Iy varied train of joys and woes ! 
 
 Perchance thou hast been more to me, 
 r.ecause my heart has found no other, 
 
 Where it could give as unto thee 
 The pure affection of a brother : 
 
 Niir would I wi^h another name 
 
 Wiih thine an equal share to claim.
 
 TO A FRIBND. 133 
 
 I would not bring a pensive strain, 
 To greet thee on thy natal morrow 5 
 
 And yet I scarcely can refrain 
 To breathe in words my heartfelt sorrow ; 
 
 That hearts like ours so long allied. 
 
 Must soon be parted far and wide. 
 
 But wheresoe'er thou may'st depart, 
 And wheresoe'er my lot shall place me. 
 
 Thine image still within my heart 
 Shall dwell, where nought can e'er efface thee ; 
 
 And thou — in thy prosperity, 
 
 Wilt thou not sometimes think of m« ?
 
 134 
 
 SONNET 
 
 T« A CHILD. 
 
 Sweet bud of loveliness ! thou hast not yet 
 Partaken of life's bitterness, and thou 
 Hast that unclouded gaiety on thy brow, 
 
 Which the heart cannot willingly forget ; 
 
 Yet there is something of a fond regret. 
 To think, that one so fair as thou art now 
 Should e'er at sorrow's daik trlbuna' bow. 
 
 Or such an eye as thine with tears be wei. 
 Oh, may'st thou learn, in after years, to place 
 
 Thine utmost love and confidence in Him, 
 
 Before whose sight all earthly joys are dim ! 
 And if He grant tliec His redeeming (;^race, 
 
 Thou need'st not fly to others for relief, — 
 
 He will support?thee in thine hour of grief !
 
 333 
 
 A VIS10?7. 
 
 Methought I lay 
 Upon a bed of violets, whose perfurae 
 Was wafted by the gentle summer hreeza 
 In melting fragrance round me ; whWst a strain 
 Of wild and plaintive music came at times 
 In melancholy cadence on mine ear. 
 
 It was a woman's voice. 
 Of most enchant'ng sweetness, and it seem'd 
 To breathe unto the silent woods around 
 The anguish of a young and broken spirit.
 
 136 A VISION. 
 
 I listen'd till the sounds had died away 
 
 Far in the distance ; and my ear could catch 
 
 No lingering tone of that sweet melody : 
 
 All, all was still, — but one small rivulet, 
 
 Which wander'd o'er the pebbles at my feet. 
 
 Soothing- me with its low monotony. 
 
 My soul was melted, for that pensive strain 
 
 Had op'd the springs of tears ; and as I gaz'd 
 
 Upon the sunset heaven, whose golden hue 
 
 Seem'd like a glimpse of that eternal glory 
 
 Which good men taste hereafter, from my eyes 
 
 The unbidden drops were starting, and I wept: ■ — 
 
 But 'twas not with the bitterness of grief, — 
 
 And there I lay, dissolv'd in tenderness, 
 
 Wat'ring the gentle flowerets with my tears, 
 
 Whilst many a thought came "thronging o'er my soul," 
 
 Of those blest days, when life was but a dream 
 
 (3f never-ceasing joy and happiness ; 
 
 When, suddenly upon my musings, broke 
 
 From fortli a shady covert by my side, 
 
 A long, low gush of thrilling harmony : 
 
 It was the voice which I had heard before. 
 
 But nearer ; so that I could mark the words 
 
 Of that wild melody which S'he was singing : 
 
 And thus she gave her sorrows to the breeze : —
 
 A VISION. 
 
 137 
 
 " 'Tis the calm and beautiful twilight hour. 
 And odours are breathing from many a flower; 
 And the murmuring sound of the mountain rill 
 Is faintly heard from the distant hill; 
 And the air itself is as soft and sweet 
 As a lover's sighs at his mistress' feet : 
 But, oh, what magical charm can impart 
 A balm to strengthen the wounded heart ! 
 
 The wild-bee has gone to its thymy cell, 
 And the butterfly sleeps on the blue harebell; 
 Each feather'd songster has sought his nest, 
 Till morn in ils downy covert to rest; 
 All but the pensive nightingale. 
 Who pours across yon silent vale 
 Her tale of sadness, which, like mine own. 
 Should be breath'd in the ear of night alone. 
 
 The dew of evening begins to fall. 
 
 And darkness comes with his shadowy pall ; 
 
 The sounds of the village are hush'd and still. 
 
 And I am alone on the side of the hill: 
 
 'Tis the self same spot, and the self same hour. 
 
 As when Edwin was wont at my feet to pour 
 
 Those vows of passionate tenderness, 
 
 Which con(iuer'd my heart in its loneliness.
 
 *'^S A VISION. 
 
 Wiiy comes he not now ? — he cannot corae ; 
 But his spirit looks from yon starry dome. 
 And beckons me on with a glance of love, 
 To the g-olden seats of the blest abore! 
 Yes, Edwin, yes ; my own lov'd one. 
 My mounting; spirit will soon be gone 
 Above this earth, and sea, and skies. 
 To meet thee again in Paradise !" 
 
 Her lay was ended ; and f strove to gain 
 A view of the lone mourner, but the effort 
 Arous'd me from my sleep, and I awoke 
 To all the dull realities of life : 
 Yet, often in my twilight wanderings. 
 That well-remember 'd harmony will steal 
 Across my soul, moulding it to a tone 
 Of quiet sadnessj and I oft have wish'd, 
 In my mind's agony, that I had never 
 Awoke from such a dream of gentle sorrow, 
 l"o brave the fiercer tempests of the world.
 
 139 
 
 MIDNIGHT STORM. 
 
 The wild waves beat upon the shore. 
 
 And with a thund'ring^ sound. 
 Surge upon surge rolls o'er the beach. 
 
 And shakes the rocky mound : 
 And lights are hurrying to and fro 
 
 Amid the dashing spray. 
 By whose faint gleams is dimly seen 
 
 A vessel in the bay. 
 
 And full upon the hidden rocks. 
 
 Her desperate course she steers ; 
 Whilst, now and then, a signal-flash 
 
 Above the waves appears. 
 The beacon-pyre burns high and free 
 
 Upon the cliff's vast height 
 Casting across the awful scene, 
 
 A wild and lurid light.
 
 140 
 
 A MIDMGMT STORM. 
 
 Now many a brave and fearless heart 
 
 That never quail'd before. 
 Turns, with a look of agony. 
 
 Unto the distant shore : 
 And many a voice is rais'd in prayer. 
 
 For succour from on high, 
 Which, but a few short hours ago. 
 
 Was breathing revelry. 
 
 Pale horror sits on every face, 
 
 And blanch'd is every cheek; 
 Vain is the courage of the brave, 
 
 Tlie mouraing of the weak : 
 Around them yawns the mighty deep. 
 
 And, like a rabid thing, 
 Seems ready o'er its trembling prey 
 
 Its monstrous jaws to fling. 
 
 liOuder and louder grows the roar 
 
 Of the insatiate waves ; 
 And fiercer o'er their helpless heads 
 
 The angry tempest raves : 
 It seems, as if the fiend who laughs 
 
 At misery and woe. 
 Had gather'd all his forces up 
 
 To strike the final blow !
 
 A MIDNIGHT STORM. HI 
 
 The winds are hushd, the waves are still, — 
 
 It is a pause of woe. 
 Such as the boldest warrior makes. 
 
 When plac'd before his foe. — 
 But, hark I although the billowy war 
 
 Is louder than before. 
 That shriek of mortal agony 
 
 Has reach'd unto the shore. 
 
 'Tis o'er — the last long struggle's} past. 
 
 And Death has seiz'd his prey ; 
 But many a mother and her child 
 
 Shall rue this hapless day I 
 And many an eye shall shed a tear 
 
 In memory of the brave. 
 Who sunk on this eventful night, 
 
 Beneath the roaring wave !
 
 142 
 
 SONNET, 
 
 ON SEEING A BEAUTIFUL YOUNG LADY. 
 
 Yes, thou art beautiful indeed, thou art 
 A gem of nature's workmanship; but yet, 
 There is an image in my bosom set. 
 
 Which can to me a deeper thrill impart : 
 
 INlethinks I now could wish that my young heart 
 Had never tasted love, that it had met 
 With none of that unceasing vain regret. 
 
 Which quickly bade my dearest joys depart. 
 They say that youthful days are days of gladnessj 
 
 I know not what to others they may be, — 
 
 But for myself, the stern reality 
 
 Has been a long and drear/ tract of sadness ; 
 
 And still' more darkly o'er each future hour 
 
 The cloud of disappointment seems to lower.
 
 143 
 
 LINES, 
 
 ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF MY BIRTH-DAY, 
 11th JULY, 1827. 
 
 Another year has passed away. 
 
 And 1 liail thee again my natal day ! 
 
 But 'tis not with a calm and unruffled brow. 
 
 For there is a cloud on my spirit nowj 
 
 And the burning tear-drop visits mine eye, 
 
 When I think on the pleasures of days gone by. 
 
 There was a time when thou wert to me 
 
 A day of unclouded revelry ; 
 
 When the hopes which the worldling would teach 
 
 me to scorn. 
 Were bright as the hues of the summer morn; 
 And the dark and withering touch of care ^» 
 Had crush'd not the flowers that were blossoming 
 
 there !
 
 144 ON THE ANNIVERSARY OP MY BIRTH-DAT. 
 
 Oil, where are the feelings which once I knew ? 
 They have melted away like the morning dew : 
 But still, within this desolate heart, 
 Remembrance holds the choicest part; 
 And I cannot forbear at times to repine 
 O'er the sinless hours that once were mine, 
 
 1 look around, but I cannot see 
 The friends of my guileless infancy : 
 The smiling faces that us'd to bless 
 And greet me with many a fond caress. 
 Are all forsaking me, one by one — 
 And soon I shall be in the world alone ! 
 
 New scenes may open before my view, 
 Which, at distance, seem as fair and true 
 As those which I long have prov'd to be 
 A vain and fleeting mockery : 
 But nought on earth can a spell dispense, 
 To restore my childish innocence. 
 
 I have knelt before ambition's shrine ; 
 
 I have tasted the pleasures of love and wine ; 
 
 But I found that fame was an empty thing. 
 
 That pleasure is ever on the wing ; 
 
 And love, though sweeter than either of these, 
 
 Has left me a sadness which time cannot eas«.
 
 I 
 
 ON THB ANNIVERSARY OF MY BIRTH-DAY. 145 
 
 Alas ! that a passion so pure in its birth. 
 Should ever be marr'd by the sorrows of earth; 
 That the visions which teach the heart to know 
 A glimpse of celestial bliss below. 
 Should vanish away like earthly things. 
 Or childhood'^ weak imaginings ! 
 
 For me no ray of hope appears 
 
 Through the lengthened vista of future years ; 
 
 My childhood is the only spot 
 
 Which I would ne'er from my memory blot; 
 
 And the only prayer which I now can breathe. 
 
 Is that soon death's garlands my brow may wreathe. 
 
 Then, fare thee well my natal day! 
 Unmov'd I have seen thee pass away; 
 For ere another year has run, 
 ISIy weary journey will surely be done; 
 And, oh, may the boon to me be given. 
 To join the choirs of the blest in heaven !
 
 146 
 
 STANZAS, 
 
 FROM A TALE ENTITLED " THR SUICIDE," IN THE 
 WHITBY REPOSITORY, FOR JUiY, 1827.* 
 
 Oh, what were all the world to me. 
 
 Without the glance of Sarah's eye ? 
 A dark and drear vacuity. 
 
 Where I might linger on and die ! 
 'Twould but a poor relief supply. 
 
 For one who'd lost his heart's best treasure, 
 To tell him 'twas in vain to sigh;- — 
 
 Would that restore his vanish'd pleasure ? 
 
 I've sought erewhile with fruitless aim. 
 
 To tune my harp to other themes. 
 But though at times the love of fame 
 
 Might waken high poetic dreams. 
 Still as the rivers and the streams 
 
 Unerringly pursue their course, 
 My heart rejects these wand'ring gleams. 
 
 And turns to thee with tenfold force. 
 
 * This is the only piece in the volume which has already 
 appeared in priut.
 
 STANZAS. 147 
 
 I lov'd thee in those blissful years, ' 
 
 When love is not an empty name; 
 And sorrow but the more endears 
 
 The memory of my boyish flame. 
 There was a glow which nought could tame 
 
 Upon my youthful spirit then ; 
 I was not, what I soon became, — 
 
 An outcast from my fellow men. 
 
 My guileless bosom had not deem'd, 
 
 In those pure days of happiness. 
 When each bright thing around me seem'd 
 
 Cloth'd with surpassing loveliness, 
 That wintry storms might e'er oppress 
 
 The spring time of my future years ; 
 That life is but a wilderness. 
 
 The world itself a vale of tears ! 
 
 They faded; — aye, those joyous days 
 
 Have faded, ne'er to bloom again ! 
 But what can quench the ardent blaze. 
 
 That feeds upon my burning brain ) 
 No earthly power can e'er restrain 
 
 The agony which now I bear, — 
 It maddens in each fev'rish vein, 
 
 It is the anguish of despair !
 
 ^iS STANZAS. 
 
 Methinks I'm like a second Cain 
 
 1 feel his curse upon me nowj 
 For worldly grief, and care, and pain, 
 
 Have stamp'd their furrows on my brow: 
 And I have strove in vain to bow 
 
 With meek submission to my fate. 
 There is a voice which thrills me through^ 
 
 And tells me I am desolate !
 
 149 
 
 ADELAIDE 
 
 A BALLAD. 
 
 The wind was howling fearfully high, 
 And it was the midnight hour. 
 
 When Adelaide left her father's hall, 
 To seek her greenwood bower. 
 
 For it was there she was wont to share 
 
 Lord Raymond's converse sweet; 
 And beneath that shade he oft had paid 
 P His homage at her feet. 
 
 And well I ween he had not breath'd 
 Those ardent vows in vain; 
 
 They had sunk into her gentle breast. 
 As soft as the summer rain.
 
 150 APEbllVE. 
 
 She hasten'd on with noiseless step, 
 
 Where the sleeping warders layj 
 But she heav'd a sigh as she pass'd them by. 
 
 To proceed on her lonely way. 
 
 She hasten'd on till she gain'd the path 
 Which through the churchyard did lie, 
 
 Whilst oft on her ear, through the silence drear. 
 Came the owlet's nightly ci*y. 
 
 And oft upon the hollow gale 
 
 Wild shrieks and groans were pour'd. 
 
 And the lady of night hid her countenance bright. 
 As the tempest more darkly lour'd. 
 
 But still the maiden kept on her way, 
 Though her heart was chill'd with fearj 
 
 And the cold sweat stood on her marble brow, 
 Like dew-drops pure and clear. 
 
 At length she reach'd the hallow'd ground. 
 
 Where the dead repose in peace ; 
 And she sat her down on a broken temb, 
 
 Her trembling limbs to ease.
 
 ADBLAISB. 151 
 
 Her thoughts were of the ills she brav'd. 
 
 For her faithful lover's sake j 
 When suddenly beneath her feet 
 
 The earth began to quake* 
 
 And scarcely had she shrunk behind 
 
 The shelter of the tomb^ 
 When a lambent flame shot brightly forth. 
 
 Like a meteor through the gloom ! 
 
 'Twas horrid indeed to mark the rise 
 
 Of that infernal fire. 
 Which every moment more fiercely blaz'd 
 
 And sent its flames tbe higher, 
 
 And Adelaide stood, and look'd awhile 
 
 With a wilder'd and fearful gaze, 
 Then sunk on the ground in a deathlike swoon, 
 
 At that portentous blaze. 
 
 Long time she lay on the dewy sod, 
 
 As if her soul were fled j 
 And when at last her sense return'd. 
 
 And shs rais'd her drooping head,
 
 -152 ADELAIDE. 
 
 *Twas but to view a wilder scene 
 Of horror and of woe j 
 
 For mortal eye does but seldom 'spy 
 Such a sight as the maiden saw. 
 
 A fiendish form stood by the flame 
 
 Tremendous to behold, 
 Twas like a serpent of hideous shape. 
 
 And its scales were of burnish'd gold ; 
 
 'f 
 
 And on the ground a wretch there lay. 
 Who was bound with an iron chain ; 
 
 And he struggled hard and panted for breath 
 But his efl'orts were all in vain. 
 
 And a terrible sound was heard around, 
 Jjike the roar of the angry waves. 
 
 When they wake from their sleep at the tempest's 
 breath. 
 And rush from their deepmost caves. 
 
 But now the fiend gave a horrible cry, 
 
 Which resounded far and wide ; 
 And a troop of wizards and witches dire 
 
 In a moment stood bv his side. 
 
 i
 
 ADELAIDE. 153 
 
 He pointed to that hapless wretch, 
 
 And bade them take his life, 
 And the maiden's blood ran cold in her veins 
 
 As she mark'd the fatal strife. 
 
 They plung'd a dagger into his breast, — 
 
 The life-blood spouted high ; 
 And they caught the crimson stream as it fell. 
 
 In a vessel of ivory. 
 
 Then all around that magic fire, 
 
 They fonn'd a dreadful ring. 
 And they danc'd and sprung, and loudly sung 
 
 In honour of their king. 
 
 And the foremost of the train advanc'd. 
 
 And knelt upon the sod, 
 And he swore by the blood of that slaughtcr'd 
 wretch. 
 
 The demon should be his God. 
 
 The ivory bowl was standing near. 
 
 All clotted and filled with gore, 
 And he took and quaff'd a horrid draught 
 
 To confirm his vow the more.
 
 154 ADELAIDE. 
 
 Thus each one of the hellish train, 
 
 Perform'd that wicked rite, 
 Save one who lingering stood behind 
 
 As if he shunn'd the sight. 
 
 His face was hid from Adelaide's view. 
 But his port seem'd bold and free ; 
 
 And the plumed helm which he wore on his head. 
 Bespoke him of high degree. 
 
 And anxiously she straio'd her eye, 
 
 To catch a nearer glance 
 Of his stately form, as through the gloom 
 
 His feet began to advance. 
 
 He reach'd the spot, and on the ground 
 
 Reluctantly he knelt, 
 But when his features met her view, — 
 
 None know what the maiden felt. 
 
 'Twas Raymond ! — to his bloodless lips 
 
 The unhallow'd cup was rais'd 
 And as he drank the fearful draught 
 
 The (lames more brightly blaz'd.
 
 JiDELAIDE. 155 
 
 Meanwhile entraDc'd in agony^ 
 
 The hapless lady stood. 
 Till she saw him pledge the direful oath, 
 
 And drink of the human blood. 
 
 Then darting forth like the lightning's flash. 
 Where the murder'd wretch had died. 
 
 She seized the dagger which near him lay, 
 And plung'd it in Raymond's side. 
 
 And when the awful deed was done. 
 
 She wildly gaz'd around. 
 But no sight nor object could she see. 
 
 But her lover's yawning wound. 
 
 The vital stream was ebbing fast 
 
 Upon the cold, cold clay ; 
 And one last lingering groan he gave. 
 
 Ere his spirit pass'd away. 
 
 She stoop'd, and drew the dagger forth 
 
 All reeking with his gore ; 
 Then buried it deep in her tortur'd breast. 
 
 And sunk to rise no more.
 
 158 ADELAIDE. 
 
 Next morn, they found the hapless pair 
 Bath'd in each other's blood 5 
 
 And all the ground whereon they lay. 
 Was stain'd with the crimson flood. 
 
 They plac'd them in one lonely grave. 
 In all their youthful pride ; 
 
 That as together they had liv'd. 
 They might not in death divide. 
 
 And by the grave an ancient stone 
 The eye may still discover, 
 
 Which tells all christian souls to pray 
 For Adelaide and her lover.
 
 157 
 
 SONNET, 
 
 ■WRITTEN IN A LADY's ALBUM. 
 
 Lady ! I would not bring a mournful strain. 
 To mar the flowerets gatlier'd by thine hand ; 
 Surely, I may for once at least command 
 My wayward lyre its sorrows to restrain. 
 And yet, perchance, I may but strive in vain ; 
 For care hath thrown so long its chilling band 
 Around it, that it scarce can understand 
 The cheering influence of a gentler reign ; 
 
 But one kind wish is yet mine own to give. 
 And freely would I breathe that wish for thee. 
 That thou and thine endearing family, 
 
 Wiiilst in this world of misery ye live. 
 May none of its heart-sinking troubles prove. 
 And leave it but to join the blest above! 
 
 >i
 
 ? 
 
 158 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 Sbg was a thing of love and light, 
 
 And she was dear to me ; 
 For her sparkling' eye it glanc'd as bright, 
 
 As the sunbeam on the sea ; 
 And, oh, it was a goodly sight 
 
 Her loveliness to see ! 
 
 1 lov'd her, as I ne'er shall love 
 
 An earthly thing again, 
 *Twas she that taught me first to prove 
 
 The sadly pleasing pain ; 
 And nought can from my heart remove 
 
 The memory of her reign. 
 
 1
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 I lov'd her, — but I buried deep 
 The thought within my breast ; 
 
 And, ohj 'twas misery to keep 
 That ardent flame repress'd ; — 
 
 1 could not sigh, I could not weep, 
 To give my bosom rest ! 
 
 The only joy which I could share, — 
 
 And bliss it was to me, — 
 Was, but to view with pensive air 
 
 Her beauty silently ; 
 And often have I breath'd a prayer 
 
 For her felicity ! 
 
 Her face was pure as wintry snow. 
 
 Her hair of auburn hue. 
 And her hazel eye shot forth a glow 
 
 Most lovely to the view j 
 Alas ! I never more shall know 
 
 A thing so fair and true. 
 
 Enough, — the beauteous dream is o'er, 
 I shrink not from the blow ; 
 
 It was too high for me to soar. 
 To one so fair as. thou : 
 
 But I must gaze on tliee no more, 
 The sptll is broken now I 
 
 159
 
 160 
 
 A SKETCH. 
 
 She was young;, 
 And full of maiden modesty ; her blush 
 Was beauteous as the crimson hue that streaks 
 The western sky beneath the setting sun ; 
 Her voice was like the gentle breeze of spring, 
 Whisp'ring among the aspen's quivering leaves. 
 And her bright hazel eye — oh, 'twas a gem. 
 Such as Golconda's mines could never boast ! 
 Methought when I have gaz'd upon her charms. 
 And watch 'd the movements of her fairy form, 
 In all its mingled grace and majesty, — 
 That she was surely not a thing of earth. 
 But some angelic being sent from lieaven, 
 Which mortal eye should scarcely look upon. —
 
 161 
 
 STANZAS 
 
 TO PSYCHE. 
 
 Oh, cast not such a glance on me,-'— 
 
 I cannot bear its meek efftilgence, 
 The flame, though nourish'd silently, 
 
 AViil fiercer grow with such indulgence 
 It is enough that I have laugh'd 
 
 At every other thought and feeling. 
 The cup may be too deeply quaff' d, 
 
 If even it were a draught of healing : 
 And how much more, if it should he, 
 Like niine^ a cup of misery. 
 
 M
 
 162 STANZAS TO PSTCHB. 
 
 I am a thing of solitude, 
 
 A weak, and frail, and erring creature. 
 And raany a struggle dark and rude 
 
 Has left its mark on every feature ; 
 Each gentle thought, save one, has ceas'd 
 
 Within my breast to make its dwelling. 
 But, oh, that feeling were a feast 
 
 Itself, all other joys excelling ! 
 If I were but belov'd by thee. 
 What were the gaudes of earth to me ? 
 
 I know — I feel, it must not be j 
 
 It is too vain a hope to cherish. 
 Yet who, without a pang, can see 
 
 His fondest aspirations perish ? 
 Before thy feet I may not kneel. 
 
 Nor there my fervent vows surrender j 
 But, though no warmth from thence we feel, 
 
 We still may view the moonbeam's splendor: 
 So will I turn and gaze on thee, 
 Though mine, aUs ! thou canst not be.
 
 163 
 
 MY MOTHERS GRAVE. 
 
 'Tis midnight, and the busy world. 
 
 So lat€ by jarring passions toss'd, 
 Hath now its gaudy standard furl'd. 
 
 And every care in slumber lost. 
 The gentle moon is shining bright. 
 Amid the silence of the nighty 
 Whilst o'er the wide expanse of heaven, 
 A few thin fleeting clouds are driven; 
 And, here and there, a lonely star 
 Is dimly twinkling from afar, 
 Like handmaids which, at distance seen. 
 Attend upon their glorious queen.
 
 164 MY mother's grave. 
 
 There is a sweetness iii the hour, 
 
 Which lifts us from our mortal dwellingj 
 It seems as if some holier power 
 
 Were now each earthly thought expelling. 
 That the pure soul might travel free. 
 Far from its dull mortalityj 
 And hold communion for awhile, 
 With those blest spirits who can smile 
 On man, with all his hopes and fears. 
 His days of sunshine or of tears. 
 As things that are but little worth, 
 Forgotten almost in their birth. 
 
 And now I gaae upon thy grave. 
 
 My Mother ! with a chasten'd sorrow; 
 The long damp grass may o'er it wave, 
 
 And from thy dust its verdure borrow. 
 The worm may hold its carnivals 
 Within thy cold sepulchral walls, 
 And riot in the joyless tomb, 
 On all of beauty or of bloom. 
 Which once was thine in hours of bliss, — 
 Yet wherefore should I weep for this ? 
 Thy sj)irit hath but left its prison. 
 And from its low abode hath risen.
 
 MV mother's grave. 16r» 
 
 To those blest realms of peace and joy, 
 Where all is bliss without alloyj 
 Where not a shade of grief can ever 
 Disturb thee by that peaceful river, 
 Whose streams of life and healing rise 
 In yon celestial Paradise ! 
 
 JVIy Mother ! whilst imprison'd here, 
 
 Thine was a life of melancholy; 
 When all which thou hadst deem'd most dear, — 
 
 The treasur'd feelings pure and holy, 
 The iov'd one who had cherish'd thee, 
 
 In sunny hours or days of gloom, — • 
 The little hud whose infant glee 
 
 Was buried in the silent tomb, — 
 Were snatch'd away, and only I 
 Was left to soothe thy misery ! 
 
 Methinks I see thine image now. 
 With that sweet smile upon thy face. 
 
 Whilst, bending o'er my youthful brow. 
 Thou clasp'd me in a warm embrace. 
 
 And call'd me thine, — thy darling boy, — 
 
 Thy last, thy sola Burviving joy.
 
 166 MT mother's CRAtE. 
 
 And often, in fliy meek blue eye, 
 
 I've wa'cb'd the silent tear-drop start, 
 And strove with fond sinoplirity. 
 
 Some childish comfort to impart: 
 And then, perchance, a pensive smile 
 Illum'd thy features for awhile, 
 I/ike a stray sunheara 'mid the storm, 
 When wintry clouds the skies deformj 
 For one short moment it may dart 
 A £;leam into the wanderer's heart, 
 But, ere he gains his lonely way^ 
 He looks, and it is pass'd away. 
 
 .It could not last, though thou didst keep 
 Thy s^rief from ev'ry human eye; 
 
 Though thou might'st neither sigh nor weep. 
 To shew thy inward agony ! 
 
 Yet still the canker-worm was there. 
 
 The gnawing viper of despair. 
 
 Day after day I saw thee pine, 
 
 Till neither health nor strength was thinc; 
 
 The hue of death was on thy cheek. 
 
 But now and then a hcrtic streak 
 
 Would tinge it with a deeper dye. 
 
 As if in solemn mockery.
 
 »IY MOTHER'S CRATB. 1€7 
 
 I Stood beside thy dying bed, 
 
 And strove to raise thy feeble head ; 
 
 I gazed upon thy sunken eye, 
 
 And wept, but yet I knew not why, — 
 
 I dreamt not what it was to die. 
 
 Then came the dark funereal gloom, — 
 It fill'd my youthful heart with dread. 
 
 To see them glide from room to room, 
 With tearful eye, and noiseless tread, 
 As if they fear'd to wake the dead. 
 
 At length they bore her to the tomb, 
 
 And T, unknowing of my fate. 
 
 Was left alone and desolate ; 
 
 Condemn'd, without her aid, to bear 
 
 The ills she had been wont to share. 
 
 Since then, long years have glided by, 
 
 My boyish days are over now j 
 But still, reveal'd to fancy's eye. 
 
 They smile as they were wont to do. 
 And often does my soul retrace 
 
 Those unforgotten hours again, 
 When life was but a joyous race 
 
 Of pleasure, scarcely mix'd with pain;
 
 I6S MY mother's grave. 
 
 How blissful were those happy years, 
 Compar'd with manhood's doubts and fears ! 
 
 Mine has not been a sinless life 
 
 Though short as yet its years have been ; 
 For msny a cloud of care and strife 
 
 Has thrown its gloom across the scene. 
 But here, upon the cold remains 
 
 Of her who first ray being gave, 
 1 fain would break the servile chains, 
 
 Wliich long have held a willing slave, — 
 And turn me from the things of earth. 
 To higher thoughts of purer birth ! 
 
 My Mother I thou, perchance, may'st be 
 
 A guardian angel unto me, 
 
 And, oh ! it is a soothing thought. 
 
 That she who lov'd nie most below, 
 Whose every word and look was fraught 
 
 VVith purest tenderness, should now 
 Watch over me, unseen, unknown. 
 As if I still was all her own ! 
 
 But see, the first faint dawn of day 
 Is slowly breaking from the east, 
 
 And 1 must now no longer stay, 
 Nor linger o'er my mental fsast.
 
 MY mother's grave. 169 
 
 One parting glance upon thy grave, — 
 { An interval of brief repose, — 
 
 And I must strive once more to brave 
 
 The world, and all its train of woes ; 
 And may thy gentle spirit still 
 Be present in the hour of ill. 
 
 I
 
 170 
 
 MELANCHOLY THOUGHTS. 
 
 Nay, burst not forth, thou bitter tear 
 
 Thou canst not ease my burning brain ; 
 Tlien, wherefore should'st thou linger here. 
 
 As if I still might weep again ! 
 'Tis o'er : I never more shall be 
 
 What I have been, in days gone by, 
 But I can meet adversity. 
 
 And death itself, without a sigh. 
 
 Ay, let them come, nor care, nor fear, 
 
 A place within my soul shall find 5 
 Yet there are thoughts which might endear 
 
 The world unto my anxious mind; 
 For though it has not been a scene 
 
 Of bright unclouded witchery. 
 And sorrow oft would intervene. 
 
 Like clouds across a sunny sky;
 
 MBLANCHOIY THOUGHTS. 171 
 
 There are some short, — some hallow'd hours, — 
 
 Some fair and sweet imaginings. 
 Which, like a few celestial flowers, 
 
 Amid a thousand earthly things, 
 Or, like a clear and sunny day. 
 
 When winter spreads its snows around. 
 Are dearer to the soul, that they 
 
 Are but so seldom to be found. 
 
 I deem'd not in my boyish days. 
 
 When cv'ry hope seem'd true as fair. 
 That aught of earth could ever raise 
 
 The miseries which now I bear : 
 How difl'erent seem'd the future then. 
 
 From what it since has prov'd to be 5 
 Oh, that 'twere mine to know again 
 
 Those days of blest simplicity ! 
 
 But they are gone, — for ever gone, 
 
 Like summer eve's departing rays. 
 Which, slowly sinking one by one. 
 
 Illume the ocean with their blaze : 
 And, though that sun again may rise, 
 
 As bright and glorious as before, 
 Alas ! my boyish sympathies 
 
 Shall dawn upon my soul no more I
 
 172 MEr.ANCnOLY THOUGHTS. 
 
 Well, be it SO}— if I have lost 
 
 Some portion of my earlier feelings, 
 The one which I have lov'd the most 
 
 Of all those pure and warm revealings 
 Is still mine own; and for the rest, 
 
 They have but left my heart more fit 
 To combat with those cares unblest, 
 
 With which the world may threaten it.
 
 173 
 
 A FRAGMENr. 
 
 I mauk'd his dark and troubled brow, 
 I watch'd the flashing of his eye, — 
 'Twas like the lightning, when it darts 
 Across a gloomy sky. 
 
 And pride and stern contempt were there. 
 As though he scoff'd at all mankind; 
 It seem'd as if his face were still 
 The index of his mind. 
 
 He mounted on his coal-black steed, 
 He cloath'd him in his knight's attire. 
 And to the battle he hath gone, 
 Attended by bis squire.
 
 174 A PRAGMBNT. 
 
 And many an armed man besides. 
 With banners floating wide and free. 
 With sword, with hauberk, and with shield, — 
 A gallant company, 
 
 "Now ride, as 'twere for life and death, — 
 " Let every man push en," said he. 
 "As if his single arm alone, 
 " Could gain the victory. 
 
 " For, if we reach not Gwillim's towers, 
 " Before yon sun again hath risen, 
 " A bloody deed will there be done 
 " Within the castle prison." 
 
 The steeds are fleck'd with blood and foam, 
 They can no longer hold their way. 
 But they have reach'd Lord Gwillim's towers. 
 Before the dawu of day. 
 
 " Well done, my vassals true and good," 
 Their stern and fiery leader said, 
 " Push on, the foe will soon have cause 
 *' To think on vou with dread."
 
 X FRAGMENT. 17^ 
 
 Then, riding to the castle gate. 
 He blew a blast 60 shrill and loud. 
 You would have thought he meant to rouse 
 A dead man from Lis shroud. 
 
 The hero rais'd him from the ground. 
 His grey hair floated on the wind, 
 " Go, tell them that these prison walls 
 " Can ne'er enclose the mind. 
 
 " I will not speak a word to save 
 ♦* The traitor from his destin'd fate, 
 " Destruction marks him for her own, — 
 *' She thunders at the gate." 
 
 " Then dearly shall he rue the hour," 
 Said Gwillim, in his reckless wrath ; 
 " Go, lead the hoary caitiff forth 
 " And sweep him from our path." 
 
 They brought him from his dungeon's gloom. 
 And to the castle-yard they bore.
 
 176 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 And they were all amazed to see 
 The dauntless look he wore. 
 
 One glance lie gave on all around. 
 One look upon the noontide sky. 
 As if he bade a last adieu 
 To earthly vanity I 
 
 Then laid his head upon the block, 
 With an unalter'd cheek and browj 
 And quickly on the ground it fell, 
 Dissever'd at a blow. 
 
 Oh, 'twas a dark and treacherous deed. 
 And vengeance, though it lingers yet. 
 Shall wake with tenfold force at last 
 And claim its bloody debt. 
 
 « «- * * * * 
 
 The sun is setting in the west. 
 But you can scarce its lustre see. 
 Can no one tell from whence proceeds 
 Yon cloudy canopy?
 
 A FRAGMENT. 1^7 
 
 It hovers o'er the spot, where late 
 Earl Gwillim's lordly castle stood j 
 But fallen is his greatness now — 
 His pride is quench'd in blood ! 
 
 The flames have reach'd his loftiest tower. 
 His father's halls are desolate j 
 Those blacken'd walls alone remain. 
 The records of his fate. 
 
 ****** 
 ****** 
 
 N
 
 178 
 
 TO A r^DY. 
 
 Thou art not such as I have met 
 
 Amid the scenes of earth. 
 Whom 'tis as easy to forget. 
 
 As if they ne'er had birth : 
 Such trivial light fantastic things. 
 As nature surely only brings, 
 To furnish food for mirth ; 
 The gaudy insects of a day. 
 Which flutter, and are pass'd away.
 
 TO A LADY. 179 
 
 They may beguile an idle hour. 
 
 And yet 'twere vainly spent j 
 For lime is but a precious dower. 
 
 Which unto man is lent ; 
 And every moment he employs 
 In foolish vanities or toys. 
 
 Will call for punishment : — 
 Then how much better it would be. 
 If pass'd in thy society ! 
 
 Whene'er I sit and talk with thee. 
 
 The hours like moments seem ; 
 They pass away so silently, 
 
 'Tis like a pleasant dream : 
 There is a fascinating charm 
 About thee, which can always warm 
 
 My spirit with its beam ; 
 And never does it soar so high. 
 As when 'tis govern'd by thine eye.
 
 180 TO A LADY. 
 
 'Tis not that thou art beautiful^ 
 
 Though in thy face appears 
 The charms we might have wish'd to cull 
 
 In former, happier yeai's. 
 Nay, even now, enough remains. 
 To bind the heart in willing chains. 
 Though marr'd by secret tears, — 
 Thou art not yet of all bereft, — 
 Some lovely flow'rets still are left. 
 
 But 'lis not these that I admire ; 
 
 Thou hast a higher claim. 
 Which might awake a purer fire, 
 
 A more enduring flame ; 
 Though youth and beauty pass away. 
 This deathless charm shall ne'er decay. 
 
 But be for aye the samej 
 It is the influence refin'd — 
 The potent msgic of the mind.
 
 TO A LADY. 181 
 
 I know not what thou may'st have been. 
 
 When life was in its prime; 
 Thou would'st be beautiful, I ween. 
 
 And gay without a crime : 
 Perchance, thy dark eye's liquid beam 
 Might sparkle with a brighter gleam, — 
 
 *Twould not be more sublime j 
 And thy fond heart might beat more high. 
 In unsuspecting liberty. 
 
 But yet, methinks, I would not change 
 
 The proud prerogative, 
 O'er thy maturer mind to range. 
 
 For all the past can give : 
 There is a sad, yet pleasing grace. 
 In every feature of thy face. 
 
 Which evermore shall live 
 Within my memory's deepest cell. 
 And with its choicest treasures dwell.
 
 182 TO A LADT. 
 
 One lesson I have learnt from thee. 
 
 With which I ne'er will part ; 
 To bear affliction patiently, 
 
 Nor shrink beneath the smart : 
 It oft has been my fervent prayer, 
 Thy nobleness of mind to share. 
 
 Thy rectitude of heart j 
 But now I'll crave, whate'er befal. 
 Thy Resignation more than all !
 
 183 
 
 TO DEATH. 
 
 Yes, thou art dreadful to the soul, 
 VVhate'er its inward hopes may be j 
 
 Thine awful presence can unroll 
 The visions of eternity. 
 
 And, oh, what mortal eye may brook, 
 
 Unmov'd on such a scene to look ! 
 
 There is a weakness in the mind. 
 
 Which makes us shudder at thy sight j 
 
 A thrill of terror undefin'd, 
 
 A thought of liorror and affright. 
 
 Which, 'spite of all that sages tell. 
 
 Comes o'er us like a dreaded spell.
 
 181 TO DEATH. 
 
 To think that we must part from all 
 
 Which we have lov'd and cherish'd most ; 
 
 From thoughts that held the heart in thrall — 
 Love — friendship — all that earth can hoast,- 
 
 May well excuse the agony 
 
 Which haunts the soul when thou art nigh. 
 
 What though the Christian's hopes may be 
 Fix'd on a rock which nought can shake, 
 
 And his pure spirit may be free 
 
 From thoughts at which the vile may quake,- 
 
 Yet even he will view with awe, 
 
 The terrors of a broken law. 
 
 He cannot pass, unmov'd away. 
 
 From death to everlasting life, 
 Till he has tasted slow decay, 
 
 And sunk beneath the unequal strife; 
 Or, it may be, a sudden blow 
 May lay the weary wanderer low. 
 
 Yet there are some, who, fondly wise. 
 Have deem'd philosophy could teach 
 
 The heart thy presence to despisej 
 Who say, that pain can only reach 
 
 The body, but the soul will be 
 
 Secure in faucied liberty.
 
 TO DEATH. 185 
 
 Alas ! it is an idle dream. 
 
 As empty as the foam that swims 
 Upon the surface of the stream ; 
 
 A false and meteor glare which dims 
 The only true and living light. 
 That shines upon our mental night. 
 
 Ay, look upon yon dying sage. 
 
 And mark the stern triumphant air 
 
 With -which he ends his pilgrimage ! 
 
 There seems no touch of anguish there, — 
 
 No threaten'd punishment for sin, — 
 
 13ut there is agony within ! 
 
 Poor wretch ! he strives to win a name 
 
 Which after ages may repeat. 
 And, though his feelings are tie same. 
 
 He deems it cowardice to meet 
 Thy presence, with the dark dismay. 
 With which the many own thy sway. 
 
 But, oh, how terrible thou art 
 
 To him, whose guilty breast can show 
 
 No portion of that better part. 
 
 From whence all real bliss must flow, — 
 
 To whom the future is a thought 
 
 With agonizing torture fraught !
 
 186 TO DEATH. 
 
 Thou rulcst o'er creation now,— 
 .'Mankind arc subject to thy word j 
 
 liut there shall come a time, when thou 
 Must bow before a mightier Lord. 
 
 The grave shall set its captives free, 
 
 And Death be lost in victory I 
 
 Woe — woe to him who does not wear 
 A sj)otle6s marriage garment then, — 
 
 With devils he must take his share, — 
 With outcast and ungodly men ! 
 
 But, oh ! may I obtain the prize. 
 
 Through Christ's atoning sacrifice !
 
 187 
 
 TO A FRIEND, 
 
 ON HIS DEPARTURE. 
 
 Farewell ! but not, I trust, a long farewell; 
 I fain would hope that we shall meet again : 
 But there is not a human tongue can tell, 
 Whether the wish may not be breath'd in vain. 
 If such it be, 'twere fruitless to complain ; 
 We cannot alter fate's supreme behest, — 
 Noj rather should we struggle to restrain 
 The feelings which will scarcely be repress'd. 
 And strive to lull the storm of misery to rest.
 
 188 TO A FRIEND, ON III8 DEPARTURE. 
 
 Thou goest forth into the wide, wide world. 
 Whilst I in calm obscurity remainj 
 Thy standard to the breezes is unfurl'd. 
 And gaily beats thy heart, untouch'd by pain. 
 Oh ! may'st thou never know the ungentle train 
 Of thoughts, which turn the cup of life to gall; 
 I've tasted them too oft, — and I would fain 
 Those days of cloudless happiness recal, 
 When I was wont to smile whatever might befal ! 
 
 It may not be ! my dreary lot is fix'd, 
 JJeyond the reach of earthly love or hate; 
 Yet is my cup of sorrow not unmix'd 
 With some bright feelings of a happier date; 
 I am not yet completely desolate; 
 Although my heart has lost its choicest treasure, 
 There still are thoughts which make my present state. 
 At intervals, almost approach to pleasure; 
 Though they are far, alas! beoeath its former measure.
 
 TO A FRIEND, ON HIS DEPARTURE. 189 
 
 But I am wandering from ray themej I meant 
 To dedicate an artless strain to theej 
 But my own sorrows have become so blent 
 With every chord of my harp's minstrelsy. 
 That, whensoe'er I bid it warble free, 
 'Tia Fure to breathe a melancholy tone; 
 Else should the lay which tells our parting", be 
 As soothing as the distant ocean's moan 
 Comes to the poet's ear, when worshipping alone. 
 
 And still, whate'er a wither'd heart may offer 
 Of kindest wishes for thy future weal — 
 'Tis mine in singleness of soul to proffer; 
 Believe me, 'tis not for the lack of zeal, 
 I cannot tell thee what I truly feel : 
 Language alone is wanting to express 
 The varied thoughts which o'er my bosom steal; 
 A mixture strange, of joy and gloominess — 
 Joy for thy future hopes — grief for my own distress.
 
 190 TO A FRIENDj ON HIS DEPAIITURE. 
 
 Accept my warmest tlianks for all that thou 
 Hast been to me, in days and years gone by; 
 The hour of parting is approaching now. 
 But not a tear-drop sparkles in mine eye; 
 No : I will bid it ever thus be dry ; 
 It is not meet that I should e'er repine 
 O'er the bright dawn of thy prosperity: 
 Adieu ! may every happiness be thine. 
 Whatever cares or ills in future may be mine !
 
 191 
 
 ALL IS VANITY. 
 
 I gaz'd upon a lovely child. 
 
 The hue of health was on its cheek; 
 But when the beauteous cherub smiled, 
 
 I found that language was but weak, 
 ,Its guileless itinocence to speak: — 
 
 The mother clasp'd it in her arms. 
 And look'd on it as if to seek 
 
 Some new, some undiscover'd charms 
 Surely, methought, this could not be 
 A thing of earthly vanity.
 
 192 ALL IS VANITY, 
 
 I saw it on its dying bed. 
 
 The fire had left its infant eye; 
 The smile of childish mirth was fled, 
 
 Its cheek had ta'en a paler dye, 
 And there in silent agony 
 
 The hapless mother took her stand: 
 But, as I watch'd her misery. 
 
 My feelings would not brook commandj 
 And, as they struggled to be free, 
 I own'd that all was vanity. 
 
 I stood amid a breathless crowd, — 
 
 Expectance sat on every facej 
 They scarcely spoke or breath *d aloud. 
 
 As if it were some holy place : — 
 At length the eye might faintly trace 
 
 The noble patriot's form, who rush'd 
 To save his country from disgrace ; 
 
 Then every voice so lately hush'd, 
 Was rais'd in clamours wild and free — 
 Could praise like this be vanity '
 
 ALT- IS VANITY. 
 
 Years pass'd away, I stood onee more, 
 
 Amid that rude and boisterous crewj 
 The battle thunders now were o'er, 
 
 And victory her shadow threw 
 Across the landj but, oh ! how few 
 
 Thought of their conq'ring hero now : 
 He pass'd — I scarce could deem it true ■ 
 
 Derision sat on every brow, 
 And groans and curses rent the sky, — 
 It was a scene of vanity ! 
 
 I wander'd on a summer night. 
 
 The sun was setting in the west. 
 And gorgeously his parting light 
 
 Shone o'er the mighty ocean's breastj 
 It was an hour which still possess'd 
 
 A most peculiar charm to me, 
 When nature seems to siiik to rest 
 
 In beautiful serenity ! 
 
 For then^ mcthinks, I most am frce^ 
 
 From earth and earthly vanity. 
 
 o 
 
 1«3
 
 194 ALL IS VANITY. 
 
 I sought the forest's deepest shade, 
 
 And listen'd to the gentle breeze, 
 Which, 'midst the quivering foliage, made 
 
 Such music as was form'd to please 
 My soulj with its low harmonies: — 
 
 Oh, 'twas an hour of fervent feeling. 
 Such as I can but seldom seize, 
 
 When all around me seem'd revealing 
 Its beauty and its witchery^ 
 Yet even this was vanity ! 
 
 I saw a bright and beauteous thing, 
 
 Pure as the light in realms above. 
 Fair as a bard's imagining. 
 
 And mild and gentle as the dove: 
 I knew not that I tasted love. 
 
 Until my heart itself was gone ; 
 But, oh ! what charm can e'er remove 
 
 Tlie image of that lovely one ? 
 Alas ! ray spirit could not see 
 That earthly love is vanity.
 
 ALL IS VANITY. 1^5 
 
 But oft, since then, I've quaff 'd the cup, 
 
 The bitter cup of dark despair ; 
 And now I fain would drink it up. 
 
 And find relief from every care. 
 But no; perchance 'tis mine to share 
 
 Its tortures through long years of pain ! 
 Well, if I must its anguish bear, 
 
 The tempest has not rag'd in vain, 
 Since it, at length, has taught to m« 
 That all on earth is vanity.
 
 196 
 
 STANZAS 
 
 TO PSYCHE. 
 
 I WILL not bear it — 'tis in vain. 
 
 The heart may be too deeply tried j 
 I've borne too long thy cold disdain, 
 
 In spite of all my jealous pride ; 
 But now the tempest must subside; 
 
 I'll banish every thought of thee, — 
 And, since my hopes are all denied. 
 
 Regain at least my liberty. 
 
 The simple heart which thou hast spurn'd. 
 
 Perchance may be as proud as thine ; 
 1 know not how it could have turn'd 
 
 To worship at so stern a shrine ; 
 But never more shall knee of mine. 
 
 Be bent in homage at thy feet ; 
 Nor will I o'er the past repine, — 
 
 Its memory never can be sweet.
 
 f 
 
 STANZAS TO FSYCHE. 197 
 
 I will not gaze upon thy face. 
 
 As I, erewhile, was wont to do ; 
 That look of sweet angelic grace. 
 
 Would tempt me soon to break my vow: 
 And I again should tamely bow, 
 
 And be once more thy willing slave ; 
 But no; may pride avert the blow, — 
 
 I'd rather sink into the grave. 
 
 Yet, when I think thou wert the first, 
 
 The loveliest of my youthful dreams ; 
 And how the boyish flame was nursed, 
 
 Beneath thy bright eye's radiant gleams, — 
 How strange the present prospect seems ; 
 
 At times I fancy it ideal ! 
 But then a glimpse of reason beams 
 
 Across my soul, and says 'tis real. 
 
 I dreamt not that thou would'st return 
 
 The flame which burnt within my breast ; 
 And, though I might in secret mourn. 
 
 And seek in vain an hour of rest — 
 I kept that hidden fire repress'd, — 
 
 *Twas told to thee by looks alone ; 
 No other bosom would have guess'd 
 
 That thou wert the beloved one.
 
 198 STANZAS TO PSYCHE. 
 
 Then fare thee well I alas the word 
 
 Falls like a death-knell on my soul ; 
 Life can no newer joy aflford, — 
 
 And I have emptied pleasure's bowl : 
 Strange visions o'er my fancy roll, 
 
 I cannot lose them if I will. 
 Thine image can too well control 
 
 One who has lov'd — nay loves thee still. 
 
 Yes, after all that it has felt. 
 
 My heart still fondly clings to theej 
 Its sternest resolutions melt, 
 
 Like wax before thy witchery : 
 Forgive the jealous liberty 
 
 Which made me use so rude a tone; 
 I would not if I could be free, — 
 
 'Tis bliss to gaze on thee alone.
 
 199 
 
 LINES 
 
 WRITTEN IN A lady's ALBUM. 
 
 "There is a living spirit in the lyre" — 
 'Tis truej but if a hand unskill'd should dare 
 To wake its chords without the genuine fire. 
 The inspiration which but few can share, 
 Would that soul-thrilling harmony be there ? 
 That wild, ecstatic, overwhelniing madness. 
 Which lifts the mind beyond each earthly care, 
 And turns its thoughts of anguish into gladness. 
 Or leaves, at least, behind a mild and pleasing sadness ? 
 
 >
 
 200 LINES WRITTEN IN A LADv's ALBVM. 
 
 It could not be; the vain attempt would bring 
 Derision on the self-confiding wight. 
 Who dar'd to strike the muse's hallow'd string, 
 Nor knew to guide its symphonies aright : 
 Yet such, methinks, am I; my upward flight 
 Is clogg'd and stay'd by gross terrestrial things j 
 And if, by chance, a beam of heavenly light 
 Should break upon my spirit's wanderings. 
 How fleeting is the joy its transient radiance brings. 
 
 I fain would soar above this lower sphere. 
 And, eagle-like, mount upward to the skies : 
 My ardent soul disdains to linger here. 
 And with those master spirits longs to rise, 
 Who sought and won the invaluable prize, 
 The meed of never-dying, endless fame : 
 Though dead to earth their memory never dies. 
 It is a spark of an immortal flame. 
 Quenchless as is the source from whence at first it came.
 
 LINES WRITTEN IN A LADT's ALBUM. 201 
 
 'Tis pleasant in the sleepless dreams of thought, 
 To let imagination rove at will — 
 Through many a future year with pleasure fraught j 
 But in our sober moments comes a thrill, 
 Which tells us that they are bat visions still : 
 So 'tis with all ray aspirations high; 
 Though, for awhile, they may my bosom fill 
 With hopes of fame, at reason's touch they fly, — 
 As when the sun appears the darkness passeth by. 
 
 Yet will I not forsake the flowery ways 
 Of poesy, which I have trod so long ; 
 Though mine may be but rude, unpolish'd lays, 
 I cannot live without the light of song; 
 Its beams have oft dispell'd the dreary throng 
 Of dark despairing thoughts which haunt my breast: 
 Then who can blame me that I would prolong 
 The dear delusion which has brought me rest. 
 When I might else have sunk by care and grief oppress'd?
 
 202 LINES WRITTEN IN A LADT's ALBUM. 
 
 Surely, my gentle friend, thou wilt not be 
 A rigid judge, though such a strain as mine 
 Is far beneath thy glowing minstrelsyj 
 Poetic bays I willingly resign; 
 But as a dimly-twinkling star may shine 
 Amid surrounding gloom, my humble lays 
 May faintly glow till swallow'd up by thine,— 
 And, lost amid their bright, unclouded blaze. 
 They cease to shed around their dim and feeble rays.
 
 203 
 
 POETIC MUSINGS. 
 
 I STOOD upon the sea-beat shore, the air was pure 
 
 and mild J 
 And, like a warrior lull'd to rest, the tranquil ocean 
 
 smil'd. 
 One after one the tiny waves came rolling^ to the 
 
 shore, 
 'Twas but a momentary pause and they were seen no 
 
 more, 
 I thought how like man's hopes they were, how 
 
 fleeting and how vain ! 
 Vet, ah ! unlike those fading hopes, they sunk to rise 
 
 again. 
 Where are the visions of our youth, our dreams of 
 
 future fame ? 
 Alas ! maturer years have shown they were a meteor- 
 flame.
 
 204 POETIC MUSINGS. 
 
 I turn'd me to the western sky, and there, in all its 
 
 pride. 
 The setting sun was sinking slow beneath the gentle 
 
 tide ; 
 I watch'd it till its beams no more illum'd that lovely 
 
 scene : 
 Yet, still, the sky gave token of the radiance that 
 
 had been. 
 Mcthought 'twas like some cherish'd friend that 
 
 quickly pass'd away. 
 But whose remembrance still survives his premature 
 
 decay ; 
 Enshrin'd within the inmost soul an honour'd place 
 
 'twill fill. 
 And in our hour of loneliness be present with us 
 
 still. 
 
 I look'd again, the queen of heaven was rising in the 
 sky. 
 
 And beauteous shone her silver light in temper'd 
 majesty ; 
 
 In thousand wild fantastic shapes, the curling wave- 
 lets roU'd; 
 
 But though I lov'd that glorious queen, her beams 
 were icy cold.
 
 POETIC MUSINGS, 205 
 
 Such is man's heart ! I fondly cried, when youth's 
 
 warm glow is o'er. 
 And all its bright imaginings revisit us no more : 
 ^ Though fortune's ray may smile more sweet than in 
 
 our early years, 
 How cold and lifelessly it falls on manhood's gloomy 
 
 fears. 
 
 I mused till in the midnight sky, the moon herself 
 P had set; 
 
 But in the azure rault of heaven, one bright star 
 
 linger'd yet ; — 
 It shone amid surrounding gloom, and cheer'd my 
 
 lonely way; 
 And as I view'd its far-off light, I bless'd the lovely 
 
 ray; 
 For 1 thought 'twas like the Christian's hope when 
 
 all his friends are gone. 
 And he is left to brave the storm unaided and alone ; 
 The star of faith still brightly shines 'mid worldly 
 
 care and gloom. 
 It points him to a higher sphere — to bliss beyond the 
 
 tomb.
 
 206 POETIC MUSINGS. 
 
 I lingered on, till in the east some faint red streaks 
 
 appear'd. 
 And daylight's gorgeous harbingers their glorious 
 
 tints uprear'd : 
 Anon, the sun liimself came forth and shed his rays 
 
 afar. 
 And in his radiant beams was lost that bright and 
 
 lonely star. 
 This, too, is like the Christian's lot, within my soul 
 
 I said. 
 When earthly griefs are pass'd away and life itself 
 
 hath fled ; 
 His spirit then shall reach the source of pure an- 
 gelic lightj 
 And hope be swallowed up in love, and faith be lost 
 
 in sight.
 
 207 
 
 STANZAS, 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF AN INFANT SISTER, 
 
 I LOVE to muse on thee, young beam, 
 
 Of days long pass'd away, 
 When memory's visions o'er me teem. 
 
 And gathering fancies play : 
 And often on my lonely bed, 
 I tliink upon the cherish'd dead. 
 And mourn their dark decayj 
 I feel their influence calm and deep, — 
 'Tis then alone that I can weep.
 
 208 STANZAS. 
 
 And in those sleepless hours how oft 
 
 Thine infant face appears, — 
 As pure, as sinless, and as soft. 
 
 As in thy living years : 
 And still on me it seems to smile, 
 As free from aught of earthly guile — 
 
 As free from earthly fears — 
 As when in sweet Bimplieity 
 I spent my hoyish days with thee. 
 
 Ah ! those were days of real bliss ; 
 
 Alas, that they should fade ! 
 Yet why expect in worlds like this, 
 
 A sun without a shade? 
 Life is at best a mingled scene, 
 Where sorrows oft will intervene — 
 
 In darkest hues array'd : 
 But thou, my sister, soon didst soar — 
 Where earthly grief is known no more.
 
 STANZAS. 209 
 
 Ere yet our infant years were gone. 
 
 One parent stem was broke ; 
 And she, the sole surviving one. 
 
 Had felt too well the stroke: 
 Her fading cheek and sunken eye, 
 That deep heart-rending misery. 
 
 Unerringly bespoke ; 
 And ere those days of woe were fled, 
 Thou, too, wert nuraber'd with the dead. 
 
 It was too much for her to bear. 
 
 She did not long survive; 
 I saw her in her calm despair, 
 
 I saw her vainly strive 
 To conquer that o'erwhelming grief : 
 Alas, the struggle was but brief! 
 
 Her hopes might ne'er revive ; 
 She sunk at length by slow decay, 
 And vanish'd like a dream away. 
 p
 
 310 STANZAS. 
 
 What ills^ since then, my heart hath brav'd. 
 
 What sorrows it hath borne ! 
 Enough, it ne'er has been enslav'd 
 
 By crouching fear or scorn ; 
 My humble bark has bounded free, 
 Across life's wide tumultuous sea. 
 
 Though oft by tempests torn : 
 But, oh ! how I have long'd to prove, 
 A sister's warm, unchanging love. 
 
 When adverse eyes on me have lower'd. 
 
 With looks of cold disdain; 
 And bleak adversity has pour'd 
 
 Its deluge o'er my brain ; 
 Then, then, hew fondly did I turn — 
 To those who never shall return 
 
 To this vile world again ; 
 And in my spirit's agony, 
 I've wish'd that I had died like thee.
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 Thine was. Indeed, a happy lotj 
 
 Then why should I repine ? 
 The cup of grief thou tastedst not,— 
 
 That darker fate was mine : 
 Thou hadst the sun without the shower, 
 And when the storm began to lower; 
 
 Thou sought'st a land divine ; 
 But to the world I still must cling. 
 An unlov'd, solitary thing. 
 
 Methinks I shall not linger long, 
 
 I fain would be with thee. 
 To join the blest immortal throng. 
 
 Through all eternity: 
 A little longer I must stay. 
 Before my spirit wings its way 
 
 From mortal trammels free; 
 And when those earthly bonds are riven. 
 Wilt thou not welcome me to heaven ? 
 
 211
 
 212 
 
 A BALLAD. 
 
 There's mirth in Ulric's halls to-day, 
 Glad hearts are gaily beatingj 
 
 And many a noble guest is there. 
 And valued friends are meeting. 
 
 But why that gloom on Ulric's brow, 
 Why seems his glance so wild ? 
 
 And where is she, the pride of all. 
 Lord Ulric's matcliless child ? 
 
 Why comes not forth the lovely bride. 
 To greet her destin'd lord ? 
 
 Methinks her presence were but meet. 
 To grace the festal board.
 
 A BALLAD. 213 
 
 She sitteth in her lonely bower. 
 
 Her lieart o'erflows with sorrow; 
 Yet, wherefore should she thus repine ? 
 
 'Tis her bridal day to-morrow. 
 
 And many a rich and fair domain, 
 
 She then may call her own ; 
 But, ah ! the lady heeds not this. 
 
 Her peace of mind is gone. 
 
 She lov'd a brave and gallant knight, 
 
 As ever belted sword ; 
 And she had pledg'd her vows to him. 
 
 Nor would she breik her word. 
 
 But when a wealthier suitor came. 
 
 Her father sternly swore — 
 That she should be his bride, or he 
 
 Would own his child no more. 
 
 The lady's cheek grew very pale. 
 
 But not a word spoke she ; 
 Though inwardly she vow'd to die. 
 Ere she his wife would be.
 
 214 A BALLAP. 
 
 For fierce and angry seem'd his look. 
 
 And gloomy was his eye ; 
 How different from her own true knlght'a 
 
 Bold port and bearing high. 
 
 She sent a trusty page to him, 
 
 To bear her fond request ; 
 But days pass'd on, and answer none — 
 
 Reliev'd her anxious breast. 
 
 And now she yields to dark despair. 
 Nor friend, nor hope hath she ; 
 
 That festal day hath pass'd away, 
 With her right heavily. 
 
 At length the fatal morn arose. 
 
 Her handmaids gaily came 
 To deck their hapless lady out 
 
 To be a wedded dame. 
 
 And joyously tliey led her forth, 
 
 To bhare a slight repast ; 
 Whilst in her soul she firmly swore 
 
 That it should be her last.
 
 A BALLA0. 
 
 215 
 
 She seated her in calm despair, 
 
 No hope her heart beguil'd ; 
 Her father's brow grew calmer then. 
 
 And the moody Richard bmiled. 
 
 For they deem'd she had forgot the knight, 
 
 Whom once she lov'd so well j 
 Alas, methinks that pallid cheek, 
 
 A different tale might tell. 
 
 There's one amid the festal train, 
 
 In palmer's weeds array'd ; 
 And darkly gleams his eye beneath 
 
 His gather'd mantle's shade. 
 
 Full on the bridegroom's face it falls, 
 With a tix'd and piercing glare ; 
 
 Firm would have been his heart, I ween, 
 That searching glance to bear. 
 
 " What mean'st thou, vassal r" stern he said. 
 
 And yet his voice was low ; 
 " Such glance as thine is scarcely meet, 
 
 " For such a lime as now."
 
 216 A BALLAD. 
 
 Slowly tliat gatlicrM mantle fell, — 
 Why trembles Richard so ? 
 
 If well I mark that noble brow, 
 'Tis Richard's deadliest foe. 
 
 The lady, too, liath caught a glance 
 Of Edward's long-lost face ; 
 
 " 'Tis he ! 'tis he ! " she wildly cried, 
 And sprung to his embrace. 
 
 One moment he has fondly clasp'd 
 The lov'd one to his heart; — 
 
 Another, and the trance was broke. 
 He started to depart. 
 
 " This is no time for fruitless tears, 
 " My plighted bride," said he ; 
 
 " But, cheer thee, I will soon return, 
 " And thou mine own shalt be." 
 
 Sternly amid the fearful throng. 
 He kei)t liis onward way ; 
 
 3Jut words like these, in angry tone, 
 Was Richard heard to sav : —
 
 A BALLAD. 21? 
 
 *' Ha, by yon azure vault of lieavcii, 
 
 "Thou shalt not 'scape me now ; 
 "Turn, coward, turn and learn to meet 
 
 "An injur'd warrior's blow !" 
 
 Keen lightning flash'd from Edward's eye. 
 
 His sword has left its sheath 5 
 Quick as the thunderbolt it fell, 
 
 And Richard sunk beneath. 
 
 " Coward ! methinks thou said'st not well, 
 " That word hath cost thee dear ; 
 
 " Think'st thou a brave man's heart can feel 
 "The tyranny of fear ?" 
 
 He turn'd, but many a sword was drawn 
 
 To bar his stern retreat ; 
 'Twere madness with his single arm. 
 
 An adverse host to meet. 
 
 One bold attempt alone remains. 
 
 To save him from his fate ; 
 'Tis done, the foremost ranks have fallen ! 
 
 And he hath reach'd the gate.
 
 218 
 
 A BALLID. 
 
 Hut there a trusty guard is plac'd. 
 
 He may no further go ; 
 And, like a lion turn'd to bay. 
 
 He rush'd amid the foe. 
 
 Fierce were the blows on either side, 
 The vassals bore them well ; 
 
 Hut, like the whirlwind in its wrath. 
 Each stroke of Edward's fell. 
 
 The ground is cumber'd with the slain, 
 And clotted with their gore ; 
 
 But Edward's arm grows weaker now — 
 The strife will soon bt; o'er. 
 
 He sinks — but hark ? what wild uproar 
 
 Is heard without the walls : 
 Nearer and nearer still it comes ; 
 
 At length the draw-bridge falls. 
 
 And, through the slowly-opening guards. 
 
 An aged knight is seen, 
 *Wilh many a warlike follower, 
 
 lu all liib glittering allien.
 
 A BALLAD. 219 
 
 Dark lower'd the hoary veteran's brow. 
 
 When Ulric met his eye ; 
 " Shame on thee, brother/' fierce he said, 
 
 " A fight like this to try ! 
 
 " And shame on you, ye dastard train, 
 
 " Who thus assault the brave ; 
 " 'Tis well that I arrived in time, 
 
 " His valued life to save. 
 
 " Else should your caitiff heads have grac'd 
 
 " The castle's loftiest tower j 
 " E'en now I scarcely can forbear 
 
 " The sacrifice to pour. 
 
 " Ulric, why stand'st thou gazing thus ? 
 
 •' So sullen and reserv'd j 
 •' Mourn'st thou for Richard's timeless death ? 
 
 " His fate was well deserv'd. 
 
 " He knew my fair domain would be, 
 
 " The dowry of his wife ; 
 " And, to secure the temj)ting prize, 
 
 " He strove to take my life.
 
 220 A BALLAD. 
 
 *' 'Twas when by numbers overpower'd, 
 " Death seem'd my only doom ; 
 
 " This gallant youth rush'd in and sav'd 
 " Thy brother from the tomb. 
 
 " And now, what recompense is due, 
 •' For service such as this? 
 
 "Speak, brother, let us hear thee say — 
 " What guerdon should be his ^" 
 
 Sudden, as from a trance awoke, 
 
 Did Ulric make reply ; 
 The flush of shame had ting'd his cheek, 
 
 But joy was iu his eye. 
 
 " Broiher, such service to requite, 
 ♦* Thy riches are too small ; 
 
 " But gratitude at least demands — 
 " That thou should'st give thine all. 
 
 " Come hither, Edward, I too, owe 
 " A debt which I must pay ; 
 
 " And this, if well I ween, will be 
 "The most delightful way."
 
 A BALLAD. 221 
 
 He plac'd his daughter's hand in his. 
 
 Unclouded was his brow ; 
 All, all forgot their former lot ; — 
 
 How happy are they now! 
 
 There's mirth in Ulric's halls to-night. 
 
 Glad hearts are gaily beating ; 
 And many a noble guest is there, 
 
 And happy eyes are meeting. 
 
 For in that wide and spacious hall. 
 
 So late a scene of slaughter, 
 Her lover hath receiv'd his bride, 
 
 Lord Ulric's peerless daughter.
 
 222 
 
 LINES, 
 
 WRITTEN ON REVISITING MULGRAVE WOODS. 
 
 Scene of my earliest, happiest hours 1 
 
 To thee, once more I come; 
 And in thy well-reraember'd bowers. 
 
 Behold my spirit's home. 
 How oft, amidst the busy strife, 
 The changing, bustling scenes of life. 
 
 Where I have learnt to roam. 
 My soul has wing'd its way to thee, 
 And gain'd an hour of liberty.
 
 ONES, WRITTEN ON UEVISITING MULGRAVE WOODS. 223 
 
 Perchance, amid the festal throng. 
 
 The heartless and the cold. 
 Some tender voice, some plaintive song. 
 
 Brought back the days of old : 
 The days when life was in its spring. 
 And many a bright imagining. 
 
 Across my spirit roll'd : 
 And I have sighed to think of thee. 
 E'en in that time of revelry. 
 
 But oftener still at that lov'd hour, 
 
 Of deep and guileless feeling; 
 When sad remembrance wakes to pour 
 
 Her holiest revealing ; 
 Yes, then it is that many a thought. 
 With mingled grief and pleasure fraught. 
 
 Is o'er my fancy stealing ; 
 Till dreams of blended joy and sadness, 
 Flash o'er my soul with more than gladness.
 
 224 LINES, WRITTEN ON REVISITING MULGRAVE WOODS. 
 
 And now, as once again I stand, 
 
 Amid tliy sylvan reign j 
 And, gazing o'er the enchanted land. 
 
 Behold the rich domain, — 
 What hright, unearthly vibions float. 
 Borne on the eagle-wings of thought, 
 
 Across my fervid brain j 
 And every present woe exil'd, 
 I feel as if again a child. 
 
 Oh, that 1 might indeed retrace 
 
 I\Iy boyhood's happy years ! 
 And cast, once more, on nature's face. 
 
 An eye undimm'd by tears : 
 To know the fond confiding truth — 
 The reckless buoyancy of youth — 
 
 Unmarr'd bv secret tears, 
 As 1 was wont in days gone by, 
 IVere worth an age of misery.
 
 LINES, WRITTEN ON REVISITING MULGRAVE WOODS. 22.'> 
 
 But ah, " it must not, cannot be !" 
 
 I feel, alas ! too well — 
 The world has such a claim on me 
 
 As I can ne'er repel ; 
 And strive and struggle as 1 may, 
 I cannot tear the chains away. 
 
 Which bind me like a spell ; 
 Yet, though the worldling's fate be mine, 
 I ne'er will bow before his shrine. 
 
 No, though my stricken heart hath lost 
 
 Some hopes it erst had known ; 
 And on life's stormy ocean toss'd. 
 
 More dark and scar'd hath grown ; 
 Though many a shade of guilt and sin, 
 Hath dimm'd the fervent light within, 
 
 It hath not wholly flown : 
 And, 'spite of friends, and hoi)e cstrang'd, 
 I am not yet completely changd.
 
 226 LINES, WRITTEN ON REVISITING MULGRAVE WOODS. 
 
 Yet^ many a daik'ning cloud hath thrown 
 
 Its shadow o'er nay brow; 
 And many a gloomy day hath flown. 
 
 Since last I roam'd as now : 
 E'en those brief moments of repose, 
 Are hast'ning quickly to their close — 
 
 Like all bright things below j 
 And shortly I must from thee seyer, 
 Beloved spot, perchance for ever !
 
 227 
 
 A FRAGMENT, 
 
 IN IMITATION OF SPENSER. 
 
 It is a fashion which beseemeth well 
 The imps who from the muses earst ysprong ; 
 And on Parnassas mount are wont to dwell. 
 To pay their homage to the tuneful throng-. 
 And eke to claim protection for their song 
 From them : but vainest surquedry 'twould be. 
 If urged on by false ambition strong 
 And overweening pride, a wight like me 
 Should dare to ask their praise for my rude minstrelsy.
 
 228 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 Ne would such araenjiunce me ought avail. 
 For well I ween the muses know their own, 
 Ne may they be by any specious tale — 
 Or counterfeisance vile impos'd upon ; 
 For evermore from out their glorious throne — 
 Bursts forth a radiance like the levin-flash, 
 Which if a faytor false but looks upon. 
 Straightway it doth his courage quite abash — 
 And into kindred dust his grov'iling spirit dash. 
 
 But though the cruel fates have me denied 
 The kind protection of the muses' power, 
 Nor safe with them would suffer me to 'bide 
 Far from the reach of any evil stower j 
 Yet, natheless, I resolved have to pour 
 An uncouth strain of ancient poesy, — 
 Such as whilom in Albion's hapj)ier hour, 
 Dan Spenser wont to tune his golden key ; 
 Would that 'twere mine to breathe a verse so sweet 
 as he. 
 
 ***** *
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 229 
 
 In sooth, it is a fact which none may doubt. 
 Who versed are in lovers' history, 
 That 'tis unwise in any simple lout. 
 To love a lady fair of high degree ; 
 Yet, nathemore raought he persuaded be — 
 Such is his folly and fool-hardiment, 
 Tlie idless of his vain pursuit to see : 
 But aye he strives with fix'd and firm intent, 
 To gain his tow'ring hopes a bright accomplishment. 
 
 Yet seldom doth he win the wishd-for prize. 
 The cynosure of his fond heart's desire ; 
 Though he may pour his soul's impassion'd sighs, 
 In strains as sweet as from Apollo's lyre : 
 Ah, me, but little may the poet's fire. 
 Though breathing love's own eloquence avail. 
 If glitt'ring Mammon aid not to inspire 
 The constant flame full oft a true love tale — 
 Instead of joyous mirth will end in deepest bale.
 
 230 
 
 STANZAS, 
 
 FOR MUSIC. No. 1. 
 
 How bright in childhood's happy hours. 
 
 Our future prospects seem ; 
 The world a pathway strew'd with flowers, 
 
 And life a joyous dream : 
 But when a few short years have roH'd 
 
 Across each sunny brow, 
 How chang'd, how gloomy, and how cold. 
 
 Does the fair picture grow ! 
 
 Perchance, the friends we lov'd the most. 
 
 The sunbeams of our youth, 
 Have prov'd unkind, and ceas'd to boast 
 
 Their friendship's changeless truth : 
 Perchance, the trusting heart hath found 
 
 Too late, that friends deceive, 
 When left in solitude profound, 
 
 O'er wither'd hopes to grieve.
 
 STANZAS. 231 
 
 Yet even then, when all seems dark 
 
 And dreary as the tomb, 
 Is there no bright and cheering spark, 
 
 To beam across the gloom ? 
 Is lifCj indeed, a desert scene. 
 
 Without one sunny spot, — 
 One ray of joy to intervene 
 
 And soothe our wretched lot ? 
 
 No ; though the world may prove unkind. 
 
 Though friends be turn'd to foes, 
 The soul within itself may find 
 
 A balm for all its woes ! 
 Let but that resting-place remain, 
 
 Unstain'd by crime or pride ; 
 And we may look with calm disdain. 
 
 On all the world beside.
 
 232 
 
 STANZAS, 
 
 TOR MUblC. No. 2. 
 
 The stars are sinning bright, my love, - 
 
 The moon is up the sky ; 
 And gloriously her light, my love. 
 
 Is beaming from on high. 
 
 Those are the sweetest hours, my love. 
 
 That earth can ever show. 
 When heaven itself outpours, my love. 
 
 Its beams on us below. 
 
 What is the light of heaven, my love, - 
 
 The sun of yonder skies. 
 Which, when to us 'tis given, my love. 
 
 Makes earth a paradise ?
 
 STANZAS. 233 
 
 [ Is it like those that beanie my love, 
 
 On this terrestrial sphere ? 
 Or does it sweeter seem, my love. 
 Than aught that sparkles here ? 
 
 The sun is nut so bright, my love. 
 The moon is not so sweet : 
 
 Know'st thou not that fair light, my love ? 
 I'll tell it at thy feet !
 
 € 234 
 
 STANZAS, 
 
 WRITTEN IN AFFLICTION. 
 
 1 LOATHE to live, and yet I fear to die j 
 Tliere is a dreary chill upon my heart ; 
 I know that earth's a scene of vanity, 
 And from its toils and cares would fain depart : 
 But from futurity appall'd I start ! 
 I have no promis'd hope beyond the tomb, 
 And consciences' keen arrows through me dart 
 A dire conviction of my dreaded doom, — 
 Filling my troubled soul with agony and gloom.
 
 STANZAS, WRITTEN IN AFFLICTION. 235 
 
 Now all the sins and errors of the past, 
 Rise up in dread array before my sightj 
 And dark despair hath o'er my bosom cast 
 Her pall of murky gloom as black as night. 
 Oh ! ray forsaken God, forget not quite 
 Thine erring creature in this awful hour; 
 Shed o'er my soul a beam of heavenly light. 
 And by thy great, thine all-redeeming power. 
 Dispel the heavy clouds that o'er my spirit lower. 
 
 Lo, at thy feet a suppliant I bow ! 
 A naked, poor, and vile, and wretched thing : 
 Oh, come not with thy dreaded terrors now. 
 As to thy mercy-seat appall'd I cling ! 
 Nor on my helpless head those thunders fling, 
 Which even angels might regard with dread ; 
 But unto me the prorais'd succour bring. 
 Bought by his gracious love who groan'd and bled. 
 And for rebellious man a life of sufifering led.
 
 230 
 
 STANZAS, WniTTEN IN AFFLICTION. 
 
 Cast me not off, my Father, and my God ! 
 Though far from thee I long have gone astray; 
 I now, with humble fear, can kiss the rod 
 Of thine afflicting providence, and say, — 
 " Thy will be done !" 'tis ours but to obey. 
 Yes, unto thee, the omnipresent friend. 
 The Saviour-Lord of all who keep thy way, 
 I fly, and on my knees before thee bend ; 
 To thee alone I come, on thee alone depend !
 
 237 
 
 THE CHIEFTAIN'S RETURNj 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 He hath come to his lordly lialls again, 
 But chang-'d is tiie warriur now; 
 
 For many a year of grief and pain, 
 Hath furrow'd his noble brow. 
 
 The friends of those early years are gone, 
 When life was a dream of gladness ; 
 
 And bis wither'd heart feels cold and lone. 
 And his bosom oppress'd with sadness. 
 
 He stinds hy his father's hearth once more. 
 In his proud, ancestral dwelling; 
 
 And many a thought of the days of yore. 
 O'er his spirit's chords is swelling.
 
 238 THE chieftain's returx. 
 
 He looks on the goodly vassal train, 
 
 Who around his standard hoverj 
 But his eye has sought, and may seek in vain. 
 
 His veterans to discover. 
 
 Their bones have whiten'd the distant land, 
 Where they fought with the mighty strangerj 
 
 They fell to a man — that faithful band. 
 To rescue their lord from danger. 
 
 And he, why did he not stay to share. 
 The fate of his people who perish'd ? 
 
 Did cowardice wither the proud laurels there. 
 Which the chieftain so fondly had cherish'd ? 
 
 No, cast not a slur on his glorious name. 
 With the brave he was ever the bravest ! 
 
 Noble chief, thy descendants shall ihiiik of thy fame. 
 And follow the lesson thou gavest. 
 
 If he lives when the wise and the valiant have bled, 
 'Neath the shafts from death's conquering quiver ; 
 
 'Tis but to avenge the rich blood they have shed. 
 And his spirit shall join them for ever.
 
 239 
 
 MOONLIGHT IMAGININGS. 
 
 A THOUSAND Stars are shining bright, 
 In yonder pure, unclouded sky ; 
 
 And the pale empress of the night. 
 
 Sheds from on high her silver light. 
 
 Which falls tipon the enthusiast's sight — 
 Like a beam of witchery. 
 
 No sound disturbs the lovely calm, 
 
 For the children of men are sunk to rest j 
 
 And the gentle zephyr breathes its balm. 
 Upon this wild and throbbing breast- 
 So long by worldly griefs oppress'd : 
 
 Oh, how I doat upon the hour ! 
 
 It has a meek and placid power,— 
 A seft'iiing, healing influence.
 
 240 MOONLIGHT IMAGININGS. 
 
 Wliich dissipates the clouds that lower 
 O'er every bright imagining. 
 And bids the restless spirit spring 
 Beyond each baser, earthly thing 
 Which would impede its buoyant wing. 
 
 With the low charms of sense. 
 Bless'd visions of those happy years, 
 When life was yet undimm'd by tears. 
 And earthly doubts, and cares, and fears, 
 
 Disturb'd not then my soul ! 
 Ye come before me once again. 
 With all your bright celestial train — 
 Of glorious hopes unmarr'd by pain. 
 And fervent wishes check'd in vain, ^ 
 
 By reason's stern control. 
 But, ah! how chang'd the heart hath grown, 
 Wlilch erst your gentle sway had known — 
 Youth's wild enchanting dreams are flown, 
 
 Its aspirations faded: 
 And now I feel all dark and lone. 
 As if the only chord were gone, 
 Which us'd to pour a livelier tone, 
 
 When grief my brow had shaded. 
 
 R. Kir lit/, Prinlir, If'hiflty.
 
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