SPECIMENS OF BRITISH POETRY: CHIEFLY SELECTED FROM AUTHORS OF HIGH CELEBRITY, AND INTERSPERSED WITH ORIGINAL WRITINGS. EDINBURGH : PRINTED BY JAMES BALLANTYNE AND CO. FOR MESSRS JOHN RICHARDSON, 91, ROYAL EXCHANGE, LONDON ; OLIVER AND BOYD, EDINBURGH ; T. KAYE, CASTLE STREET, LIVERPOOL; RAW, IPSWICH; CLARKES, MANCHESTER ; LEEMING, LANCASTER ; SHAW, PEN- RITH ; JOLLIE, CARLISLE ; DOWSON, BRANTHWAITE ; RICHARDSON, KENDAL; FOSTER, KIRKBY LONSDALE; CHAPELHOW, APPLEBY ; AND SOULBY, ULVERSTON. 1823. DEDICATION. Reader, Thou wilt find here no elaborate display of words, to tell how virtue can adorn a coronet. Truth is for- borne, lest thou shouldst deem it flattery, and miscon- strue the genuine effusions of a grateful heart into a venal offering' at the shrine of Grandeur and of In- terest. Yet is this Book proudly dedicated to one, whose mo- ral practice transcends in brightness her illustrious rank as a Peeress of Englana. TO THE COUNTESS OF LONSDALE, BY HER LADYSHIP'S MOST OBEDIENT, MOST DEVOTED, VERY HUMBLE SERVANT, ELIZABETH SCOTT. SUBSCRIPTION LIST. Mr Joseph Atkinson, Kendal, Mr John Atkinson, do. Mr Benjamin Atkinson, do. . . . Thos. Atkinson, Esq. London, Wm. Waltham Atkinson, Esq. Burton, in Kendal, Mr Atkinson, Esq. Temple, Sowerby, Mrs Atkinson, Kirkland, Kendal, Miss Atkinson, do. do. Mr John Atkinson, Darlington, Mr Airey, Liverpool, Mrs Aldrich, Ipswich, . The Rev. J. Symonds Breedon, D Samuel Barrow, Esq. London, John Barrow, Esq. Kendal, Miss Barrow, do. . Mrs Barton, do. Mr N. Bateman, do. Joseph Braithwaite, Esq. do Mrs J. Braithwaite, do. Mr Braithwaite, Liverpool, Miss Buck, do. Mr Burrel, do. Mrs Birkett, do. Mr Bowness, do. . Abraham Banks, Esq. Liverpool, Mrs A. Banks, do. D. Bere-Court, Berkshire, 2 2 2 No of Copies. 2 VI 11 SUBSCRIPTION LIST. C. Beverley, Esq. London, .... Mrs Bradley, Slyne, Lancaster, James Bateman, Esq. Tolson-Hall, Westmoreland William Bentham, Esq. London, Mr Bray, Manchester, .... James Backhouse, Esq. Darlington, Thomas Beck, Esq. The Grove, Hawkshead, Mrs Beck, do. do. ..... Thomas Buttle, Esq. Kirkby, Lonsdale, Miss Branthwaite, Cowen-Head, Westmoreland, Mr Briggs, Gazette-office, Kendal, The Right Rev. the Lord Bishop of Chichester, Mrs Cobbold, Holywells, near Ipswich, J. C. Cobbold, Esq. ClifF, do. do. . Mrs Robert Cobbold, Eye, Mrs Charles Cobbold, Colchester, The Rev. Richard Cobbold, Ipswich, The Rev. Edward Cobbold, Blaxhall, Miss Casson, Liverpool, Miss Coupland, Penrith, .Tames Crossfield, Esq. Wood, Broughton, Miss Curwen, Belle-Isle, Windermere, Miss Cheshire, Alton, Cheshire, William Coward, Esq. Kendal, William D. Crewdson, Esq. junior, Kendal, Mrs Dixon, do Mrs Dowker, do Miss Dyson, do Mrs Dowson, do. Mrs Dowson, Kirkland, do. . Miss Devaynes, Liverpool, Mr Dennison, do. .... Laurence Davidson, Esq. Edinburgh, John Eagleton, Esq. Liverpool, Mis J. Eagleton, do. Miss E. Fontaine, London, . Thomas Fawcctt, Esq. Sedbergh, Ralph Fisher, Esq. Hill-Top, near Kendal, No. of Copies. SUBSCRIPTION LIST. IX No. of Copies. C. Fen ton, Esq. Post-office, Kendal, Mr Thomas Fenton, do. ... Mrs Fell, do Mr A. Forbes, Levens, near do. Mrs Farrier, Liverpool, Mrs Grant, Edinburgh, George Gardner, Esq. Lincoln 5 s-Inn, London, Robert Gawthorp, Esq. Kendal, Miss Gawthorp, do James Gandy, Esq. senior, do. Robert Greenhow, Esq. do. . Mrs Gurnal, do R. Greenwood, Esq. do. ... Miss Garnett, Sharp, .... The Rev. J. Hudson, Vicar of Kendal, . Mrs Hudson, Kendal, .... Mrs Harrison, do Miss Harrison, do. .... John Harrison, Esq. do. Miss Alicia Harrison, do. Mr William Holme, do. ... Mr W. B. Hodgson, do. ... Mrs Hopper, Leamington, Warwickshire, Thomas Hodgson, Esq. R. N. London, . John Hinde, Esq. do Mrs Hoskins, do Mrs Holmes, Liverpool, James Holland, Esq. Stretford, near Manchester, R. B. Jackson, Esq. do. ... James Jolly, Esq. Enfield, Middlesex, . John Jolly, Esq. London, Mrs F. Jocelyn, Leiston, Miss Jermyn, Ipswich, .... James Johnson, Esq. Kendal, Mr Kirby, Underbarrow, near do. . Mr T. Kaye, Liverpool, The Right Hon. the Earl of Lonsdale, . The Countess of Lonsdale, . . . SUBSCRIPTION LIST. No. of Copies The Hon. Henry Cecil Lowther, . Lady Eleanor Lowther, .... Lady Le Fleming, Rydal-Hall, Westmoreland, Mrs Mathew, Oatley Park, Shropshire, Mrs Morland, Kendal, Mrs Maude, do. ' Mr S. Marshall, do Mr M 'Naught, do Mrs Morland, Natland Cottage, near Kendal, Mrs Milburn, Liverpool, .... Ford North, Esq. Ambleside, George Nicholson, Esq. Liverpool, Mr Nelson, Kirkland, Kendal, The Right Rev. the Lord Bishop of Peterborough, J. Ashby Partridge, Esq. Brakspeare, near Uxbridge, Mrs C. Pococke, Ipswich, .... Mrs R. Perry, London, Mrs Parking, Penrith, Robert Preston, Esq. Liverpool, Mrs Robertson, of Invernesshire, . Mrs Romney, Whitestock-Hall, Westmoreland, Thomas Rodick, Esq. Liverpool, . Mrs Richardson, Kendal, .... Mrs Russell, do Mr F. Rogan, Miss Ramsay, Penrith, .... Sir Walter Scott, Bart, of Abbotsford, . Thomas Scott, Esq. Penrith, .... Miss Shearer, Edinburgh, .... Colonel David Stewart of Garth, N. B. . Miss Smith, Tent-Lodge, Coniston, W. H. Spink, Esq. Leeds, .... Mr Squire, London, Arthur Shepherd, Esq. Shaw-End, near Kendal, Miss H. Smith, Kendal, .... William Satterthwaite, Esq. do. . William Sparling, Esq. Petton Hall, Shropshire, Edward Tatham, Esq. Kendal, SUBSCRIPTION LIST. XI No. of Copies Edmund Tatham, Esq. Kendal, . Mrs Tebay, do Mrs Tomlinson, do Mrs Watson, Calgarth-Park, Westmorland, . Miss Watson, do. do Miss E. Watson, do. do. .... Daniel Wilson, Esq. Dallam-Tower, Westmorland, Mrs Wakefield, Sedgewick-Hall, do. Miss S. Wilson, do. do. . ... Christopher Wilson, Esq. Kendal, Mrs James Wilson, do. .... Mrs Wilson, Abbot-Hall, Kendal, Mrs Wilson, Blind Beck, do Miss Wilson, Far-Cross-Bank, do. Captain Wilson, Dove- Nest, Ambleside, Mrs Richard Wilson, Kendal, Jacob Wakefield, Esq. do Isaac Whitwell, Esq. do Francis Webster, Esq. do Miss Webster, do. Mrs Witton, do John Wharton, Esq. M. P. Skelton-Castle, Yorkshire, Mrs Wharton, do. do. ..... Sir James Wilson, K. C. B. Burnett, near Bath, Lady Wilson, do Miss Wood, Milnthorp, Mr Willan, Liverpool, Mr J. Williamson, Kendal, . Dr Williams, Ipswich, John Williams, Esq. Burton in Kendal, . , . Mrs Williams, do. Anthony Yeates, Esq. Kendal, Miss Yeates, do 20 SPECIMENS OF POETIC MELODY. THE AVENGER; OR, THE WRONGS OF LADY HERMEGILD. AN ORIGINAL NARRATIVE POEM. BY MRS COBBOLD, OF IPSWICH. PART THE FIRST. Sweet vespers holy sisters send From yonder ancient shrine : May angels on their couch attend, Though none will visit mine ! " No vespers sooth my troubled breast, That lives but to despair ; Nor prayer it owns, nor hallow'd rest, For vengeance lords it there." — A 2 THE AVENGER. So spake fair Hermegild, reclined Within her lonely cell, When choral hymns at sun-set johTd The organs solemn swell. Soft, o'er her couch of sculptured stone, Streamed evening's lustre meek ; But softer far the colour shone, That tinged her hectic cheek; Yet deep and low, a fitful gale In hollow murmurs blew, And nearer, through the cloistered aisle, A heavy footstep drew. The fair enthusiast's eye was yet Half clouded by a tear ; She raised its full blue orb, and met A Warrior's frown severe. " And have I found thee ? — Haste away ! Haste, Hermegild P he cried ; " Throw off that veil and robe of grey, And shine De Montfort's bride." — " O spare me, Wilhelm ! Uncle, spare ! The fatal vow I swore, Never, till maddenM by despair. To see I)e Alontfort more. THE AVENGER. " The tale of blood which I relate, Shall knit thy soul to mine, And make a brother's deadly hate A daughters vengeance join. " My father's honours bind thy brow, And o'er thy banners shine ; And shall not vengeance on his foe In equal right be thine ? — " His promise, ere I yet could feel The harshness of command, To guerdon bold De Montfort's zeal, Decreed his daughter's hand. " I bade my rebel spirit bow ; As, with a duteous pride, I struggled to pronounce the vow My shrinking heart denied. " Scarce was the luckless bride attired, Scarce deck'd the splendid hall, When France, to lead the fight, required Her gallant Seneschall.* • Anseau Garland, Grand Seneschall of France, was killed at the siege of Puiset, A. D. 1118. The King (Lewis le Gros) bestowed his office first on William Garland, who died in 1120, and then on another brother of the same family, Stephen, archdeacon of Paris, who is repre- TH1. AYKNGEH. " My father on his manly breast, The corslet quickly braced ; And well the helm and floating crest My fatal bridegroom graced. " The tear that stole down either face, Seem'd nature's holiest dew ; And soon the last convulsed embrace, Confirm'd the last adieu. " As, urged by fortune's fickle gale, The tide of rumour roll'd, How eagerly I sought each tale ! How trembled to be told ! " Alas ! what varied feelings float On fame's uncertain breath ! My country's triumph swell'd the note That wail'd my father's death. " Nor love nor friendship interfer'd, To offer vain relief; No tidings from Dc Montfort cheer'd The gloomy hours of grief. senteil by historians as a monster of wickedness. Having, by his pride, given great offence to the Queen, he ventured on open rebellion, and for- tified his castle of Livri against the King. He was at length subdued ; and compelled to relinquish his office of Seneschall to Amaulry de Mont- fort, who claimed it as an hercditarv right, having married the daugh- ter and heiress of Anseau Garland. THE AVENGER. " Alone I sate, alone I wept, Alone I breathed my prayer ; While round my bower the horrors swept Of silence and despair. " One night, my trembling Maidens found, Beneath the castle wall, A Soldier fainting on the ground, And bore him to my hall. " This scull, this scroll, and dagger stainVl, Were folded in his vest, Which still his wan, cold hands retaind In grasp convulsive prest. " I raised his head, I chafed his brow, His eye-balls wildly roll'd ; His dying voice, in accents low, This tale of horror told : — " ' O vain thy purpose, lady fair ! Death's sharpest pangs are o'er ; These prison-wasted limbs can bear My wounded frame no more. " ' Where battle's clamour loudest rose, I fought by Anseau's side : With dauntless force he met his foes — By treason's stroke he died ! 6 THE AVENGEK. " ' As pillow'd on my wounded breast The warrior's head reclined, In bloody characters he traced This scroll, to me consign'd. " ' Take to my child,' he faintly cried, ' When cold in earth I rest, My scull, the dagger from my side, This scroll, my last bequest. 1 " ' Here, lady, have I reach'd my goal ; Then let thy pious care This poniard, sacred scull, and scroll, To Hermegilda bear. 1 — " Cold dews across his forehead came, The parting pang was o'er ; One breath just waved life's trembling flame, And it revived no more. " Ere consolation's ling 'ring hour Could sooth the orphan's pain, My Prelate-Uncle's grasping power Had seized my rich domain. " For shelter, with a woman's fear, The convent's gloom I sought ; And, madd'ning o'er these relics dear, BrcathM vows with vengeance fraught. THE AVENGER. 7 U Now, Wilhelm, listen to the deed These fatal lines reveal ; Thy heart like HermegikTs shall bleed — Thy soul with hers shall feel. THE SCROLL. " The mortal pang suspended, one short hour Perchance to my deluded child is given ; A little breath is granted to implore For her the favour of protecting Heaven. " Forgive, thou dear betray'd one ! matchless art Urged thy mistaken father's harsh command. De Montfort is a villain, and thy heart Must shrink with horror from his murd'rous hand. " He led me to the battle's wildest throngs, Then with his cowards fled. Alone I stood ; My sword in deadly records mark'd my wrongs — May Heaven revenge them in De Montfort's blood ! " One gallant soldier to my rescue flew — We raged like lions hunted to the toil : At every stroke the carnage round us grew — We saw the foe in shrinking hosts recoil. " We paused, we breath'd; night's shadows, dark and slow, RolPd o'er the plain, with slaughter cover'd wide ; Behind, unseen, some traitor's coward blow A poniard plunged in my defenceless side. 8 THE AVENGER. " O deed of blood ! for this shall vengeance rise ! — The poniard was De Montforfs; but, I fear, A brother plannd Be hush'd the dread surmise ! — Peace, struggling soul, the horrid thought forbear ! " Soon shall the Avenger rise- The heart-felt eloquence that spoke In many a trickling tear, ProclainTd that death the record broke, And fix'd his period here. Stern WilhelnTs form gigantic tower'd, Exulting in its pride ; His eye roll'd quick — his dark brow lower'd, " The Avenger comes V he cried. " Thy heart's recesses to explore, I bent my speech to guile ; I hate De Montfort, and abhor The Prelate's coward wile ! " The stroke too surely Stephen plann'd, Though Montfort struck the blow ; — The plotting head, the treacherous hand, Shall soon to vengeance bow. THE AVENGER. 9 " The banquet now in Livri's tower Decks ev'ry gorgeous room, And wine usurps on reason's power, Till midnight seals their doom. *&* " E'en now my minions round them wait : The hour is fraught with woe — Come, glut thy vengeance in their fate ; Come, strike with me the blow ! " But darest thou pass where shades of death, Where ghastly forms appal, And cross the barren, blasted heath, Which leads to Livri's hall ?" " Yes ! I will follow, though as far As sunset from the dawn ; Though thunderbolts my path should bar, And Hell's abysses yawn. " I ask not, at th' eternal throne, Aught now of earthly good ; An injured father's dying groan Demands requiting blood. " Low at my feet, convulsed in death, Let Anseau's murd'rer lie, Though on a bare and blasted heath, Forlorn, unwept, I die ! 10 THE AVENGER. " All-ruling Providence, forgive, If impious my design ! And let thy boundless mercies live, Where else despair were mine ! " Lead on : and now be firm, my soul ! Revenge shall banish fear, Though lightnings flash, and demons howl. And spectres shriek, forbear I 11 PART THE SECOND. The tapers, through the Gothic screen, Shone faintly mid the gloom Of awful shadows dimly seen, From arch, and shrine, and tomb. The wand'rers cautiously have past The cloister and the grate ; The portress bribed, with trembling haste Unlocks the massy gate. On graves beneath the pois'nous yew, Their echo'd footsteps fall, A V here worms, to drink the tainted dew, From charnel-houses crawl. THK AVENGKK. 11 " Hist ! Wilhelm, hist ! a mournful noise Slow wails these vaults around : And hark ! what soul-appalling cries From yonder turret sound !" " Now shame upon thy coward soul ; The night-breeze waves the spray, And from yon turret screams the owl, Exulting o'er her prey." " What light is that, whose azure blaze Along the greensward flies ? Now o'er the mossy grave it plays Where murder 1 d Agnes lies. " Ah me ! that light prophetic shews Some hapless wretch's doom ! What mystic characters are those Which shine on Clara's tomb ? " And mark that shape, so faint, so pale, In winding-sheet array'd — Whose light limbs float upon the gale, And melt in distant shade." " What ! can an ignis-fatuus vain Thy shrinking bosom fright ? Or crawling reptile's slimy train, That beams phosphoric light ? 12 THE AVENGER. " Pale sheeted spectres ! goodly dreams Thy spirit to appal ! Th' emerging moonlight's transient gleams Upon a whited wall. " Why in this hour such weakness shewn ? Why causelessly dismay'd ? The night has terrors of its own, That need not Fancy's aid/'' On stormy clouds that gathered round, All black'ning as they pass, The Abbey's heavy buildings frown'd A darker, deeper mass. As fade its less'ning tow'rs and walls From Hermegilda's eye, Fond thought each shrine, each cell recalls, And wakes the doubtful sigh. Low thunders roll the rocks among ; Quick lightnings gild the steeps ; And wild and loud the heath along, The blighting hail-storm sweeps. Pale is the lady's lip, and pale Her wan cheek's fading rose ; Close o'er her breast she folds her veil, And trembles as she goes. THE AVENGER. 13 For not her failing step can stay Her persevering guide, Whose will, impatient of delay, Scarce checks his giant stride. No beaten track, no social haunt, The desert's horrors breaks ; Where swings the murdVers carcase gaunt, The greedy vulture shrieks. And now he leaves his gibbet feast To raven, bat, and owl, And fiercely flaps on Wilhehn's breast, His wing with carrion foul. Stern Wilhelm starts — unsheaths his brand ; " HelPs guest, avaunt !" he cries — The red bolt strikes, and from his hand The shatter'd weapon flies. Wide bursts the cloud — the lightning flings New terrors round his form ; And rushing sounds of viewless wings Are mingled in the storm. Pale Hermegilda o'er her head The warrior's mantle flung ; Her grasp the impious curse has staid That quiver'd on his tongue. 11 14 THK AVENGES.. " Speed, speed to Lira's fated walls ; Revenge ! revenge !" he cries, " Revenge ! 'tis Anseau's Spirit calls P A hollow voice replies. " Fiends have beset us ! whence that sound ? Shades flit athwart the gloom : Can spirits pierce the gulph profound ? Can voices cleave the tomb ? " O ! I am faint, am sick at heart With agony of pain : Again the pang ! a burning dart Shoots through my whirling brain. " 'Tis poison : while I spread the snare Of midnight murder foul, The wily priest has mock'd my care, And drugg'd my festive bowl. " What terrors on my senses steal ! What throbs restrain my breath ! Support me, Hermegild, I feel The icy clasp of death ! " Ah ! hide that scull — with fiery balls Those hollow sockets glare : Hark ! hark ! again that voice ! it calls — « Come, Fratricide, prepare P THE AVENGER. 15 " Curst is the heart condemn'd to feel Ambition's endless strife ; And curst the hand could plunge the steel That drank a brother's life ! a Mine was the deed : that fatal day His servants early bore The wounded Montfort far away, While I his armour wore. " The rest is known — and mark, e'en now, Upon this blasted plain, Had stronger fate not check'd the blow, Thou too in death hadst lain. " May Heaven, in this tremendous hour, On thee its mercy shew ! O ! would that its resistless power Had saved thy husband too ! " Remorse is vain, the prayer too late — Too late the bitter tear ; Avenging furies round me wait, And all is horror here !" He groan'd, and thrice the Gar-wolf howFd ; Thrice croak'd the raven hoarse : At Hermegilda , s feet he rolFd A livid, bloated corse ! 1(> THE AVENGER. The distant thunder died away, The lightning faintly gleam'd, And bright the moon's returning ray, Through passing vapours stream'd. It fell on that lorn lady's cheek, Half frozen with despair ; Yet awe, and resignation meek, Were deeply blended there. 44 I own thy justice, Lord !" she cried, 44 Though fear my life-blood chill ; 'Tis sent to check my impious pride, And bid my heart be still. 44 No guilt can 'scape thy wrath divine, No thought thy presence shun : Th' Avenger's right is only thine, And let thy will be done." As still she stood, with folded arms, The shriek of flying foes, And victory's shout, and war's alarms, In mingled tumult rose. Onward they came. The clangor soon Assail'd her startled ear ; And Montfort's banners to the moon Triumphant floated near. THE AVENGER. 17 " He lives ! he comes ! — O Power ador d, In mercy ever blest !" — She sprang to meet her rescued lord — She fainted on his breast. And never more did wrath and pride Her chasten'd thoughts alloy : Her heart to baleful passions died, But lived to love and joy. The modesty of Mrs Cobbold's genius induces her to suppose, that the " Avenger" has been too highly appreciated in a circle acquainted with the circumstances under which it was written, and are as follows : — Sir Robert Ker Porter, whose friendship Mrs Cobbold is proud to acknowledge, requested her to invent a story for two elegant designs which he had executed in water colours. The first re- presented a beautiful woman, seated on a carved stone-chair, in a conventual cell, apparently in the act of some forcible appeal to Heaven, to which a warrior, of middle age, of a stern and suspicious aspect, seemed attentively listening. Near her, on a footstool, lay a human scull, a dagger, and a scroll, marked with bloody characters. The second drawing displayed the same two figures on a wild and desolate heath. The warrior, livid and bloated, lay dead at the lady's feet. The moon, breaking through volumes of dark and tempestuous clouds, shone full on her face, which express- ed the mingled feelings of terror and resignation. No hints were afforded but such as the drawings gave ; and Mrs Cobbold, thinking her execution of the task inadequate to the beauty of the designs, had no intention of publishing the story ! and it is only at the pressing request of her affectionate and grateful relative, Miss Scott, that it is now offered to the public. B L is 1 TO THE MOON. FROM " ItOKEBY."" BY SIR WALTER SCOTT. Hail to thy cold and clouded beam, Pale pilgrim of the troubled sky ! Hail, though the mists that o'er thee stream Lend to thy brow their sullen dye ! How should thy pure and peaceful eye Untroubled view our scenes below ; Or how a tearless beam supply, To light a world of war and woe ! Fair Queen ! I will not blame thee now, As once, by Greta's fairy side ; Each little cloud that dimnVd thy brow Did then an angel's beauty hide. And of the shades I then could chide, Still are the thoughts to memory dear ; For, while a softer strain I tried, They hid my blush, and calnVd my fear. Then did I swear, thy ray serene Was fornTd to light some lonely dell, liy two fond lovers only seen, Reflected in the crystal well ; STANZAS, FROM THE REFUSAL. 19 Or sleeping in their mossy cell, Or quivering on their lattice bright, Or glancing on their couch, to tell How swiftly wanes the summer night. STANZAS, FROM THE " IlEFUSAL. BY MRS WEST. My father is dead, and my mother is dead, They sleep beneath the church-yard tree ; And my brothers so brave, are all in the grave, The greedy grave, that yawns for me. I am an orphan, without a friend, Courage, my heart ! for life will end. I was the delight of a gallant knight, And he vow'tt he only lived for me ; But the turtle, I trow, is doonTd to woe, While her faithless mate away doth flee. Courage, my heart ! and bear the wrong, Life is short, though sorrow is strong. I had a sweet child, on me he smiled, And bade me live his fame to see ; But the death-storm blew, and the cold night-dew Blasted the rose so dear to me ! 20 napoleon's farewell. I wrapped him in his winding-sheet, And strew'd him with flowers as frail as sweet ! My. kindred are dead, my love is fled ; Courage, my heart, thou canst love no more !- Pale is my cheek, my body is weak ; Courage, my heart, 'twill soon be o'er ! — Dim are my eyes with tears of sorrow, They ache for a night without a morrow. NAPOLEONS FAREWELL. BY LORD BYRON. Farewell to the land, where the gloom of my glory Arose, andLo , ershadow 1 d the earth with her name; She abandons me now, but the page of her story — The brightest or blackest — is filTd with my fame. I have warr'd with the world, which vanquished me only When the meteor of conquest allured me too far ; I have coped with the nations, which dread me thus lonely — The last single captive to millions in war. Farewell to thee, France ! when thy diadem crown'd mc, I made thee the gem and the wonder of earth ; Hut thy weakness decrees I should leave as I found thee, Decayed in thy glory, and sunk in thy worth. THE GRAVE. 21 Oh, for the veteran hearts ! that were wasted In strife with the storm when their battles were won ; Then the eagle, whose gaze in that moment was blasted, Had still soar\l with eyes frVd on victory's sun ! — Farewell to thee, France ! — but when liberty rallies Once more in thy regions, remember me then ! The violet still grows in the depth of thy vallies ; Though wither'd, thy tears will unfold it again. Yet, yet, I may baffle the hosts that surround us, And yet may thy heart leap awake to my voice ; There are links that must break in the chain that has bound us, — Then turn thee, and call on the Chief of thy choice ! THE GRAVE. BY J. MONTGOMERY, Esq. There is a calm for those who weep, A rest for weary pilgrims found ; They softly lie, and sweetly sleep. Low in the ground. The storm that wrecks the winter sky No more disturbs their deep repose, Than summer evening's latest sigh, That shuts the rose. 22 THE GRAVE. I long to lay this painful head And aching heart beneath the soil ; To slumber in that dreamless bed From all my toil. For misery stole me at my birth, And cast me helpless on the wild. I perish ! — O my mother earth, Take home thy child ! On thy dear lap these limbs reclined, Shall gently moulder into thee ; Nor leave one wretched trace behind, Resembling me. Hark ! a strange sound affrights mine ear. — My pulse, my brain runs wild — I rave ! — Ah ! who art thou whose voice I hear ? — — " I am the Grave ! " The Grave, that never spoke before, Hath found at last a tongue to chide : O listen ! I will speak no more — Be silent, pride. " Art thou a wretch of hope forlorn, The victim of consuming care ? Is thy distracted conscience torn By fell despair ? THE GRAVE. 23 " Do foul misdeeds of former times Wring with remorse thy guilty breast ? And ghosts of unforgiven crimes Murder thy rest ? " Lash'd by the furies of the mind, From wrath and vengeance woukVst thou flee ? — Ah ! think not, hope not, fool, to find A friend in me ! — " By all the terrors of the tomb, Beyond the power of tongue to tell ! By the dread secrets of my womb ! By death and hell ! " I charge thee, live ! — Repent, and pray ; In dust thine infamy deplore ; There yet is mercy. — Go thy way, And sin no more. " Art thou a mourner ? Hast thou known The joy of innocent delights ? Endearing days forever flown, And tranquil nights ? " O live ! and deeply cherish still The sweet remembrance of the past ; Rely on Heaven's unchanging will For peace at last. 24 THE GRAVE. " Art thou a wanderer ? Hast thou seen O'erwhelming tempests drown thy bark ? A shipwreck'd sufferer hast thou been, Misfortune's mark ? " Though long of winds and waves the sport, Condemn'd in wretchedness to roam, — Live ! — thou shalt reach a sheltering port, A quiet home. " To friendship didst thou trust thy fame ; And was thy friend a deadly foe, Who stole into thy breast to aim A surer blow ? " Live ! and repine not o'er his loss, A loss unworthy to be told ; Thou hast mistaken sordid dross For friendship's gold. " Go seek that treasure seldom found, Of power the fiercest griefs to calm ; And sooth the bosom's deepest wound With heavenly balm. " Did woman's charms thy youth beguile, And did the fair one faithless prove ? Hath she betray 'd thee with a smile, And sold thy love ? THE CRAVE. 25 " Live ! 'twas a false bewildering fire : Too often love's insidious dart Thrills the fond soul with wild desire, But kills the heart. " Thou yet shalt know, how sweet, how dear, To gaze on listening beauty's eye ! To ask, — and pause, in hope and fear, Till she reply. — " Whate'er thy lot — whoe'er thou be — Confess thy folly — kiss the rod ; And in thy chastening sorrows see The hand of God. " A bruised reed he will not break ; Afflictions, all his children feel ; He wounds them for his mercy's sake, He wounds to heal ! " Humbled beneath his mighty hand, Prostrate his Providence adore ; 'Tis done ! arise ! He bids thee stand, To fall no more. " Now, traveller in the vale of tears ! To realms of everlasting light, Through time's dark wilderness of years, Pursue thy flight. 26 THE GRAVE. " There is a calm for those who weep — A rest for weary pilgrims found, And while the mouldering ashes sleep Low in the ground ; " The soul, of origin divine, God's glorious image, freed from clay, In Heaven's eternal sphere shall shine A star of day ! " The sun is but a spark of fire, A transient meteor in the sky ; The soul, immortal as its sire, Shall never die !" IMPROMPTU, ON HEARING THE BAGPIPE IN THE STREETS OF EDINBURGH. By CHARLOTTE T. S. V. To no whiffling reed Albyn's sons ever listen, 'Tis for no feeble purpose their strong blast is blown ; In tinselTd parade, O they care not to glisten — To conquer or die is the motto they own. KENDAL CASTLE. 2* Full oft has their slogan the foeman 1 s heart flouted, Full oft have their tartans in battle-front waved ; 'Twas " Scotland for ever !" at Waterloo shouted, That ended the strife, and the nations were saved. LINES ON VISITING THE RUINS OF KENDAL CASTLE. Where yon ancient grey towers now mouldering stand, Oft at evening's still hour I have stray 'd, To muse on the ruin that time's wasting hand Around the wide circle hath made. But now, as towards its dark walls I draw near, I look down on the mist-cover d vale with a sigh, On the spot which contain'd all my soul once held dear, When with eyes render'd dim by the fast falling tear, To the Castle's lone shelter I fly. Dear peaceful retreat ! in the past days of bliss, When of happiness I had a share, Had I rightly consider'd a prospect like this, 'T would have taught my fond heart to beware. 28 THE ROSE. For where is the pride of thy moss-mantled walls, Where the owl lonely screaming hides nightly her head? Or the nobles who trod thy magnificent halls, Oft the scene of wild revelry, feasting, and balls ? — Alas ! every vestige is fled. Then what avail honours, or titles, or wealth, Vain trifles that quickly are gone ; Cruel death undermines the foundations of health, And the sand of existence is run. And the soft hours of love like the meteors which dart Their transient but beautiful blaze through the sky, Like them love and happiness quickly depart ; For the sunbeams of joy often play on the heart When the dark cloud of sorrow is nigh. THE ROSE. BY WILLIAM COWI'EK, ESQ. The rose had been wash'd, just washed in a shower. Which Mary to Anna conveyd, The plentiful moisture encumbered the flower, And weighed down its beautiful head. THE ROSE. 29 The cup was all filPd, and the leaves were all wet, And it seem'd to a fanciful view, To weep for the buds it had left with regret, On the flourishing bush where it grew. I hastily seized it, unfit as it was For a nosegay, so dripping and drownVl, And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas ! I snapp'd it, it fell to the ground. And such, I exclainVd, is the pitiless part Some act by the delicate mind, Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart Already to sorrow resign'd. c This elegant rose, had I shaken it less, Might have bloom , d with its owner a while, And the tear that is wiped with a little address, May be follow'd, perhaps, by a smile. L 30 i TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH. By ROBERT BURNS. Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flowr, Thoust met me in an evil hour ; For I maun crush among the stour Thy slender stem ; To spare thee now is past my power, Thou bonnie gem. O" Alas ! it's no thy neebor sweet, The bonnie lark, companion meet ! Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet, Wi 1 speckled breast, When upward springing, blythe to greet The purpling east. Cauld blew the bitter-biting north Upon thy early, humble birth ; Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth Amid the storm, Scarce rear'd above the parent earth Thy tender form. TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY. 31 The flaunting flowers which gardens yield, High sheltering woods, and wa's maun shield, But thou, beneath the random bield O 1 clod or stane, Adorns the histie stibble field, Unseen, alane. There in thy scantie mantle clad, Thy snawie bosom sun-ward spread, Thou lifts thy unassuming head In humble guise ; But now the share uptears thy bed. An' low thou lies. Such is the fate of artless maid, Sweet flowVet of the rural shade, By love's simplicity betray ""d, And guileless trust, Till she, like thee, all soiFd is laid Low i' the dust. Such is the fate of simple bard, On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd, Unskilful he to note the card Of prudent lore, Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, And whelm him o'er. Such fate to suffering worth is given, Who long with wants and woes has striven, 32 EPITAPH. By human pride or cunning driven To missy's brink, Till, wrench'd of every stay but heaven, He, ruin'd, sink ! E'en thou who mourn'st the daisy's fate, That fate is thine no distant date : Stern ruins plough-share drives, elate, Full on thy bloom, Till crushed beneath the furrow's weight, Shall be thy doom ! EPITAPH, WRITTEN AT SPITHEAU. Hark to the knell ! It comes in the swell Of the stormy ocean-wave ; 'Tis no earthly sound. But a toll profound From the mariner's sea-grave. When the billows dash, And the signals flash, And the thunder is on the gale, And the ocean is white In its own wild light, Deadly, and dismal and pale ; 11 THI-: BABE. 33 When the lightnings blaze Smites the seaman's gaze, And the sea rolls on in foam, And the surges roar, Shakes the rocky shore. We hear the hoarse sea-knell come. There in the billow, The sand their pillow, Ten thousand men lie low ; And still their dirge Is sung by the surge When the stormy night-winds blow. Sleep, warriors, sleep, On your pillow deep, In peace : for no mortal care ; No art can deceive, No anguish can heave, The heart that once slumbers there. THE BABE. 1 was on a cliff, whose rocky base Baffled the briny wave, Whose cultured heights their verdant store To many a tenant gave. c 3-t THE HA UK. A mother, led by rustic cares, Had wander'd with her child, Unweand the babe— yet on the grass He frolick'd and he smiled. With what delight the mother glow'd To mark the infant's joy ; How oft would pause amid her toil, To contemplate her boy i Yet soon, by other cares estranged, Her thoughts the child forsook ; Careless he wanton d on the ground, Nor marked his mother's look. Cropt was each flower that caught his eye, Till, scrambling o'er the green, He gain d the cliffs unguarded edge And pleased survey'd the scene. 'Twas now the mother from her toil Turnd to survey the child- The urchin gone ! her cheek grew flush'd — Her wand'ring eye was wild. She saw him on the cliffs rude point — Now careless peeping o'er — He turnd, and to his mother smiled, Then sported as before. THE FATAL SISTEJiS. 35, Sunk was her voice — 'twas vain to fly, 'Twas vain the brink to brave — Oh Nature ! it was thine alone To prompt the means to save ! She tore the 'kerchief from her neck, And laid her bosom bare ; He saw, delighted ! left the spot, And sought to banquet there ! THE FATAL SISTERS. AN ODE, FROM THE NORSE TONGUE. By GRAY. In the eleventh century, Sigurd, Earl of the Orkney Islands, went with a fleet of ships and a considerable body of troops, into Ireland, to the assistance of Sictryg with the silken beard, who was then making war on his father-in-law, Brian, King of Dublin. The Earl and all his forces were cut to pieces, and Sictryg was in danger of a total defeat ; but the enemy had a greater loss by the death of Brian, their king, who fell in the action. On Christmas-day, (the day of the battle,) a native of Caithness, in Scotland, saw, at a distance, a number of persons on horseback riding full speed towards a hill, and seeming to enter it. Curiosity led him to follow them, till looking through an opening in the rocks, he saw twelve gi- gantic figures, resembling women. They were all employed ;}() THE FATAL SISTERS. about a loom ; and as they wove, they sung the following dreadful song, which when they had finished, they tore the web into twelve pieces, and each taking her portion, galloped six to the north, and as many to the south. Now the storm begins to lower, (Haste, the loom of hell prepare,) Iron sleet of arrowy shower Hurtles in the darken d air. Glitt'ring lances arc the loom Where the dusky warp we strain, Weaving many a soldiers doom, Orkney's woe and Randver's bane. See the grizly texture grow, CTis of human entrails made) And the weights that play below, Each a gasping warrior s head. Shafts for shuttles, dippd in gore, Shoot the trembling cords along ; Sword that once a monarch bore, Keep the tissue close and strong. Mista, black, terrific maid ! Sangrida and Hilda see. Join the wayward work to aid ; 'Tis the woof of victory. THE FATAL SISTEKS. 37 Ere the ruddy sun be set, Pikes must shiver, javlins sing, Plade with clattYing buckler meet, Hauberk clash, and helmet ring. (Weave the crimson web of war) Let us go, and let us fly, Where our friends the conflict share, Where they triumph, where they die. As the paths of fate we tread, Wading through th 1 ensanguined field, Gondula and Geira, spread O'er the youthful King your shield. We the reins to slaughter give, Ours to kill, and ours to spare ; Spite of danger he shall live ; (Weave the crimson web of war.) They whom once the desert beach Pent within its bleak domain, Soon their ample sway shall stretch O'er the plenty of the plain. Low the dauntless Earl is laid, Gored with many a gaping wound ; Fate demands a nobler head — Soon a King shall bite the ground. 38 THE FATAL SISTERS. Long his loss shall Erin weep, Ne'er again his likeness see ; Long her strains in sorrow steep, Strains of immortality ! Horror covers all the heath, Clouds of carnage blot the sun ; Sisters, weave the web of death ! Sisters, cease ! the work is done. Hail the task, and hail the hands ! Songs of joy and triumph sing ; Joy to the victorious bands, Triumph to the younger King. Mortal, thou that hear'st the tale, Learn the tenor of our song ; Scotland ! through each winding vale. Far and wide the notes prolong. Sisters ! hence with spurs of speed ; Each her thund ring falchion wield ; Each bestride her sable steed : Hurry, hurry, to the field ! C 3 9 } REMONSTRANCE, AFTER A CONVERSATION WITH LORD JOHN RUSSELL, IN WHICH HE HAD INTIMATED SOME IDEA OF GIVING UP ALL POLITICAL PURSUITS ; SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN By T. MOORE, Esq. What ! thou with thy genius, thy youth, and thy name, Thou, born of a Russell, whose instinct to run The accustorna career of thy sires, is the same As the eagle's to soar with his eyes to the sun. Whose nobility comes to thee, stamped with a seal, Far, far more ennobling than monarch e"er set — With the blood of thy race, offer'd up for the weal Of the nation that swears by that martyrdom yet ! Should thou be faint-hearted, and turn from the strife, From the mighty arena, where all that is grand, And devoted, and pure, and adorning in life, Is for high-thoughted spirits like thine to command ! Oh ! no, never dream it —while good men despair Between tyrants and traitors, and timid men bow, Never think for an instant thy country can spare Such a light from her darlcning horizon as thou ! 40 REMONSTRANCE. With a spirit as meek as the gentlest of those Who in lifers sunny valley lie shelter'd and warm, Yet bold and heroic as ever yet rose To the top-cliffs of fortune, and breasted her storm ; With an ardour for liberty, fresh as in youth, It first kindles the bard, and gives life to his lyre, Yet mellow'd even now, by that mildness of truth, Which tempers, but chills not, the patriot's fire ; With an eloquence — not like those- rills from a height, Which sparkle, and foam, and in vapour are o'er, A current, that works out its way into light, Through the tilt'ring recesses of thought and of lore : — Thus gifted, thou never canst sleep in the shade ; If the stirrings of Genius, the music of Fame, And the charms of thy cause have not power to persuade, Yet think how to Freedom thouVt pledged by thy name ! Like the laurel of Delphi, whose boughs used to be Set apart for the Fane and its service divine ; So the branches that spring from the old Russell tree, Are by Liberty clainfd for the use of her shrine. [ 41 ] THE BATTLE OF HOHENLINDEN. By T. CAMPBELL, Esq. On Linden, when the sun was low, All bloodless lay th 1 untrodden snow ; And dark as winter was the flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly. But Linden saw another sight, When the drum beat, at dead of night, Commanding fires of death to light The darkness of her scenery. By torch and trumpet fast array'd, Each horseman drew his battle blade, And furious every charger neigh'd, To join the dreadful revelry. Then shook the hills, with thunder riven ; Then flew the steed, to battle driven ; And louder than the bolts of Heaven, Far flashed the red artillery. 42 THE BATTLE OF HOHENLINDEN. But redder yet that light shall glow On Linden's hills of stained snow ; And bloodier yet the torrent flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 'Tis morn ; — but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun, Shout in their sulph rous canopy. The combat deepens — On, ye brave ! Who rush to glory, or the grave ! — Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave, And charge with all thy chivalry !- Few, few shall part, where many meet ! The snow shall be their winding-sheet ; And every turf, beneath their feet, Shall be a soldier's sepulchre ! [ 43 ] THE CYPRESS WREATH. FROM " ROKEBY. By SIR WALTER SCOTT. O, lady, twine no wreath for me, Or twine it of the cypress tree ! — Too lively glow the lilies light, The varnish'd holly's all too bright ; The May-flower, and the eglantine, May shade a brow less sad than mine : But, lady, weave no wreath for me, Or weave it of the cypress tree. Let dimpled mirth his temples twine With tendrils of the laughing vine ; The manly oak, the pensive yew, To patriot and to sage be due : The myrtle bough bids lovers live, But that Matilda will not give : Then, lady, twine no wreath for me, Or twine it of the cypress tree ! Let merry England proudly rear Her blended roses, bought so dear ; Let Albyn bind her bonnet blue With heath and hare-bell dipp'd in dew ; H 4-4 THE CYPRESS WREATH. On favourVl Erin's crest be seen The Hower she loves of emerald green : But, lady, twine no wreath for me, Or twine it of the cypress tree ! Strike the wild harp, while maids prepare The ivy meet for minstrel's hair ; And, while his crown of laurel-leaves With bloody hand the victor weaves, Let the loud trump his triumphs tell ; But when you hear the passing-bell, Then, lady, twine a wreath for me, And twine it of the cypress tree ! Yes, twine for me the cypress bough ; But O, Matilda, twine not now ! Stay till a few brief months are past, And I have lookM and loved my last ! — When villagers my shroud bestrew With pansies, rosemary, and rue, — Then, lady, weave a wreath for me, And weave it of the cypress tree ! [ 45 ] FAREWELL TO SCOTLAND. By THOMAS PRINGLE, Esq. Our native land, our native vale, A long and last adieu ! Farewell to bonny Teviotdale, And Cheviot mountains blue ! Farewell, ye hills of glorious deeds, And streams renown'd in song ; Farewell, ye blythesome braes and meads, Our hearts have loved so long. Farewell, ye broomy elfin knowes, Where thyme and hare-bells grow ; Farewell, ye hoary haunted howes, Cerhung with birk and sloe. The battle mound, — the Border tower, That Scotia's annals tell, — The martyr's grave, — the lover's bower, — To each, to all, farewell ! 4-G FAREWELL TO SCOTLAND. Home of our hearts ! our fathers 1 home ! Land of the brave and free ! The sail is flapping on the foam That bears me far from thee. We seek a wild and distant shore, Beyond the Atlantic main ; We leave thee to return no more, Nor view thy cliffs again ! But may dishonour blight our fame, And quench our household fires, When we, or ours, forget thy name. Green island of our sires ! Our native land, our native vale, A long, a last adieu ! — Farewell to bonny Teviotdale, And Scotland's mountains blue ! [ 47 ] BRITANNIA. A HEROIC POEM. WRITTEN IMMEDIATELY AFTER THE BATTLE 01' CORUNNA. By ELIZABETH SCOTT. UroN a sea-beat rock Britannia stood, Her garments stain'd, her laurels steep'd in gore ; Pensive, a while she view'd the briny flood, Then turned majestic to the Spanish shore. No sound was on the breeze of evening borne, Nought save the dashing wave the silence broke ; Till thus, as by contending passions torn, The great, the mighty Queen of Nations spoke : — " Genius of Britain ! guardian spirit, say, Art thou permitted e'er to quit thy post ? Or didst thou sleep on that eventful day, When Albion's warriors reaclfd yon fatal coast ? " But, hark ! methinks I catch the gladd'ning sound Of angels whisp'ring, Triumph still is thine ! Are not thy sons forever foremost found In the bright path which leads to glory's shrine ? 4«S I! R 1 T A N NIA. " Whilst o'er the fate of their regretted Moore,* Britons shall shed the tributary tear, Can they forget he fell in victory's hour, That its insignia graced his honour'd bier ? " Ah no ! the thought shall emulate, shall warm The soldier's bosom, on th 1 ensanguined field ; Shall nerve with double energy his arm, And bid him rather choose to die than yield. " When from the centre of the subject-sea, At Heaven's divine, resistless call I rose, This was Almighty Wisdom's high decree, That freedom should be mine, and mine her laws. " To shield those laws alike from every foe, My free-born children dare the world in arms ; The sweets of social life, of home forego, To brave in distant climes war's fell alarms. " And though collected glooms a while may veil Their native lustre from the wond'ring sight ; Soon shall the hand of Mercy all dispel, As does the morning's dawn the shades of night. • Sir John Moore, slain in the battle of Corunna, January lfith, A.D. 180!). LINES WRITTEN IN RICHMOND CHURCH-YARD. 49 " Oft do we see the surfs effulgent ray Kid by obscuring clouds from mortal eye ; But, soon emerged, the radiant orb of day Pursues his steady journey through the sky." LINES, WRITTEN IN RICHMOND CHURCH-YARD, YORKSHIRE. By HERBERT KNOWLES, WHO DIED AT THE AGE OF NINETEEN. " It is good for us to be here. If thou wilt, let us make here three ta- bernacles ; one for thee, one for Moses, and one for Elias." Matt. xvii. 4. jMethinks, it is good to be here : If thou wilt, let us build, — but for whom ? Nor Elias nor Moses appear ; But the shadows of eve, that encompass the gbom, The abode of the dead, and the place of the tomb !- Shall we build to Ambition ? — Oh no ! Affrighted he shrinketh away : For, see, they would fix him below, In a small narrow cave, and begirt with cold clay, To the meanest of reptiles, a peer and a prey ! — < d 50 LINES WRITTEN IN RICHMOND CHPRCH-YAKD. To Beauty ? — Ah no ! she forgets The charms which she wielded before ; Nor knows the foul worm, that he frets The skin which, but yesterday, fools could adore, For the smoothness it held, or the tint which it wore. Shall we build to the purple of Pride, — The trappings which dizen the proud ? — Alas ! they are all laid aside ; And here's neither dress nor adornment allow'd, But the long winding-sheet, and the fringe of the shroud. To Riches ? — Alas ! 'tis in vain. Who hid, in their turns have been hid : The treasures are squandercl again ; And here, in the grave, are all metals forbid, But the tinsel that shone on the dark coffin lid. To the pleasures which Mirth can afford, — The revel, the laugh, and the jeer ? — Ah, here is a plentiful board ! But the guests are all mute as their pitiful cheer, And none but the worm is a reveller here ! Shall we build to Affection and Love ? — Ah no ! they have wither'd and died, Or fled with the spirit above ; Friends, brothers, and sisters, are laid side by side, Yet none have saluted, and none have replied. AN ELEGY. 51 Unto Sorrow ? — The dead cannot grieve ; Not a sob, not a sigh meets mine ear, Which compassion itself could relieve. Ah ! sweetly they slumber ; nor hope, love, nor fear ! Peace, peace, is the watch-word, — the only one here ! Unto Death, — to whom monarchs must bow ? — Ah no ! for his empire is known ; And here there are trophies enow ! Beneath, the cold dead, — and around, the dark stone,— Are signs of a sceptre that none may disown ! The first tabernacle to Hope we will build, And look for the sleepers around us to rise : The second to Faith, which insures it fulfhTd : And the third to the Lamb of the Great Sacrifice, Who bequeathed us them both when he rose to the skies. AN ELEGY, By LEBID BEN RABIAT ALMARY ; TRANSLATED FROM THE AKxVBIAN, By PROFESSOR CARLYLE. Those dear abodes which once containd the fair, Amidst Mitata's wilds I seek in vain ; Nor towns, nor tents, nor cottagers are there, But scatter'd ruins, and a silent plain. 52 AN ELEGY. The proud canals, that once Rayanna graced, Their course neglected, and their waters gone, Along the levelTd sands are dimly traced, Like moss-grown letters on a mouldering stone. Rayanna, say, how many a tedious year Its hallow'd circle o'er our heads hath rolfd, Since to my vows thy tender maids gave ear, And fondly listend to the tale I told ? How oft, since then, the star of spring, that pours A never-failing stream, hath drench'd thy head ? How oft the summer's cloud, in copious showVs, Or gentle drops, its genial influence shed ? How oft, since then, the hovering mist of morn, Hath caus'd thy locks with glittering gems to glow ? How oft hath eve her dewy treasure borne, To fall responsive to the breeze below ? The matted thistles, bending to the gale, Now clothe those meadows, once with verdure gay : Amidst the windings of that lonely vale, The teeming antelope and ostrich stray ; The large-eyed mother of the herd, that flies Mans noisy haunts, here finds a sure retreat ; Here tends her clustering young, till age supplies Strength to their limbs, and swiftness to their feet. AN ELEGY. 53 Save where the swelling stream hath swept those walls, And given their deep foundations to the light ; (As the retouching pencil that recals A long-lost picture to the raptured sight ;) Save where the rains have wash'd the sather'd sand, And bared the scanty fragments to our view ; (As the dust sprinkled on a punctured hand,* Bids the faint tints resume their azure hue:) No mossy record of those once-loved seats Points out the mansion to inquiring eyes ; No tottering wall, in echoing sounds, repeats Our mournful questions, and our bursting sighs. Yet, midst those ruin'd heaps, that naked plain, Can faithful memory former scenes restore, Recal the busy throng, the jocund train, And picture all that charm'd us there before. Ne'er shall my heart the fatal morn forget, That bore the fair ones from these seats so dear ; I see, I see, the crowding litters yet, And yet the tent-poles rattle in my ear. * It is a custom with the Arabian women, in order to give the veins of their hands and arms a more brilliant appearance, to make slight punctures along them, and to rub into the incisions a blue powder, which they renew occasionally as it happens to wear out. 54 AN F.I/KGY. I see the maids with timid steps ascend, The streamers wave in all their painted pride ; The floating curtains every fold extend, And vainly strive the charms within to hide. What graceful forms those envious folds inclose ! What melting glances through those curtains play ! Sure Weira's antelopes, or TudalVs roes, Through yonder veils their sportive young survey ! The band moved on. — To trace their steps I strove ; I saw them urge the camels 1 hastening flight. Till the white vapour,* like a rising grove, SnatclVd them for ever from my aching sight. Nor since that morn have I Nawarra seen ; The bonds are burst which held us once so fast. — Memory but tells me, that such things have been ; And sad reflection adds, that they are past. " The white vapour here alluded to, called by the Arabians, Scrab, is not unlike in appearance to those white mists which we see hovering over the surface of a river on a summer's evening after a hot day. They are very frequent in the sultry plains of Arabia ; and, when seen at a distance, resemble an expanded lake. [ 55 ] LINES, WRITTEN AT THE GRAVE OF DERMODY, By P. L. COURTIER. Still, Red-breast ! o'er the tuneful dead, That sweetly-soothing dirge prolong ; For his, who owns this earthy bed, — His was as sweet, as sad a song ! Unhappy Bard ! the conflict past, At length thy mortal pangs are o'er ; But oh ! with that untimely blast, Thy raptured strains are heard no more ! Beside the turf that wraps thy clay, Shall kindred Memory fondly wake ; And, deaf to all thy foes can say, Shall love thee, for the Muses'* sake ! Here, where no more rude cares molest, But earth's sad sufferers calmly sleep ; Here, where the weary are at rest, Shall Genius oft his vigils keep. 56 THE SON OF NAVARRE. .) Here Pity, with a beaming eye, Forgets if faults have laid thee low ; O'er thy cold grave shall deeply sigh, And mourn thy pilgrimage of woe ! O take from me, — who knows to scan The ardent soul, the dark career ; Who feels for erring, wretched man, — O take this tributary tear ! Still, Red-breast ! o'er the tuneful dead, Thy sweetly-soothing dirge prolong ; For his, who owns this earthy bed, — His was as sweet, as sad a song ! THE SON OF NAVARRE. By JOHN DUNLOP, Esq. COLLECTOR OF THE CUSTOMS AT PORT-GLASGOW. The Gods had decreed, that, in justice divine, The vials of wrath should be poiud on the world ; And allow'd, to accomplish the awful design, Disaster and Dread on the earth to be hurl'd. Confusion prevaiTd ; Mankind was assaiPd ; Humanity blush'd, as her lot -lie bcwaiPd : THE SON OF NAVARltE. ,57 And the crown of St Louis, by treason and war, Was torn from the brows of the Son of Navarre. A sceptre of iron, and a sovereign's command, To a tyrant, a slave, and a coward were giv"n ; Truth, Justice, and Mercy, were banish'd the land, And the scourge was applied by the mandate of Heaven : Freedom shook in her seat ; All the good and the great, Were devoted by terror the victims of fate; When the Lion of Britain, so dreadful in war, Erected his crest for the Son of Navarre. Success and renown to the banners that wave Where Freedom ne'er planted her standard before ! May wreaths from the laurel distinguish the brave, Wherever the cannon of Liberty roar ! Thistle, Shamrock, and Rose, To the world give repose, With the Lily combined on the Garonne that grows, And the Lion of Britain, so deadly in war, Give peace and a crown to the Son of Navarre. To guard for the Bourbon his spotless cockade, Saint Andrew, Saint George, and Saint Patrick shall join ; Before them the tri-colour'd ribbon shall fade, And the despot be chased from the land of the vine, 58 THE BATTLE. The Lily shall reign Sweetest flower of the Seine, Entwined with the olive and laurel again ; For the Lion, no longer a rival in war, Restores to his empire the Son of Navarre THE BATTLE. FROM THE PERSIAN OF ACHMED ARDEBEILI. What mean those deepening shouts that rend the sky, JoinM with the yell of anguish and dismay ; Loud peals of thunder that approach so nigh, And clouds of smoke that veil the face of day ? At the shrill blasting of the Boukzans* breath, Lo ! the fierce Ouzbek rushes to the plain, Where Asmough-f* yields the cimetar of death, And rapine riots o'er the mangled slain. Alternate rage and terror rule each band, As savage fury floats the field with gore ; Destruction wildly waves her blazing brand, And red with carnage, wolf-like howls for more. • A trumpeter. + The Demon of War and Discord. The Goures still use talismans nnd cabalistic rhymes, to keep him from their dwellings and social as- semblies. THE BATTLE. 59 When sinks the sun beyond the Caspian main, And horror hails the gloomy fiend of night, Sad, sullen bondage clanks his iron chain, And wandering spirits claim the funeral rite. For deeds like these shall endless praises flow ? Shall blood-staiifd victory swell the trump of Fame ? Has glory placed her Taje on Timours* brow, And jointf " immortal" to Khan Zingis'-f name ? God of the just ! O let me ne'er repine, Or while those glaring meteors strike my view, Heave the deap sigh — wish impiously to shine, And bid this calm, this blest retreat adieu ! Ah ! what avails the splendid pomp of state, The boast of riches or imperial sway, While on the restless bosoms of the great, Beams not content her mild, celestial ray ? Far from the heart-hardening scenes of public strife, Far from ambition's call, and fields of blood, She walks with peace the humble vale of life, And smiles serenely on the wise and good. * Usually called, by European writers, Tamerlane. T Khan Zingis, or, as we commonly write it, Gengis Khan, died a. i). 122C, at the age of seventy-three ; having devoted the greatest part of his life to the conquest and ravaging of the most fertile and flourishing kingdoms of Asia, destroying cities, and slaughtering man- kind. [ 60 ] THE EMIGRANT'S GRAVE. FOUNDED ON A STORY IN REAL LIFE. By W. R. SPENCER. Why mourn ye, why strew ye those flowrets around, To yon new-sodded grave as your slow steps advance? In yon new-sodded grave (ever dear be the ground !) Lies the stranger we loved, the poor exile of France. And is this the poor exile at rest from his woe, No longer the sport of misfortune and chance ? Mourn on, village mourners, my tears too shall flow For the stranger we loved, the poor exile of France. Oh ! kind was his nature, though bitter his fate, And gay was his converse, though broken his heart, No comfort, no hope, his own heart could elate, Though comfort and hope he to all could impart. Ever joyless himself, in the joys of the plain, Still foremost was he, mirth and pleasure to raise, And sad was his soul, yet how blithe was his strain, When he sung the glad song of more fortunate days. THE EMIGRANT^ GRAVE. 61 One pleasure he knew, in his straw-cover 1 d shed, For the snow-beaten beggar his faggot to trim ; One tear of delight he could drop on the bread Which he shared with the poor, the still poorer than him. And when round his death-bed profusely we cast Every gift, every solace our hamlet could bring, He blest us with sighs, which we thought were his last ; But he still had a prayer for his country and king. Poor exile, adieu ! undisturb 1 d be thy sleep ! From the feast, from the wake, from the village-green dance, How oft shall we wander by moonlight to weep O'er the stranger we loved, the poor exile of France ! To the church-going bride, shall thy memory impart One pang, as her eyes to the cold relics glance ; One flower from her garland, one tear from her heart, Shall drop on the grave of the exile of France. I <® 1 THE LONELY ISLE. FROM THE " LADY OF THE LAKE. By Sir WALTER SCOTT. Not faster yonder rowers 1 might Fling from their oars the spray, Not faster yonder rippling bright, That tracks the shallop's course in light, Melts in the lake away, Than men from memory erase The benefits of former days ; Then, Stranger, go ! good speed the while, Nor think again of the lonely isle. High place to thee in royal court, High place in battled line, Good hawk and hound for sylvan sport, Where beauty sees the brave resort, The honoured meed be thine ! True be thy sword, thy friend sincere, Thy lady constant, kind, and dear, And lost, in love's and friendship's smile, Be memory of the lonely isle. THE HERMIT. But if beneath yon southern sky A plaided stranger roam, Whose drooping crest and stifled sigh, And sunken cheek and heavy eye, Pine for his Highland home ; Then, warrior, then be thine to show The care that sooths a wanderer's woe ; Remember then thy hap, ere while A stranger in the lonely isle. Or if on life's uncertain main Mishap shall mar thy sail ; If faithful, wise, and brave in vain, Woe, want, and exile thou sustain Beneath the fickle gale ; Waste not a sigh on fortune changed, On thankless courts, or friends estranged ; But come where kindred worth shall smile, To greet thee in the lonely isle. 63 THE HERMIT. By BEATTIE. At the close of the day, when the hamlet is still, And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove, When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill, And nought but the nightingale's song in the grove 64 THE HERMIT. 'Twas then, by the cave of the mountain afar, A Hermit his song of the night thus began ; No more with himself or with nature at war, He thought as a sage, while he felt as a man : — " Ah, why thus abandoned to darkness and woe, Why thus lonely, Philomel, flows thy sad strain ! For spring shall return, and a lover bestow, And thy bosom no trace of misfortune retain. " Yet if pity inspire thee, ah ! cease not thy lay, Mourn, sweetest complainer, man calls thee to mourn! O sooth him, whose pleasures like thine pass away, Full quickly they pass, — but they never return ! " Now gliding remote, on the verge of the sky, The moon half extinguish 1 d her crescent displays : But lately, I mark'd, when majestic on high, She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze. " Roll on, thou fair orb ! and with gladness pursue The path that conducts thee to splendour again ; But man's faded glory no change shall renew — Ah ! fool, to exult in a glory so vain ! " Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more ; I mourn — but, ye woodlands ! I mourn not for you ; For morn is approaching your charms to restore, Perfumed with fresh fragrance and glittring with dew. 11 THE HERMIT. 65 " Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn, Kind nature the embryo blossom will save, But when shall spring visit the mouldering urn ? Or when shall it dawn on the night of the grave ?" 'Twas thus, by the glare of false science betray'd, That leads to bewilder and dazzles to blind, My thoughts wont to roam from shade onward to shade, Destruction before me and sorrow behind. " O pity, great Father of light, then I cried, Thy creature who fain would not wander from thee ! Lo ! humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride ; From doubt and from darkness thou only canst free. 1 ' And darkness and doubt are now flying away, No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn ; So breaks on the traveller faint and astray, The bright and the balmy effulgence of morn. See Truth, Love, and Mercy, in triumph descending, And nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom ! On the cold cheek of death smiles and roses are blending, And beauty immortal awakes from the tomb. [ 66 1 GLENARA. By T. CAMPBELL, Esq. Oh heard ye yon pibroch sound sad on the gale, Where a band cometh slowly with weeping and wail ? — "Tis the Chief of Glenara's lament for his dear, And her sire, and the people, are calFd to her bier. Glenara came first, with the mourners and shroud ; Her kinsmen they follow'd, but mourn' d not aloud, Their plaids all their bosoms were folded around, They marcli'd on in silence, they look'd on the ground. In silence they marcft'd over mountain and moor, To a heath where the oak-tree grew lonely and hoar, " Now here let us place the grey stone of her cairn : Why speak you no word ?" said Glenara the stern. " And tell me, I charge you, ye clan of my spouse, Why fold ye your mantles, why cloud ye your brows ?" So spake the rude Chieftain, no answer is made, But each mantle unfolding, a dagger display'd. " I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her shroud, Cried a voice from the kinsmen all wrathful and loud. And empty that shroud, and that coffin did seem, Glenara ! Glenara ! now read me my dream." THE UNIVERSAL PRAYER. 67 pale grew the cheek of that Chieftain, I ween, When the coffin unclosed, and no lady was seen ; When a voice from the kinsmen spake louder in scorn, Twas the youth who had loved the fair Ellen of Lorn. " I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her grief, 1 dreamt that her lord was a barbarous chief; On a rock of the ocean fair Ellen did seem, Glenara ! Glenara I now read me my dream." In dust low the traitor has knelt to the ground ; And the desert reveaFd where his lady was found; From a rock of the ocean that beauty is borne ; Now, joy to the house of fair Ellen of Lorn ! THE UNIVERSAL PRAYER. By POPE. Father of all ! in every age, In every clime adored, By saint, by savage, and by sage, Jehovah, Jove, or Lord ! 68 THE UNIVERSAL PRAYER. Thou Great First Cause, least understood. Who all my sense confined, To know but this, that thou art good, And that myself am blind. Yet gave me, in this dark estate, To see the good from ill : And binding nature fast in fate, Left free the human will. What conscience dictates to be done, Or warns me not to do, This, teach me more than hell to shun, That, more than heaven pursue. What blessings thy free bounty gives, Let me not cast away ; For God is paid when man receives, — T' enjoy is to obey. Yet not to earth's contracted span Thy goodness let me bound, Or think thee Lord alone of man, When thousand worlds are round : Let not this weak unknowing hand Presume thy bolts to throw, And deal damnation round the land On each I judge thy foe. THE UNIVERSAL PRAYER. 69 If I am right, thy grace impart Still in the right to stay ; If I am wrong, oh teach my heart To find the better way. Save me alike from foolish pride, Or impious discontent ; At aught thy wisdom has denied Or aught thy goodness lent. Teach me to feel another's woe, To hide the fault I see : That mercy I to others show, That mercy shew to me. Mean though I am, not wholly so, Since quicken'd by thy breath ; O lead me wheresoe , er I go, Through this day's life or death. This day, be bread and peace my lot : All else beneath the sun, Thou know'st if best bestowed, or not, And let thy will be done. To Thee, whose temple is all space, Whose altar, earth, sea, skies ! One chorus let all being raise ! All nature's incense rise ! I 70 1 LOCH-NA-GARR. By Lord BYRON. Away, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses ; In you let the minions of luxury rove, Restore me the rocks where the snow-flake reposes, For still they are sacred to freedom and love. Yet, Caledonia, beloved are thy mountains, Round their white summits though elements war, Though cataracts foam 'stead of smooth-flowing foun- tains, I sigh for the valley of dark Loch-na-Garr. Ah ! there my young footsteps in infancy wanderM, My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid ; On chieftains long perislfd my memory ponder , d, As daily I strode through the pine-cover'd glade; I sought not my home till the day's dying glory Gave place to the rays of the bright polar star, For fancy was cheer'd by traditional story, Disclosed by the natives of dark Loch-na-Garr. Shades of the dead ! have I not heard your voices Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale ? Surely the soul of the hero rejoices, And rides on the winds o'er-his own Highland vale. OSGAIt's PllAYER. 71 Around Loch-na-Garr while the stormy mist gathers, While winter presides in his cold icy car, Clouds, there, encircle the form of my fathers, They dwell on the tempests of dark Loch-na-Garr. OSGAR'S PRAYER. By Dr WALCOT. Elfrid, the beautiful daughter of Osgar, was a captive among the Druids, and designed as a sacrifice to the gods. Amidst a storm of thunder and lightning, he goes to the Druid moun- tain, in order to procure by his supplications, and an offer of his own life upon the altar, his daughter's liberty. OSGAR. ' Ye winds, that warring thus, around me rage, Cease your rude thunders on the wretch who dies ; Poor is the triumph o'er desponding age, Whose energies is only in his sighs ! " Ye forked lightnings, that around me flame, Ye mark two languid eyes, that weep and pray ; Once, once like you, high-kindling shone their beam, Till time, and dark misfortune dimnVd their ray. 72 OSGAIt's PRAYER. " Forbear, alas ! to thwart my way forlorn, Wet with the falling tears of fondest love ; For life, I hear a captive daughter mourn, And court compassion from the Druid-grove. " My feebly bending form, and scanty hair, Grown white with grief, my tender cause should plead, Wake a small pity on my deep despair, And bid the Druids stay the bloody deed ! i " If on their hearts, my sorrows nought avail What without Elfrid, life, poor life endears Then kill me — it is mercy lulls the wail, Of one who counts the moments by his tears. 1 '' TO THE DRUIDS. " Seers of high knowledge, lo, a grief-worn man, Whose only daughter is his soul's delight ! For her a father, woe-begone and wan, With horror darkens even the shades of night. " Fathers of Virtue, why this long delay ? O lead your willing victim to the shrine ; Quick let me close those eyes upon the day, That, Elfrid, light may beam for years on thine. " Haste with the knife of fate, ye Druid bands, And thus my daughter's prison-door unbar ; Forbear to bind with cords my withered hands — To struggle were with Elfirid's life to war. osgar' s prayer. 73 " Her eye will drop a pearl on Osgar's tomb, Her sighs be balm where'er my urn is laid — Those let her give, and I will bless the doom ; I ask no happier offering to my shade. " Fathers of Knowledge, why this long delay ? Speak, am I not a victim for yon sphere ? When from your holy mandates did I stray, And drew from Virtue's wounded eye the tear ? " When did I cease your temple to adore ? Or view unawed the Druids 1 ancient fire ? These rocks, these idols, I confess'd their power, And rev'rent sung their wonders to my lyre. " When was the faith of Osgar known to fail ? What injured spirits of my slights complain ? What spectres 'midst the thunders of the gale, On Osgar mournful call'd, but call'd in vain ? " Have I not walk'd with many a sheeted ghost, Midst the dread silence of the midnight gloom ; On moonlight mountains met the hagard host, How wild ! with all their horrors from the tomb ? " Shrunk Penury, as crawling from the grave, Ne'er left with sorrowing downcast eye my door, Thanks to the Gods, who wealth to Osgar gave, And taught its happy worth, to help the poor. 74 osgar's prayer. " A daughter's virtues are my only boast ! A sweet simplicity unspoiFd by art ; Lo, with my ElfricVs voice a world is lost ! All, all forsakes me, but a breaking heart. " O spare the terrors of a blameless maid ; And let my sufferings her dear days prolong. be these limbs along your altar laid, O'er bleeding Osgar hymn the victim's song. " The sigh that wafts the parting sovd away, Retires from others with unwilling flight ; With joy my spirit shall desert its clay, And bless you, Druids, for the cruel rite " Let not my Elfrid see my blood-stahi'd hair, Nor cheek so pale, which saves her precious breath ; A scene so sad her gentle nature spare — Her wounded heart, so soft, would weep to death. " Yet would my Elfrid see no frown appear, As sullen sorrowing for the loss of life ; ril teach my languid cheek a smile to wear, And shew its triumph in the tender strife. " Enough of woe her drooping strength will prove, When cold beneath the lonely turf I lie ; The bleeding history of a parent's love Will often dim the crystal of her eye. BOAT SONG. 75 " Ye gods ! when dead, permit my ghost to roam, • Peace to her turtle bosom to impart ! To guard from pining thought her tender bloom, And snatch from woe's o'erwhelming floods her heart. " Thus, thus attendant be my watchful shade, Till fate, commanding, seal her dove-like eye ; Then let me fondly clasp my darling maid, And add another glory to your sky ! " O deal the blow, and Elfrid's form release !" He said. — The melting Druids heard his pray'r ; Revered his virtues, bade him go in peace, And to a father's fondness gave the fair. BOAT SONG. FROM " THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 1 By SIR WALTER SCOTT. Hail to the Chief, who in triumph advances ! Honour'd and bless'd be the ever-green Pine ! Long may the Tree, in his banner that glances, Flourish, the shelter and grace of our line ! Heaven send it happy dew, Earth lend it sap anew, 76 BOAT SONG. Gayly to bourgeon, and broader to grow ; While every Highland glen Sends our shout back agen, " Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho ! ieroe ! Ours is no sapling, chance-sown by the fountain, Blooming at Beltane, in winter to fade ; When the whirlwind has stripp'd every leaf on the mountain, The more shall Clan- Alpine exult in her shade. Moor'd in the rifted rock, Proof to the tempest's shock, Firmer he roots him the ruder it blow ; Menteith and Breadalbane, then, Echo his praise agen, " Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho ! ieroe !" Proudly our pibroch has thrilFd in Glen Fruin, And Banochar's groans to our slogan replied ; Glen Luss and Ross-dhu they are smoking in ruin, And the best of Loch-Lomond lie dead on her side. Widow and Saxon maid, Long shall lament our raid, Think of Clan- Alpine with fear and with woe ; Lennox and Leven Glen Shake, when they hear agen, " Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho ! ieroe !"" STANZAS, &C. 77 Row, vassals, row, for the pride of the Highlands ! Stretch to your oars, for the ever-green Pine ! Oh ! that the rose-bud that graces yon islands, Were wreatrTd in a garland around him to twine ! Oh, that some seedling gem, Worthy such noble stem, Honourcl and blest in their shadow might grow ! Loud should Clan Alpine, then, Ring from her deepest glen, " Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho ! ieroe !"" STANZAS, ON BEHOLDING A BEAUTIFUL BUT ABANDONED FEMALE. By C. FEIST. In a form of such beauty can evil reside ? Can a face of such loveliness countenance sin ? — Yes ! — Foul is the demon yon structure doth hide, And dire are the passions which rankle within ! — 'Tis the curse of creation ; for, now, as I stray 'd To the vase where my favourite ranunculus stood, Lo ! entwined round its root a young serpent was laid , And the pride of my garden was seiz'd for its food. 78 ( ONSOLATIONS OF RELIGION. When the parent-tree withers in summer's warm light, How the green generation partake the decay ! Though their fruit and their foliage be blushing and bright, On a sudden they languish, and fade fast away. Thus if virtue decline in the glebe of the heart, Every blossom of purity perisheth too ; For 'tis virtue alone those rich blossoms impart, Which delight with their sweetness, and charm with their hue ! THE CONSOLATIONS OF RELIGION. ADDRESSED TO A FRIEND, WHO, IN THE SHORT SPACE OF THREE DAYS, HAD TO WEEP OVER THE MORTAL REMAINS OF HER MOTHER AND HER YOUNGER SON. By ELIZABETH SCOTT. Turn, gentle mourner ! for to thee I come, On high commission sent by pitying Heaven : To bid the fairest flowers spontaneous bloom In Death's dark valley, unto me is given. " 'Tis mine to point, with Faith's unerring hand, Beyond yon skies, which veil from mortal sight Those realms of glory, that unfading land, Where virtue dwells in everlasting light. CONSOLATIONS OF RELIGION. 79 " Yes ! I would sooth thee in this hour of woe ! Would all the splendour, all the blessings paint, Enjoy'd by those for whom thy sorrows flow ; Companions now of seraph and of saint. " No parting pang thy mother's bosom tore ; She knew not, felt not, what it is to die ! Unconsciously she slept, to wake no more, And breath'd in slumbers was her latest sig-h. " Had lengthen^ life unto thy son been lent, What force of suffering might have been his doom ! Thy gentle child, by cureless misery bent, How gladly then had shelter'd in the tomb ! " Guileless alike, together have they sped — Together through the fields of ether trod : Unclogg'd by sin, their kindred spirits fled Without a fear, to meet their Judge and God. " And I will lead thee, if thou lists to me, Unto their cloudless dwelling-place above ; Where, linFd in bands of sweetest minstrelsy, To harps of gold, they sing Redeeming Love !" I 80 ] STANZAS, FROM THE PERSIAN. Fair one ! take this rose, and wreath it In thy braided hair : A brighter bloom will rest beneath it — Take this rose, my fair ! The flower which late was seen to glow So lovely on that snowy brow, Lav'd thy Up, and lightly shed A dewy leaf of rosy red, To blush forever there. Take this lily, love, and twine it With thy waving hair ; 'Twill gem the ringlets, — why decline it ? Take the flower, my fair ! And yet its leaflets, pure and pale, In beauty on thy brow will fail : That brow attracts all eyes to thee, And none will choose or chance to see The lily fading there. 14 L 81 1 THE WILD GAZELLE. FROM " HEBREW MELODIES.'"* By LOBJp BYRON. The wild gazelle on Judalv's hills Exulting yet may bound, And drink from all the living rills That gush on holy ground ; Its airy step, and glorious eye, May glance in tameless transport by : — A step as fleet, an eye more bright, Hath Judah witness'd there ; And o'er her scenes of lost delight Inhabitants more fair. The cedars wave on Lebanon, But Judah's stateliest maids are gone ! * The music to those beautiful melodies, (admirably adapted to the words,) is selected, from the ancient and favourite airs still sung in the religious ceremonies of the Jews, by Messrs Braham and Nathan. Se- veral of the songs allude to events in the History of the Jews. 82 AN EXORDIUM. More blest each palm that shades those plains. Than Israel's scatter d race ; For, taking root, it there remains In solitary grace : It cannot quit its place of birth. It will not live in other earth. But we must wander witheringly, In other lands to die ; And where our fathers 1 ashes be, Our own may never lie : Our temple hath not left a stone — And mockery sits on Salem's throne. AN EXORDIUM, FROM THE INSTITUTES OF TIMOUR, EMPEROR OF HINDOSTAN. Translated by MAJOR DAVY. In the name of Him, who is the refuge of the souls of the faithful ; whose praise is the ornament of eloquent tongues ; The most High, the only God, the Eternal, the Om- niscient ! He, who bestoweth strength and power upon the feeble and the helpless ! AN EXORDIUM. 83 The Heavens he illumines with multitudes of con- stellations ; and with the human race he decorateth the earth, as with stars. He, who prepared the vaulted roof of the revolving- sphere ; who raised up the quadruple fold of the ele- ments. He, who gives fragrance to the bosom of the rose- bud, and ornamenteth the parent-shrub with wreaths of flowers. He weaveth the garment for the brides of the spring ; and teacheth the graceful cypress to erect his head on the border of the lake. He crowneth with success the virtuous intention, and humbleth the pride of the self-conceited. He accompanies the solitude of those who watch the midnight taper : He passeth the day with the children of affliction. From the sea of his bounty issues the vernal cloud, which waters alike the thorn and the jessamine. From the repository of his beneficence proceeds the autumnal gale, which bespangles with gold the carpet of the garden. It is his presence that inflameth the orb of day, from whence every atom derives its light. Should he hide his countenance from the two great luminaries of the world, their mighty spheres would descend quick into the area of annihilation. From the vault of heaven to the centre of the earth, whichever way we direct our thought and imagination, 84 THE GRAVE. whether we descend or hasten upwards, we shall not discover one atom uninfluenced by his power. Wisdom is confounded in the contemplation of his essence : the investigation of his ways exceeds the powers of man. The angels blush at their want of comprehension ; and the heavens are astonished at their own motion. THE GRAVE. By BERNARD BARTON, A YOUNG QUAKER. I love to muse, when none are nigh, Where yew-tree branches wave, And hear the winds, with softest sigh, Sweep o'er the grassy grave. It seems a mournful music, meet To sooth a lonely hour ; Sad though it be, it is more sweet Than that from pleasure's bower. I know not why it should be sad, Or seem a mournful tone ; Unless by man the spot be clad With terrors not its own. TO THE SULIOTS. 85 To nature it seems just as dear, As earth's most cheerful site ; The dew-drops glitter there as clear, The sun-beams shine as bright. The showers descend as softly there, As on the loveliest flowers; Nor does the moon-light seem more fair On beauty's sweetest bowers. " Ay ! but within — within there sleeps One, o'er whose mouldering clay The loathsome earth-worm winds and creeps, And wastes that form away." — And what of that ? The frame that feeds The reptile tribe below, As little of their banquet heeds, As of the winds that blow. TO THE SULIOTS. Remember the days that are past, When ye fought on your mountains alone ! And your brethren of Greece in their bondage were cast At the foot of the Ottoman throne ! 86 TO THE SULIOTS Remember those days, when ye ruslVd to the shock Of the battle below, like the stream from the rock. When virtue and glory seem'd gone ; Ye sought, with the eagles on high, The rocks where the last beams of freedom still shone, Where the last of her martyrs might die ! And the poets of Greece in far ages shall tell, How ye could not live on but where freedom might dwell. Ye are men whom the Turk could not chain, AVhen he smote all the flower of the land ; In the day that the verdure of valley and plain Was red from his merciless hand : Remember that day, when ye rush on the foe, With your brethren of Greece, to lay tyranny low ! When slavery settled around, And Greece wept in chains and disgrace ; Then the tyrant look'd to your mountains, and found No slave of the Suliot race : Through long years of peril, of danger, and gloom, On your brow was the waving of liberty's plume. But the stain dies away from the land ; Greece starts into virtue once more : — Oh, "'tis glorious to see how the slave's lifted hand Strikes the foe where he revelFd before ! TO THE LADIES OF GREECE. 87 From the garden of mind, which he trampled in wrath, His steps shall be far on a desolate path. Then onwards, ye Suliot race ! That ye, who had stood by the side Of freedom, when sorrowing, now may embrace Her banner in victory's pride ! For the spirit that wander'd your mountains alone. Shall tread on the dust of the Ottoman throne ! TO THE LADIES OF GREECE. Ye beautiful daughters of Greece and her isles, Who weep o'er the land of your birth ; Where all that was glorious the spoiler denies, Like the fiend in the garden of earth. a" Again on the mountain, again by the wave, Assist at the rite and the prayer, Which man, putting off the foul bands of the slave, Shall offer to Liberty there. Again light the brave with your glances divine ! And the crown of green laurel prepare For him who has fought for his land, and the shrine Of the God who has made ye so fair ! SS TO THE LAD1KS OF GREECE. From you shall the heart of the patriot claim The reward which the valiant most prize, — That best clearest bliss, the clear light of his fame Reflected from chaste, loving eyes ! Too long has that beauty — which came from above, The home of the hero to grace, — Been doom'd to the curse of the infidel's love, Who tramples the fame of her race. Yet shall beauty again those high virtues inspire, Which flourish'd when Greece was yet young ; The noblest that bards ever gave to the lyre, Or glow'd upon history's tongue. Then call forth the youth to their country's array, Cheer them onward to fame with your smiles ; Till the tyrant shall perish, or flee far away From Greece and her beautiful isles. For Greece was the region where woman first gave To virtue a magical sway, And guided to honour the free and the brave, Like the angel of glory's bright way ! I 89 | THE BATTLE OF ALEXANDRIA. Harp of Memnon ! * sweetly strung To the music of the spheres ; While the hero's dirge is sung, Breathe enchantment to our ears ! As the sun's descending beams Glancing o'er thy golden wire, Kindle every chord that gleams Like a ray of heavenly fire ; Let thy numbers soft and slow, O'er the plain with carnage spread, Sooth the dying, while they flow To the memory of the dead. Bright as Venus, newly born. Blushing at her maiden charms ; Fresh from ocean rose the morn, When the trumpet sung to arms. " Perfectly to comprehend the force and exquisite beauty of these Elegiac Stanzas, it is requisite to know, that at Thebes, in ancient Egypt, was a statue of Memnon, with a harp in his hand, which is said to have hailed with delightful music the rising sun, and in me- lancholy tones to have mourned his departure. 90 THE BATTLE OF ALEXANDRIA. O that time had stay'd his flight, Ere that morning left the main ; Fatal as the Egyptian night, When the eldest born were slain ! LashYl to madness by the wind, As the Red Sea surges roar, Leave a gloomy gulf behind, And devour the shrinking shore ; Thus, with overwhelming pride, Gallia's brightest, boldest boast, In a deep and dreadful tide, RolPd upon the British host. Dauntless these their station held, Though, with unextinguished ire, Gallia's legions, thrice repelFd, Thrice returncl through blood and fire I *&* Thus above the storms of time, Towering to the sacred spheres, Stand the pyramids sublime, — Rocks amid the flood of years ! Now the veteran Chief drew nigh, Conquest towering on his crest ; Valour beaming from his eye ; Pity bleeding in his breast. THE BATTLE OF ALEXANDRIA. 91 Britain saw him thus advance, In her guardian angel's form ; But he lour'd on hostile France Like the demon of the storm ! On the whirlwind of the war, High he rode in vengeance dire ! To his friends a leading star, To his foes consuming fire ! Then the mighty pour'd their breath, Slaughter feasted on the brave : 'Twas the Carnival of Death ! 'Twas the vintage of the Grave ! — Charged with Abercrombie's doom, Lightning wing'd a cruel ball : 'Twas the herald of the tomb, And the hero felt the call. Felt, and rais'd his arm on high ; Victory well the signal knew, Darted from his awful eye, And the force of France o'erthrew. But the horrors of that fight Were the weeping muse to tell, Oh, 'twould cleave the womb of night, And awake the dead that fell ! 92 THE BATTLE OK ALEXANDRIA. Gash'd with honourable scars, Low in glory's lap they lie : Though they fell, they fell like stars, Streaming splendour through the sky !■ Gently from the western deep, O, ye evening breezes, rise ; O'er the lyre of Memnon sweep, Wake its spirit with your sighs ! Harp of Memnon ! sweetly strung To the music of the spheres ; While the hero's dirge is sung, Breathe enchantment to our ears ! Let thy numbers, soft and slow, O'er the plain with carnage spread, Sooth the dying, while they flow To the memory of the dead ! None but solemn, tender tones Tremble from thy plaintive wires ; — Hark ! the wounded warrior groans ! Hush thy warbling — he expires ! Hush ! while sorrow wakes and weeps !- O'er his relics, cold and pale, Night her silent vigil keeps, In a mournful moon-light veil. beitain's best bulwarks. 93 Harp of Memnon ! from afar, Ere the lark salute the sky, Watch the rising of the star, That proclaims the morning nigh ; Soon the sun's ascending rays, In a flood of hallow'd fire, O'er thy kindling chords shall blaze, And thy magic soul inspire : Then thy tones triumphant pour, Let them pierce the Hero's grave ; Life's tumultuous battle o'er, O how sweetly sleep the brave ! From the dust their laurels bloom, High they shoot and flourish free : Glory's temple is the tomb ! Death is immortality ! BRITAIN'S BEST BULWARKS. When Britain on her sea-girt shore, Her white-robed Druids first address'd : What aid, she cried, shall I implore, What bless'd defence, by numbers press'd ? 94 Britain's best bulwarks. " Hostile nations round thee rise !" The mystic Oracles replied, " And view thine isle with envious eyes ! Their threats defy, their rage deride ; Nor fear invasion from yon adverse Gauls ; Britain's best bulwarks are her Wooden Walls. " Thine oaks descending to the main, With floating forts shall stem the tides ; Asserting Britain's liquid reign, Where'er her thundering navy rides ; Nor less to peaceful arts inclined, Where Commerce opens all her stores, In social bands shall lead mankind, And join the sea-divided shores : Spread then thy sails where naval glory calls, Britain's best bulwarks are her Wooden Walls. " Hail, happy isle ! what though thy vales No vine impurpled tribute yields, Nor fann"d with odour-breathing gales, Nor crops spontaneous glad thy fields : Yet liberty rewards the toil Of industry, to labour prone, Who jocund ploughs the grateful soil, And reaps the harvest he has sown. While other realms tyrannic- sway enthrals, Britain's best bulwarks are her Wooden Walls.'* THE INSTABILITY OF FORTUNE. 95 Thus spake the bearded sire of old, In vision wrapt of Britain's fame, Ere yet Iberia felt the power, Or Gallia trembled at her name ; Ere yet Columbus dared explore New regions rising from the main : From sea to sea, from shore to shore, Bear then, ye winds, in solemn strain, This sacred truth an awe-struck world appals, Britain's best bulwarks are her Wooden Walls ! THE INSTABILITY OF FORTUNE. FROM THE PERSIAN OF ACIIMED ARDEBEILI. Let not the man sustained by royal smile, And thence too surely envied by the great, Admit the flatterer fancy to beguile His reckless heart, a stranger to deceit. Let him not deem his fairest actions pure From the dire blastings of calumnious breath, Nor lay him down to rest at night secure From mute, unpitying messengers of death. 96 THE INSTABILITY OF FORTUNE. To rank and power, unsought, I swiftly rose From humble life — integrity my guide ; Shall then, the stream, from honour's fount that flows, Swell the foul gulph of insolence and pride ? Forbid it, gracious Allah ! still to thee O let my daily orisons ascend, To keep this soul from pride and wealth-love free, And humbly blest to find one faithful friend. To seek that blessing 'mid the courtly train, To seek it in the haunts of busy life, Were of the desert sand to form a chain, Or raise the plant of peace from scenes of strife. How many a virtue, bloom'd in fortune's shade, Low drooping withers in the courtly ray, And 'mid the glare of grandeur's vain parade, Like some faint sick-bed vision fades away ! And haply leaves distractive fear behind, Leaning on pallid languor, to sustain The conflicts of a lacerated mind, RackYl by a thousand pangs of speechless pain. Such fate perchance, brave Morad ! may be mine, E'en whilst, afflicted man, I pity thine ! 14 [ 97 ] STANZAS, ADDRESSED TO MRS B— By ELIZABETH SCOTT. The wreath which wedded love entwines Of amaranths and roses, For thee its every sweet combines, Its loveliest bloom discloses. Long may it blossom on thy brow, And no rude hand invade it ; Nor withering blight around it throw One breath, with power to fade it ! Still may affection's chasten'd light, Thy path of life adorning, Give peaceful sleep to dreary night, And smiling joy to morning ! I 98 J BY THE RIVERS OF BABYLON WE. SAT DOWN AND WEPT." FROM " HEBREW MELODIES." By Lord BYRON. We sat down and wept by the waters Of Babel, and thought of the day When our foe, in the hue of his slaughters, Made Salem's high places his prey ; . And ye, oh her desolate daughters, Were scatter d all weeping away ! While sadly we gazed on the river Which roLTd on in freedom below, They demanded the song ; but oh, never That triumph the stranger shall know ! May this right hand be wither'd for ever, Ere it string our high harp for the foe ! On the willow that harp is suspended, Oh, Salem ! its sound should be free ; For the hour when thy glories were ended, But left me that token of thee ; And ne'er shall its soft tones be blended With the voice of the spoiler by me ! [ 99 ] THE FRIAR. A TALE. FOUNDED ON THE FOLLOWING NOTE TO SIR WALTER SCOTT'S " ROKEBY." " About the beginning of the eighteenth century, when the large castles of the Scottish nobles, and even the secluded hotels, like those of the French noblesse which they possessed in Edin- burgh, were sometimes the scenes of strange and mysterious transactions, a divine, of singular sanctity, was called up at mid- night to pray with a person at the point of death. This was no unusual summons, but what followed was alarming. He was put into a sedan-chair, and after he had been transported to a remote part of the town, the bearers insisted upon his being blindfolded. The request was enforced by a cocked pistol, and submitted to ; but in the course of the discussion, he conjectu- red, from the phrases employed by the chairmen, and from some part of their dress not completely concealed by their cloaks, that they were greatly above the menial station they had assumed. " After many turns and windings, the chair was carried up stairs into a lodging, where his eyes were uncovered, and he was introduced into a bed-room, where he found a lady newly deli- vered of an infant. He was commanded, by his attendants, to say such prayers by her bed-side as were fitted for a person not expected to survive a mortal disorder. He ventured to remon- strate, and observed, that her safe delivery warranted better hopes. But he was sternly commanded to obey the orders first given, and with difficulty recollected himself sufficiently to ac- quit himself of the task imposed on him. He was then again hurried into the chair, but as they conducted him down stairs he heard the report of a pistol. He was safely conducted home, a purse of gold was forced upon him, but he was warned at the 100 THE FRIAK. same time, that the least allusion to the dark transaction would cost him his life. He betook himself to rest, and after a long and broken musing fell into a deep sleep. " From this he was awakened by his servant, with the dismal news that a fire of uncommon fury had broken out in the house of * * * *, near the head of the Canongate, and that it was to- tally consumed ; with the shocking addition, that the daughter of the proprietor, a young lady, eminent for beauty and accom- plishments, had perished in the flames. The clergyman had his suspicions, but to have them made public would have availed nothing. He was timid, the family was of the first distinction, and above all, the deed was done, and could not be amended. Time wore away, however, and with it his terrors. He became unhappy at being the solitary depository of this fearful mystery, and mentioned it to some of his brethren, through whom the anecdote acquired a sort of publicity. " The divine, however, had been long dead, and the story in some degree forgotten, when a fire broke out again on the very same spot where the house of * * * * had formerly stood, and which was now occupied by buildings of an inferior description. When the flames were at their height, the tumult, which usu- ally attends such a scene, was suddenly suspended by an unex- pected apparition. A beautiful female, in a night-dress, ex- tremely rich, but at least half a century old, appeared in the very midst of the fire, and uttered these tremendous words, in her vernacular idiom — ' Yance burned, twice burned, the third time I'll scare you all !' The belief of this story was formerly so strong, that on a fire breaking out, and seeming to approach the fatal spot, there was a good deal of anxiety testified, lest the apparition should make good her denunciation." O, late was the hour in Decemher tide, When a step to the gate came flying — And " Come,'' , the stem voice of a stranger cried, " And speak with a maid that is dying ? THE FRIAK. 101 k ' Her dim star of life is descending fast, Death's shadows its lustre oppressing, Her quick fluttering breath is the herald of death ; Then haste, for she craveth thy blessing !" The Friar arose with a troubled mind, And he follow'd the muffled stranger — Another pursued them close behind, But he dreamt, and feared no danger. With a quick silent step they led him on, Involved in gloomy suggestion ; For their gait and habit were all unknown, Nor they asked nor answer'd a question. But when that they came to an archway dark, Then closely his eyelids they hooded, And he dared not resist — nor more could mark, But dismal the thoughts which he brooded ! And now every glimmering lamp was gone, Yet stedfast they still kept together, All silent and softly they carried him on, But he guess'd not, nor knew not whither. In dread and in darkness they led him on, Through lanes, long, uneven, and winding, Then sudden they halted — their office done, And his eyes they began unbinding. 102 THE FRIAR. " O, thine," they said, " be the hallow'd task, The pure blessed hope for to give her ; Ev'n so when thou Heaven's aid shalt ask, Its ear shall be deaf to thee never." His eyes were unbound, and he stood alone With one who display'd a rapier, While faint on the flick'ring arras there shone The last gleams of a dying taper. Then he turiVd to the couch where a lady lay, A lofty gilt canopy under, And he wist not what to think or to say, But gazed in silence and wonder. A blighted, though beautiful flower she seenVd, For wan were her looks and complexion ; But the light in her downcast eye that beani'd, Was the language of love and affection. A glistening tear stole down her white cheek, As she raised her full eyes up to heaven, With a look so melting, imploringly meek, As only to angels is given. In glittering fillet her hair was bound, Bright sparkled the ring on her finger, And the nameless grace that was shed o'er her face Encouraged the fond eye to linger THE FRIAR. 103 O 'twas not the fever that burn'd in her veins, -•■ Her bloom to the cold earth consigning ; Far other they seem'd, the woe and the pains, With which her wrung spirit was pining. But what it might be her spirit that wrung, — Her crime, or the cause of her sorrow, — Will never be heard of from mortal tongue, Till the last and the dreaded morrow ! No sister to soften her griefs was there, Her woes and her wishes sharing ; But ruffians there trod, with a haughty air, Of a dark and desperate bearing. A faltering word the Friar address'd, As he gazed on her form and beauty ; But, frowning, they pointed a sword to his breast, And beckon'd him on to his duty ! Then lowly and sad by the couch he knelt, With a voice of trembling emotion ; And deep in his breast a chill tremor he felt, As he leant him in humble devotion* But he blenched not at man ; for Heaven, he knew,, Would shield and support its tried servant. He raised his voice, and began to sue In prayers that were holy and fervent. '5 104 THE FKIAR. He pray'd for the sinners that soon must die, That their souls might be welcome in Heaven : The Lady he heard repeat with a sigh, — t( And their sins and their wrongs be forgiven f- Sorely and sadly her white hands she twined, And high did her lily breast heave ; But never a word dropt from her, design'd Her woe-tortured heart to relieve. He look'd to the Lady — no longer she stirr'd, She lay like a statue of sorrow ; And he fear'd, from all he had seen and heard, Her eyes would ne'er welcome the morrow ! He shrunk from the sight — and the sign was made ; Then they hooded his eyes, — nor halted, But downward sped, with an echoing tread, Through caverns, long, dreary, and vaulted. As the night-breeze fanned his pallid cheek, A shot echo'd loud and appalling ; And he heard a shrill and a piercing shriek, Like a maiden for mercy calling ! Then they turn'd with a start and sudden thrill, As the weakening peal Hew o'er them ; But all again was unbreathingly still, Whilst they gazed behind and before them. THE FR1A11. 105 They listed no more ; — but hurried him on, Still closely remaining together : Through alleys they led him all silently lone, But he knew not from whence or whither. Then stopping, they crossed their swords on his breast, With gestures most alarming and dire ; And they made him, — as he hoped for rest, Or dreaded their vengeance and ire, — That all which, that night, he witness'd and saw, Should never be told to another ; And they bound him o'er by a dreadful law, And he swore by the Virgin Mother, — That all which, that night, he witness d and satv, SI could never be named to another ! A purse of gold they then thrust in his hand, But yet he beheld not the giver ; For ere from his eyes he undid the band, His leaders had vanislVd for ever ! — And all that long night he never could sleep ; But, oppressed with care and cumber, He fancied he watched that Lady weep, In visions of troubled slumber. And the memory of her blanched cheek, Long, long, of his bosom's peace 'reft him ; 106 VERSES. And the shot he heard, and the piercing shriek, Till his latest hour never left him ! VERSES, SUNG TO THE LEADING PASSAGE OF PLEYEL S GERMAN HYMN, ON A PUBLIC CHARITABLE OCCASION. By J. F. STANFIELD, Esq. Sweet's the strain, when meek-eyed peace Gently sweeps th' harmonious wires ; Horrid war's hoarse clarions cease — Sweet's the strain which peace inspires ! Sweet the soothing notes combine, When mercy spares the prostrate foe ; Forgiveness calls for lays divine — Sweet the strains from mercy flow ! Sweet compassion's plaintive sound, Lenient sooths affliction's pain ; Sympathetic feels the wound — Sweetly swells the soft'ning strain ! 15 ON BAPTISM. 107 But sweetest far the strain will prove, When Charity to action springs, Uniting Mercy, Peace, and Love ; The bliss that takes, the bliss that brings. O, Charity, celestial guest ! Descend, and stamp thy mild decree ; Attune the voice, expand the breast, For sweet's the strain inspired by thee ! ON BAPTISM. TO LAVINIA, A YOUTHFUL AND ACCOMPLISHED MEMBElt OF THE SOCIETY OF FRIENDS, WHO RECEIVED THE EARLY PART OF HER EDUCATION IN KENDAL. By a CLERGYMAN op the Establishment. Hark ! how the sacred thunder rends the skies ! " Repent, and be baptized I 11 Christ's herald cries ; " Repent, and be baptized !" consenting Heaven replies. And can Lavinia unaffected hear This awful message echoing in her ear ? Will my Lavinia, unconverted, prove Rebel to God, and faithless unto love? 108 ON BAPTISM. Say, shall a parent's absolute command, The mighty voice of God himself withstand ? Shall heavenly calls to earthly ties give place, And filial fondness frustrate Christian grace ? Must human wit Omniscience engage, And Barclay endless war with Jesus wage ? Must each Apostle waive his claim to merit, That Fox may shine first martyr of the spirit ? Must Philip's process be superfluous thought, Because he wash'd the Eunuch he had taught ? Must Paul at Corinth be a babbler too ? And Peter, when a baptist, be a Jew ? Must feodal rites be metaphor'd away, And actual homage construed — disobey ? Must each adept in Calvary's great school, Be not in meekness, but in fact, a fool ? Such juggling arts may change each part of speech, Make water, Spirit — and baptize, to teach. But if such jargon Jesus represents, The light, indeed, is lent alone to saints : Then in the letter double death we find, And Christ by figure only saved mankind. LAVINIA'S ANSWER. " Hark ! how the sacred thunder rends the skies ! ' Repent, and be baptized P Christ's herald cries ; ' Repent, and be baptized !' consenting Heaven replies.' ON BAPTISM. 109 The Christian heart reveres the solemn sound, And, deeply humbled, treads the sacred ground ; Owns the injunction's undisputed claim, Its awful import, and its glorious aim. But here a difference mutual zeal excites, You plead for outward, we for mental rites. We think the Gospel's hallow' d page inspires Superior efforts, nor one type requires ; Since no lavations can effectual prove The innate stains of nature to remove. No mode of words can heavenly grace impart To an infantile and unconscious heart ; We hence, as vain and useless, disallow The faithless surety, and unbinding vow, As being shadows which men may observe, Yet from the substance in their conduct swerve. Whilst superstitious rites their time divide, They cease to follow virtue as their guide ; Misled by canons, and the various rules Of councils, synods, colleges, and schools. Thus might mankind, for some an ample field, To circumcision's ancient custom yield ; Or humbly prostrate, in the public street, With blind devotion wash each other's feet. 'Tis thus that holiness to form gives place, And solemn trifling frustrates Christian grace. In Jordan's pool, well pleased th' Almighty saw His Son beloved submitting to the law ; J 10 ON BAPTISM. But his Apostles through the world he sent, Gifted with power beyond th" element : This mighty power his herald did proclaim, " He shall baptize you with a holy flame." Though water was in use, an ancient rite, Allow'd the common way to proselyte, Yet no dependence placed thereon you'll see ; And Paul and Peter on that point agree.* Thus real Christians, with illumined thought, View truth unbiass'd, as its Author taught : No temporary shadows are revered, Where their immortal substance has appeared. Fox preach'd this doctrine to a seeking age ; It shines in Barclay's unrefuted page. Simple their scheme ; no mean self-love they knew, But freely preacli'd, without a sordid view ; With hearts devoted, Gospel truths display'd, And sconi'd to make divinity a trade. No juggling arts are used, no low disguise, O'er obvious texts and sense to tyrannize ; Discerning truth by its own native light, They, by its guidance, practised what was right. This state attain'd, external rites no more Require observance, as in days of yore : 'Tis grace alone, we by experience find, Imparts instruction to th 1 attentive mind ; * 1 Cor. i. 17. 1 Peter, iii. 21. HEBREW MELODY. Ill Convicts of error, and restrains from sin, — For what these are it manifests within. Each wayward passion by its aid subdued, The soul's enthroned in native rectitude ; Cleansed from its stains, and sprinkled from above, With pure descendings of atoning love. If short of this redemption we may find, Then Christ by figure only saved mankind. Let this alone my suppliant spirit crave, Since but one Lord, one Faith, one Baptism, will save. " WERE MY BOSOM AS FALSE AS THOU DEEM'ST IT TO BE." FROM " HEBREW MELODIES." By Lord BYRON. Were my bosom as false as thou deem'st it to be, I need not have wander'd from far Galilee ; It was but abjuring my creed, to efface The curse which, thou say'st, is the crime of my race. If the bad never triumph, then God is with thee ! If the slave only sin, thou art spotless and free ! If the exile on earth is an outcast on high, Live on in thy faith, — but in mine I will die ! 112 CASSANDRA, A MONO-DRAMA. I have lost for that faitli more than thou canst bestow, As the God who permits thee to prosper doth know ; In his hand is my heart and my hope ; and in thine, The land and the life which for him I resign ! CASSANDRA, A MONO-DRAMA; AS PERFORMED BY MISS MACAULEY, AT HER THEATRE, EUROPEAN SALOON, KING STREET, ST JAMEs's SQUARE. By Mrs COBBOLD. TIME, NIGHT. Scene, — The Temple of 'Minerva, overlooking the Walls of Troy. In the bach: Scene, a Shrine and Statue of the Goddess. In the distance, ilie Tro- jan Horse on the Wall. CASSANDRA, alone. Ye sacred fanes, ye venerable walls, Are ye at length in peace ? Shakes not your base With war's harsh thunder ? — Tis a stilly night ; No sound is heard, save now and then a shout From some lone warrior, who hath kept too late The long-protracted festival. Far west, CASSANDRA, A MONO-DRAMA. 113 The crescent moon casts her descending light. In lengthen'd column, on the rippling wave. I feel a holy calmness lull my soul, Stealing away the sense of terrors past : Sure "'tis the promise of that awful power, Who haunted me with forms of future ill, To visit me no more. The vision' d woe That late beset me was a dream ; — 'tis past, And I lion and Cassandra find repose. Love, too, shall sooth me ; for Apollo yields This heart to my Chorebus. — Come, dear youth ! I wait thee in Minerva's sacred fane ; Here, ere yon moon be set, we'll hold one hour Of sweet and secret converse, communing Of home, and future bliss. Why comes he not ? The midnight hour steals on. — How huge and 'dark Portends the shadow of that giant steed, FoiTd Grecia's votive gift ! — Hark, hark ! a sound ! 'Twas as the ring of temper' d steel, when sword On buckler clashes. — Whence those fitful gleams, Like lances glitt'ring on the moon-beam ? — Hush ! Methinks I hear the tread of armed men ! — No, 'twas the work of Fancy ; she creates Shapes in a world of darkness, and with sounds Peoples the world of silence. All is still. — Come, dear Chorebus ! Come, my life, my love ! It is thine absence wakes these woman's fears ! H 114 CASSANDRA, A MONO-DRAMA. O let me hush them on thy gentle breast, And lose them in affection ! — "lis his step ; He comes, and I am blest ! — No, it pass'd on, With tremulous gliding, like a murderer's tread In his hush'd victim's chamber. — Ha ! that cry ! Is it a distant shriek ? Perchance the bat Flitted beneath the cornice, and possessed My startled ear. — Again those hurrying steps I That clang; of arms ! — 'Tis not delusion now. What sounds ! — Oh, Heaven ! the deadly night-wail raised By maids and matrons ! — From my father's roof It rises : Oh, can danger threat my sire, And his child loiter here ? Away, vain fears ; My parents call Cassandra ! — (Going, returns precipitately.) — Horrid sight! Volumes of rolling smoke and bursting flame Impede my passage ! — How the crackling blaze Spreads on the rafters ! With the hideous crash Of falling beams, the death-groan and the cry Of terror mingle ! — Can I bear all this, And my swoln heart not burst ? and can the bands Of stniffglins; nature chain me still to life ? — Oh, royal Ilion ! Oh, my father's house ! Friends, kindred, brothers ! are ye lost, all lost ? — Spare, raging element, that reverend form, It is my sire ! — My mother ! oh, my mother ! CASSANDRA, A MONO-DRAMA. 115 I see, I hear thee ; but a daughter's arms Are stretched to thee in vain ! — My dearest mother ! What ! not one last embrace ? — Do I exist, And can my faint and sickening soul not shut These dreadful visions out ? — A sea of fire Rolls hitherward its glowing tide ! — I fly ! Ah, worse than fire, — a band of hostile Greeks, False, treacherous Greeks, assail this hallow'd fane ! Daughter of Jove ! shall ruffian hands presume To touch thy shrine, the sacred, safe retreat Of trembling maidens when their country bleeds ? — Alas ! she hears me not : the goddess leaves Her Troy, and lost Cassandra pleads in vain. — The foes come on ; they force the brazen gates ; — Hark ! 'tis the clash of arms ! — a hero strikes, And death is on his faulchion ! — See, they fly ; On every side they fly ! — O, brave ! O, brave! Gods, how the hero towers ! — 'Tis he, 'tis he ; 'Tis my Chorebus ! he has saved his bride !— We meet O, horror ! a resistless throng O'erwhelms my soldier : Fate avert their spears ! Jove's lightning strike their swords ! the conflict grows ; He fights, yes, still he fights, and they recoil. Ah ! he is pierced, is falFn : He bleeds, he dies — My heart is faint ! Art thou not near, my love ? I cannot see thee, for a glazing film \l() CASSANDRA, A MONO-DRAMA. Has dimmed mine eyes. Soft— let me find thy hand, Where cold in death it lies. Why, who are these ? How ! Greeks ?— Off, slaves ! a Princess bids— away ! Ay, twine my locks in your polluted hands, Ye shall not tear me from his bleeding corse : What ! fetterM still ? Hence, monsters, hence ! Your Chief, The swift of foot, approaches : bloody spears Denote O'ilian Ajax. This is he Who slew my bridegroom. In his burning eyes Unholy passions glare. — Now, Phoebus, now, My torment late, protect me : Be thy power Triumphant in my soul, so thou wilt take Me spotless hence : Around me cast the awe Of thy prophetic fury, to appal These violators, and in death receive me, A victim, as thine honour'd Daphne pure : By her I do adjure thee. Yes, I feel Thy power supernal : slowly through my veins The shuddering horror creeps ; my freezing limbs Shake with unearthly tremors ; lightnings blaze Around me, and my swelling bosom owns The present Deity ! Ay, gaze and quail, Ye pallid men of marble ! Who shall dare To touch me now ? The grizly gaping fiends Have marked you for their prey : Remorse and scorn, Discord and treason, incest, murder, spoil, CASSANDKA, A MONO-DUAMA. 117 Already seize your homes, and happiest he Who ne'er his home revisits. But for thee, For thee, fell spoiler, urge thy boasted speed ; Thou canst not fly from terror : cast thy spear ; The very earth it wounds shall groan and curse thee ! O, Ajax, thine shall be a fate for scorn To mark in history's page ; for thou shalt live To hate both men and gods ; and when thy pride Defies the power of both, even in that moment, The rifted rock shall shiver to its base, And cast thee forth, abhorr 1 d of earth and heaven, Deep in the yawning flood, where hissing flames, Commingling with the wave, shall welcome thee, The Fury's deathless victim ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! Now my soul triumphs in thy palsied frame, Thy quivering lip, and that half-stifled groan That speaks a dreadful foretaste of thy doom ! The awe-struck Greeks confess the spell, and fly. — I thank thee, Phoebus, thou hast saved mine honour, And death is on me. \_Faints. \_Recovering.~\ All is still. It was A very fearful dream ! — A dream ? O, horror ! I see it still : Those flames — those ruffian Greeks ; They will return. O, would it were a dream ! I am the very soul of wretchedness, And reason is despair. Where shall I find A refuge ? Underneath the shrine there is A low and darksome cave, where I have oft Withdrawn, when maddening with prophetic rage : 118 HELLVELLYN. There will I hide me — there let frenzy seer The brain, that memory sickens. Thought, away ! Thick shadows float around me : I shall sleep, And I shall be so calm, and dream, and find Chorebus and Elysium ! Echo, peace ! Thou shalt not hear my footsteps — Hush ! no noise, {Goes feebly towards the shrine, endeavours to find the entrance to the cavern, but being unable, falls, fainting, on the pedestal of the statue, and the curtain drops.) HELLVELLYN. By Sir W. SCOTT. In the spring of the year 1805, a young gentleman* of talents, and of a most amiable disposition, perished by losing his way on the mountain Hellvellyn. His remains were not discovered till three months afterwards, when they were found guarded by a faithful dog, his constant attendant during frequent so- litary rambles through the wilds of Cumberland and West- moreland. I climb , d the dark brow of the mighty Hellvellyn, Lakes and mountains beneath me gleaned misty and wide, * Mr Charles Gough of Manchester. HELLVELLYN. 119 All was still, save, by fits, when the eagle was yelling, And starting around me the echoes replied. On the right, Striden-edge round the Red-tarn was bending, And Catchedicam its left verge was defending, One huge nameless rock in the front was impending, When I mark'd the sad spot where the wanderer had died Dark green was that spot, 'mid the brown mountain heather, Where the Pilgrim of Nature lay stretched in decay, Like the corpse of an outcast, abandoned to weather, Till the mountain winds wasted the tenantless clay. Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely extended, For, faithful in death, his mute favourite attended, The much-loved remains of his master defended, And chased the hill-fox and the raven away. How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber ? When the wind waved his garment, how oft didst thou start ? How many long days and long weeks didst thou number, Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart ? And oh ! was it meet, that, — no requiem read oVr him, No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him, And thou, little guardian, alone stretclVd before him, — Unhonour'd the Pilgrim from life should depart. 120 SIR JOHN MOOIJK , S BURIAL. When a prince to the fate of the peasant has yielded, The tapestry waves dark round the dim-lighted hall ; With 'scutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded, And pages stand mute by the canopied pall ; Through the court, at deep midnight, the torches are gleaming ; In the proudly-arch'd chapel the banners are beaming ; Far adown the long aisle sacred music is streaming, Lamenting a chief of the people should fall. But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature, To lay down thy head like the meek mountain lamb, When, wilderMjhe drops from some cliff huge in stature, And draws his last sob by the side of his dam : And more stately thy couch by this desert lake lying, Thy obsequies sung by the gray plover flying, With but one faithful friend for to witness thy dying, In the arms of Hellvellyn and Catchedicam. SIR JOHN MOORE'S BURIAL. Not a drum was heard, not a fun'ral note As his corpse to the ramparts we hurried ; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot, O'er the grave where our hero was buried. SIR JOHN MOOKF. S BURIAL. 121 We buried him darkly at dead of night, The sods with our bayonets turning ; By the struggling moon-beam's misty light, And the lantern dimly burning. No useless coffin inclosed his breast, Nor in sheet nor in shroud we bound him ; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him. Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow ; But we stedfastly gazed on the face of the dead. And we bitterly thought of the morrow. We thought as we hallow'd his narrow bed, And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread on his head, And we far away on the billow. Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him ; But nothing he'll reck, if they let him sleep on, In the grave where a Briton has laid him. But half of our heavy task was done, When the clock toll'd the hour for retiring, And we heard by the distant and random gun, That the foe was suddenly firing. 122 lochiel's warning. Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame, fresh and gory, We carved not a line, we raised not a stone, But we left him alone with his glory. LOCHIEL'S WARNING. By T. CAMPBELL, Esq. WIZARD. Lochiel ! Lochiel, beware of the day When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array ! For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight, And the clans of Culloden are scatter'd in fight : They rally, they bleed, for their kingdom and crown ; Woe, woe to the riders that trample them down ! Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain, And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain. But hark ! through the fast-flashing lightning of war, What steed to the desert flies frantic and far ? 'Tis thine, oh Glenullin ! whose bride shall await, Like a love-lighted watch-fire, all night at the gate. A steed comes at morning : no rider is there ; But its bridle is red with the sign of despair. Weep, Albyn !* to death and captivity led ! Oh, weep ! but thy tears cannot number the dead : * Albyn is the Gaelic appellation of Scotland, more particularly the Highlands. LOCHIEl/s WARNINC. 123 For a merciless sword on Culloden shall wave, Culloden ! that reeks with the blood of the brave. LOCHIEL. Go, preach to the coward, thou death-telling seer ! Or, if gory Culloden so dreadful appear, Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight, This mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright. WIZARD. Ha ! laugh'st thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn ? Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn ! Say, rush'd the bold eagle exultingly forth, From his home, in the dark-rolling clouds of the north ? Lo ! the death-shot of foemen outspeeding, he rode Companionless, bearing destruction abroad; But down let him stoop from his havoc on high ! Ah ! home let him speed — for the spoiler is nigh. Why flames the far summit ? Why shoot to the blast, Those embers, like stars from the firmament cast ? 'Tis the fire-shower of ruin, all dreadfully driven From his eyry, that beacons the darkness of heaven. Oh, crested Lochiel ! the peerless in might, Whose banners arise on the battlements' 1 height, Heaven's fire is around thee, to blast and to burn ; Return to thy dwelling ! all lonely, return ! For the blackness of ashes shall mark where it stood, And a wild mother scream o'er her famishing brood. \0± LOCII1EL S WARNING. LOCHIEL. False Wizard, avaunt ! I have marshalFd my clan : Their swords are a thousand, their bosoms are one ! They are true to the last of their blood and their breath, And like reapers descend to the harvest of death. Then welcome be Cumberland's steed to the shock ! Let him dash his proud foam like a wave on the rock ! But woe to his kindred, and woe to his cause, When Albyn her claymore indignantly draws ; When her bonnetted chieftains to victory crowd, Clanranald the dauntless, and Moray the proud ; All plaided and plumed in their tartan array WIZARD. Lochiel, Lochiel, beware of the day ! For, dark and despairing, my sight I may seal, But man cannot cover what God would reveal : Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore, And coming events cast their shadows before. I tell thee, Culloden's dread echoes shall ring With the blood-hounds that bark for thy fugitive king. Lo ! anointed by heaven with the vials of wrath, Behold, where he flies on his desolate path ! Now, in darkness and billows, he sweeps from my sight : Rise, rise ! ye wild tempests, and cover his flight ! — ?Tis finishU Their thunders are hush'd on the moors ! Culloden is lost, and my country deplores ; lociiiei/s WA11XING. 125 But where is the iron-bound prisoner ? Where ? For the red eye of battle is shut in despair. Say, mounts he the ocean-wave, banisli'd, forlorn, Like a limb from his country cast, bleeding and torn ? Ah, no ! for a darker departure is near ; The war-drum is muffled, and black is the bier ; His death-bell is tolling — Oh, mercy ! dispel Yon sight, that it freezes my spirit to tell ! Life flutters convulsed in his quivering limbs, And his blood-streaming nostril in agony swims. Accursed be the faggots that blaze at his feet, Where his heart shall be thrown ere it ceases to beat, With the smoke of its ashes to poison the gale LOCHIEL. Down, soothless insulter ! I trust not the tale ; For never shall Albyn a destiny meet, So black with dishonour, so foul with retreat. Though my perishing limbs should be strewed in their gore, Like ocean-weeds heap'd on the surf-beaten shore, Lochiel, still untainted by flight or by chains, While the kindling of life in his bosom remains, Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low, With his back to the field, and his feet to the foe ! And leaving in battle no blot on his name, Look proudly to heaven from the death-bed of fame ! [ 326 ] AN ODE. By Lord BYRON. Oh, shame to thee, Land of the Gaul ! Oh, shame to thy children and thee ! Unwise in thy glory, and base in thy fall, How wretched thy portion shall be ! Derision shall strike thee forlorn, A mockery that never shall die ; The curses of hate, and the hisses of scorn, Shall burden the winds of the sky ; And, proud o'er thy ruin, for ever be hurFd, The laughter of triumph, — the jeers of the world ! Oh where is thy spirit of yore ? The spirit that breath'd in thy dead ; When gallantry's star was the beacon before, And honour the passion that led ? Thy storms have awaken'd their sleep ; They groan from the place of their rest, And wrathfully murmur, and sullenly weep, To see the foul stain on thy breast : For where is the glory they left thee in trust ? Tis scatter'd in darkness, — "'tis trampled in dust ! 15 AN ODE. 127 Go, look through the kingdoms of earth, From Indus all round to the Pole, And something of goodness, of honour, and worth, Shall brighten the sins of the soul : But thou art alone in thy shame, The world cannot liken thee there ; Abhorrence and vice have disfigured thy name Beyond the low reach of compare : Stupendous in guilt, thou shalt lend us through time, A proverb, — a bye-word, for treacliry and crime ! While conquest illumin'd his sword, While yet in his prowess he stood, Thy praises still followM the steps of thy lord, And welcomed the torrent of blood : Though tyranny sate on his crown, And withered the nations afar, Yet bright in thy view was that despot's renown, Till fortune deserted his car ; Then back from thy Chieftain thou shrunkest away, — The foremost to insult, — the first to betray ! Forgot were the feats he had done, The toils he had borne in thy cause ; Thou turned'st to worship a new rising sun r And waft other songs of applause : For the storm was beginning to lour, Adversity clouded his beam ; And honour and faith were the brag of an hour, And loyalty's self but a dream ! — 128 AX ODE. To him thou hadst banished thy vows were restored ; And the first that had scofTd, were the first that adored. What tumult thus burthens the air ? What throng thus encircles his throne ? 'Tis the shout of delight, 'tis the millions that swear, His sceptre shall rule them alone. Reverses shall brighten their zeal ; Misfortune shall hallow his name ; And the world, that pursues him, shall mournfully feel, How quenchless the spirit and flame That Frenchmen will breathe, when their hearts are on fire For the Hero they love, and the Chief they admire ! Their Hero has ruslfd to the field ; His laurels are cove^d with shade : — But where is the spirit that never should yield, The loyalty never to fade ? — In a moment, desertion and guile Abandon'd him up to the foe ; The dastards, that flourished and grew at his smile, Forsook and renounced him in woe : And the millions that swore they would perish to save, Beheld him a fugitive, captive, and slave ! The savage, all wild in his glen, Is nobler and better than thou ; Thou standest a wonder, a marvel to men, Such perfidy blackens thy brow ! — STANZAS, WRITTEN IN DECEMBER. 129 If thou wert the place of my birth, At once from thy arms would I sever, I'd fly to the uttermost ends of the earth, And quit thee for ever and ever ; And thinking of thee, in my long after years, Should but kindle my blushes, and waken my tears. Oh, shame to thee, Land of the Gaul ! Oh, shame to thy children and thee ! Unwise in thy glory, and base in thy fall, How wretched thy fortune shall be ! Derision shall strike thee forlorn, A mockery that never shall die ; The curses of hate, and the hisses of scorn, Shall burthen the winds of the sky : And proud o'er thy ruin for ever be hurl'd, The laughter of triumph, — the jeers of the world ! STANZAS, WRITTEN IN DECEMBER. By ELIZABETH SCOTT. Blow, blow, ye bleak blasts, ye keen winds of December ! Unshelter'd, unshrinking, your fury I brave ! For soon shall my breaking heart cease to remember The tempests of life, in the calm of the grave. 130 THE DEATH OF THE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS. The grave ! — Dost thou start from this, friend of mis- fortune ? Does its stillness appal thee ? its darkness affright ? Erring mortal ! forgetst thou, it only can shorten, The path which ascends to yon mansions of light ! There, world-weary spirit, at length shalt thou rest thee; Thither,freed from thy burden of clay, shalt thou soar ; Where dreaded no longer are those who oppress" d thee; Where sorrow and sadness shall know thee no more. THE DEATH OF THE FIRE- WORSHIPPERS. FROM " LALLA ROOKH. 11 By T. MOORE, Esq. " 'Tis he !" the shuddering maid exclaims, But while she speaks he's seen no more ; High burst in air the funeral flames, And Iran's hopes and hers are o'er ! — One wild heart-broken shriek she gave — Then sprung, as if to reach that blaze, Where still she fix 1 d her dying gaze ; And, gazing, sunk into the wave, THE DEATH OF THE KIKE-WORSHIPPERS. 131 Deep, deep ! — where never care or pain Shall reach her innocent heart again ! — Farewell, farewell to thee, Araby's daughter ! (Thus warbled a Peri beneath the dark sea,) No pearl ever lay under Oman's green water More pure in its shell, than thy spirit in thee. Oh, fair as the sea-flower, close to thee growing ! How light was thy heart till love's witchery came, Like the winds of the south* o'er a summer lute blowing, And hushM all its music, and witherd its frame ! But long upon Araby's green sunny highlands, Shall maids and their lovers remember the doom Of her, who lies sleeping among the Pearl Islands, With nought but the sea-starf to light up her tomb. And still when the merry date-season is burning. And calls to the palm-groves the young and the old ; The happiest there, from their pastime returning At sun-set, will weep when thy story is told. * " This wind (the Samoor) so softens the strings of lutes, that they never can be tuned while it lasts." — Stephens'' Persia. + " One of the greatest curiosities found in the Persian Gulf is a fish, which the English call star-fish. It is circular, and at night very lu- minous, resembling the full moon, surrounded by rays." — Mirza Abu Talrh. 132 THE DEATH OF THE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS. The young village maid, when with flowers she dresses Her dark flowing hair for some festival day, Will think of thy fate, till, neglecting her tresses, She mournfully turns from the mirror away. Nor shall Iran, beloved of her Hero ! forget thee, Though tyrants watch over her tears as they start ; Close, close by the side of that Hero she'll set thee, Embalm'd in the innermost shrine of her heart. Farewell ! — Be it ours to embellish thy pillow With every thing beauteous that grows in the deep ; Each flower of the rock, and each gem of the billow, Shall sweeten thy bed, and illumine thy sleep. Around thee shall glisten the loveliest amber That ever the sorrowing sea-bird has wept ; * With many a shell, in whose hollow-wreath , d chamber We Peri's of Ocean by moonlight have slept. We'll dive where the gardens of coral lie darkling, And plant all the rosiest stems at thy head ; We'll seek where the sands of the Caspian -f- are spark- ling, And gather their gold to strew over thy bed. * " Some naturalists have imagined, that amber is a concretion of the tears of birds." — Trevoux, Chambers. + " The bay Kiesclarke, which is otherwise called the Golden Bay ; the sand whereof slunes as fire.'' — Struy. TO THE MOON. 133 Farewell, farewell ! until pity's sweet fountain Is lost in the hearts of the fair and the brave, They'll weep for the Chieftain who died on that moun- tain, — They'll weep for the Maiden who sleeps in this wave. TO THE MOON. FROM MRS TIGHE's " PSYCHE." What is it that gives thee, pale Queen of the Night, That secret intelligent grace ? Or why do I gaze with such tender delight On thy fair, but insensible face ? What gentle enchantment possesses thy beam Beyond the warm sunshine of day ? Thy bosom is cold as the glittering stream, Where dances thy tremulous ray. Canst thou the sad heart of its sorrow beguile, Or grief's fond indulgence suspend ? Yet where is the mourner but welcomes thy smile, And loves thee almost as a friend ? V3-i TO THE MOON. The tear that looks bright on thy beam as it flows, Unmoved thou dost ever behold ; The sorrow that loves in thy light to repose, To thee it has never been told : And yet thou dost sooth me ; — and ever I find, While watching thy gentle retreat, A moonlight composure steal over my mind Poetical, pensive, and sweet. I think of the years that for ever are fled ; Of follies, by others forgot ; Of joys that have vanish'd ; of hopes that are dead Of friendships that were, and are not. Those beams that so bright through my casement ap- pear, To far distant scenes they extend ; Illumine the dwellings of those that are dear, And sleep on the grave of my friend. Then still I must love thee, mild Queen of the Night ! Since feeling and fancy agree, To make thee a source of unfading delight, A friend and a solace to me. t 135 1 COLUMBIA. By an AMERICAN. Columbia's shores are wild and wide ; Columbia's hills are high ; And, rudely planted side by side Her forests meet the eye. But narrow must those shores be made, And low Columbia's hills, And low her ancient forests laid, Ere Freedom leaves her fields ; For 'tis the land where, rude and wild, She play'd her gambols when a child. And deep and wide her streams, that flow Tempestuous to the tide ; And thick and green the laurels grow On every river's side. But should a transatlantic host Pollute her waters fair, We'll meet them on the rocky coast, And gather laurels there : For oh ! Columbia's sons are brave ! And free as ocean's widest wave ! 136 COLUMBIA. The gales that wave her mountain pine, Are fragrant and serene ; And never clearer sun did shine, Than lights her valleys green. But putrid must those breezes blow, That sun must set in gore, Ere footsteps of a foreign foe Imprint Columbia's shore : For oh ! her sons are brave and free ! Their hearts beat high for liberty ! For arming boldest cuirassier, We've mines of sterling worth ; For sword and buckler, spur and spear, Emboweird in the earth. For ere Columbia's sons resign The boon their fathers won, The polish'd ore from every mine Shall glitter in the sun : For bright's the blade, and sharp the spear, Which Freedom's sons to battle bear. Let Britain boast the deeds she's done ; Display her trophies bright ; And count her laurels, bravely won In well-contested fight : Columbia can a band array, Will wrest the laurel wreath ; With truer eye, and steadier hand, Will strike the blow of death : COLUMBIA. 137 For whether on the land or sea, Columbia's fight is victory ! Let France in blood through Europe wade ; And, in her frantic mood, In civil discord draw the blade, And spill her children's blood. Too dear the skill in arms is bought, Where kindred life-blood flows ; Columbia's sons are only taught To triumph o'er their foes : And then to comfort, sooth, and save, The feelings of the conquer'd brave. Then let Columbia's eagle soar, And bear her banner high ; The thunder from her dexter pour, And lightning from her eye. And when she sees from realms above The storm of war is spent, Descending, like the welcome dove, The olive branch present ; And then with beauty's hand divine The never-fading wreath entwine. C 133 "J STANZAS, ADDRESSED TO THE MUMMY AT BELZONI S EXHIBITION. And thou hast walk'd about (how strange a story !) In Thebes 1 streets three thousand years ago, When the Memnonium was in all its glory, And time had not begun to overthrow These temples, palaces, and piles stupendous, Of which the very ruins are tremendous. Speak ! for thou long enough has acted Dummy, Thou hast a tongue — come — let us hear its tune ; Thourt standing on thy legs above ground, Mummy Revisiting the glimpses of the moon ; Not like thin ghosts, or disembodied creatures, But with thy bones and flesh, and limbs and features. Tell us — for doubtless thou canst recollect, To whom should we assign the Sphinx's fame ; Was Cheops or Cephrenes architect Of either Pyramid that bears his name ? Is Pompey's Pillar really a misnomer ? Mad Thebes a hundred gates, as sung by Homer ? STANZAS, ADDRESSED TO A MUMMY. 139 Perhaps thou wert a mason, and forbidden By oath to tell the secrets of thy trade ; Then say, what secret melody was hidden In Memnon's statue, which at sun-rise play'd ? Perhaps thou wert a priest — if so, my struggles Are vain, for priestcraft never owns its juggles. Perchance that very hand, now pinion'd flat, Has hob-a-nob'd with Pharoah glass to glass ; Or dropp'd a halfpenny in Homer's hat, Or dofTd thine own to let Queen Dido pass ; Or held, by Solomon's own invitation, A torch at the great Temple's dedication. I need not ask thee if that hand, when arm'd, Has any Roman soldier mauTd and knuckled, For thou wert dead, and buried, and embalm'd, Ere Romulus and Remus had been suckled • Antiquity appears to have begun Long after thy primeval race was run. Thou couldst develope, if that wither'd tongue Might tell us what those sightless orbs have seen, How the world look'd when it was fresh and young, And the great Deluge still had left it green. Or was it then so old that history's pages Contain'd no record of its early ages ? 140 STANZAS, ADDRESSED TO A MUMMY. Still silent, incommunicative elf? Art sworn to secrecy ? then keep thy vows ; But prythee, tell us something of thyself, Reveal the secrets of thy prison-house ; Since in the world of spirits thou hast slumber'd, What hast thou seen — what strange adventures num- ber^ ? Since first thy form was in this box extended, We have, above ground, seen some strange mutations ; The Roman empire has begun and ended, New worlds have risen — we have lost old nations, And countless kings have into dust been humbled, Whilst not a fragment of thy flesh has crumbled. Didst thou not hear the pother o'er thy head, When the great Persian conqueror, Cambyses, MarclVd armies o'er thy tomb with thundering tread, O'erthrew Osiris, Orus, Apis, Isis, And shook the Pyramids with fear and wonder, When the gigantic Memnon fell asunder ? If the tomb's secrets may not be confess'd, The nature of thy private life unfold : A heart has throbb'd beneath that leathern breast, And tears adown that dusty cheek has ro\Yd ; Have children climb'd those knees, and kiss'd that face ? What was thy name and station, age and race ? SONG. 141 Statue of flesh — Immortal of the dead ! Imperishable type of evanescence ! Posthumous man, who quit'st thy narrow bed And standest undecay'd within our presence, Thou wilt hear nothing to the judgment morning, When the great trump shall thrill thee with its warning. Why should this worthless tegument endure, If its undying guest be lost for ever ? Oh ! let us keep the soul embalmed and pure In living virtue, that when both must sever, Although corruption may our frame consume, Th' immortal spirit in the skies may bloom ! SONG, By Sir WALTER SCOTT. [[The following beautiful Song was sung with great effect at the meeting of the Pitt Club in Edinburgh, 1814.]] O dread was the time, and more dreadful the omen, When the brave on Marengo lay slaughter'd in vain, And beholding broad Europe bow'd down by her foemen, Pitt closed in his anguish the map of her reign ! Not the fate of broad Europe could bend his brave spirit To take for his country the safety of shame ; O then, in her triumph, remember his merit, And hallow the goblet that flows to his name ! 142 SONG. Round the husbandman's head, while he traces the fur- row The mists of the winter may mingle with rain, He may plough it with labour, and sow it in sorrow, And sigh while he fears he has sow'd it in vain : He may die ere his children shall reap in their gladness, But the blithe harvest-home shall remember his claim; And their jubilee shout shall be soften'd with sadness, While they hallow the goblet that flows to his name. Though anxious and timeless his life was expended, In toils for our country, preserved by his care, Though he died ere one ray o'er the nations ascended. To light the long darkness of doubt and despair ; The storms he endured in our Britain's December, The perils his wisdom foresaw and o'ercame, In her glory's rich harvest shall Britains remember, And hallow the goblet that flows to his name. Nor forget his grey head, who, all dark in affliction, Is deaf to the tale of our victories won, And to sounds the most dear to paternal affection, The shout of his people applauding his son. By his firmness unmoved in success or disaster, By his long reign of virtue remember his claim ! With our tribute to Pitt, join the praise of his Master, Though a tear stain the goblet that flows to his name. THE MADAGASCAR MOTHER. 143 Yet again fill the wine-cup, and change the sad measure, The rites of our grief, and our gratitude paid ; To our Prince, to our heroes, devote the briglit trea- sure, The wisdom that plann'd, and the zeal that obey'd. Fill Wellington's cup till it beam like his glory ! Forget not our own brave Dalhousie and Graeme ; A thousand years hence hearts shall bound at their story, And hallow the goblet that flows to their fame ! THE MADAGASCAR MOTHER. By Miss HOLCROFT. " AVhy shrink'st thou, weak girl ? Why this coward despair ? Thy tears and thy struggles are vain : Oppose me no more ; of my curses beware ! Thy terrors and grief I disdain !" The mother was dragging her daughter away To the white man, alas ! to be sold : " O spare me !" she cried, " sure thou wouldst not be- tray The child of thy bosom for gold ? 144 THE MADAGASCAR MOTHER. " The pledge of thy love ; I first taught thee to know A mother's affection and fears ; What crime has deserved thou shouldst only bestow Dishonour, and bondage, and tears ? " I tenderly sooth'd every sorrow and care ; To ease thee, unwearied I toil ; The fish of the stream by my wiles I ensnare, The meads of their flowers I despoil. " From the bleak wintry blast I have shelter'd thy head, Oft borne thee with zeal to the shade ; Thy slumbers have watch'd on the soft leafy bed ; The mosqueto oft chased from the glade. " Who'll cherish thy age, when from thee I am torn ? Gold ne'er buys affection like mine ; Thoult bow to the earth, while despairing I mourn, Not my sorrows and hardships, but thine. " Then sell me not, save me from anguish and shame, No child hast thou, mother, but me ! Oh ! do not too rashly abjure the dear claim, My bosom most trembles for thee !" In vain she implored — wretched maid ! she was sold ; To the ship, chain'd and frantic, convey'd ; Her parent and country ne'er more to behold, By a merciless mother betray'd ! [ 145 1 THE BRITISH TRAVELLER. By the Rev. Wm. SHEPHERD. I have traversed the deserts of Egypt so dreary, Where the eye-blighting mirage extends like the dew, And my heart, as I wanderM forlorn, sad, and weary, Has leaped when the Pyramids burst on my view. But, still faster it throbb 1 d, and my pulse beat the higher, When in speechless sensation I paused on the ground, Where Menou was compelFd from the fight to retire, And the brave Abercrombie received his death wound. I have seen the proud turrets of lofty Grenada, And cross'd the wide plains of the barren Castile ; I have play'd to my fair one, the sweet serenada ; And danced the fandango in wealthy Seville ; Like thy pilgrims, Iago, in ardent devotion, I have climb' d the rude mountains so high and so hoar ; And kneeling all rapture in sacred emotion, Due laurels Tve twined on the tombstone of Moore. 146 THE B1UTISH TRAVELLER. In the splendid saloons and the circles of Paris, Where wit, brightly sparkling, and gaiety smile ; I have joincl the light throng where ennui never tarries; And the Loves and the Graces the moments beguile. I have roam'd, sprightly France ! o'er thy vine-covered mountains, And thy vales ever moist with fructiferous dews ; But true pleasure I found at the moss-bordered foun- , tains, Where Victory smiled on our arms at Toulouse. Through thy fertile champaigns, ancient Belgium, IVe travelTd, And admired thy neat hamlets and flourishing towns, Thy intricate course, sluggish Scheldt! IVe unravell'd, And marked where the war-horse has trampled thy downs. But which was the spot, where, my step longest dwell- ing* My eyes were in transport infiVd in the view ? "Twas the spot where in fancy, my wrapt bosom swell- ing, I saw Wellington triumph at famed Waterloo. Oh, my loved native country ! wherever he wanders, Where the icebergs portentous in majesty roam ; Or where through tall palm-groves theGangesmeanders, The way-faring Briton is proud of his home. LAMENT NOT THE DEAD. 147 And while fond recollections to joys long lost bind him, Though alive to each climate's indigenous charms, He still dwells with delight on the scenes that remind him Of the Triumphs of Britain in arts and in arms. LAMENT NOT THE DEAD. By ELIZABETH SCOTT. Lament not the dead ! they only sleep, TVake again on a brighter morrow ; Vain is it, mortal, for thee to weep, Or dew the Grave with tears of sorrow ; The Grave will never relinquish its prize, Till caird by the Trump of the Great Assize, What though it hides in its loathsome cell, All that thou ever wert wont to love : Only the tongue of Seraph can tell The joys which await the blessed above ; Theirs is " the peace which the world cannot give,' Whilst the destiny's thine, to wail and live. Child of the Dust ! the time may be nigh When thou too that dreary valley must tread ; The lone, sole path, to those realms on high ; Where crowns are prepared for Virtue's head. 148 THE BLIGHTED ROSE. Then win thee, and wear thee the Diadem, Purchased for thee by the Blood of the Lamb. THE BLIGHTED ROSE. How gay was its foliage, how bright was its hue, How it scented the breeze that blew round it ! How carelessly sweet in the valley it grew, Till the blight of the mildew had found it ! Now faded, forlorn, scarce the wreck of its charms Remain e'en for fancy's renewing ; Its branches are bare, like its thorny alarms, And it lies the pale victim of ruin. Discontent is the mildew that feeds on the mind, That robs the warm cheek of its roses ; That cankers the breast of the rude or refined, Where'er it a moment reposes. Tis a wizard, whose touch withers beauty away, And denies every pleasure to blossom, Insidiously creeps to the heart of its prey, And invites cold despair to the bosom. [ 149 ] ON THE DEATH OF SIR WILLIAM JONES. By the Duchess of DEVONSHIRE. Unbounded learning, thoughts by genius framed, To guide the bounteous labours of his pen, Distinguished him whom kindred sages named, " The most enlighten'd of the sons of men." Upright through life, as in his death resign'd, His actions spoke a pure and ardent breast : Faithful to God and friendly to mankind, His friends revered him, and his country blest. Admired and valued in a distant land, His gentle manners all affections won ; The prostrate Hindoo owiVd his fostering hand, And Science mark'd him for her favourite son. Regret and praise the general voice bestows, And public sorrows with domestic blend ; But deeper yet must be the grief of those, Who, while the sage they honour'd, loved the friend. L 150 ] THE EXILE OF ERIN. By T. CAMPBELL, Esq. There came to the beach a poor exile of Erin, The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill ; For his country he sighM, when at twilight repairing, To i .mder alone on the wind-beaten hill. But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion ; For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean, Where once in the fire of his youthful emotion, He sung the bold anthem of Erin-go-bragh. " How sad is my fate !" said the heart-broken stranger, " The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee ; But I have no refuge from famine and danger, A home and a country remain not to me. And never again in the green sunny bowers, Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet hours ; Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers, And strike to the numbers of Erin-go-bragh. THE EXILE OF ERIN. 151 " Oh Erin, my country ! though sad and forsaken, In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore ; But, alas ! in a far foreign land I awaken, And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more ! And thou, cruel fate, wilt thou never replace me In a mansion of peace, where no perils can chase me ? Oh, never again shall my brothers embrace me ! They died to defend me, or live to deplore ! " Where is my cabin now, fast by the wild wood ? Sisters and sire, did ye weep for its fall ? Where is the mother that look'd on my childhood ? And where is the bosom friend, dearer than all ? Ah, my sad heart, long abandon'd by pleasure, Why did it doat on a fast-fading treasure ? Tears like the rain-drops may fall without measure ; But rapture and beauty they cannot recal. " But yet, all its sad recollections suppressing, One dying wish my lone bosom can draw : Erin ! an exile bequeaths thee his blessing- Land of my forefathers, Erin-go-bragh ! Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion, Green be thy fields, sweetest isle of the ocean ! And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion, Erin, mavournin, Erin-go-bragh ! i [ 152 ] STANZAS, FROM " CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. By Lord BYRON. The sails were filTd, and fair the light winds blew, As glad to waft him from his native home ; And fast the white rocks faded from his view, And soon were lost in circumambient foam : And then, it may be, of his wish to roam Repented he, but in his bosom slept The silent thought, nor from his lips did come One word of wail, whilst others sate and wept, And to the reckless gales unmanly moaning kept. But when the sun was sinking in the sea, He seized his harp which he at times could string, And strike, albeit with untaught melody, When deem'd he no strange ear was listening. And now his fingers o'er it he did fling, And tuned his farewell in the dim twilight. While flew the vessel on her snowy wing, And fleeting shores receded from his sight, Thus to the elements he pour\l his last " Good Night. 1 ' STANZAS. 153 " Adieu, adieu ! my native shore Fades o'er the waters blue ; The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar, And shrieks the wild sea-mew. Yon Sun that sets upon the sea We follow in his flight ; Farewell awhile to him and thee, My native Land — Good Night ! " A few short hours, and He will rise To give the morrow birth ; And I shall hail the main and skies, But not my mother Earth. Deserted is my own good hall, Its hearth is desolate ; Wild weeds are gathering on the wall ; My dog howls at the gate. " Come hither, hither, my little page ! Why dost thou weep and wail ? Or dost thou dread the billows' 1 rage, Or tremble at the gale ? But dash the tear-drop from thine eye ; Our ship is swift and strong : Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly More merrily along. 11 " Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high, I fear not wave nor wind ; 154 STANZAS. Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I Am sorrowful in mind ; For I have from my father gone, A mother whom I love, And have no friend, save these alone, But thee — and One above. " My father bless'd me fervently, Yet did not much complain ; But sorely will my mother sigh Till I come back again."''' — " Enough, enough, my little lad ! Such tears become thine eye ; If I thy guileless bosom had, Mine own would not be dry. " Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman, Why dost thou look so pale ? Or dost thou dread a French foeman ? Or shiver at the gale ?" — " Deem'st thou I tremble for my life ? Sir Childe, I'm not so weak ; But thinking on an absent wife Will blanch a faithful cheek. ** My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall, Along the bordering lake ; And Avhen they on their father call, What answer shall she make ?" — STANZAS. 155 " Enough, enough, my yeoman good, Thy grief let none gainsay ; But I, who am of lighter mood, Will laugh to flee away. " For who would trust the seeming sighs Of wife or paramour ? Fresh fires will dry the bright blue eyes We late saw streaming o'er. For pleasures past I do not grieve, Nor perils gathering near ; My greatest grief is, that I leave No thing that claims a tear. " And now I'm in the world alone, Upon the wide, wide sea : But why should I for others groan, When none will sigh for me ? Perchance my dog will whine in vain, Till fed by stranger hands ; But long ere I come back again, He'd tear me where he stands. " With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go Athwart the foaming brine ; Nor care what land thou bearst me to, So not again to mine. Welcome, welcome, ye dark-blue waves And when you fail my sight, 156 STANZAS. Welcome, ye deserts, and ye caves ! My native Land — Good Night !" STANZAS, WRITTEN AFTER READING THE FOURTH CANTO OF " childe Harold's pilgrimage." By ALBANIA. Oh ! bid us not farewell, thou Knight of woe ; Permit us still thy devious steps to trace ; Still let the strain of sadden'd grandeur flow, "While themes immortal every stanza grace. Often my heart, my inmost heart, has sigh'd By Delphi's shrine or Arno's stream to stray, But Fate my mind's best wishes hath denied. Oh ! were not souls confin'd by cumbrous clay, Perchance thou ne'er hadst been all lonely on thy way. When youth and fancy gilt my life's fair morn, Fired by the muse I wish'd a heavenly love, Some bright Apollo, whom all charms adorn — And beaming beauty from the realms above, With brow of brightness, and with eyes of light; But gods, alas ! and demi-gods were flown : My ardent soul too high had wing'd her flight, I found no mind congenial with my own — When, lo ! Childe Harold rose ! I felt no more alone. STANZAS. 157 " Behold P I cried, " Behold, indeed, a soul — A heavenly spirit in an earthly shrine I" Across my mind transcendent visions stole, And Hope illumed them with his smile divine, 'Tis past ! 'Tis past ! my glow has vanish'd too — My heart is cold — Joy's fluttering pulse is dead — Faded the visions flattering Fancy drew — Vanished the dreams which round my youthful head By radiant Hope diffused, their transient glories shed. Thou know'st me not — but, oh ! I feel — I know, That if thou didst thou wouldst not scorn my lay, Which claims alliance with thy heart-felt woe, And twines its cypress with thy brighter bay. Poets by poets can be prized alone — What other hearts can feel as theirs have felt ? What other souls can make the past their own, O'er the sweet visions of the Muses melt, And dwell in bright idea, where Glory erst has dwelt ? Yes, Glory ! honours of immortal kind, Brighter than all a victor's sword can buy, The lasting triumphs of expansive mind, Which, long as earth shall stand, will never die. It is not arms, or millions, which can raise The fame of nations on a solid base ; 'Tis from the mind the rays of glory blaze : What worth of heart, what fire of soul we trace In the historic page, which ancient annals grace ! 158 B0AD1CEA. For thee, lorn Champion of the Bleeding Heart, If future years revive not Rapture's flower, If future pleasures blunt not Sorrow's dart, And thou art lonely in thy wither'd bower — Oh ! think beyond this wilderness of woe There lies a world of bliss, too bright to tell : There shall the tide of anguish cease to flow, There purified and blest our souls shall dwell, Ne'er more to shed the tear — ne'er more to sigh " Farewell."" BOADICEA. AN ODE, By COWPER. When the British warrior queen, Bleeding from the Roman rods, Sought, with an indignant mien, Counsel of her country's gods, Sage beneath a spreading oak Sat the Druid, hoary chief; Every burning word he spoke Full of rage and full of grief. BOADICEA. 159 Princess ! if our aged eyes Weep upon thy matchless wrongs, ""Tis because resentment ties All the terrors of our tongues. Rome shall perish — write that word In the blood that she hath spilt : Perish, hopeless and abhor^d, Deep in ruin as in guilt. Rome, for empire far renown , d, Tramples on a thousand states ; Soon her pride shall kiss the ground — Hark ! the Gaul is at her gates ! Other Romans shall arise, Heedless of a soldier's name ; Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize, Harmony the path to fame. Then the progeny that springs From the forests of our land, Arm'd with thunder, clad with wings, Shall a wider world command. Regions Caesar never knew Thy posterity shall sway ; Where his eagles never flew, None invincible as they. KiO LINES. Such the bard's prophetic words, Pregnant with celestial fire, Bending as he swept the chords Of his sweet but awful lyre. She, with all a monarch's pride, Felt them in her bosom glow ; Rush'd to battle, fought and died ; Dying, hurFd them at the foe. Ruffians, pitiless as proud, Heaven awards the vengeance due ; Empire is on us bestow'd, Shame and ruin wait on you ! LINES, WRITTEN ON VISITING A SCENE IN AttGYLESHIRE. By T. CAMPBELL, Esq. At the silence of twilight's contemplative hour, I have mused in a sorrowful mood, On the wind-shaken weeds that embosom the bower, Where the home of my forefathers stood. 9 LIKES. 161 All ruin'd and wild is their leafless abode, And lonely the dark raven's sheltering tree ; And travelTd by few is the grass-cover 1 d road Where the hunter of deer and the warrior trod To his hills that encircle the sea. Yet wandering, I found on my ruinous walk, By the dial-stone aged and green, One rose of the wilderness left on its stalk, To mark where a garden had been ; Like a brotherless hermit, the last of its race, All wild in the silence of nature it drew From each wandering sun-beam, a lonely embrace, For the night-weed and thorn overshadow"^ the place, Where the flower of my forefathers grew. Sweet bud of the wilderness ! emblem of all That remains in this desolate heart ! The fabric of bliss to its centre may fall ; But patience shall never depart ! Though the wilds of enchantment, all vernal and bright, In the days of delusion by fancy combined, With the vanishing phantoms of love and delight, Abandon my soul like a dream of the night, And leave but a desert behind. Be hush"d, my dark spirit ! for wisdom condemns When the faint and the feeble deplore ; 162 LET ERIN REM EMBER. Be strong ;is the rock of the ocean that stems A thousand wild waves on the shore ! Through the perils of chance, and the scowl of disdain, May tin front be unaltered, thy courage elate ! Yea ! ev*n the name I have worshipped in vain Shall awake not the sigh of remembrance again ; To hear, is to conquer our fate. LET ERIN REMEMBER. IK '!'. MOORE, Esq. Let Erin remember the days of old. Ere her faithless sons hetray'd her. When Malaehi wore the collar of gold, Which he won from the proud invader : When her kings, with standards of green unfurTd, Led the Red-Branch Knights to danger. Ere the emerald gem of the western world. Was set in the crown of a stranger. On Lough-Neagh's bank as the fisherman strays, When the clear calm eve's declining He sees tin- round towers of other days. In the waves beneath him shining ; THE GATHERING OF CLAN-CONNELL. 163 Thus shall memory often in dreams sublime, Give a glimpse of the days that are over, Thus, sighing, look through the waves of time, At the far-faded glories they cover. THE GATHERING OF CLAN-CONNELL, A PIBROCH. By Sir WALTER SCOTT. Pibroch of Donuil Dhu Pibroch of Donuil ! Wake thy wild voice anew, Summon Clan-Conuil. Come away, come away ; Hark to the summons ! Come in your war array, Gentles and commons ! Come from deep glen, From mountain so rocky, The war-pipe and pennon Are at Inverlocky ; Come every hill-plaid, and True heart that wears one ; Come every steel blade, and Strong hand that bears one. KJ4 THE IIATIIKRING OF CLAN-CONNELL. Leave untended the herd, The flock without shelter ; Leave the corpse uninterr'd — The bride at the altar ! Leave the deer, leave the steer, Leave nets and barges ; Come with your fighting gear, Broad swords and targes. Come as the winds come, when Forests are rended — Come as the waves come, when Navies are stranded ; Faster come, faster come, Faster and faster, Chief, vassal, page, and groom, Tenant and master ! Fast they come, fast they come ; See how they gather ! Wide waves the eagle plume, Blended with heather ; Cast your plaids, draw your blades, Forward each man set ! Pibroch of Donuil Dim " Knell for the onset !" [ 165 1 STANZAS, ON THE DEATH OF NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE. Is the chain of the Conqueror burst ? Is the Captive of myriads free ? Shall the Mighty of Earth never more feel the thirst For vengeance, stern troubler, on thee ? Hath the dreaded One baffled his thralls, And soar'd on his prison-isle's blast ? Exult then, O kings, in your fetters and walls — 'Tis thus we elude you at last ! And the mighty in soul, when all freedom is o'er In this dungeon of life, may endure it no more ! Proud Dreamer ! who worships thee now, Of the nations which shook at thy tread ? When the plume and the diadem fell from each brow, Where the shaft of thy enmity sped ? When sank the high Roman of yore, One kind heart its constancy kept ; One lingering vassal, of thousands no more, To the flames gave his ashes, and wept : But tliou ! e'en the tomb where thy cold ashes lie, Stern foes, as they list, may award or deny ! 1(56 STANZAS ON THE DEATH OF BUONAPARTE. What glories arise as we gaze On the past, o'er each realm thou hast trod ! Far regions are wasted, proud palaces blaze, And sovereigns sink at thy nod. Thy glance hath a withering spell ; Earth's mightiest crouch at thy beck ; Thy name in the battle-hour peals as a knell, And round thee the world grows a wreck ! To empire 'tis thine with a word to uplift, And sceptres and thrones are at pleasure thy gift ! But the storm-clouds of fate gather black, The rapture of victory's o'er ; The dark tide of conquest rolls fearfully back, And thy eagle-gaze blasteth no more ! Crush'd potentates break from thy sway, The gauntlet of nations is thrown ; The red hand of havock now marks thine array, And vengeance pursues to the throne ! Hosts perish on hosts ! thou art vanquished ; and, lo ! The world's fallen lord is the slave of his foe ! Who comes in his pride from the main, As the terror-struck Monarch recoils ? The bands of the victors are futile and vain, The lion hath burst from the toils ! There gleams not a sword to oppose, There wakes not a murmur of fear, But the wild shout of triumph hath startled his foes, And the cloud of his numbers is near ; STANZAS ON THE DEATH OF BUONAPARTE. 167 The foam of hot haste is on hero and steed, They come like the whirlwind in wrath and in speed ! They close in the madness of hate, The red cloud of battle is rent ; And the warrior-monarch again yields to fate, In the grasp of his conquerors pent ! — The pageant of royalty's o'er, The sceptre is wrung from his hold : Yet deeper in thraldom he sinks than before, And an ocean before him is rolTd : Unyielding his fate, and eternal his rest, The chill hand of death on his torn heart hath prest. Drag the plume of the fallen in dust, Ye diadem'd victors around ! Tear the circles of pride from his terrible bust, And trample his wreaths on the ground ! Bid the voice of your minstrels be hush'd, Nor a deed of his prowess unfold ; Be each record, and trophy, and monument crushed, Not a knell to his memory toll'd ; Pour the deep curse of hate o'er his sculptureless bed, And wage to the last e'en a war with the dead ! But through years and long ages to be, When your pettiness sleeps in the tomb ; When to loftier spirits men humble the knee, His glory shall burst from its gloom ! 16.S STANZAS ON THE DEATH OF BUONAPARTE. On the page of his fate as they dwell, Proud Caesars shall fade from the thought, And the song of rapt bards each achievement shall tell That the Hero of Austerlitz wrought ! Who strode, ere his fall, from throne onward to throne, With the crimes of his foes, but with virtues his own ! Yet he fell but as victors should fall, And died but as tyrants should die ; Who reign but to war, and war to enthrall, When the lust of ambition is high. Ere the soldier was lost in the king, Ere he battled for conquest alone, Just victory sat on his eagle's dread wing — But his glory expired on the throne ! Star dropt after star from the sky of his fame, And darkness grew round — the felt darkness of shame ! " Proud spirit ! no conquests are here," — Thus the shades of the mighty exclaim, — " No tyrants to grasp, and no slaves to revere That dream of mortality, fame. Fierce wars were thy terrible joy ; Peace only was death unto thee ; For the desert's hot gust, ere it cease to destroy, Must cease, and for ever, to be ! — Dark and dread be their doom who on freedom have warr'd, Unpitied on earth, and in heaven abhorrVl !" [ 169 ] THE LORD DOUGLAS, AND THE HEART OF BRUCE. By Mrs COBBOLD. The cymbals clash, the trumpets call, The battle, near Granada's wall, Will shortly be begun ; For banners gay, and lances bright, Of Moorish chief and Christian knight, Are glittering in the sun. " Now, gentle squire, I pray declare What noble stranger's heart you bear ? What proud device you show ?" — " Fair lady, 'tis Lord Douglas 1 shield ; Who longs his trusty sword to wield, Against the Paynim foe." Oh, speed the Douglas ! speed him well ! For often shall the minstrels tell The deeds his arm has done ; When banners gay, and lances bright, Of many an adverse chief and knight, Were glittering in the sun. 170 LORD DOUGLAS. " Here in the tent, brave Douglas, rest ; And take that casket from thy breast, And lay thy helm aside." — " I must for yonder field depart ; This casket holds a monarch's heart, My sword's accustomed guide. 1 "' — Heaven guard the knights ! how fast they ride ! O may they keep that crested pride, Till well the field be won ! For banners gay, and lances bright, Of Moorish chief and Christian knight, Are glittering in the sun. The Douglas hurls the casket high ; And now, to conquer or to die, He follows Brace's heart ! — A Moorish shaft his breast has gored ; His soldiers lift th 1 avenging sword, And on the foemen dart. See, see, the Moorish squadron flies ! In happy hour the Douglas dies, The victory bravely won ; When banners gay, and lances bright, Of each triumphant Christian knight, Are glittering in the sun ! L 171 ] LINES, OCCASIONED BY THE RE-ELECTION OF THE SONS OF THE EARL OF LONSDALE TO PARLIAMENT, FOR THE COUNTY OF WESTMORELAND. Bv ELIZABETH SCOTT. Hail, favour'd Westmoreland, verdant in beauty ! Land of my forefathers, hail to thee now ! Firm in thy loyalty, true to thy duty, Laurels of victory bindeth thy brow. Home of the peaceful did nature ordain thee ; Also the home of the patriot and brave : Surely ingratitude deeply would stain thee, Should the blue ensign* e'er over thee wave. High as thy mountains, unfading in glory, Still be the banners of Lowiher uprear'd ! Name proudly marked on the pages of story ; Loved by the king, by the people rever'd ! Name of the mighty ! their stations adorning ; Name of the Lonsdale ! thy chieftain and friend : Brighter, nor purer, the beams of the morning Shine, when they first on thy valleys descend. * The colour adopted by Mr Brougham, the opponent of the House of Lowther. 172 JEREMY BENTHAM. Long may thy green hills re-echo in gladness, Sounds breathing joy, and the shouts of applause ; And never may'st thou lament in thy sadness Thy children combined with their country"^ foes ! Chased be the clouds which have gather'd around thee, Never ! oh never ! again to collect, Never may rebel lance glitter to wound thee ! Never thy sword be drawn, save to protect ! Health to thy sons ! ever stedfast in trial ! (Gales of the south bear my greetings afar !) Health to a race ever gallant and loyal ! Wise in the council as dauntless in war ! Bid thy bards strike their lyres, famed for their sweet- ness, Bid them the bay with the laurel entwine ! Bid them record in this day of thy greatness, The lustre of triumph, assuredly thine. JEREMY BENTHAM. I have travelTd the world, and that old man's fame Wherever I went shone brightly ; To his country alone belongs the shame To think of his labours lightly. JEREMY BENTHAM. 173 The words of wisdom I oft have heard, From that old man's bosom falling ; And ne'er to my soul had wisdom appear'd So lovely and so enthralling. No hallo was round this old man's head But his locks like the rime-frost hoary, While the wind with their snowy relics play'd, Seem'd fairer than crowns of glory. In him I have seen — what a joy to see ! — In divinest union blended, An infant child's simplicity, By a sage's strength attended. He dwells like a sun the world above, Though by folly and envy shrouded, But soon shall emerge in light of love, And pursue his path unclouded. That sun shall the mists of night disperse, Whose fetters so long have bound it ; The centre of its own universe, Ten thousand planets round it. I 174 ] THE SUPPOSED ADDRESS OF JEPTHA'S DAUGH- TER BEFORE THE SACRIFICE. FROM " HEBREW MELODIES."" By Lord BYRON. kiNCE our country, our God — Oh my sire ! Demand that thy daughter expire ; Since thy triumph was bought by thy vow — Strike the bosom that's bared to thee now. For the voice of my mourning is o'er, And the mountains behold me no more : If the hand that I love lay me low, There cannot be pain in the blow ! And of this, oh my father ! be sure — That the blood of thy child is as pure As the blessing I beg ere it flow, Or the last thought that soothes me below. Though the virgins of Salem lament, Be the judge and the hero unbent ; I have won the great battle for thee, And my father and country are free ! EXTRACT FROM GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 175 When this blood of thy giving hath gush'd, When the voice that thou lovest is hush'd, Let my memory still be thy pride, And forget not I smiled as I died ! EXTRACT FROM « GERTRUDE OF WYOMING." By T. CAMPBELL, Esq. Waldegrave, agonized by the loss of Gertrude and Albert, re- ceives the condolence of the Oneyda Chief. " Then mournfully the parting bugle bid Its farewell o'er the grave of worth and truth ; Prone to the dust, afflicted Waldegrave hid His face on earth ; him watclVd in gloomy ruth, His woodland guide : but words had none to sooth The crrief that knew not consolation's name : Casting his Indian mantle o'er the youth, He watch'd beneath its folds, each burst that came, Convulsive, ague-like, across his shuddering frame ! " ' And I could weep ;' th 1 Oneyda Chief His descant wildly thus began : ' But that I may not stain with grief The death-song of my father's son ! Or bow his head in woe : 176 EXTRACT FROM GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. For by my wrongs and by my wrath ! To-morrow Areourki's breath (That fires yon heaven with storms of death) Shall light us to the foe : And we shall share, my Christian boy ! The foemans blood, the avenger's joy. " ' But thee, my flower, whose breath was given By milder Genii o'er the deep, The spirits of the white man's heaven, Forbid not thee to weep : — Nor will the Christian host, Nor will thy fathers spirit, grieve To see thee on the battle's eve, Lamenting, take a mournful leave Of her who loved thee most ; She was the rainbow to thy sight ! Thy sun — thy heaven — of lost delight. " ' To-morrow let us do or die ! But when the bolt of death is hurl'd, Ah ! whither then with thee to fly, Shall Outalissi roam the world ? Seek we thy once loved home ? The hand is gone that cropt its flow'rs ! Unheard, the clock repeats its hours ! Cold is the hearth within their bow'rs ! And should we thither roam, 9 EXTRACT FROM GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 177 Its echoes and its empty tread Would sound like voices of the dead ! " ' Or shall we cross yon mountains blue, Whose streams my kindred nation quaff 'd ; And by my side, in battle true, A thousand warriors drew the shaft ? Ah ! there in desolation cold, The desert serpent dwells alone, Where grass o'ergrows each mouldering bone, And stones themselves to ruin grown, Like meare death-like old. Then seek we not their camp — for there The silence dwells of my despair ! " ' But hark, the trump ! to-morrow thou In glory's fires shall dry thy tears : Ev'n from the land of shadows now My father's awful ghost appears : Amidst the clouds that round us roll, He bids my soul for battle thirst; He bids me dry the last — the first — The only tears that ever burst From Outalissi's soul ; — Because I may not stain with grief The death-song of an Indian Chief.' " M I 178 ] AN ELEGY, ON THE DEATH OF A POOR IDIOT. Who ! hapless, helpless being, who Shall strew a flower upon thy grave Or who, from " mute oblivion's power Thy disregarded name shall save ? Honour, and wealth, and learning's store, The votive urn remembers long, And ev'n " the annals of the poor, 1 ' Live in their bard's immortal song. But a blank stone best stories thee, Whom sense, nor wealth, nor fame could find Poorer than ought beside we see, A human form without a mind. A casket, gemless ! yet for thee Pity suspends the tender wail : For reason shall a moral see, While memry paints the simple tale. AN ELEGY. J, 79 Yes, it shall paint thy humble form, Clad decent in its russet weed ; Happy in harmless wand'ring's charm, And pleased thy father's flock to feed. With vacant, reckless smile she bore, Patient the scorner's cruel jest ; With unfix'd gaze could pass it o'er, And turn it pointless from her breast. Her tongue unable to display The unform'd chaos of her mind ! No sense its rude sounds could convey, But to parental instinct kind. Yet close to every human form Clings Imitation's mimic power, And she was fond and proud to own The school-time's regulated hour. And o'er the mutilated page Mutter'd the mimic lesson's tone ; And ere the scholar's task was said, Brought ever and anon her own. And many a truant boy would seek, And drag reluctant to his place ; And even the master's solemn rule Would mock with grave, and apt grimace. 180 AN ELKGY. Each heart humane could freely love A nature so estranged from wrong ; And even infants would protect Her, from the passing trav'ler's tongue ! But her prime joy was still to be, Where holy congregations bow ; Rapt in wild transports while they sung, And when they pray'd, would bend her low. Oh ! Nature, wheresoe'er thou art, Some latent worship still is there — Blush ye ! whose form, without a heart, The Idiot's plea can never share ! Yes ! they might learn, who waste their time, What it must be to know no sin : They who pollute the soul's sweet prime, What, to be spotless, pure within. Go ! then, and seek her humble grave, All you who sport in folly's ray ; And as the gale the grass shall wave, List to a voice that seems to say : " 'Tis not the measure of your pow'rs, To which the eternal meed is given ; 'Tis wasted or improved hours Which forfeit, or secure you heav'n !" [ 181 ] THE BEACON. The scene was more beautiful far to my eye, Than if day in its pride had array'd it ; The land-breeze blew mild, and the azure arch'd sky Look'd pure as the spirit that made it : The murmur rose soft as I silently gazed On the shadowy waves' 1 playful motion, From the dim, distant isle, till the beacon fire blazed Like a star in the midst of the ocean. No longer the joy of the sailor-boy's breast Was heard in his wildly-breath'd numbers ; The sea-bird had flown to her wave-girdled nest, The Fisherman sunk to his slumbers ; One moment I look'd from the hill's gentle slope, (All hush'd was the billow's commotion,) And thought that the Beacon look'd lovely as hope. That star of life's tremulous ocean. The time is long past, and the scene is afar, Yet, when my head rests on its pillow, Will memory sometimes rekindle the star That blazed on the breast of the billow. 182 llewellyn's dream. In life's closing hour, when the trembling soul flies, And death stills the heart's last emotion ; O then may the Seraph of Mercy arise, Like a star on Eternity's ocean ! THE ELDEST KING OF BRITAIN, LLEWELLYN'S DREAM. £The prophetic Fragment, which suggested this imitation, has heen lately published by the learned and reverend Editor of the Historia Brittonum.^ I have seen the eagle tear The cedar from its hold ; I have seen the wild wolf's lair At the gate of the Towers of Gold.* b v I was in the meteor's path When it shot from east to west ; Till the lion rose in wrath, And rent the wild wolf's crest. * The arms of Castile. llewellyn's dream. 183 I saw the turban yield Its gem to a Christian hand, And the victor pave his field With the pearls of Samarcand. I heard a voice on earth Cry havock to man's race : The war-feast was their mirth, Empire their burial-place. I saw a stranger stand Alone on a mighty flood ; Fiends blew the hurricane, And the torrent was of blood : His voice was like the gale, That mountain-ocean heaves ; His fame like the blazing train A falling comet leaves. I saw a morning star Rise in the clear blue sky ; It set among clouds afar, Like a bride in her canopy. And I sat in Britain's court, When her eldest King pass'd by ; His shield was her lion's heart, Her cap his treasury. 184 llewellyn's dream. The sea was his jasper wall ; The island-rock his seat : Three nations built his hall; Three worlds were at his feet. He look'd from south to north, And their riches were his throne ; Yet his feet were on his hearth, And his lamp on the altar-stone 1 . Silence and shadow spread Over his earthly tower ; But the dwellers in heaven delay'd The dark death-angel's hour ; They had no herald yet His coming to await, Till the Son of his love was fit To open their diamond gate : Then there was joy in heaven For Britain's mighty one ; And the crown of bliss was given To the Father by the Son. [ 185 ] LINES, ADDRESSED TO AN OFFICER OF INDIAN CAVALRY, ON THE DEATH OF AN ONLY AND HIGHLY ACCOMPLISH- ED DAUGHTER. By Miss INMAN. Methought that here a lovely flower bloom'd fair, And gladden'd with its balmy breath the air : Its fragrance still is floating, but the flower Has left the shelter of its native bower ! These emblems of its sweetness still display, Like the soft twilight of a glorious day, The treasure we have lost. — Hark ! dost thou hear ? Is not some gentle seraph hov'ring near ? She speaks !— 'tis music from the heavenly sphere : — " If grief e'er filTd an angel's breast, My father, 'tis for thee ; To see thy soul with woe opprest, To see thee mourn for me. Remember, it is selfish woe, And must not, ought not, still to flow. 186 LINES ON THE DEATH OF AN ONLY CHILD. " Thy loved Eliza, now in bliss, Is free from mundane sorrow : My father, surely, surely this, Should wake a smiling morrow. Then let all vain complaining cease, And hail the halcyon dove of peace ! " Ev'n from dark affliction's rod The seeds of mercy fall : Yes ! they are scatter'd by a God, Who plans and governs all. He gives them strength, he gives them root, And bids them bear immortal fruit. " O ! let not then your heart remain Harden'd to every joy ? Let Hope and all her balmy train, Your future mind employ ! Rememb'ring Mercy reigns in heav'n, And man has much to be forgiv'n. " Religion is the golden prize Held by a Saviour's hand : From which the flow'rs of paradise Can spring at his command. My father, pluck those fragrant flow'rs, Eliza's joys will then be yours." [ 187 ] STANZAS, TO THE MEMORY OF THE SAME YOUNG LADY, WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF A MOST SINCERELY AND AF- FECTIONATELY ATTACHED FRIEND. By Mrs SAVELL. Farewell, sweet maid ! let amaranths wave And lilies deck thy early grave, And mem'ry drop a tear : I saw thee like a lovely flow'r, Transplanted thee to friendship's bow'r : But death, alas ! was near ! Yet say not, Muse, the blossom fair Its sweetness lost on desert air — For brighter hopes are giv'n ; In sorrow's shade (unknown to all) The dews of Mercy still will fall, And nurse the flow'r for Heav'n. [ 188 1 YOUNG LOCHINVAR. By Sir WALTER SCOTT. Oh young Lochinvar is come out of the west, Through all the wide border his steed was the best ; And save his good broadsword, he weapons had none, He rode all unarnTd, and he rode all alone. So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, There never was knight like the young Lochinvar. He staid not for brake, and he stopp'd not for stone, He swam the Eske river, where ford there was none ; But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate, The bride had consented, the gallant came late : For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar. So boldly he enter'd the Netherby hall, Among brideVmen and kinsmen, and brothers and all : Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword, (For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,) " O, come ye in peace here, or come you in war, Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar ?" — YOUNG LOCHINVAR. 189 " I long woo'd your daughter, my suit you denied j — Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide — And now am I come, with this lost love of mine, To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine. There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far, That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar. 11 The bride kiss'd the goblet ; the knight took it up, He quaff "tf off the wine, and he threw down the cup ; She look'd down to blush, and she look'd up to sigh, With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye : He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar ; " Now tread we a measure !" said young Lochinvar. So stately his form, and so lovely his face, That never a hall such a galliard did grace ; While her mother did fret, and her father did fume, And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume ; And the bridemaidens whisper'd, " "Twere better by far, To have match'd our fair cousin with young Lochinvar. 11 One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, When they reachfd the hall-door, and the charger stood near; So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung, So light to the saddle before her he sprung ! " She is won ! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur ; They'll have fleet steeds that follow, 11 quoth young Lochinvar. 190 THE MAID OF CASTILE. There was mounting "mongst Grammes of the Netherby clan ; Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran : There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee ; Hut the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see : So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, Have you e'er heard of gallant, like young Lochinvar? THE MAID OF CASTILE. By T. MOORE, Esq. Oh, remember the time in La Mancha's shades, When our moments so blissfully flew ; When you call'd me the flower of Castillian maids, And I blush\l to be called so by you ; When you taught me to warble the gay siguidille, And to dance to the light Castanet : Oh never, dear youth, let you roam where you will, The delight of those moments forget ! They tell me you lovers from Erin's green isle, Ev ry hour a new passion can feel, And that oft in the light of some lovelier smile, You ll forget the poor maid of Castile : THE FELONS MOTHER. 191 But they know not how brave in the battle you are, Or they never would think you would rove ; For "'tis always the spirit most gallant in war, That's the fondest and truest in love. THE FELONS MOTHER; A STORY FOUNDED ON FACT. By Mrs COBBOLI). Mark that wild look, that wither'd, wasted form, Speeding her tottring steps across the heath To that curst hollow, where the murderer's chains Hang creaking on the gibbet ! — To the blast Her head exposed, and o'er her yellow cheek Her thin grey locks are scatter^!. — Squalid rags Hang loosely round her lean distorted limbs. A basket foul with filth and stains she bears, And mutters as she goes. — Her eyes now cast To heav'n, now bent on earth, with maniac scowl : She stops, she stamps the blighted sod, and looks As though her soul breathed curses. — On the ground She sits beneath the swinging chains, and casts A gaze intense around her : with wild haste Her long and crooked fingers snatch the bones 192 the felon's mother. Shook from the gibbet by the passing wind. Would you not deem her some foul witch, that sought Through Nature's stores, the most abhorrent things For hellish incantations, and the spells That wait on magic mysteries ? — O no ! She was the Felon's Mother : — Ev ry morn, Ere sunbeams chase the dew, she seeks that spot, And culls the dreadful relics, till her task Shall be completed in the bony frame Of what was once her son. — O may her toils, The restless anguish of her tortured mind, Atone her guilty life ! — 'Twas here she lost All that her heart ador'd. — She had but one, One only child ; the offspring he of shame And uncurb'd passion : him she never taught To lift his infant hands in pray'r, or bow With lowly rev'rence at his Maker's name ; But when his lisping accents first essay'd The imitative curse, she laugh'd applause, And swore her boy would prove no milksop ! — Next She shared his youthful shifts ; and with the fruit Stol'n from the neighb "ring orchards, pall'd his taste, And made him precious viands. — In their turn Worse depredations follow'd ; and the cot Became the midnight haunt of guilt and spoil : And often, with intemp rate riot mad, Or foiFd of booty, in his brutal rage He'd curse his beldam mother, and with blows 15 the felon's mother. 193 Compel her toil : yet still her doting love Hung fondling on his neck. — One wintry night, When rising blasts, and rain and deep'ning gloom Conspir'd to favour plunder, on the heath, Just where the road divides yon rocky dell, He stopt a sturdy traveller, whose arm Resisted robbery. Inflamed with rage, With wine inebriate too, he aim'd the ball, And seal'd his guilt in blood. — No awful pause, But instant seizure and a fearful doom Follow , d the act. — No penitential tear Soften'd his soul ; "'twas sullen stupor all : Nor could his mother's clam'rous grief obtain Aught save a mutter' d curse ! She saw him led To execution ; and her hollow eye Gazed wildly on, unmoisten'd with a tear : Her brain was fired ; but o'er its scatter'd sense Quick rush'd conviction of a God ! She breath'd A half-form'd pray'r, then swooning, found relief In temporary death. — Now wild she strays Along the dreary heath ; and when the storm Beats chilly on her frame, or faintness bows Her shaking head, to yonder shed she creeps, By pity's hand unconsciously sustained : Nor shows she aught, save in this mournful act, Of method or of sense ; but when the blast Gives to her eager grasp these whit'ning bones, She seems to meditate, and softly sighs, 194* THE LAKE OF THE DISMAL SWAMP. " O God of Justice P — May his soft'ning voice Soon prompt mild consolation ; and in death His terrors sofVning, bid her faltring tongue, In Hope's blest accents, hail the awful hour, And whisper, " God of Mercy . r THE LAKE OF THE DISMAL SWAMP. AN AMERICAN BALLAD. £A youth lost his mind upon the death of the girl he loved ; and who suddenly disappearing from his friends, was never after heard of. As he had frequently said, in his ravings, that she was not dead, but gone to the Dismal Swamp, it is sup- posed he had wandered into that dreary wilderness, and had died of hunger, or been lost in some of its dreadful morasses. The Great Dismal Swamp is ten or twelve miles distant from Norfolk ; and the lake in the middle of it (about seven miles long) is called Drummond's Pond.] They made her a grave too cold and damp For a soul so warm and true ; And she's gone to the Lake of the Dismal Swamp, Where all night long, by a lire-fly lamp, She paddles her white canoe. THE LAKE OF THE DISMAL SWAMP. 195 ti And her fire-fly lamp I soon shall see, And her paddle I soon shall hear ; Long and loving our life shall be, And I'll hide the maid in a cypress tree, When the footsteps of death is near !" Away to the Dismal Swamp he speeds — His path was rugged and sore, Through tangled j uniper, beds of reeds, Through many a fen where the serpent feeds, And man ne'er trod before ! And when on the earth he sunk to sleep, If slumber his eye-lids knew ; He lay where the deadly vines do weep Their venemous tears — and nightly steep The flesh with blistering dew ! And near him the she-wolf stirr'd the brake, And the rattle-snake breathVl in his ear, Till he starting, cried — from his dream awake- " Oh ! when shall I see the dusky lake, And the white canoe of my dear P 11 — He saw the Lake, and a meteor bright Quick o'er its surface play'd, — " Welcome," he said, " my dear one's light P r And the dim shore echo'd for many a night The name of the death-cold maid ! 196 LINES. Till he forind a boat of the birchen bark. Which carried him off from the shore ; For he followVl the meteor spark : The winds were high, and the clonds were dark, And the boat returnd no more. But oft from the Indian hunter's camp, This lover and maid so true, Are seen at the hour of midnight damp, To cross the lake by a fire-fly lamp, And paddle their white canoe ! LINES ADDRESSED TO HER CHILDREN FROM MOUNT ST GOTHARD, By The Duchess OF DEVONSHIRE. Ye plains, where threefold harvests press the ground- Ye climes, where genial gales incessant swell, Where art and nature shed profusely round Their rival wonders — Italy, farewell ! i Still may thy year in fullest splendour shine Its icy darts in vain may winter throw ; To thee a parent, sister, I consign, And wing'd with health, I woo thy gales to blow. LINES. 197 Yet pleased, Helvetia's rugged brows I see, And through their craggy steeps delighted roam ; Pleased with a people, honest, brave, and free, Whilst every step conducts me nearer home ; I wander where Tessino madly flows, From cliff to cliff in foaming eddies tost ; On the rude mountain's barren breast he rose, And Po's broad wave now hurries to be lost : His shores, neat huts and verdant pastures fill, And hills, where woods of pine the storm defy ; While, scorning vegetation, higher still Rise the bare rocks, coeval with the sky. And hail the chapel ! hail the platform wild ! Where Tell directed the avenging dart With well strung arm, that first preserved his child, Then wing'd the arrow to the tyrant's heart ! Across the lake, and deep embower'd in wood, Behold another hallow'd chapel stand, Where three Swiss heroes lawless force withstood, And stamp'd the freedom of their native land. Their liberty required no rites uncouth, No blood demanded, and no slaves enchain'd ; Her rule was gentle, and her voice was truth, By social order form'd, by laws restrain'd ! 198 LINES. We quit the lake and cultivation's toil, Where nature's charms, confined, adorns the way, And well-eara'd wealth improves the ready soil, And simple manners still maintain their sway. Farewell, Helvetia ! from whose lofty breast Proud Alps arise, and copious rivers flow ; Where source of streams, eternal glaciers rest, And peaceful science gild the plains below ! Oft on thy rocks the wand'ring eye shall gaze, Thy valleys oft the raptured bosom seek ; There Nature's hand her boldest work displays, Here bliss domestic blooms on every cheek. Hope of my life ! Dear children of my heart ! That anxious heart, to each fond feeling true, To you still pants each pleasure to impart, And more — Oh transport ! — reach its home and you. L 199 1 A FUNERAL WREATH, FOR THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE. By THOMSON, Esq. The sun had set — the stars were shining, And not a cloud betoken'd sorrow ; Where youthful Hope her brow was twining, To hail the promised joy to-morrow : And fair as heav.en 1 s own holiest light Were the visions of light that illumin'd the night ; And pure as cherubinVs golden dreams Were the wishes and pray rs on that eve ascending ; And soft as a summer sun's parting beams, The rainbow of promise its tints was blending : All lovely and still, as if earth and air Were waiting the birth of an empire's — Heir. For the rose-bud of England bloom'd bright inits bower, And happiness smiled on the princely flower ; Yet a nation's pride, and a nation's power, Were fix'd on the fate of that midnight hour. The sun is set — the stars are shining, But all their loveliest beams are clouded, And Grief her cypress wreath is twining, To deck the bier where bliss lies shrouded. 200 A FUNERAL WREATH. For there beneath the coffin lid An empire's fondest hopes are hid ; The bridal pomp and garlands sweet, Are veiFd in pall and winding-sheet : — The spell is burst ! — the charm is several Like mountain pine by lightning shiver'd ; The island-crown has lost a gem, Torn from its regal diadem ; And the lonely bud, on its parent bough, Shall never again in beauty blow ! A kingdom's Heiress yields her breath, On earth her radiant course is ended ; Her seraph form is pale in death, To the deep and dreary grave descended. And there a people's tears are shed O'er the sufferers last and lowly bed ; And there unearthly tongues are singing, Unearthly hands her knell are ringing. — Where the sainted bride is sleeping, Sister angels watch are keeping ; , Airy spirits lingering nigh, Waft her requiem's melody. [ 201 ] THE SPIRIT'S DIRGE. Peaceful and still is the sleep of the dead, When they rest from the sorrows that circle them here; And soft the repose of the sepulchre's bed, When the angels of innocence watch round its bier. Then rest thee, fair Princess ! — all tranquilly sleeping, Though sceptre and sway from thy lineage are riven, Thy memory on earth shall be hallow'd with weeping, Thy brows shall be bound with the garlands of heaven. Farewell, sweetest blossom of Albion's renown ! Tho 1 sad are the tears that Britannia weeps o'er thee ; Yet the stars of the sky form the gems of thy crown, And the pearl gates of Paradise open before thee. Then peace to thee, fair One — so tranquilly sleeping, All soft be the slumbers that pillow thy rest ; The land of thy love now embalms thee with weeping, And angels enthrone thee in realms of the blest ! [ 202 ] THE ROYAL INFANT. By J. MONTGOMERY, Esq. A thuone on earth awaited thee; A nation longYl to see thy face ; Heir to a glorious ancestry, And father of a mightier race. »* Vain hope ! — that throne thou must not fill ; Thee shall that nation ne'er behold ; Thine ancient house is heirless still ; Thy line will never be unroll'd. Yet while we mourn thy flight from earth, Thine was a destiny sublime : Caught up to Paradise in birth ; Snatch'd by Eternity from Time. The mother knew her offspring dead : Oh ! was it grief, or was it love That broke her heart ? The spirit fled To seek her nameless child above. the bride's dirge. 203 Led by this natal star, she trod His patli to Heav'n ; the meeting there, And how they stood before their God, The Day of Judgment shall declare. THE BRIDE'S DIRGE. £The Western Islanders imagine that an apparition resem- bling a Mermaid, called Flora, or the Spirit of the Green Isle, always precedes the death of a young and lovely bride. This apparition was seen a short time previous to the death of the Princess Charlotte.]] A Voice said from the silver sea, " Woe to thee, Green Isle ! — woe to thee !" The Warden from his watch-tower bent, But land, and wave, and firmament, So calmly slept, he might have heard The swift wing of the mountain-bird. — Nor breeze nor breath his beacon stirr'd, Yet from th' unfathom'd caves below, Thrice came that drear, death-boding word, And the long echoes answer'd, " Woe J i- 204 flora's song. The Warden from his tower looks round, And now he hears the slow waves bringing Each to the shore a silver sound. The Spirit of the Isle is singing, In depths which man hath never found ! — When she sits in the pomp of her ocean bed, With her scarf of light around her spread, The mariner thinks on the misty tide, He sees the moon's soft rainbow glide : Her song in the noon of night he hears, And trembles while his bark he steers. FLORA'S SONG. 1 come in the morn ! I come in the hour, When the blossoms of beauty rise ; I gather the fairest and richest flow'r, Where Heaven's dew purest lies. Then rest thee, bride .' In thy beauty's pride, Thou wilt rest to-night by Flora's side ! The eye I touch must be soft and blue, As the sky where the stars are gleaming ; And the breast must be fair as the fleecy clouds, Where the angels of bliss lie dreaming ; flora's song. 205 And the spirit within as pure and bright, As the stream that leaps amongst tufts of roses, And sparkles along all life and light, Then calm in its open bed reposes. Ah ! rest thee, bride ! By thy true love's side, To-morrow a shroud his hope shall hide ! O Green Isle ! — woe to thy hope and pride ! To-day thy rose was brightly glowing ; The bud was full, the root was wide, And the stream of love around it flowing :-— To-morrow thy tow'r shall stand alone, Thy hoary oak shall live and flourish, But the dove from its branches shall be gone, The rose that deck'd its stem shall perish. VERSES IN IMITATION OF CAMPBELL'S " HOHENLINDEN." By Miss LICKBARROW. j rom fertile Gallia's peopled shore, Around what countless millions pour, (Where'er her threat'ning eagles soar,) To spread the reign of anarchy ! 20G VERSES. Proud Gallia's flag triumphant spread, Their daring troops the generals led Through climes whence freedom long had fled, The once fair realms of Germany. At length array'd with martial pride, Their glittering weapons gleaming wide, They cross'd the Dwina's foamy tide, Elate with hopes of victory. Th' undaunted Monarch of the North Sent all his gallant legions forth, To prove their prowess and their worth, And rid the world of tyranny. Smolensko's Prince, in patriot ire, Inspired his troops with martial fire, CompelPd th 1 invaders to retire, And Russia gahVd her liberty. A broken and disorder^ host, Their eagles fall'n, their leaders lost, The Dwina's flood once more they cross'd licforc a conquering enemy Struck with dismay and panic dread, Fast o'er Volhynia's plains they fled, Behind the conquering army sped, Platoffs intrepid cavalry. VERSE?. 2(f The drifted snow was erimson'd o'er. And many a deep-stain'd river bore Its water to the distant shore Of the dark-rolling Vistula By ills of every kind distress'd. By cold benumb'd, by hunger pressed, Forced on the frozen earth to rest. The sky their only canopy Subdued bv winter s rijjrous sway, To famine and disease a prey, The once Grand Army pined away On Poland's dreary boundary. Ambition ! at thy tyrant will. Such scenes of misery earth must till ; Honours attend thy progress still. Such are thy deeds of cruelty. [ 208 ] AN ODE ON iEOLUS'S HARP.* By THOMSON. Etherial race, inhabitants of air, Who hymn your god amid the secret grove ; Ye unseen beings, to my harp repair, And raise majestic strains, or melt in love. Those tender notes, how kindly they upbraid ! With what soft woe they thrill the lover's heart ! Sure from the hand of some unhappy maid, Who died of love, these sweet complainings past. But hark ! that strain was of a graver tone : On the deep strings his hand some hermit throws ; Or he the sacred Bard,-f- who sat alone, In the drear waste, and wept his people's woes. Such was the song which Z ion's children sung, When by Euphrates'' stream they made their plaint ; And to such sadly solemn notes are strung Angelic harps to soothe a dying saint. * bolus's Harp is a musical instrument which plays with the wind, invented by Mr Oswald. + Jeremiah. 15 LINES. 209 Methinks I hear the full celestial choir, Through heaven's high dome their awful anthem raise ; Now chaunting clear, and now they all conspire To swell the lofty hymn, from praise to praise. Let me, ye wandering spirits of the wind, Who, as wild fancy prompts you, touch the string, Smit with your theme, be in your chorus join'd ! For till you cease, my muse forgets to sing. LINES, WRITTEN ON THE BANKS OF THE RIVER LUNE, NEAR THE AQUEDUCT, LANCASTER. Ye fields of my youth, and branches which shade, With your pendulous foliage, your once beloved stream ; Ye hills, where enraptured in childhood I strayVl — Ye scenes of my joys that have fled like a dream, — Once more, lo ! your paths well remember , d I trace ; Long, long, though a wanderer from quiet and from you, Once more snatch a glance of each fondly loved place, And sigh that I come but to bid you adieu ! o 210 LINES. Yes, ye smile, lovely scenes, as you formerly smiled When I first woo'd the charms of each valley and grove, As it were hut a day since you saw me a child, Delighted alone "mid your coverts to rove ; Your waters beneath the proud arch as they flow, Each tree lofty waving, each moss-coverM stone — Each hedge-row, as winding its sweeps down the brow, "Wears the aspect unchanged of thedays that aregone. Oh ! restore me the feelings which here often glowed In my breast, which so warm through each senti- ment ran : When life was yet new and each object it shew'd, Seem'd fornVd to give pleasure to Virtue and Man : When I knew not of sorrow, I knew not of care, And the world seem'd all lovely in prospect reveaFd, Like yon blue mountain-head in the amber-bright air, Its crags stern and rough in the distance conceaFd. Yet though all around you the world still has been A desert of sorrows, of guilt and of gloom, Ye look as unconscious, as mild and serene, As virtue and peace did perennially bloom. Ye smile as no Zephyr had told you the tale, How man loads his brother with anguish and woe — As all were as peaceful as yon quiet vale, And smooth as the waters along it that flow. THE TEAR. Ill Oh ! blest were I still, had I yet known no more — Untaught the world's follies and vices to scan ; Had I held to my breast the delusion of yore, Nor learnt to exult in the title of Man ! Smile on, lovely scenes ! nor once whisper to youth, As he rambles amid you, untutor'd by pain, Suspicion — that quiet, and virtue, and truth, When you he has left, he may long seek in vain ! THE TEAR Whether I roam through myrtle bowers, Or wander through some forest drear, Or pluck the rose, the queen of flowers, Still, still I find the rising tear. Though smiles adorn the festive board, And wit runs high, and social glee. E'en there had Fate unkind reserved The mournful thought and tear for me. My harp, o'er which so oft IVe hung And waked the song to beauty dear ; O'er all its chords I've cypress flung, Cypress, bedew'd by many a tear. 212 FltOM THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. For why should tones of joy be heard, Since Fate, wherever I roam, I see, Unkindly still, still hath reserved The mournful thought and tear for me. FROM THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. By Lokd BYRON. Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime, Where the rage of the vulture — the love of the turtle, Now melt into sorrow — now madden to crime ? — Know ye the land of the cedar and vine ? Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine, Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppress^ with per- fume, Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gul* in her bloom ? Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit, And the voice of the nightingale never is mute ? Where the tints of the earth, and the hues of the sky, In colour though varied, in beauty may vie, And the purple of Ocean is deepest in die ? » The Rfise. erin's honour. 213 Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine, And all, save the spirit of man, is divine ? — ^Tis the clime of the East — 'tis the land of the Sun — Can he smile on such deeds as his children have done ? Oh ! wild as the accents of lovers 1 farewell, Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales which they tell. ERIN'S HONOUR. By J. MOORE, Esq. Rich and rare were the gems she wore, And a bright gold ring on her wand she bore, But oh ! her beauty was far beyond Sparkling gems, and snow-white wand. " Lady, dost thou not fear to stray, So lone and lovely through this bleak way ? Are Erin's sons so good or so cold, As not to be tempted by woman or gold ?"" " Sir Knight ! I feel not the least alarm *£> No son of Erin will offer me harm ; For though they love woman and golden store, Sir Knight, they love honour and virtue more. 11 214 THE WHITE SPIRIT OF AVENEL. On she went, and her maiden smile In safety lighted her through the green isle And blessed for ever is she who relied On Erin's honour, and Erin's pride. THE WHITE SPIRIT OF AVENEL. FROM THE MONASTERY. By Sir WALTER SCOTT. By ties mysterious linkM, our fated race Hold strange connection with the sons of men. The star that rose upon the House of Avenel, When Norman Ulric first assumed the name, That star, when culminating in its orbit, Shot from its sphere a drop of diamond dew, And this bright font received it — and a Spirit Rose from the fountain, and her date of life Hath co-existence with the House of Avenel, And with the star that rules it. — Look on my girdle — on this thread of gold — 'Tis fine as web of lightest gossamer, And, but there is a spell oiVt, would not bind. Light as they arc, the folds of my thin robe ; CIIAUXT OF THE WHITE MAID OF AVENEL. 2J5 But when 'twas donn'd, it was a massive chain, Such as might bind the champion of the Jews, Ev'n when his locks were longest — it hath dwindled, Hath 'minish'd in its substance and its strength, As sunk the greatness of the House of Avenel. When this frail thread gives way, I to the elements Resign the principles of life they lent me. C HAUNT OF THE WHITE MAID OF AVENEL. Good evening, Sir Priest, and so late as you ride, With your mule so fair, and your mantle so wide ; But ride you through valley, or ride you o'er hill,| There is one that has warrant to wait on you still. Back, back, The volume black ! I have a warrant to carry it back. What ho ! Sub-Prior, and came you but here To conjure a book from a dead woman's bier ? Sain you, and save you, be wary and wise, Ride back with the book, or you'll pay for your prize. Back, back, There's death on the track ! In the name of my Master I bid thee bear back. ^16 THE FAREWELL CHAUNT. Vainly, Sir Trior, woukVst thou bar me my right ! Like the star when it shoots, I can dart through the night ; I can dance on the torrent, and ride on the air, And travel the world with the bonnie night-mare. Again, again, At the crook of the glen, Where bickers the burnie, I'll meet thee again. THE FAREWELL CHAUNT OF THE WHITE MAID OF AVENEL. £" While she sung she seemed to look with sorrow on her golden zone, which was now diminished to the fineness of a silken thread."]] — The Monastery. Fare thee well, thou *Holly green ! Thou shalt seldom now be seen, With all thy glittering garlands bending, As to greet my slow descending, Startling the bewildered hind, Who sees thee wave without a wind. " The Badge of the House of A vend. FRIENDSHIP. 217 Farewell, Fountain ! now not long Shalt thou murmur to my song, While thy crystal bubbles glancing, Keep the time in mystic dancing, Rise and swell — are burst and lost Like mortal schemes by fortune crost. The knot of Fate at length is tied, The Churl is Lord, the Maid is Bride ! Vainly did my magic sleight Send the lover from her sight ; Wither Bush, and perish Well, FalPn is lofty Avenel ! FRIENDSHIP. AN ODE. By Dr JOHNSON. Friendship, peculiar boon of heaven, The noble mind's delight and pride, To men and angels only given, To all the lower world denied. 218 FKIENJDSHIP. While love, unknown among the blest, Parent of thousand wild desires, The savage and the human breast Torments alike with raging fires. With bright, but oft destructive gleam, Alike o'er all his lightnings fly ; Thy lambent glories only beam Around the favourites of the sky. Thy gentle flows of guiltless joys On fools and villains ne'er descend ; In vain for thee the tyrant sighs, And hugs a flatterer for a friend. *o k Directress of the brave and just, O, guide us through life's darksome way ! And let the tortures of mistrust, On selfish bosoms only prey. Nor shall thine ardours only glow, When souls to blissful climes remove ; What raised our virtue here below, Shall aid our happiness above. [ 219 ] THE POET'S LOT. [Trom a volume of Poems which ought to have been in the Press months ago, but for the provoking disappointments which rank among the Poet's minor miseries.^ • Ask'st thou what it is to be A Poet ? — I will tell thee what ; And candidly unfold to thee His weary lot. It is to sacrifice each good That Fortune's favour'd minions share ; And in unheeded solitude Her frowns to bear. It is to nourish hopes that cheat ; Which, when he felt them first beat high, AppearM so humble, blameless, sweet, — They could not die. It is to feel foreboding fears : Then — think them half unfounded too, — And last with pangs too deep for tears To own them true! 220 THE TOET's LOT. It is to cherish in the heart Feelings the warmest, kindest, best ; — To wish their essence to impart To every breast : — And then awaking from such dream With anguish not to be controlTd, To find that hearts, which warmest seem, Are icy cold ! "Tis like the Pelican to feed Others from his warm breast ; — but O ! Unlike that Bird — the Bard may bleed And wake no glow. It is to pamper vicious taste, By spurning Virtue's strict control ; Then be with Fame and Riches graced, And damn his soul ! Or while his humble verse defends Her cause, — her loveliness pourtrays ; To win from her apparent friends, Cold, cautious praise. It is a thorny path to tread, By care, by sorrow over-cast; With but one thought its balm to shed, " This cannot last /" ON A QUIET CONSCIENCE. 221 For soon that thorny path is trod ; From man he has no more to crave : — Grant him thy mercy, gracious God ! Thou, Earth — a Grave ! ON A QUIET CONSCIENCE. By King CHARLES the First. Close thine eyes, and sleep secure ; Thy soul is safe, thy body sure : He that guards thee, he that keeps, Never slumbers, never sleeps. A quiet conscience in the breast Has only peace, has only rest ; The music and the mirth of kings Are out of tune, unless she sings. Then close thine eyes in peace, and sleep secure, No sleep so sweet as thine, no rest so sure. 14 [ 222 ] THE NATURAL DAUGHTER. By the Rev. J. BIDLAKE. Children of plenty ! who the cheering rays Of liberal Fortune's golden sunshine share, While love parental crowns your cloudless days, Meets every wish, prevents each rising care : Ah ! do not spurn Misfortune's outcast child, Who knows no shelter, finds no friendly door ; A snow-drop, scatter'd in the dreary wild, Nipt by the storm, with rain besprinkled o'er. On me no father bends his partial eyes, No mother in her fostering arms protects ; My daily wants no tenderness supplies, My doubtful steps no precept now directs. Can they deserve the parent's sacred name, Untrue to nature, and than brute less kind, Who dare to riot in a guilty flame, t Nor own the feelings of parental mind ? THE NATURAL DAUGHTER. 223 Beat not e'en savage breasts with pious love — Do those forget a parent's tender care ? — E'en brutal instinct soft affections prove, The sweet sensations even reptiles share. Yet polish'd life, unblushing, dares disown The first, the dearest feelings of the soul ; Falsely refined, and boldly shameless grown, Spurns at all law, defies all soft control. Condemn'd to pine, forsook by fickle love, Of sacred honour stripp'd, of conscious pride ; Condemn'd Ingratitude's sharp stings to prove, Of broken heart, alas ! my mother died. In vain, 'tis said, I stretch'd my infant arms, That ask'd to meet her fond, her warm embrace ; In vain the dawning blush of orient charms Sat smiling in the roses of her face. Ah ! touch'd by Death, beneath his icy power, No answering smiles, no look could she repay - So, nipt by vernal frosts, a transient flower Hangs o'er the infant bud, and fades away. On the wide world cast forth, forlorn, unknown, No friendship bleeds, nor kindred breast for me ; No ties of dear relationship I own, The wandering child of casual charity. 224 THE NATURAL DAUGHTER. Canst thou, who gavest me birth, canst thou maintain In ostentatious pomp, yon menial crowd ? Oh ! could the refuse of that wanton train, To feed these famish'd lips but be allow'd ! There, proudly towering o'er the subject land, By costly art bedeck'd, and lavish taste, Behold my father's sumptuous mansion stand, The seat of riot and licentious waste. In golden goblets laughs the luscious wine, High viands sickling appetite invite ; On silken beds there Luxury sinks supine, And Wantonness and Cost their powers unite. Each faithless friend the ready gate receives, The cup of water cold where I implore ; My famislVd appetite no scrap relieves, To me and Want alone is closed the door. Could I but lay this poor dejected head Where e'en the fav rite brute may shelter^! feed ! Could I but find the straw my humble bed, Half as the hound beloved, or pamper'd steed ! Yet he, with raptured eye, can fondly view The offspring branch of wedded Avarice : And is to me, alas ! no pity due ? Thus guiltless, must I pay the tax of vice ? THE NATURAL DAUGHTER. 225 Has bounteous Nature been to me less kind ? Less nicely bade my forming features grow ? With true affections less supplied my mind ? What stain has God affiVd upon this brow ? No little bird that shelters in a tree, No beast that to the secret covert hies, But clearly proves kind Heaven's vast charity, And bids me hope for Mercy's large supplies. 'Tis said this face is cast in equal mould, Where, of the heart, the pure sensations play ; For oft, too oft, of beauty I am told, By those who wish that beauty to betray. Hear, then, ye sons of Pleasure ! hear my tale, Who gaily wanton in variety ; And think, like me, how, pierced by every gale, Your offspring asks the mite of Charity. I V2G ] A MORAL THOUGHT. By Dr HAWKSWORTH. Through groves sequestercl, dark, and still. Low vales and mossy cells among, In silent paths, the careless rill, With languid murmurs, steals along : Awhile it plays with circling sweep, And, lingering, leaves its native plain ; Then pours impetuous down the steep, And mingles with the boundless main. O, let my years thus devious glide, Through silent scenes obscurely calm; Nor wealth nor strife pollute the tide, Nor honour's sanguinary palm : When labour tires, and pleasure palls, Still let the stream untroubled be, As down the steep of age it falls, And mingles with eternitv. [ 227 | STANZAS, FROM THE PORTUGUESE OF CAMOENi. By Lord STRANGFORD. I saw the virtuous man contend With life's unnumbered woes ; And he was poor — without a friend — PressYl by a thousand foes. I saw the Passions' 1 pliant slave In gallant trim and gay ; His course was Pleasure's placid wave, His life a summers day. And I was caught in Polly's snare, - And joiii'd her giddy train ; But found her soon the nurse of Care, And Punishment, and Pain. There surely is some guiding power, Which rightly suffers wrong ; Gives Vice to bloom its little hour, But Virtue late and long ! I 288 ] MERRILY BOUNDS THE BARK. By Sir WALTER SCOTT. Merrily, merrily bounds the bark, She bounds before the gale ; The mountain breeze from Binnadarch Is joyous in her sail. With fluttering sound, like laughter hoarse, The cords and canvass strain ; The waves, divided by her force, In rippling eddies chased her course, As if they laugh'd again. Merrily, merrily bounds the bark, O'er the broad ocean driven ; Her path by Ronan's mountain dark, The steersman's hand has given. Merrily, merrily goes the bark, On a breeze from the northward free ; So shoots through the morning sky the lark, Or the swan through the summer sea. THE ALARM. 229 Merrily, merrily goes the bark, Before the gale she bounds : So flies the dolphin from the shark, Or the deer before the hounds. They paused not at Columbia's isle, Though peaFd the bells from the holy pile With long and measured toll : No time had they for matin or mass ; And the sounds of the holy summons pass Away on the billows'' roll. THE ALARM. FROM THE PERSIAN OF ACHMED ARDEBEILI. ' r rom whence ! what art thou ? ghastly spectre ! say, Why glooms that visage on my twilight view ? Does Fate presageful hither guide thy way, And bid dark vengeance here my soul pursue ? " That shemshire gleaming by the moon's pale light ? Those faltering steps, that would my cave explore ? That groan, deep wounding the repose of night ? And why appear those limbs distain'd with gore ? 230 III I : ALARM. " Does magic art, by demon power, constrain Thine airy image to some dire intent ? Or fever'd Fancy form, within my brain, Distcmper'd phantoms, only to torment ? " The tiger, the hyena, here might rove, As darkling o'er the wilds for prey they prowl ; For oft, along the impending rocks above, The echoes tremble with their midnight howl. »* " But thus remote from all the haunts of men, And where no motives can induce to stray, What mortal being would approach this den., Freely and dreadless, in the face of day ? " Scarce at the noon-tide hour, could Fate's decree Here lead me by the guidance of Despair : When these sequester'd glooms first shelter'd me — The child of Sorrow, and Misfortune's heir — " A lion's headlong fury to elude, Drove me to scale the rugged rocks beneath ; And, plunged amid this darkling solitude, I sought a refuge from the jaws of death. " But danger dwelt here — with tremendous roar, And sullen step, advanced the savage foe : Wildly impcll'd, a ponderous stone I bore; Heaven gave me fortitude, and sped the blow. THE ALARM: 231 " Though down yon broken steep the lion fell, Torn in his fall, blood-wet with many a wound, With wilder rage, and agonizing yell, Recovering soon, he climb" d the craggy mound. • " This sword received him, and the monster died. Now say, if man thou art, what leads thee here ?" — " A man I am, 1 ' the dreary form replied, " Long lost to hope, and now estranged to fear. " Know, bold possessor of this lonely cave, No base designs induce me here to roam ; Wounded in fight, the hand of help I crave, Far from my friends, and from my native home. " By why of friends or native home, to thee, Who mournst thy own, perchance as dearly loved, As long, as sadly lost as mine to me ; As much regretted, and as far removed ? " In sympathy I share thy bosom's grief : Ah ! could I feel resign'd — such comforts too ; For know, thy prayers, ere thus I sought relief, I heard with wonder, as to Heaven they flew. " And sure, who seeks for mercy from on high, And craves, with pious prayer, the aid of Heaven, Will not a hapless wanderers suit deny, Deep wounded, faniish 1 d, o'er the desert driven ! r — 232 THE ALARM. " Enough, afflicted stranger,"" Achmed said ; " Though rooted from the garden of mankind, I yet can hear the voice of Nature plead, And speak soft comfort to the wounded mind. " Approach, then, fearless soldier, and partake Of such refreshment as these wilds bestow ; Herbs from the glen, and berries from the brake, And purest water from the spring below. " This forest, too, shall yield a kindly balm, Of power to sooth thy wounds' afflictive smart ; And haply, here retirement's genial calm May shed its influence o'er a troubled heart. " The moon, all lovely, from her clouded veil Soft gliding, lifts her silvery lamp on high ; The little stars their twinkling rays conceal, And to their dens the powers of darkness fly. " So, when the beams of heavenly comfort shine, Life's fairy visions faintly glide away ; The train of Anguish fly her light divine, That yields the faithful soul eternal day. " Now Nature claims (each sorrowing sigh represt) Her due refreshment, and the hour of rest ; To-morrow's morn shall ampler time bestow, To speak those truths we each desire to know." [ 233 ] ON JORDAN'S BANKS. FROM " HEBREW MELODIES.'' 1 By Lord BYRON. On Jordan's banks the Arab's camels stray, On Sion's hill the false one's votaries pray, The Baal adorer bows on Sinai's steep ; Yet there — even there — Oh God, thy thunders sleep ! There — where thy fingers scorch'd the tablet stone ! There — where thy shadow to thy people shone ! Thy glory shrouded in its garb of fire ; Thyself — none living see and not expire ! Oh ! in the lightning let thy glance appear ! Sweep from his shiver'd hand the oppressor's spear : How long by tyrants shall thy land be trod ! How long thy temple worshipless, oh ! God ! [ 234 ] THE SONG OF SAUL BEFORE HIS LAST BATTLE. FROM THE SAME. Warriors and Chiefs ! should the shaft or the sword Pierce you in leading the host of the Lord, Heed not the corse, though a king's, in your path ; Bury your steel in the bosoms of Gath ! Thou who art bearing my buckler and bow, Should the soldiers of Saul look away from the foe,* Stretch me that moment in blood at thy feet ! Mine be the doom which they dared not to meet. Farewell to others ; but never we part, Heir to my royalties, son of my heart ! Bright is the diadem, boundless the sway, Or kingly the death which awaits us to-day ! [ 235 ] FAREWELL TO THE RIVER LUNE Stream of my own native valley — I'm going, Alas ! to revisit thy borders no more ; Blest be the vale where the lilies are growing, — Happy the peasants that dwell by thy shore. Fair may the young buds of liberty blossom, — Long may they wave o'er thy waters so blue, When a far foreign grave shall rise proud on this bosom — Stream of my fathers, I bid thee adieu ! Can I forget thee, when o'er the broad billows, Mournful I gaze for the " Isles of the Deep ?" No ! lovely stream, 'twas thy ever-green willows, In my sad moments, first taught me to weep ; Flow, then, flow on — for the storms are combining — Is that fond murm'ring to think that we part ? Hush ! this lone bosom must know no repining, Hope long has fied from this sad breaking heart. [ 236 1 THE SONG OF RICHARD FAULDER OF ALLANBAY. from " Baldwin's magazine for January, 1821. It's merry, it's merry, among the moonlight, When the pipe and the cithern are sounding — To rein like a war-steed my shallop, and go O'er the bright waters merrily bounding. It's merry, it's merry, when fair Allanbay, With its bridal candles is glancing — To spread the white sails of my vessel, and go Among the wild sea-waters dancing. And it's blithesomer still, when the storm's coming on, And the Sol way's wild waves are ascending In huge and dark curls — and the shaven masts groan, And the canvass to ribbons is rending : — When the dark heaven stoops unto the dark deep, And the thunder speaks 'mid the commotion, Awaken and see, you who slumber and sleep, The might of the Lord on the ocean I sir Richard's voyage. 237 The frail bark, so late growing green in the wood, Where the roebuck is joyously ranging — Now doom'd for to range o'er the wild fishy flood, When the wind to all quarters is changing — Is as safe to thy feet as the proud palace floor, And as firm as green Skiddow below thee ; For God has come down to the ocean's dread deeps, His might and his mercy to shew thee. SIR RICHARD'S VOYAGE. Sir Richard shot swift from the shore, and sail'd Till he reach'd Barnhourie's steep, And a voice came to him from the green land, And one from the barren deep : The green sea shudder'd, and he did shake, For the words were those which no mortals make. Away he sail'd, and the lightnings came, And stream'd from the top of his mast ; Away he sail'd, and the thunder came, And spoke from the depth of the blast : — " Oh God !" he said — and his tresses so hoar Shone bright i' the flame as he shot from the shore. 14 238 sir Richard's voyage. Away lie saiFd, and the green isles smiled, And the sea-birds sang around ; He sought to land — and down sank the shores With a loud and a murmuring sound — And where the green wood and the soft sward be. There tumbled a wild and a restless sea. Away he sail'd — and the moon look'd out. With one large star by her side — Down shot the star — and up sprung the sea-fowl With a shriek — and roar'd the tide ! The bark, with a leap, seenrd the stars to sweep. And then to dive into the hollowest deep. CrirTeFs green mountains tower'd on his right. Upon his left St Bees 1 — Behind — Gael-laverock's charmed ground — Before — the wild wide seas : — And there did a witch-fire, red and bright. Shed far a wild and unworldly light ! A lady sat high on St Bees 1 head, With her pale cheek on her hand ; She gazed forth on the troubled sea. And on the troubled land : She lifted her hands to heaven — her eyes Rah^d down bright tears — still the shallop flies. n: RJ< H \1U>\ VOYAGE. 230 The shallop shoulders the surge and flies, — Rut at that lady's prayer The charmed wind fell mute, nor ^tirr'd The rings of her golden hair: And over the sea there pass'd a breath from heaven — and the Bea lay as mute as death. And the shallop sunders the gentle flood, No breathing wind is near: And the -.halloj) sunders the gentle flood, And the flood lies still with fear — And the ocean, the earth, and the heavens smile sweet — And Sir Richard kneels low at that lady's feet ! * A MOXODY OX THE DEATH OF ROBERT BURNS. By S. KEMBLE, Esq. What ! is there ill news, you're so sad, Robin Gray? That your blue bonnet's pulFd o'er your brow ?- * Part of this old maritime ballad is still current among the seamen of Sol way, along with many other singular rhymes, full of marine su- perstition and adventure. 240 A MONODY. O sad news ! sad, sad ! Poor Robin is dead, And the ploughman weeps over his plough Well, a well a day ! And the ploughman weeps over his plough. Is his pipe mute for ay, and for ay, Robin Gray ? No more shall we list to his song ? — Aye cold as a clod, Beneath the green sod, Poor Robin they've lain all along : Well, a well a day ! Poor Robin they've lain all along. Adieu, then, the forest and hill, Robin Gray ; And farewell the valleys and grove ! — Why, the forest and hill And the valleys sing still, Still echo his ditties of love, Well, a well a day ! Still echo his ditties of love. The sad sound of echo I'll shun, Robin Gray, Its dying notes live on my mind. — A MONODY. 241 Can you then, as you roam From you forefathers 1 home, Leave your country's feeling behind ? Well, a well a day ! Leave your country's feeling behind ? Still the blackbird will sing in the thorn, Robin Gray, And the lark early carol on high. — But the lowly lodged swain, As he scatters his grain, Will chaunt Robin's verse with a sigh. Well, a well a day ! Will chaunt Robin's verse with a sigh. Soft lie on his bosom the turf, Robin Gray, Rest his ashes unmingled and pure ! May the tomb of his urn Caledonia adorn, And his much loved remains aye secure ! Well, a well a day ! And his much loved remains aye secure ! V [ 242 ] LINES, WRITTEN ON THE BANKS OF THE KENT, AT THIRTEEN YEARS OF AGE. By ELIZABETH SCOTT. How oft on thy margin, O Kent ! do I stray, To hail the approach of the eve : To welcome the sober decline of the day And think how mankind ought to live. Untaught but by Nature, to science unknown My bosom beats high with delight, As onward I wander, unseen and alone, Unawed by the grandeur of night. The moon her pale crescent with pride may display. Dispelling the hovering gloom ; The sun's bright effulgence embellish the day ! But what shall give light to the tomb ? 'Tis Religion alone the glad ray can dispense To the mind that's inquiring for truth, Can only destroy the illusions of sense, And conduct through the labrinths of youth. [ 243 ] THE NEGRO'S COMPLAINT. By Wm. COWPER, Esq. Forced from home and all its pleasures, Afric's coast I left forlorn ; To increase a stranger's treasures, O'er the raging billows borne. Men from England bought and sold me, Paid my price in paltry gold ; But, though slave they have enrolTd me, Minds are never to be sold. Still in thought as free as ever, What are England's rights, I ask, Me from my delights to sever, Me to torture, me to task ? Fleecy locks and black complexion Cannot forfeit Nature's claim ; Skins may differ, but affection Dwells in white and black the same. Why did all-creating Nature Make the plant for which we toil ? Sighs must fan it, tears must water, Sweat of ours must dress the soil. 244 THE NEGKO S COMPLAINT. Think, ye masters iron-hearted, Lolling at your jovial boards : Think how many backs have smarted For the sweets your cane affords. Is there, as you sometimes tell us, Is there One who reigns on high ? Has he bid you buy and sell us, Speaking from his throne the sky ? Ask him if your knotted scourges, Matches, blood-extorting screws, Are the means that duty urges, Agents of his will to use ? Hark ! he answers — wild tornadoes, Strewing yonder sea with wrecks ; Wasting towns, plantations, meadows, Are the voice with which he speaks. He, foreseeing what vexations Africs sons would undergo, Fix'd their tyrant's habitations Where his whirlwinds answer — No. By our blood in Afric wasted, Ere our necks received the chain ; By the miseries that we tasted, Crossing in your barks the main ; CORONACH. .245 By our sufferings, since ye brought us To the man -degrading mart ; All, sustain'd by patience, taught us Only by a broken-heart ! Deem our nation brutes no longer, Till some reason ye shall find Worthier of regard, and stronger Than the colour of our kind. Slaves of gold, whose sordid dealings Tarnish all your boasted powers, Prove that you have human feelings, Ere you proudly question ours ! CORONACH.* FROM " THE LADY OF THE LAKE. By Sir WALTER SCOTT. He is gone on the mountain, He is lost to the forest, Like a summer-dried fountain, When our need was the sorest. * Funeral song. 246 CORONACH. The font, re-appearing, From the rain-drops shall borrow, But to us comes no cheering, To Duncan no morrow ! The hand of the reaper Takes the ears that are hoary. But the voice of the weeper Wails manhood in glory ; The autumn winds rushing Waft the leaves that are searest, But our flower was in flushing, When blighting was nearest. Fleet foot on the corrie,* Sage counsel in cumber, Red hand in the foray, How sweet is thy slumber ! Like the dew on the mountain, Like the foam on the river, Like the bubble on the fountain, Thou art gone, and for ever ! * The hollow side of a hill, where game usually lies. [ 247 ] AN ELEGY, WRITTEN AMONG THE RUINS OF ST MARy's ABBEY, NEAR DALTON, IN FURNESS. Relentless time ! these scattered stones display The withering influence of thy potent spell ; And hooting owls, that shun the glare of day, Sculk here, as if the mournful tale to tell ! Their screams alone disturb the silent gloom, As round the long-forsaken spot I rove ; Or leaning o'er the moss-encrusted tomb, I watch the breeze that fans the bending grove. With awe I tread this antiquated pile, Where listening echoes whisper back my breath : And solemn seems this moonbeam-chequered aisle, Where all is hush'd, as in the arms of death ! Here, oft at midnight roused from sleep profound, Have pious monks their matin anthems sung ; While cavern'd walls prolong'd the ling'ring sound And breathless echoes round the cloisters rung. 248 AN ELEGY. By vows secluded from the sweets of life, This splendid fabric held the soul-tied guest ; The social friend, the fond endearing wife, By stealth would enter his yet glowing breast. Here penitence, by throes of conscience riv'n, With tapers burning spent the night in prayV ; Here the recluse prepared his soul for heav , n, Free from temptation, and unmoved by care. But gone are they who here with generous heart The liberal, not the gorgeous table spread, — Assuaged the hungry traveler's sickening smart — From night-dews screen'd his else exposed head. This letter'd stone, on which I rest my arm, Reminds me that a human corpse lies here, Whose soul, perhaps, with gentlest virtue's warm, Once dropt o'er others 1 woes, the soothing tear. He may have been : — nay, wand'ring fancy, cease, No more the visionary picture scan ; His faults and virtues sleep alike in peace ; Truth whispers only this — " He was a Man H Mortal ! — should Fate extend thy little year, And tardy nature gently meet decay ; Should war-won laurels round thy brows appear. And bloody carnage mark thy destine! way ; HYMN TO THE CREATOR. 249 Should heaven-born genius fire thy soaring mind, And thou should give new arts and the'ries birth ; To thy deserts should much-woo'd fame be kind, And waft thy honours round the wond ring earth. Yet Death's unerring arm must strike thee low, And all thy earthly honours be forgot ; — Nay, future ages scarce thy name will know, Neglected like this once renowned spot ! I much could wish to spend my evenings here ; Twould melt my soul, and mollify my heart : In twilight-gloom who ever wanders near, Must own the feelings which these scenes impart. With grief, he'll trace the far extending wall, The broken columns — weed-infested floor ; And sigh that rage should antidate their fall — Mistaken zeal, now happily no more. HYMN TO THE CREATOR. Spirit of Power ! Spirit of Love, Whose breath is universal life, Who sitt'st in glory throned above, Who lcd'st fair order out of strife &50 HYMX TO THE CREATOR. Each thing in heaven, in earth, and sea, Imperial Pow'r ! is full of Thee. When Spring embroiders the green earth. And Eden-like all nature blooms, Thy dove-like wing fans each bright birth, Thy breath supplies their sweet perfumes : The rose, the valley, the fair tree, Have beauty, blush, and bloom from Thee. When morning spreads her wings of light, And weaves her purple in the East, And when the star-gemnVd cloak of night Wraps nature up in sable vest, — If on their swiftest wings we flee, Father ! we only fly to Thee. When from his eastern gate on high, Sol wheels his fiery-axled car, Thou guid'st him through the crystal sky, Thou lightst the moon and wandVing star Whate'er we hear, whate'er we see, Great Sire ! is teeming full of Thee ! & Thou rulest the wave, thou wing'st the storm. Thy thunders shake the base of heav'n, The clouds thy car, whereon thy form Is by the lightning's fire-blast driv 1 n ; HYMN TO THE CREATOR. 251 Then in thy might — thy Majesty, All Nature trembles, owning Thee, i When first in golden chain this world Was hung from thy bright throne in air, And order, from confusion hurl'd, Was robed in light divine and fair ; Then Beauty, Grace, and Harmony, Author of Good ! first sprung from Thee. But when again in power array'd, Thy bright car o'er the clouds shall roll, Of thy dread Majesty afraid, This earth shall vanish like a scroll : Its glories, pomp, and pageantry, Shall darken, Lord ! at sight of Thee. The sky-kiss'd mountains then shall rock, The " everlasting hills 1 '* shall melt ; Man's heart shall wither at the shock, To Nature's inmost circle felt ; Then Heaven's eternal Jubilee Shall hymn its song of praise to Thee. [ 252 ] SOFT AS YON SILVER RAY By Mrs RADCLIFFE. Soft as yon silver ray, that sleeps Upon the ocean's trembling tide — Soft as the air that lightly sweeps Yon sail that swells in stately pride — Soft as the surge's stealing note That dies along the distant shores, Or warbled strain that sinks remote, So soft the sigh my bosom pours ! True as the wave to Cynthia's ray, True as the vessel to the breeze, True as the soul to music's sway Or music to Venetian seas ! Soft as the silver-beams that sleep Upon the ocean's trembling breast : So soft, so true, fond love shall weep, So true with thee shall rest, shall rest ! [ 2.53 ] M ALCRONEirS LAMENT for DUN-ULLEN. Jjy his own native shore where the rude waves were breaking, When the last ray of twilight the west was forsaking, And the dark clouds of winter rolFd gloomy and slow O'er the cliff, — lorn Dun-Ullen sat wrapt in his woe. But alas ! ere the summer first breaks on the mountain, And wakes the young lily to wave o'er the fountain, — His shield shall be hung on the lone forest tree, And his sad heaving bosom from sorrow be free. Ah ! yes, thou art lorn — in the midnight of sorrow, Say where is fond hope for to point to to-morrow ! It is fled to the tomb where thy forefathers rest, To warn them Dun-Ullen will soon be their guest. Though myself all unskill'd, there are Bards who have power To charm the sad breast in its fast fading hour ; Then pity Dun-Ullen, ye Bards, who best know How the sad breaking heart may be lightened of woe. [ 254 ] THE RED-CROSS KNIGHT. ' Blow, Warder, blow thy sounding horn, And thy banner wave on high ; For the Christians have fought in the Holy-land, And have won the victory V — Loud the Warder blew his horn, And his banner waved on high : Let the mass be sung ! And the bells be rung ! And the feast eat merrily. The Warder look'd from the tower on high As far as he could see ; " I see a bold Knight, and by his red cross, He comes from the east country. 11 Then loud the Warder blew his horn, And caird till he was hoarse, " I see a bold Knight, and on his shield bright. He beareth a flaming cross. 11 Then down the Lord of the castle came, The Red-Cross Knight to meet ; And when the Red-Cross Knight he 'spied, Right loving he did him greet : STANZAS. 25 oo " Thourt welcome here, dear Red-Cross Knight, For thy fame's well known to me ; And the mass shall be sung ! And the bells shall be rung i And we'll feast right merrily." STANZAS, By Lord BYRON. Though the day of my destiny's over, And the star of my fate hath declined ; Thy soft heart refused to discover The faults which so many can find ; Though thy soul with my grief was acquainted. It shrunk not to share it with me; And the love which my spirit hath painted, It never hath found but in thee. Then when Nature around me is smiling The last smile which answers to mine, I do not believe it beguiling, Because it reminds me of thine ; 256 STANZAS. And when winds are at war with the ocean, As the breasts I believed in with me, If their billows excite an emotion, It is, that they bear me from thee. Though the rock of my last hope is shiverM, And its fragments are sunk in the wave, Though I feel that my soul is delivered To pain — it shall not be its slave. There is many a pang to pursue me : They may crush, but they shall not contemn- They may torture, but shall not subdue me — 'Tis of thee that I think — not of them. Though human, thou didst not deceive me, Though woman, thou didst not forsake, Though loved, thou forborest to grieve me, Though slander'd, thou never wouldst shake,- Though trusted, thou didst not disclaim me, Though parted, it was not to fly, Though watchful, 'twas not to defame me, Nor, mute, that the world might belie. Yet I blame not the world, nor despise it, Nor the war of the many with one — If my soul was not fitted to prize it, 'Twas folly not sooner to shun : the soldier's meam. 257 And if dearly that error hath cost me, And more than I once could foresee, I have found, that whatever it lost me, It could not deprive me of thee. From the wreck of the past, which hath perish 1 d, Thus much I at least may recal, It hath taught me, that what I most cherished, Deserved to be dearest of all : In the desert a fountain is springing, In the wide waste there still is a tree, And a bird in the solitude singing, Which speaks to my spirit of thee. THE SOLDIER'S DREAM. By T. CAMPBELL, Esq. Our bugles sung truce; for the night-cloud had lower'd, And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky ; And thousands had sunk on the ground overpower'd, The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. When reposing that night on my pallet of straw, By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain, At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw, And twice ere the cock-crow I dreamt it again. E 258 THE SPANIARDS 1 APPEAL. Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array, Far, far, I had roam'd on a desolate track, Till autumn and sunshine arose on the way, To the house of my fathers, that welcomed me back. I rlew to the pleasant fields, travers'd so oft In life's morning march, when my bosom was young; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, And knew the sweet strain that the corn reapers sung. Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore, From my home and my weeping friends never to part ; My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er, And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart. " Stay — stay with us ! — rest, thou art weary and worn !"" (And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay ;) But sorrow returnVl with the dawning of morn, And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away ! THE SPANIARDS' APPEAL. Gtod of our Fathers ! in whose name, Resistless as the wild Simoom, We rush'd through clouds of smoke and flame, And swept away to death and doom THE SPANIARDS 1 APPEAL. 259 The legions of the Iron Crown, And huiTd the Imperial Despot down ! Inflamed by whose life-giving word We pour'd our unrequited blood, More freely than the desert bird, Whose heart-drops feed her infant brood ; To fix that Monarch on the Throne, We hoped would make our weal his own ! To Thee, at this dread hour, ascend The indignant prayers of men deceived, Who see that monarch foully rend The sacred rights our hands retrieved, And strive to bind us with a chain More dread than that we broke in vain. Though Kings forget, yet will not we, The rights of all that think or breathe, And if, when struggling to be free, We sound the notes of war and death ; In Thy name shall the banners wave, That lead to freedom or the grave. [ 260 ] FROM MR WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. SEPTEMBER, 1819- The sylvan slopes with corn-clad fields, Are hung as if with golden shields, Bright trophies of the sun ! Like a fair sister of the sky, Unruffled doth the blue lake lie, The mountains looking on. And, sooth to say, yon vocal grove, Albeit uninspired by love, By love untaught to sing, May well aiford to mortal ear An impulse more profoundly dear Than music of the Spring. For that from turbulence and heat Proceeds, from some uneasy seat In Nature's struggling frame, Some region of impatient life ; And jealousy, and quivering strife, Therein a portion claim. 110NDEAU. This is holy ; — while I hear These vespers of another year, This hymn of thanks and praise, My spirit seems to mount above The anxieties of human love, And earth's precarious days. But list ! — though winter's storms be nigh, Uncheck'd is that soft harmony : There lives who can provide For all his creatures ; and in Him, Even like the radiant Seraphim, These Choristers confide. 261 RONDEAU. TO E . Nay, tell me not, dear ! that the goblet drowns One charm of feeling, one fond regret ; Believe me, a few of thy angry frowns Are all I have sunk in its bright wave yet. Ne'er hath a beam Been lost in the stream 262 RONDEAU. That ever was shed from thy form or soul : The balm of thy sighs, The spell of thine eyes, Still float on the surface, and hallow the bowl ! Then fancy not, dearest ! that wine can steal One blissful dream of the heart from me : Like founts that awaken the pilgrim's zeal, The bowl but brightens my love for thee ! They tell us that Love, in his fairy bower, Had two blush roses, of birth divine ; He sprinkled the one with a rainbow shower, But bathed the other with mantling wine. Soon did the buds That drank of the floods Distiird by the rainbow decline and fade, While those which the tide Of ruby had dyed, All blush'd into beauty, like thee, sweet maid ! Then fancy not, dearest ! that wine can steal One blissful dream of the heart from me : Like founts that awaken the pilgrim's zeal, The bowl but brightens my love for thee ! C 26f3 3 ANSWER TO THE RONDEAU TO E- Ah, think not, rash youth, that wine can improve The charms of love which thou woulcTst cherish ; Each manly feeling 'twill soon remove, And render thee like the beasts that perish ! Each sparkling draught, By Intemperance quaff 'd, Is fraught with death to the body and soul. Disease and woe On the surface flow, And future anguish encircles the bowl ! Then assure thyself, Edwin ! that wine will steal Every blissful dream of the heart away, And the charms of love thou now may'st feel, Benumb'd by its power, will soon decay. Tho 1 the streams of ruby, when dash'd in floods, Might vigour add to a fading flower, Yet the rose which prematurely buds, Will blow, decay, and die in an hour. 264 ON HOPE. Thus fares, in truth, The licentious youth, Who spends his hours o'er the mantling bowl ; For every draught By Intemperance quaflHd, Is fraught with death to the body and soul ! Then assure thyself, Edwin ! that wine will steal Every blissful dream of the heart away ; And the charms of love thou now may'st feel, Benumb'd by its power, will soon decay. ON HOPE. By Mrs TIGHE. Sweet tear of Hope, delicious tear ! The sun, the shower, indeed, shall come ; The promised verdant shoot appear, And Nature bid her blossoms bloom. And thou, O virgin, queen of spring, Shall, from thy dark and lowly bed, Ikirsting thy green sheath's silken string, Unveil thy charms, and perfumes shed ; AN ACROSTIC. Unfold thy robes of purest white Unsullied, from their darksome grave, And thy soft petals silvery light, In the mild breeze-unfetter 1 d wave. So Faith shall seek the lowly dust, Where humble Sorrow loves to lie, And bid her thus her hope entrust, And watch with patient cheerful eye ; And bear the long cold wintry night, And bear her own degraded doom, And wait till Heaven's reviving light, Eternal Spring ! shall burst the gloom 265 AN ACROSTIC, INSCRIBED TO THE DAUGHTERS OF A GALLANT SOLDIER. By ELIZABETH SCOTT. T o the brave of the land, who have fought and have bled O n the war fields of Europe, devote we the strain ! T o those heroes, whose valour a lustre have shed H ence and ever around the proud Isles of the Main. 266 THE WANDERING HARPER. E ntwinc for the warrior the meed of his daring ; M ay the wreath he has won long encircle his brow ! I n the bloom of its gathering, the fresher for wearing, S till his laurels undying, be verdant as now. S hall the sons of the battle (the field or the wave) E ver cease to be dear to the home of their birth ? S hall the fame of their deeds sleep with them in the grave ? H ail'd and heard to the uttermost parts of the earth. A s soon shall the stainless insignia of honour, R ear'd by them o'er the nations, be lower'd to a foe : D efenders ! as soon shall your country's bright banner Y ield its rank ! and its haughty pretensions forego. THE WANDERING HARPER. FROM " ROKEBY." By Sir WALTER SCOTT. Summer eve is gone and past, Summer dew is falling fast ; I have wander'd all the day, Do not bid me farther stray ! Gentle hearts, of gentle kin, Take the wandering harper in ! THE WANDERING HARPER. 267 Bid me not in battle field, Buckler lift, or broadsword wield ! All my strength and all my art Is to touch the gentle heart, With the wizard notes that ring From the peaceful minstrel string. I have song of war for knight, Lay of love for lady bright, Fairy tale to lull the heir, Goblin grim the maids to scare : Dark the night, and long till day, Do not bid me farther stray ! Rokeby's lords of martial fame, I can count them name by name ; Legends of their line there be, Known to few, but known to me : If you honour Rokeby's kin, Take the wandering harper in ! Rokeby's lords had fair regard For the harp, and for the bard ; Baron's race throve never well, Where the curse of minstrel fell : If you love that noble kin, Take the weary harper in ! [ 268 ] THE ENCHANTRESS NAMOUNA'S SONG. FROM " LALLA 1IOOKH. 11 By T. MOORE, Esq. I know where the winged visions dwell That around the night-bed play ; I know each herb and fiWrets bell, Where they hide their wings by day : Then hasten we, maid, To twine our braid, To-morrow our dreams and flowers will fade. The image of love, that nightly flies To visit the bashful maid, Steals from the jasmine flower, that sighs Its soul, like her, in the shade. The hope in dreams, of a happier hour That alights on misery's brow, Springs out of the silvery almond-flower, That blooms on a leafless bouerh :* • " The Almond-tree with white flowers, blossoms on the bare bran ches. " — Hasselquist. THE ENCHANTRESS NAMOUNA's SONG. 269 Then haste we, maid, To twine our braid, To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade. The visions that oft to worldly eyes The glitter, of mines unfold, Inhabit the mountain herb * that dyes The tooth of the fawn like gold. The phantom shapes — oh, touch not them — That appal the murderer's sight, Lurk in the fleshy mandrake's stem That shrieks when torn at night ! Then hasten we, maid, To twine the braid, To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade. The dream of the injured patient mind, That smiles at the wrongs of men, Is found in the bruised and wounded rind Of the cinnamon, sweetest then ! Then hasten we, maid, To twine our braid, To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade. * An herb of Mount Libanus, which is said to communicate a yel- low golden hue to the teeth of the goats and other animals that graze upon it. [ 270 ] ODE, ON THE DEATH OF THOMSON. By COLLINS. £The scene of the following stanzas is supposed to be on the banks of the Thames, near Richmond.^ In yonder grave a Druid lies, Where slowly winds the stealing wave ; The year's best sweets shall duteous rise To deck its poet's sylvan grave. In yon deep bed of whisp'ring reeds His airy harp* shall now be laid, That he whose heart in sorrow bleeds, May love through life the soothing shade. Then maids and youth shall linger here, And, while its sounds at distance swell, Shall sadly seem in Pity's ear, To hear the Woodland Pilgrim's knell. * The harp of VEolus, which 31 r Thomson has described in his Castle of Indolence." ODE. 271 RemembYance oft shall haunt the shore When Thames in summer wreaths is drest, And oft suspend the dashing oar, To bid his gentle spirit rest ! And oft as Ease and Health retire To breezy lawn, or forest deep, The friend shall view yon whitening spire,* And "mid the varied landscape weep. But thou, who ownst that earthy bed, Ah ! what will every dirge avail ? Or tears, which Love and Pity shed, That mourn beneath the gliding sail ! Yet lives there One, whose heedless eye Shall scorn thy pale shrine glimnVring near ? With him, sweet Bard ! may Fancy die, And Joy desert the blooming year. But thou, lorn stream ! whose sullen tide No sedge-crown'd sisters now attend, Now waft me from the green hill's side, Whose cold turf hides the buried friend ! * Richmond Church, in which Mr Thomson was buried. 14 272 THE MAID OF THE INN. And see the fairy valleys fade, Dun night has veil'd the solemn view ! Yet once again, dear parted shade ! Meek Nature's child ! again adieu ! The genial meads* assign'd to bless Thy life, shall mourn thy early doom ! Their hinds and shepherd-girls shall dress With simple hands thy rural tomb. Long, long thy stone, and pointed clay, Shall melt the musing Briton's eyes ; Oh vales ! and wild woods ! shall he say, In yonder grave a Druid lies ! THE MAID OF THE INN. By ROBERT SOUTHEY, Esq. Who is she, the poor maniac, whose wildly nVd eyes Seem a heart overcharged to express ; She weeps not, yet often and deeply she sighs ; She never complains, but her silence implies The composure of settled distress. * Mr Thomson resided in the neighbourhood of Richmond some time before his death. THE MAID OF THE INN. 273 No aid, no compassion, the maniac will seek, Cold and hunger awake not her care : Through her rags do the winds of the winter blow bleak On her poor wither'd bosom half bare, and her cheek Has the deathly pale hue of despair. Yet cheerful and happy, not distant the day, Poor Mary the maniac has been ; The traveler remembers, who journey \1 this way, No damsel so lovely, no damsel so gay, As Mary, the maid of the inn. Her cheerful address fiird the guests with delight, As she welcomed them in with a smile : Her heart was a stranger to childish affright, And Mary would walk by the Abbey at night, When the wind whistled down the dark aisle. She loved, and young Richard had settled the day, And she hoped to be happy for life ; But Richard was idle, and worthless, and they Who knew him, would pity poor Mary, and say, That she was too good for his wife. "Twas autumn, and stormy and dark was the night, And fast were the windows and door ; Two guests sat enjoying the fire that burnt bright, And smoking in silence, with tranquil delight, They listeiVd to hear the wind roar. 274 THE MATD OF THE INN. " 'Tis pleasant,' 1 cried one, " seated by the fire-side, To hear the wind whistle without. 11 — " A fine night for the Abbey I 11 his comrade reply '3 ; " Methinks a man's courage would now be well try'd. Who should wander the ruins about. " I myself like a school-boy, should tremble to hear The hoarse ivy shake over my head ; And could fancy I saw, half persuaded by fear, Some ugly old abbot's white spirit appear, For this wind might awaken the dead !" — © " I'll wager a dinner, 1 ' the other one cry'd, " That Mary would venture there now." — " Then wager and lose !" with a sneer he reply'd, " I'll warrant shed fancy a ghost by her side, And faint if she saw a white cow.' 1 — " Will Mary this charge on her courage allow P' 1 His companion exclaim'd with a smile ; " I shall win, for I know she will venture there now, And cam a new bonnet, by bringing a bough From the elder that grows in the aisle. 11 With fearless good humour did Mary comply, And her way to the Abbey she bent ; The night it was dark, and the wind it was high ; And as hollowly howling it swept through the sky, Oh ! she shiver'd with cold as she went. THE MAID OF THE INN. 275 O'er the path so well known, still proceeded the maid, Where the Abbey rose dim on the sight ; Through the gateway she enter'd, she felt not afraid, Yet the ruins were lonely and wild, and their shade Seem'd to deepen the gloom of the night. All around her was silent, save when the rude blast HowlYl dismally round the old pile ; Over weed-cover'd fragments still fearless she past, And arrived at the innermost ruin at last, Where the elder-tree grew in the aisle. Well pleased did she reach it ; and quickly drew near. Then hastily gather'd a bough ; When the sound of a voice seem'd to rise on her ear ; She paused and she listen'd, all eager to hear, And her heart panted fearfully now. The wind blew, the hoarse ivy shook o'er her head ; She listen'd — nought else could she hear ; Thewind ceased, her heart sunk inher bosom with dread, For she heard in the ruins distinctly the tread Of footsteps approaching her near. Behind a wide column half breathless with fear She crept, to conceal herself there ; That instant the moon o'er a dark cloud shone clear, And she saw in the moonlight two ruffians appear, And between them a corse did they bear. 276 Till MAID OF THE INN. Then Mary could feel her heart blood curdled cold ! Again the rough wind hurry'd by ; It blew off' the hat of the one, and behold, E'en close to the feet of poor Mary it rolFd : She felt, and expected to die. " Curse the hat P he exclaims : " Nay, come on and hide The dead body, 11 his comrade replies. She beheld them, in safety, pass on by her side, She seizes the hat, fear her courage supply'd, And fast through the Abbey she flies. She ran with wild speed, she rusli'd in at the door, She gazed horribly eager around ; Then her limbs could support their faint burden no more, And exhausted and breathless she sunk on the floor, Unable to utter a sound. Ere yet her pale lips could the story impart, For a moment the hat met her view : Her eyes from their sockets convulsively start, For, O God ! what cold horror then thrilFd through her heart, When the name of her Richard she knew. IA.VZAS. -Al'i Where the old Abbey stands en the common hard by, His gibbet if now to be seen ; Not far f'ro/ii the road it engages the eye, The fcravTler beholds it, and think:-;, with a high, Of poor Mary, the maid of the inn. STANZAS, ii, ELIZA BYVES A .vkw-fall'-V lamb, as mild Erniline past, In pity she tunTd to behold, J low it shiver* d and shrunk from the merciless blast, Then fell all benumb" d with the cold She raised it, and, touch'd by the innocent's fate, Its soft form to her bosom she prest ; But the tender relief was afforded too late ; It bleated, and died on her breast. The moralist then, as the corse she resigned, And, weeping, spring-flowers o'er it laid, Thus mused, " So it fares with the delicate mind, To the tempests of fortune betray'd : 278 THE BLIND BEGGAR. " Too tender, like thee, the rude shock to sustain, And deny'd the relief which would save ; "Tis lost, and when pity and kindness are vain, Thus we deck the poor sufferer's grave." THE BLIND BEGGAR By Dr WOLCOT. Welcome, thou man of sorrows, to my door ! A willing balm thy wounded heart shall find ; And, lo ! thy guiding dog my cares implore : O haste, and shelter from the unfeeling wind ! Alas ! shall Mis ry seek my cot with sighs, And humbly sue for piteous alms my ear, Yet disappointed go, with lifted eyes, And on my threshold leave the upbraiding tear ? Thou bowest for the pity I bestow : Bend not to me, because I mourn distress ; I am thy debtor — much to tlicc I owe ; For learn — the greatest blessing is to bless. THE BLIND BEGGAJl. 279 Thy hoary locks, and wan and pallid check, And quivYing lip, to fancy seem to say, " A more than common beggar we bespeak ; A form that once has known a happier day. 11 Thy sightless orbs, and venerable beard, And press'd by weight of years, thy palsy 'd head, Though silent, speak with tongues that must be heard, Nay, must command, if Virtue be not dead. Thy shatter'd, yet thine awe-inspiring form, Shall give the village-lads the soften^ soul, To aid the victims of life's frequent storm, And sooth the surges that around them roll. l O v Teach them that Poverty may merit shroud, And teach that Virtue may from Misery spring ; Flame like the lightning from the frowning cloud, That spreads on Nature's smile its raven wing. O, let me own the heaven which pants to bless, Which nobly scorns to hide the useless store ; But looks around for objects of distress, And triumphs in a sorrow for the poor ! When Heaven on man is pleased its wealth to showV. Ah, what an envied bliss doth Heaven bestow ! To raise pale Merit in her hopeless hour, And lead Despondence from the tomb of Woe ! 280 THK BLIND BEGGAR. Lo ! not the little birds shall chirp in vain, And hovering round me, vainly court my care ; While I possess the life-preserving grain, Welcome, ye chirping tribe, to peck your share. How can I hear your songs at Spring's return, And hear while Summer spreads her golden store ; Yet, when the gloom of Winter bids ye mourn, Heed not the plaintive voice that charni'd before ! Since Fortune to my cottage not unkind, Strews with some flow'rs the road of life for me ; Ah ! can humanity desert my mind ? Shall I not soften the rude flint for thee ? Then welcome, beggar, from the rains and snow, And warring elements, to warmth and peace ; Nay, thy companion, too, shall comfort know, Who, slnVring, shakes away the icy fleece. And, lo ! he lays him by the fire, elate ; Now on his master turns his gladden'd eyes ; Leaps up to greet him on their change of fate, Licks his loved hand, and then beneath him lies. A hut is mine, amid a sheltering grove ; A hermit there, exalt to Heaven thy praise ; There shall the village children shew their love, And hear from thec the tales of other days. LINES. 281 There shall our featherM friend, the bird of morn, Charm thee with orisons to opening day : And there the red-breast, on the leafless thorn, At eve shall sooth thee with a simple lay. When Fate shall call thee from a world of woe, Thy friends around shall watch thy closing eyes ; With tears, behold thy gentle spirit go, And wish to join its passage to the skies. LINES, ON THE DEATH OF AN INFANT. By ELIZABETH SCOTT. Pretty primrose, silken flower, How has unrelenting Death, In the pageant of an hour, RobbYl thee of thy rosy breath ? But thou wert a Flower too rare In this coarser soil to thrive ! Now thou art transplanted where, Little angel, thou shalt live. [ 282 ] EPITAPH. [[On an eccentric character, generally known by the appellation of Joseph with the Whips, who died at Kendal, August the 3d, 1796, aged 55.~2 Beneath this lowly grass-encircled spot, Lies the remains of Joseph of the Knot.* The grizly tyrant no distinction shews 'Twixt him who all, and him who nothing knows ; Yes ! ye, ye mighty sons of boasted wit, All, all, like Joseph, must to death submit ! Though on his hands full many a ring he bore, And round his brows his gaudy honours wore, For him, his plumes although the peacock shed, And Reynard's bush graced Joseph's hoary head, Though arm'd with whips he constantly appear'd, Death mock'd his honours, nor his armour fear'd. But oh ! deride not Joseph's humble lot, His life so mean, his death so soon forgot. In the Last Day ! that great decisive day, When Death shall yield his temporary sway, By lords, by kings, his fate may be desired, Where nothing's given, nothing is required ! * An epithet frequently applied to Joseph. L 283 ] THE FLOWER GIRL. FROM THE CLIFF* VALENTINES FOR 1813. By Mrs COBBOLD. Come buy, come buy my mystic flowers, All ranged with due consideration, And ciuTd in Fancy's fairy bowers To suit each age and every station. For those who late in life would tarry, Fve snow-drops, Winter's children cold ; And those who seek for wealth to marry, May buy the flaunting marigold. Fve ragwort, ragged-robins too, Cheap flowers for those of low condition ; For bachelors Fve buttons blue, And crowns imperial for ambition. For sportsmen keen who range the lea, I've pheasantVeye, and sprigs of heather ; For courtiers with the supple knee, Fve climbing plants and prince's feather. * The (then) residence of Mrs Cobbold, near Ipswich. 284 A COTTAGE BASKET. For thin tall fops I keep the rush ; For pedants still am nightshade weeding ; For rakes I've devil in the bush ; For sighing Strephans, love lies bleeding Hut fairest blooms affection's hand, For constancy and worth disposes, And gladly weaves at your command A wreath of amaranth and roses. A COTTAGE BASKET. FROM THE SAME. Dear lady, greet your Valentine, And with no idle follies task it, For nature's blessings round it twine, Though but a simple cottage basket. When merit claims the yielding heart, May affectation never mask it ; Hut all the glittering gauds of art Be banish'd from your cottage basket ! LINES, &c. 285 For Providence, who better knows To give a boon than we to ask it, And equal care parental shows, Oft heaps with bliss the cottage basket. Then judge not what the gem may prove By the mere gilding of the casket ; Nor slight the gift of faithful love, Though oflfer'd in a cottage basket. LINES, WRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF OF A PRINTED COPY OF THE CLIFF VALENTINES FOR 1813. By LORD R D. A Valentine of adverse fate, Still anxious for a willing mate, Into this book did take a peep In hopes some benefit to reap. At least to search with eager eyes The likeliest way to gain a prize. Encouraged by the courteous strain, He read, admired, and read again. 28C LINES, &c. The Graces lead him through the page, The Muses too his mind engage, Announcing in attraction's name A welcome to the festive game Held on this spot, where, every year, Hope and her jocund nymphs appear ; And from her train of thronging fair, Not one is banish\l but Despair. Wealth, Wit, and Beauty here combine To celebrate Saint Valentine ; By which this coveted retreat Displays Elysium complete ! Enraptured with the painted bliss, He cries, explain the cause of this, What goddess here so chaste resides, And with such Attic taste presides ? Under what star auspicious teems The soil with such Pierian streams ? At Cliff, disclose on whose account, Parnassus rears another mount ? Quoth Truth, " 'Tis Cobbold here is queen, Her genius forms the classic scene." u L 287 | VERSES, SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY ALEXANDER SELKIRK, DURING HIS SOLITARY ABODE ON THE ISLAND OF JUAN-FERNANDEZ. By WILLIAM COWPER, Esq. I am monarch of all I survey, My right there is none to dispute ; From the centre all round to the sea, I am lord of the fowl and the brute, Solitude ! where are the charms That sages have seen in thy face ? Better dwell in the midst of alarms, Than reign in this horrible place. 1 am out of humanity's reach, I must finish my journey alone; Never hear the sweet music of speech, I start at the sound of my own. The beasts that roam over the plain, My form with indifference see ; They are so unacquainted with man, Their tameness is shocking to me. 288 VEKSES. Society, friendship, and love, Divinely bestow'd upon man, O, had I the wings of a dove, How soon would I taste you again ! My sorrows I then might assuage In the ways of religion and truth, Might learn from the wisdom of age, And be cheer'd by the sallies of youth. Religion ! what treasure untold Resides in that heavenly word ! More precious than silver and gold, Or all that this earth can afford. But the sound of the church-going bell These valleys and rocks never heard, Never sigh'd at the sound of a knell, Or smiled when a Sabbath appear'd. Ye winds, that have made me your sport, Convey to this desolate shore Some cordial endearing report Of a land I shall visit no more. My friends, do they now and then send A wish or a thought after me ? O tell me I yet have a friend, Though a friend I am never to see. How fleet is a glance of the mind, Compared with the speed of its flight, VERSES, &c. 289 The tempest itself lags behind And the swift-winged arrows of light. When I think of my own native land, In a moment I seem to be there ; But alas .' recollection at hand Soon hurries me back to despair ! But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest, The beast is laid down in his lair ; Even here is a season of rest, And I to my cabin repair. There's mercy in every place, And mercy, encouraging thought ! Gives even affliction a grace, And reconciles man to his lot ! [ 290 ] OCCASIONAL STANZAS. By WALLER RODWELL WRIGHT, Esq. [Adapted to the German air ' Ershall o Gefhull/ and sung hy Mr Bellamy at the grand masonic fete given at Free-Masons'- Hall, to the Earl of Moira, previous to his departure for India. ^ Thou soft-breathing lyre ! for a while be suspended The social delight which thy numbers impart ; While sighs of regret with our raptures are blended, And strains of affection flow warm from the heart. Hail ! hail ! hail ! to every bosom dear, Thou to whose honour'd name We consecrate the parting tear. Ye realms, where the day-star first springs from the ocean, Now welcome the dawn of philanthropy's ray : Ye nations that tremble in abject devotion By Ganges or Indus, rejoice in her sway. Hail ! hail ! hail ! &c. &c. Go on, noble spirit — still guerdon/d with glory, Pursue the bright track which thy fate has assigned ; For thus shall thy name live ennobled in story, Of Britain the pride, and the friend of mankind. Hail ! hail ! hail ! &c. &c. OCCASIONAL STANZAS. OOJ Oh, deem not our hearts can e'er cease to revere thee, Or still on thy virtues with rapture to dwell, Recalling those scenes, to our souls that endear thee, And the pain of that hour when we bade thee farewell ! Hail ! hail ! hail ! &c. &c. E'en then, while between us wide oceans are rolling, Whene'er we assemble those rites to renew, With magic illusion our senses controlling, Shall fancy restore thee again to our view. Hail ! hail ! hail ! &c. &c. And when on that breast where bright honour still beam- ing. Sheds lustre, excelling what kings can bestow, The pledge of fraternal affection* is gleaming, With kindred emotions thy bosom shall glow. Hail ! hail ! hail ! &c. &c. Oh think, while glad millions their gratitude breathing, For Freedom and Justice thy name shall adore, Fond Friendship and Joy rosy chaplets are wreathing To greet thy return to thy loved native shore. Hail ! hail ! hail ! &c. &c. * Alluding to a splendid Jewel intended for his Lordship. [ 292 ] THE ORPHAN BOY'S TALE. By Mrs OPIE. Stay, lady, stay ! for mercy's sake, And hear a helpless orphan's tale ; Ah, sure my looks must pity wake — 'Tis want that makes my cheek so pale ! Yet I was once a mother's pride, And my brave father's hope and joy ; But in the Nile's proud fight he died — And I am now an orphan boy ! Poor foolish child ! how pleased was 1 When news of Nelson's vict'ry came, Along the crowded streets to fly, To see the lighted windows flame ! To force me home my mother sought — She could not bear to hear my joy ; For with my father's life 'twas bought, And made me a poor orphan boy ! The people's shouts were long and loud — My mother shuddering, closed her ears : " Rejoice ! rejoice !" still cried the crowd- My mother answer'd with her tears. THE ORPHAN BOY's TALE. 293 " Oh ! why do tears steel down your cheek ?"" Cried I, " while others shout for joy !"" She kiss'd me, and in accents weak, She calFd me her poor orphan boy ! " What is an orphan boy ?" I said ; When suddenly she gasp'd for breath, And her eyes closed ! I shriek'd for aid — But ah, her eyes were closed in death ! My hardships since I will not tell ; But now no more a parent's joy, Ah, lady ! I have learnt too well W r hat 'tis to be an orphan boy ! Oh ! were I by your bounty fed !— Nay, gentle lady, do not chide ; Trust me, I mean to earn my bread — The sailor's orphan boy has pride. Lady, you weep — what is't you say ? — You'll give me clothing, food, employ ! Look down, dear parents, look and see, Your happy, happy orphan boy ! [ 294 ] AN ALBANESE SONG. By Loud BYRON. Tambourgi ! Tambourgi !* thy larum afar Gives hope to the valiant, and promise of war : All the sons of the mountains arise at the note, Chimariot, Illyrian, and dark Suliote ! Oh ! who is more brave than a dark Suliote, In his snowy camese, and his shaggy capote ? To the wolf and the vulture he leaves his wild flock, And descends to the plain like the stream from the rock. Shall the sons of Chimari, who never forgive The fault of a friend, bid an enemy live ? Let those guns so unerring such vengeance forego ! What mark is so fair as the breast of a foe ? Macedonia sends forth her invincible race ; For a time they abandon the cave and the chase ; But those scarfs of blood-red shall be redder, before The sabre is sheathVl, and the battle is o'er. * Drummer. AX ALBANESE SONG. 295 Then the pirates of Parga that dwell by the waves, And teach the pale Franks what it is to be slaves, Shall leave on the beach the long galley and oar, And track to his covert the captive on shore. I ask not the pleasures that riches supply, My sabre shall win what the feeble must buy ; Shall win the young bride, with her long flowing hair, And many a maid from her mother shall tear. I love the fair face of the maid in her youth, Her caresses shall lull me, her music shall sooth ; Let her bring from the chamber her many-toned lyre, And sing us a song on the fall of her sire. Remember the moment when Pervisa fell, The shrieks of the conquer'd, the conqueror's yell ; The roofs that we fired, and the plunder we shared, The wealthy we slaughter^, the lowly we spared. I talk not of mercy, I talk not of fear ; He neither must know, that would serve the Vizier : Since the days of our Prophet the Crescent ne'er saw A chief ever glorious like Ali-Pashaw. 296 LAMENT OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS. Dark Muchtar his son to the Danube is sped, Let the yellow-haircl* Giaours-f- view his horse-tailj with dread ; When his Delhis§ come dashing in blood o'er the banks, How few shall escape from the Muscovite ranks ! Selictar !|| unsheath then our chief's scimitar : Tambourgi ! thy larum gives promise of war. Ye mountains, that see us descend to the shore, Shall view us as victors, or view us no more ! LAMENT OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS, ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING. By ROBERT BURNS. Now nature hangs her mantle green On every blooming tree ; And spreads her sheets o 1 daisies white Out o'er the grassy lea. * Yellow is the epithet given to the Russians, f Infidel. % Horse-tails arc the insignia of a Pacha. § Horsemen answering to our forlorn hope. || Sword-bearer. LAMENT OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS. 297 Now Phoebus cheers the crystal streams, And glads the azure skies ; But nought can glad the weary wight That fast in durance lies. Now lavVocks wake the merry morn, Aloft on dewy wing ; The merle, in his noontide bow'r Makes woodland echoes ring ; The mavis wild wi' monie a note Sings drowsy day to rest : In love and freedom they rejoice, "WT care nor thrall opprest. Now blooms the lily by the bank, The primrose down the brae ; The hawthorn's budding in the glen, And milk-white is the slae. The meanest hind in fair Scotland May rove their sweets amang, But I, the Queen of a 1 Scotland, Maun lie in prison Strang. I was the Queen o 1 bonnie France, Where happy I hae been, Fu' lightly rose I in the morn, As blythe lay down at e'en : 298 LAMENT OK MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS. And I'm the Sov'reign of Scotland, And monie a traitor there ; Yet here I lie in foreign land, And never ending care. But as for thee, thou false woman. My sister and my fae, Grim vengeance yet shall whet a sword That through thy soul shall gae. The weeping blood in woman's breast Was never known to thee ; Nor th' balm that draps on wounds of woe Frae woman's pitying e'e. My son ! my son ! may kinder stars Upon thy fortune shine : And may those pleasures gild thy reign That ne'er wad blink on mine ! God keep thee frae thy mother's faes, Or turn their hearts to thee ; And where thou meet'st thy mother's friend, Remember him for me ! O ! soon to me may summer-suns Nae mair lijxlit up the morn ! &* Nae mair to me the autumn winds Wave o"er the yellow corn ! THE FOLLY OF ATHEISM. 299 And in the narrow house o 1 death Let winter round me rave : And the next nWrs that deck the spring, Bloom on my peaceful grave ! THE FOLLY OF ATHEISM. AN ODE. By Dr DARWIN. Dull Atheist ! could a giddy dance Of atoms lawless hurPd, Construct so wonderful, so wise, So harmonized a world ? Why do not Arabe^ driving sands, The sport of every storm, Fair freighted fleets, the child of chance, Or gorgeous temples form ? Presumptuous wretch, thyself survey. That lesser fabric scan : Tell me from whence the immortal dust. The god, the reptile man ? ;}()() THE FOLLY OF ATHEISM. Where wast thou when the peopled earth From chaos burst its way ? When stars exulting sang the morn, And hail'd the new-born clay ? What ! when the embryo speck of life, The miniature of man, Nursed in the womb, its slender form To stretch and swell began ! Say, didst thou warp the fibre woof? Or mould the sentient brain ? Thy fingers stretch the living nerve ? Or fill the purple vein ? Didst thou then bid the bounding heart Its endless toil begin ? Or clothe in flesh the hardening bone, Or weave the silken skin ? Who bids the babe, to catch the breeze, Expand its panting breast ; And with impatient hands, untaught, The milky rill arrest ? Or who, with unextinguish 1 d love, The mother's bosom warms, Along the rugged path of life To bear it in her arms ? THE FOLLY OF ATHEISM. SO] A God ! a God ! the wide earth shouts ; A God ! the heavens reply ; He moulded in his palm the world, And hung it in the sky. Let us make man ! — With beauty clad, And health in every vein, And reason throned upon his brow, Stepp'd forth majestic man ! Around he turns his wandering eyes, All Nature's works surveys — Admires the earth — the skies — himself; And tries his tongue in praise ! Ye hills and vales ! ye meads and woods Bright sun and glittering star ! Fair creatures ! tell me, if you can, From whence and what you are ? What parent power, all great and good, Do those around me own ? — Tell me, creation, tell me how T 1 adore the vast Unknown ! [ 302 "J THE MESSIAH. By POPE. Ye nymphs of Solyma ! begin the song : To heavenly themes sublimer strains belong. The mossy fountains, and the sylvan shades, The dreams of Pindus and th 1 Aonian maids, Delight no more — O Thou, my voice inspire, Who touch'd Isaiah's hallow'd lips with fire ! Rapt into future times, the bard begun : A virgin shall conceive, a virgin bear a Son ! From Jesse's root behold a branch arise, Whose sacred flower with fragrance fills the skies : Th -1 etherial spirit o'er its leaves shall move, And on its top descend the mystic Dove. Ye heavens ! from high the dewy nectar pour, And in soft silence shed the kindly shower ! The sick and weak the healing plant shall aid, From storms a shelter, and from heat a shade ; All crimes shall cease, and ancient fraud shall fail, Returning Justice lift aloft her scale ; Peace o'er the world her olive branch extend, And white-robed Innocence from heaven descend. THE MESSIAH. :303 Swift fly the years, and rise t\\ expected morn ! Oh spring to light, auspicious Babe, be born ! See Nature hastes her earliest wreaths to bring, With all the incense of the breathing spring ; See lofty Lebanon his head advance, See nodding forests on the mountains dance, See spicy clouds from lowly Sharon rise, And C arm el's flowVy top perfume the skies. Hark ! a glad voice the lonely desert cheers • Prepare the way ! a God, a God appears : A God ! a God ! the vocal hills reply ; The rocks proclaim the approaching Deity. Lo, earth receives him from the bending skies ! Sink down, ye mountains ; and ye valleys, rise ! With heads declined, ye cedars, homage pay ; Be smooth, ye rocks — ye rapid floods, give way ! The Saviour comes ! by ancient bards foretold ; Hear him, ye deaf! and all ye blind, behold ! He from thick films shall purge the visual ray, And on the sightless eyeball pour the day : "Tis He th 1 obstructed paths of sound shall clear, And bid new music charm th 1 unfolding ear : The dumb shall sing, the lame his crutch forego, And leap exulting like the bounding roe. No sigh, no murmur, the wide world shall hear, From ev ry face, he wipes off ev'ry tear. In adamantine chains shall death be bound, And hell's c;rim tyrant feel th 1 eternal wound. ;3()4 THE MESSIAH. As the good shepherd tends his fleecy care, Seeks freshest pasture and the purest air, Deplores the lost, the wandering sheep directs, By day o'ersees them, and by night protects ; The tender lamb he raises in his arms, Feeds from his hand, and in his bosom warms : Thus shall mankind his guardian care engage, The promised father of the future age. No more shall nation against nation rise, Nor ardent warriors meet with hateful eyes, Nor fields with gleaming steel be cover'd o'er, The brazen trumpets kindle rage no more : But useless lances into scythes shall bend, And the broad falchion in a plough-share end. Then palaces shall rise ; the joyful son Shall finish what his short-lived sire begun ; Their vines a shadow to their race shall yield, And the same hand that sow'd shall reap the field. The swain in barren deserts with surprise Sees lilies spring, and sudden verdure rise ; And starts, amidst the thirsty wilds to hear New falls of water murmuring in his ear. On rifted rocks, the dragon's late abodes, The green leaf trembles, and the bulrush nods ; Waste sandy valleys, once perplex'd with thorn, The spiry fir and shapely box adorn ; To leafless shrubs the hWring palms succeed, And odorous myrtle to the noisome weed. 14 THE MESSIAH. 305 The lambs with wolves shall graze the verdant mead, And boys on nWry banks the tiger lead ; The steer and lion at one crib shall meet, And harmless serpents lick the pilgrim's feet ; The smiling infant in his hand shall take The crested bas'lisk and the speckled snake, Pleased the green lustre of their scales survey, And with their forky tongue uninjured play. Rise, crown'd with light, imperial Salem, rise ! Exalt thy towery head, and lift thy eyes ! See a long race thy spacious courts adorn, See future sons and daughters yet unborn, In crowding ranks on every side arise, Demanding life, impatient for the skies ! See barb'rous nations at thy gates attend, Walk in thy light, and in thy temple bend ; See thy bright altars throng , d with prostrate kings, And heap'd with products of Sabean springs ! For thee Idume's spicy forests blow, And seeds of gold in Ophir's mountains glow. See heaven its sparkling portals wide display, And break upon thee in a flood of day ! No more the rising sun shall gild the morn, Nor evening Cynthia fill her silver horn ; But lost, dissolved in thy superior rays, One tide of glory, one unclouded blaze, Overflow thy courts : the light himself shall shine Reveal'd, and God's eternal day be thine ! u 306 REMEMBER. The seas shall waste, the skies in smoke decay, Rocks fall to dust, and mountains melt away ; But nVd his word. His saving power remains : Thy realm for ever lasts, thy own Messiah reigns ! REMEMBER. By ELIZABETH SCOTT. Remember the register^ vows thou swore, When the lightnings glared above thee ; Forget not that hour ! nor the woes which tore The heart that beat only to love thee. Thou strovest to scare my spirit with fear ; But, shielded and mailed in sadness, It courted the flash, as a messenger Of a Fate that would call it to gladness. No terrors were born on the light-blue fire, Which play'd round this bosom of sorrow, Whose desolate hope, and whose lone desire, Was a night unknown to a morrow. THE PATRIOT S GRAVE. 307 For what is it Faith and Truth have to dread, Though the grave yawns widely beneath them ! If Death should commission the shaft that sped ; In Heav'n bloom the flowrs which shall wreath them. THE PATRIOT'S GRAVE. Oh ! blest be the spot where the Patriot reposes ; And green be the sod round the tomb of the brave ; Light, light be the earth o'er his bosom that closes, And fragrant the wild flow rs which cover his grave ! Let the myrtle and rose seek the spot where he slumbers, And their tendrils around his loved tomb inter- twine : Oh ! sweet be his rest ; and the minstrel's warm num- bers Be warmest and sweetest when breath'd o'er his shrine ! Though far from thy home and thy country thou sleep- est, Thy memory, brave youth ! in affection is blest ; And the sigh which Love's bosom breathes saddest and deepest, Shall be sent o'er the wave to the land of thy rest. 308 HYMN TO THE VIRGIN. Though 'mong strangers and foes thy free spirit de- parted, Yet sweet were the tears o'er thy bier that were shed ; And from bosoms of sympathy, many sighs started, And hung round thy clay when that spirit had fled. Peace, peace to thy soul ! 'tis a friend that bends o'er thee, Who, like thee, from his country a wandrer has stray'd ; But the heart of affection long, long, shall deplore thee, And hallow the spot where thy ashes are laid. HYMN TO THE VIRGIN. l'KOM " THE LADY OF THE LAKE.' 1 By Sir W. SCOTT. Ave Maria ! maiden mild ! Listen to a maiden's prayer ; Thou canst hear though from the wild. Thou canst save amid despair. HYMN TO THE VIRGIN. 309 Safe may we sleep beneath thy care, Though banished, outcast, and reviled — Maiden, hear a maiden's prayer ; Mother, hear a suppliant child ! Ave Maria ! Ave Maria ! undefiled ! The flinty couch we now must share, Shall seem with down of eider piled, If thy protection hover there. The murky cavern's heavy air Shall breathe of balm if thou hast smiled ; Then, maiden, hear a maiden's prayer ; Mother, list a suppliant child ! Ave Maria I Ave Maria ! Stainless styled ! Foul demons of the earth and air, From this their wonted haunt exiled, Shall flee before thy presence fair. We bow us to our lot of care, Beneath thy guidance reconciled ; Hear for a maid a maiden's prayer, And for a father hear a child ! Ave Maria! [ 310 ] THE ORPHAN BOY. FROM THE PERSIAN OF ACHMED ARDEBEILI. " Whence art thou, whose warblings wild, On mine ears so sweetly dwell P' 1 — " I'm a hapless orphan child, Bringing water from the well. " If my songs thine ear offend, I will quickly silent be ; Here I am without a friend, Moslem ! speak, I'll list to thee." — " Little innocent, awhile Will I shade me from the sun, With thy songs an hour beguile, And reward thee when 'tis done.' - ' — " Much I fear my accents rude, And my songs would worthless be ; Should my singing be pursued, Hopeful of a gift from thee. THE ORPHAN BOY. 311 " Unconstrain , d, with simple voice, Did my words unheeded flow ; I must never more rejoice : Grief's the lot of man below ! " With my father's last embrace, (This he said, and dropt a tear,) Left our home with hurrying pace, Bade my mother nothing fear. " He was doom'd in fight to fall, Quickly were the tidings known : Soon she heard the angel's call, Died, and left her child alone. " Friendless, unprotected, — here Want must still my portion be ; Pity, then, my lot severe, Gentle Moslem, pity me. 1 ' — " Child of sorrow ! wealth is mine, Pity leads my soul to prove If a spirit dwells in thine, Fraught with gratitude and love. * " I will take thee, Orphan Child ! And adopt thee as my own ; Cease not then thy warblings wild, Though thy toilsome days be flown. 312 THE SONG OF NOURMAHAL. " Til protect thy tender years, Henceforth thy instructor be : Little warbler, dry thy tears, Leave thy cruise and follow me. 11 THE SONG OF NOURMAHAL, LIGHT OF THE HARAM. FROM " LALLA ROOKH." 11 By T. MOORE, Esq. Fly to the desert, fly with me, Our Arab tents are rude for thee ; But oh ! the choice what heart can doubt Of tents with love, or thrones without ? Our rocks are rough, but smiling there, The acacia waves her yellow hair, Lonely and sweet, nor loved the less For flowering in a wilderness. Our sands are bare ; but down their slope The silvery-footed antelope As gracefully and gaily springs, As o'er the marble courts of Kings. THE SONG OF NOURMAHAL. 313 Then come — thy Arab maid will be The loved and lone acacia-tree ; The antelope, whose feet shall bless With their light sound thy loneliness. Oh ! there are looks and tones that dart An instant sunshine to the heart, — As if the soul that minute caught Some treasure it through life had sought ; As if the very lips and eyes Predestined to have all our sighs, And never be forgot again, Sparkled and spoke before us then ! So came thy very glance and tone, When first on me they breath'd and shone ; Now, as if brought from other spheres, Yet welcome as if loved for years ! Then fly with me, — if thou hast known No other flame — nor falsely thrown A gem away that thou hadst sworn Should ever in thy heart be worn. Come, if the love thou hast for me Is pure and fresh as mine for thee, — 314 CHILDE HAROLD TO INEZ. Fresh as the fountain underground, When first "tis by the lapwing found.* But if for me thou dost forsake Some other maid, and rudely break Her worshippM image from its base, To give to me the ruin'd place ; — Then, fare thee well — I"d rather make My bower upon some icy lake, When thawing suns begin to shine, Than trust to love so false as thine ! CHILDE HAROLD TO INEZ. FROM " CHILDE HAROLD^ PILGRIMAGE.'' 1 By Lord BYRON. Nay, smile not at my sullen brow, Alas ! I cannot smile again ; Yet, heaven avert that ever thou Shouldst weep, and haply weep in vain ! * The hudhud, or lapwing, is supposed to have the power of dis- covering water under ground. CHILDE HAROLD TO TNEZ. 315 And dost thou ask, what secret woe I bear, corroding joy and youth ? And wilt thou vainly seek to know A pang e'en thou must fail to soothe ? It is not love, it is not hate, Nor low ambition's honours lost, That bids me loathe my present state, And fly from all I prized the most. It is that weariness which springs From all I meet, or hear, or see ; To me no pleasure beauty brings — Thine eyes have scarce a charm for me. It is that settled ceaseless gloom The fabled Hebrew wanderer bore ; That will not look beyond the tomb, But cannot hope for rest before. What Exile from himself can flee ? To zones though more and more remote, Still, still pursues, where'er I be, The blight of life — the demon thought. Yet others rapt in pleasure seem, And taste of all that I forsake ; Oh ! may they still of transport dream, And ne'er, at least like me, awake ! 316 TO THE MEMORY OF THOMAS CHATTERTON. Through many a clime 'tis mine to go, With many a retrospection curst ; And all my solace is to know, Whate'er betides, I've known the worst. What is that worst ? Nay, do not ask, In pity from the search forbear : Smile on, nor venture to unmask Man's heart, and view the Hell that's there. TO THE MEMORY OF THOMAS CHATTERTON By Mrs JOHN HUNTER. Ill-fated youth ! thy ardent soul Aim'd at the heights of deathless fame, Sprang from beneath the world's control, And seized unknown a poet's name. O that some friendly hand had deign'd to guide Thy genius in its course ! and sooth'd thy erring pride. I mark thy muse, her Gothic lyre Well suits the legendary lay ; While darting from her eyes of fire, She beams a visionary day : TO A FROG. 317 Bright as the magic torch she early gave To light thy vent'rous way through Fancy's secret cave. There, as she taught thee to behold Imagined deeds of distant years, Embattled knights and barons bold, Great Ella's griefs, or Juga's tears ; Rapid as thought arose the glowing scene, Till poverty, despair, and death, rush'd in between. Poet sublime ! although no sculptured urn, No monumental bust thy ashes grace ; No fair inscription teaches whom to mourn, No cypress shades the consecrated place ; Thy name shall live on time's recording page, The wonder and reproach of an enlighten'd age. TO A FROG. Poor being ! wherefore dost thou fly Why seek to shun my gazing eye, And palpitate with fear ? Indulge a passing traveler's sight, And leap not on in vain affright ; No cruel foe is here. 318 TO A FROG. I would but pause a while to view Thy dappled coat of many a hue ; Thy rapid bound survey ; And see how well thy limbs can glide Along the sedge-crownd streamlet's tide, Then journey on my way. No savage sage am I, whose pow'r Shall tear thee from thy rush-wove bow'r, To feel the unsparing knife ; No barhrous schemes this hand shall try, Nor to prolong thy death, would I Prolong thy little life. Ah ! let him not, whose wanton skill Delights the mangled frog to kill, The wreath of praise attain ! Philosophy abhors the heart That prostitutes her sacred art, To give one being pain. [ 319 ] LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER. By T. CAMPBELL, Esq. A Chieftain to the Highlands bound, Cries, " Boatmen, do not tarry, And I'll give thee a silver pound To row us o'er the Ferry."' 1 — " Now who be ye would cross Lochgyle, That dark and stormy water ?" — " Oh ! Fm the Chief of Ulva's Isle, And this Lord Ullin's daughter. " And fast before her father's men Three days we've fled together, For should he find us in the glen, My blood would stain the heather. " His horsemen hard behind us ride, Should they our steps discover : Then who will cheer my bonny bride, When they have slain her lover P 11 320 LORD ULLIX S DAUGHTER. Outspake the hardy Highland wight, " I'll go, my Chief, I'm ready ; And 'tis not for your silver bright, But for your winsome Lady. " And by my word, the bonny bird In danger shall not tarry ; So though the waves are raging hard, I'll row you o'er the Ferry." — By this the storm grew loud apace, The water-wraith was shrieking ; And in the scowl of heaven each face Grew dark as they were speaking. But still, as wilder blew the wind, And as the knight grew drearer, Adown the glen rode armed men, Their trampling sounded nearer. " Oh, haste thee, haste I" the Lady cries, " Though tempests round us gather ; I'll meet the raging of the skies, But not an angry father." — The boat has left a stormy land, A stormy sea before her, When oh ! too strong for human hand, The tempest gather^ o'er her. THE MANIAC. 321 And still they row'd amidst the roar Of waters round prevailing, Lord Ullin reach'd the fatal shore, His wrath was turn'd to wailing. For sore dismay'd through storm and shade, His child he did discover ; One lovely hand she stretch'd for aid, And one was round her lover. " Come back, come back," he cried in grief, Across the stormy water ; " And Til forgive thee, Highland Chief— My daughter ! oh, my daughter !"— 'Twas vain ! the loud waves lash'd the shore, Return or aid preventing : The waters wild went o'er his child, And he was left lamenting. THE MANIAC. FROM " THE LADY OF THE LAKE. By Sir WALTER SCOTT. Now wound the path its dizzy ledge Around a precipice's edge ; x ;322 THE MANIAC. When, lo ! a wasted female form, Blighted by wrath of sun and storm, In tatter'd weeds and wild array, Stood on a cliff beside the way, And glancing round her restless eye Upon the wood, the rock, the sky, SeenVd nought to mark, yet all to spy. Her brow was wreath'd with gaudy broom ; With gesture wild she waved a plume Of feathers, which the eagles fling To crag and cliff from dusky wing ; Such spoils her desperate step had sought, Where scarce was footing for the goat. The tartan plaid she first descried, And shriek'd till all the rocks replied ; As loud she laugh'd when near they drew, For then the Lowland garb she knew ; And then she wept and then she sung. — She sung ! — the voice, in better time, Perchance to harp or lute might chime ; And now, though strain'd and roughen , d, still Rung wildly sweet to dale and hill. SONG. " They bid me sleep, they bid me pray, They say my brain is warp'd and wrung — I cannot sleep on Highland brae, I cannot pray in Highland tongue. THE MANIAC. 323 But were I now where Allan glides, Or heard my native Devan's tides, So sweetly would I rest, and pray That Heaven would close my wintry day ! 'Twas thus my hair they bade me braid, They bade me to the church repair ; It was my bridal morn, they said, And my true love would meet me there : But woe betide the cruel guile, That drown'd in blood the morning smile ! And woe betide the fairy dream ! I only waked to sob and scream. 1 ' — " Who is this maid ? what means her lay ? She hovers o'er the hollow way, And nutters wide her mantle grey, As the lone heron spreads his wing, By twilight, o'er a haunted spring." — " 'Tis Blanch of Devan," Murdoch said, " A crazed and captive Lowland maid, Ta'en on the morn she was a bride, When Roderick foray'd Devan-side ; The gay bridegroom resistance made, And felt our Chief's unconquer'd blade." [ 324 ] THE DEATH OF RODERICK DHU. 1H0M THE SAME. " Revenge ! revenge !" the Saxons cried, The Gaels' exulting shout replied. Despite the elemental rage, Again they hurried to engage ; But, ere they closed, in desperate fight, Bloody with spurring came a knight, Sprung from his horse, and, from a crag, Waved 'twixt the hosts a milk-white flag. Clarion and trumpet by his side Rung forth a truce-note high and wide, While in the Monarch's name afar A herald's voice forbade the war, " For BothwelTs lord and Roderick bold. Were both,"'' he said, " in captive hold." — But here the lay made sudden stand, The harp escaped the Minstrel's hand ! Oft had he stolen a glance, to spy How Roderick brook'd his minstrelsy. At first, the Chieftain, to the chime, With lifted hand kept feeble time; THE LAMENT. 325 That motion ceased — yet, feeling strong, Varied his looks as changed the song : At length no more his deafen'd ear, The minstrel's melody can hear ; His face grows sharp, his hands are clench'd, As if some pang his heart-strings wrench'd ; Set are his teeth, his fading eye Is sternly fix'd on vacancy : Thus, motionless, and moanless, drew His parting breath, stout Roderick Dim ! Old Allan Bane look'd on aghast, While grim and still his spirit pass'd ; But when he saw that life was fled, He pour'd his wailing o'er the dead ! THE LAMENT. " And art thou cold and lowly laid, Thy foeman's dread, thy people's aid, Breadalbane's boast, Clan Alpine's shade ! For thee shall none a requiem say ? — For thee, who loved the minstrel lay, For thee, of Bothwell's house the stay, The shelter of her exiled line, E'en in this prison-house of thine, I'll wail for Alpine's honour'd Pine ! 326 THE LAMENT. r " What groan shall yonder valleys fill What shrieks of grief shall rend yon hill I What tears of burning rage shall thrill, AY hen mourns thy tribe thy battles done, Thy fall before the race was won, Thy sword ungirt ere set of sun ! There breathes not clansman of thy line, But would have given his life for thine. — O woe for Alpine's honourcl Pine ! " Sad was thy lot on mortal stage — The captive thrush may brook the cage, The prison'd eagle dies for rage. Brave spirit, do not scorn my strain ! And when its notes awake again, Even she so long beloved in vain, Shall with my harp her voice combine, And mix her woe and tears with mine, To wail Clan-Alpine's honour'd Pine !" [ Ml ] SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND. By T. MOORE, Esq. She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps, And lovers are round her sighing ; But coldly she turns from their gaze and weeps, For her heart in his grave is lying. She sings the wild song of her dear native plains, Every note that he loved awaking ; Ah ! little they think, who delight in her strains, That the heart of the minstrel is breaking ! He had lived for his love, for his country he died, They were all that to life had entwined him : Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried, Nor long shall his love stay behind him. O, make her a grave where the sunbeams, at rest, Shall promise a glorious morrow ; They smile o'er her tomb, like a tear from the west, Of her own loved island of sorrow ! [ 328 ] THE DIRGE IN CYMBELLINE. SUNG BY GUIDERIUS AND ARVIRAGUS OVER FIDELE, SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD. By COLLINS. To fair Fidele's grassy tomb, Soft maids and village hinds shall bring Each opening sweet of earliest bloom, And rifle all the breathing Spring. No wailing ghost shall dare appear, To vex with shrieks this quiet grove, But shepherd lads assemble here, And melting virgins own their love. No wither'd witch shall here be seen, No goblins lead their nightly crew ; The female fays shall haunt the green, And dress thy grave with pearly dew ! The red-breast oft at ev'ning hours Shall kindly lend his little aid, With hoary moss, and gather'd flowers, To deck the ground where thou art laid. JERUSALEM"^ DESTRUCTION. 329 When howling winds, and beating rain, In tempest shake the sylvan cell, Or, 'midst the chase on ev'ry plain, The tender thought on thee shall dwell. Each lonely scene shall thee restore, For thee the tear be duly shed ; Beloved till life can charm no more, And mourn'd till Pity's self be dead ! ON THE DAY OF THE DESTRUCTION OF JERUSALEM BY TITUS. FROM " HEBREW MELODIES."" By Lord BYRON. From the last hill that looks on thy once holy dome, I beheld thee, oh Sion ! when render'd to Rome : 'Twas thy last sun went down, and the flames of thy fall Flash'd back on the last glance I gave to thy wall. I look'd for thy temple, I look'd for my home, And forgot for a moment my bondage to come ; I beheld but the death-fire that fed on thy fane, And the fast-fetter'd hands that made vengeance in vain. J3J30 A HYMN. On many an eve, the high spot whence I gazed Had reflected the last beam of day as it blazed ; While I stood on the height, and beheld the decline Of the rays from the mountain that shone on thy shrine. And now on that mountain I stood on that day, But I mark'd not the twilight-beam melting away ; Oh ! would that the lightning had glared in its stead, And the thunderbolt burst on the conqueror's head ! But the gods of the Pagan shall never profane The shrine where Jehovah disdahVd not to reign ; And scattercl and scorii'd as thy people may be, Our worship, oh Father ! is only for thee. A HYMN, INTENDED FOR THE BLUE-COAT SCHOOLS, KENDAL. By ELIZABETH SCOTT. Lend, lend your lyres, archangels, lend ! O let your hallow'd fires descend, Ye holy seraph train ! Assist the infant tongue to sing The praise of Heaven's Immortal King, And harmonize the strain. THE MANIAC. 381 His power shall worlds on worlds confess ; For he alone can truly bless Approving Virtue's toil. The orphan ne'er implores in vain ; He pitying hears the poor complain, And bids affliction smile. Nor will your efforts be forgot, You, who with fost ring care have taught Our lips this hymn of praise. Our minds illumed, no more we tread Where Ignorance, by Folly led, Is lost in Error's maze. Prepared rewards in realms of light Await you, when Death's dreary night Shall yield to endless day. Now unto Him who reigns on high, Conclude the choral symphony, The tributary lay ! THE MANIAC. By Mrs J. HUNTER. ' 1 was at the time the moon's broad shield Shines 'mid the vaulted skies, While trembling round her regal state The starry myriads rise. 332 THE MANIAC. Her pale beams silver d o'er the gate ^Yhere sculptured Frenzy* glares, And moping Melancholy scowls Upon a world of cares. From the dark cells where horror reigns, And dire distraction bides, A hapless maniac burst her chains, And through the portal glides. Loose were her robes, and on her breast Chill fell the midnight dew ; She felt it not, cold blew the winds, The winds unheeded blew. Through lighted halls of gay resort, Through trim domestic bands, She pass'd resistless, and at once Before the banquet stands. ( )h ! most unlook'd-for at that board, And most unwelcome guest, Cold is to thee the marble heart That roH/d thee of thy rest ! And do you weep ? I cannot weep, Frown not, nor look unkind, That gentle pity sheds her balm, To sooth my troubled mind. • Alluding to the exquisite representations of frenzied and melan- choly Madness (sculptured by (Jibber,) surmounting the portals of the entrance gate to Bedlam. VERSES TO MISS 333 But stop, methinks yon distant bell Now warns me to attend, Where the last gleam of parting hope, Marks out a kinder friend ! TO MISS By ELIZABETH SCOTT. When on the tide of time shall flow, Which bears me far from you, Mary, Will not that bosom cease to glow For one so fond, so true, Mary ? Will not affection's tender flower Soon lose its lonely bloom, Mary ? And sink in some fell, fatal hour, A victim to the tomb, Mary ? Ah no ! defend this rose of joy From each insidious hand, Mary, That would its choicest buds destroy, Ere yet they can expand, Mary. [ 334 1 THE SEA NYMPH. By Mrs RADCLIFFE. Down, down a thousand fathoms deep, Among the sounding seas I go, Play round the foot of every steep, Whose cliffs above the ocean grow. In coral bowers I love to lie, And hear the surges roll above, And through the waters view on high, The proud ships sail and gay clouds move. And oft at midnight's stillest hour, When summer seas the vessel lave, I love to prove my charmful power, While floating on the moonlight wave ; And when deep sleep the crew has bound, And the sad lover musing leans O'er the ship's side, I breathe around, Such strains as speak no mortal means. Sometimes a single note I swell, That softly sweet at distance dies, Then wake the magic of my shell, When choral voices round me rise. SAINT SENANUS AND THE LADY. 335 The trembling youth, charm'd by my strain, Calls up the crew who silent bend O'er the high deck, who list in vain, My song is hush'd, my wonders end. SAINT SENANUS AND THE LADY. By T. MOORE, Esq. Senanus. Oh haste and leave this sacred isle, Unholy bark, ere morning smile ; For on thy deck though dark it be, A female form I see ; And I have sworn this sainted sod, Shall ne'er by woman's feet be trod. Lady. Oh Father, send not hence my bark, Through wintry winds and billows dark ; I come with humble heart to share Thy morn and evening pray'r. Nor mine the feet, oh holy saint ! The brightness of thy sod to taint. 336 THE NOSEGAY. The lady's prayer Senanus spurn'd, The winds blew fresh, the bark returrTd ; Hut legends hint, that had the maid Till morning's light delay'd, And given the saint one rosy smile, She ne'er had left the lonely isle. THE NOSEGAY. I culi/d for my love a fresh nosegay one day, She smiled as I flew to her side, I check'd the soft sunbeam of pleasure's bright ray, While thus I half playfully cried : These beauties and sweets, gentle maid, are like yours, This nosegay thy excellence tells, The rose to the eye, like thy beauty allures, But its thorn, like thy virtue repels. The softest carnation that blooms by its side, In thy bosom is pity's soft glow, The lily, fair purity's image and pride, Resembles that bosom of snow. ADDRESS TO THE SUN. 337 The vilet I found, when retreating from view, It shrunk from the popular gaze, Its modest retirement reminds me of you, So sweet, yet so heedless of praise. The jess'mine, so simple, so sweet to the sense, Of gentle and delicate hue, Recalls all thy talents so void of pretence, So modest, so exquisite too. The woodbine, where bees love their treasure to seek, Is a type of affection like mine, But most may this unnoticed flower my wish speak, And hearts-ease for ever be thine ! ADDRESS TO THE SUN. FROM OSSIAN. Thou that rollest above, round as the shield of my fathers ! Whence are thy beams, O Sun ? thy ever- lasting light ? Thou comest forth in thy awful beauty, and the stars hide themselves in the sky ; the moon, cold and pale, sinks in the western wave. But thou thyself movest alone : who can be a companion of thy 338 ADDRESS TO THE MOON. course ? The oaks of the mountains fall ; the mountains themselves decay with years ; the ocean shrinks and grows again ; the moon herself is lost in heaven ; but thou art for ever the same — rejoicing in the brightness of thy course. When the world is dark with tempests ; when thunder rolls and lightning flies ; thou lookest in thy beauty from the clouds, and laughest at the storm. Hut to Ossian, thou lookest in vain ; for he beholds thy beams no more ; whether thy yellow hair flows on the eastern clouds, or thou tremblest at the gates of the west. But thou art, perhaps, like me, for a season, and thy years will have an end. Thou shalt sleep in thy clouds, careless of the voice of the morning. Exult then, O Sun, in the strength of thy youth ! Age is dark and unlovely ; it is like the glimmering light of the moon, when it shines through broken clouds, and the mist is on the hills ; the blast of the north is on the plain, the traveller shrinks in the midst of his journey. ADDRESS TO THE MOON. FROM OSSIAN. Daughter of heaven, fair art thou! the silence of thy face is pleasant. Thou comest forth in loveliness ; the stars attend thy blue steps in the east. The clouds FOR THE BLIND ASYLUM, LIVERPOOL. 339 rejoice in thy presence, O Moon, and brighten their dark brown sides. Who is like thee in heaven, daugh- ter of the night ? The stars are ashamed in thy pre- sence, and turn aside their green sparkling eyes. Whi- ther dost thou retire from thy course, when the dark- ness of thy countenance grows ? Hast thou thy hall like Ossian ? Dwellest thou in the shadow of grief ? Have thy sisters fallen from heaven ? Are they who re- joiced with thee at night, no more ? Yes ! they have fallen, fair light ! and thou dost often retire to mourn. But thou shalt fail, one night, and leave thy blue path in heaven. The stars will then lift their green heads : they who are ashamed in thy presence will rejoice. Thou art now clothed with thy brightness : look from thy gates in the sky. Burst the cloud, O wind, that the daughter of night may look forth — that the shaggy mountains may brighten, and the ocean roll its blue waves in light. FOR THE BLIND ASYLUM, LIVERPOOL. BY THE AUTHOR OF " ENGLISH LYRICS.'" Stranger, pause ! for thee the day Smiling pours its cheerful ray, Spreads the lawn, and rears the bower, Lights the stream, and paints the flower. 340 FOK THE BLIND ASYLUM, LIVERPOOL. Stranger, pause ! with soften'd mind Learn the sorrows of the blind ; Earth, and seas, and varying skies, Visit not their cheerless eyes. Not for them the bliss to trace The chisel's animating grace ; Nor on the glowing canvas find The poet's soul, the sage's mind. Not for them the heart is seen, Speaking through the expressive mien ; Not for them are pictured there, Friendship, pity, love sincere. Helpless as they slowly stray, Childhood points their cheerless way ; Or the wand exploring guides Faltering steps, where fear presides. Yet for them has Genius kind Humble pleasures here assign'd ; Here with unexpected ray, Reach'd the soul that felt no day. Lonely blindness here can meet Kindred woes, and converse sweet ; Torpid once can learn to smile Proudly o'er its useful toil. LAMENT FOR JAMES EAUL OF GLENCAIRN. 341 He who deign'd for man to die, Oped one day the darkeiVd eye ; Humbly copy — thou canst feel — Give thine alms — thou canst not heal ! LAMENT FOR JAMES EARL OF GLENCAIRN. By ROBERT BURNS. The wind blew hollow frae the hills, By fits the sun's departing beam Looked on the fading yellow woods, That waved o^r Lugar's winding stream. Beneath a craigy steep, a bard, Laden with years and mickle pain, In loud lament bewail'd his lord, Whom death had all untimely ta'en. He lean'tt him to an ancient aik, Whose trunk was mouldering down wi' years ; His locks were bleached white wi 1 time, His hoary cheek was wet wi 1 tears : 342 LAMENT FOK JAMES EARL OF GLENCAIRN. And as he touclVd his trembling harp, And as he tuned his doleful sang, The winds lamenting through their caves, To echo bore the notes alang. " Ye scatter'd birds, that faintly sing The relics of the vernal choir ! Ye woods, that shed on a 1 the winds The honours of the aged year ! A few short months, and glad and gay, Again ye'll charm the ear and e'e ; But nocht in all revolving time Can gladness bring again to me. " I am a bending aged tree, That long has stood the wind and rain ; But now has come a cruel blast, And my last hold of earth is gane : Nae leaf o 1 mine shall greet the spring, Nae simmer sun exalt my bloom ; But I maun lie before the storm, And ithers plant them in my room. " Tve seen sae mony changefu 1 years, On earth I am a stranger grown ; I wander in the ways of men, Alike unknowing and unknown. LAMENT FOR JAMES EARL OF GLENCAIBN. 345 Unheard, unpitied, unrelieved, I bear alane my lade o' care, For silent, low, on beds of dust, Lie a' that would my sorrows share. " And last, (the sum of a 1 my griefs !) My noble master lies in clay ; The flower amang our barons bold, His country's pride, his country's stay. In weary being now I pine, For a 1 the < life of life 1 is dead, And hope has left my aged ken, On forward wing for ever fled. " Awake thy last sad voice, my harp ! The voice of woe and wild despair ! Awake, resound thy latest lay, Then sleep in silence ever mair ! And thou, my last, best, only friend, That fillest an untimely tomb, Accept this tribute from the bard, Thou brought'st from fortune's mirkest gloom. "In poverty's low barren vale, Thick mists, obscure, involved me round ; Though oft I turn'd the wistful eye, Nae ray of fame was to be found : ;U4 LAMENT FOR JAMES EARL OF GLENCAIRN. Thou found'st me, like the morning sun That melts the fogs in limpid air, The friendless bard and rustic song Became alike thy fostering care. " O ! why has worth so short a date ! While villains ripen gray with time ! Must thou, the noble, generous, great, Fall in bold manhood's hardy prime ! Why did I live to see that day ? A day to me so full of woe ! O ! had I met the mortal shaft Which laid my benefactor low ! " The bridegroom may forget the bride Was made his wedded wife yestreen — The monarch may forget the crown That on his head an hour has been — The mother may forget the child, That smiles sae sweetly on her knee ; But I'll remember thee, Glencairn, And a' that thou hast done for me !" [ 345 ] BRIGNAL BANKS. FROM " ROKEBY." By Sir WALTER SCOTT. O Brignal banks are wild and fair, And Greta woods are green, And you may gather garlands there Would grace a summer queen. And as I rode by Dalton Hall, Beneath the turret high, A maiden on the castle wall Was singing merrily : " O Brignal banks are wild and fair, And Greta woods are green ; I'd rather range with Edmund there, Than reign our English Queen." — If, maiden, thou would'st wend with me, To leave both tower and town, Thou first must guess what life lead wc That dwell by dale or down ; :34G BRIGNAL BANKS. And if thou canst that riddle read, As read full well you may, Then to the greenwood shalt thou speed, As blithe as Queen of May. Yet sung she, Brignal banks are fair, And Greta woods are green, Fd rather range with Edmund there, Than be our English Queen. I read you by your bugle-horn, And by your palfrey good, I read you for a ranger sworn, To keep the King's greenwood. — A ranger Lady winds his horn, And 'tis at peep of light ; His blast is heard at merry morn, And mine at dead of night. Yet sung she, Brignal banks are fair, And Greta woods are gay, I would I were with Edmund there To reign his Queen of May. With burnish'd brand and musketoon, So gallantly you come, I read you for a bold dragoon That lists the tuck of drum — I list no more the tuck of drum, No more the trumpet hear ; But when the beetle sounds his hum. My comrades take the spear. TO LIBERTY. 347 And O, though Brignal banks be fair, And Greta's woods be gay, Yet mickle must the maiden dare, Would reign my Queen of May. Maiden, a nameless life I lead, A nameless death I'll die, The fiend whose lantern lights the mead Were better mate than I ; And when I'm with my comrades met, Beneath the greenwood bough, What once we were we all forget, Nor think what we are now. Yet Brignal banks are fresh and fair, And Greta woods are green, And you may gather garlands there Would grace a summer Queen. TO LIBERTY. Though sacred the tie that our country entwineth, And dear to the heart her remembrance remains, Yet dark arc the ties where no liberty shineth, And sad the remembrance that slavery stains. ;}48 STANZAS. ( ) thou ! who wert born in the cot of the peasant, But diest of languor in luxury's doom, Our vision when absent — our glory when present — Where thou art, O Liberty ! there is my home. Farewell to the land where in childhood I wander'd ! In vain is she mighty, in vain is she brave ! Unblest is the blood that for tyrants is squander^, And Fame has no wreaths for the brow of the slave. But hail to thee, Albion ! who meetst the commotion Of Europe, as calm as thy cliffs meet the foam ; With no bonds but the law, and no slave but the ocean, Hail, Temple of Liberty ! thou art my home. STANZAS, SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN AT THE GRAVE OF CHATTERTON. By Miss LICKBARRO W. .Here let compassion bend her head, And tears of tender sorrow shed, And warm enthusiasm tread, To pour his sighs. STANZAS. 349 Let gay Prosperity forego Awhile the scenes of pomp and show, To view this last retreat from woe, Where Genius lies. Let the fond youth of humble name, Inspired by fancy's kindling flame, Whose heart beats high with hopes of fame, Seek this lone tomb. Here let him firmly learn to bear Stern disappointment's blow severe, And all the evils life can fear, Lest such his doom. Let those who unreflecting stray, Where ardent feelings lead the way, Neglecting reason's cooler sway, Come here to mourn. Let sculpture teach the stone to breathe O'er the unconscious dust beneath, Let Genius twine her brightest wreath Round this sad urn. But ah ! can all this vain parade, This useless show of honour paid Departed talents, sooth his shade For former woes ? 350 IT IS NOT THE TEAR. For the deep anguish of his heart, Pierced by affliction's keenest dart, Which, with intolerable smart, To madness rose ; And in an hour of dark despair, Made him the unknown future dare, In hope to find oblivion there, And calm repose. IT IS NOT THE TEAR. By T. MOORE, Esq. It is not the tear at this moment shed, When the cold turf has just been laid o'er him, Can tell how beloved was the spirit that's fled, Or how deep in our hearts we deplore him : "lis the tear throughout the long night wept Of a life by his loss all shaded ; 'Tis the dear remembrance fondly kept, When all lighter sorrows are faded. THE BEGGAR. 351 Oh, thus shall we mourn ; and his morning's light, As it shines through our hearts, will improve them ; For worth shall look fairer and truth more bright, When we think how he lived but to love them ! And as buried saints the grave perfume ; Where fadeless they long have been lying ; Our hearts shall borrow a sweefning bloom From the image he left there in dying. THE BEGGAR. By Mrs ROBINSON. Do you see the old beggar who sits at yon gate, With his beard silver'd over like snow, Though he smiles as he meets the keen arrows of fate, Still his bosom is wearied with woe ; Many years has he sat at the foot of the hill, Many days seen the summer sun rise ; And at evening the traveller passes him still, While the shadow steals over the skies. 352 THE BEGGAR. Time was when the beggar in martial-trim dight, Was as bold as the chief of his throng, When he marclvd through the storms of the day or the night, And still smiled as he journeyM along. Rut love o'er his bosom triumphantly reign\l, Love taught him in secret to pine ; Love wasted his youth, yet he never complain'd, For the silence of love is divine. See him now, while with age and with sorrow oppress'd, He the gate opens slowly and sighs : See him drop the big tears on his woe-wither'd breast, The big tears that fall fast from his eyes : To him all is silent, and mournful, and dim, E'en the seasons pass dreary and slow, For affliction has placed its cold fetters on him, And his soul is enamour'd of woe. See the tear which imploring is fearful to roll, Though in silence he bows as you stray, 'Tis the eloquent silence that speaks to the soul, Tis the star of his slow-setting day. Perchance, ere the May blossoms cheerfully wave, Ere the Zephyrs of summer soft sigh ; The sunbeams shall dance on the grass o^r his grave, And his journey be mark'd to the sky. L 353 ] IN ANSWER TO A COPY OF VERSES. By ELIZABETH SCOTT. IS ot sweeter is the op'ning rose, Nor gentler morning's early dew, Than love, when first in hearts it glows. Which never guilty passion knew. Its chaplet, if by Virtue wreath'd, Owns many a flower of beauty rare : But whilst around its sweets are breath'd, It oft conceals the thorn of care : A thorn of such corrosive power, That it can every bliss destroy ; Can kill within the fleeting hour The fairest buds of hope and joy. I hail'd thee Stranger ! Feeling's child, When once by Pity's impulse led, Thou sought with eager haste, and wild Two doves thy fosfring bounty fed. 354 THE DYING CHRISTIAN. Compassion-fraught thine accents now'd, As thou the pitying record made, The truants from their wonted food, Three long and weary days had stray'd. "Twas then I fear'd thy future fate, 'Twas then I sigh'd thy peace to save, Ere by Experience taught too late, It finds an everlasting grave. THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL. » By POPE. Vital spark of heav'nly flame ! Quit, quit this mortal frame ! Trembling, hoping, UngVing, flying ; O the pain, the bliss of dying ! Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife, And let me languish into life. o* Hark ! they whisper ; angels say, Sister spirit, come away. THE WANDERER'S ROUNDELAY. 355 What is this absorbs me quite ? Steals ray senses, shuts my sight, Drowns my spirits, draws my breath ? Tell me, my soul, can this be death ? The world recedes ; it disappears ! Heaven opens on my eyes ! my ears With sounds seraphic ring : Lend, lend your wings ! I mount ! I fly ! O grave ! where is thy victory ? O death ! where is thy sting ? THE WANDERER'S ROUNDELAY. By NEELE. Earth does not bear another wretch So helpless, so forlorn as I, Yet not for me a hand will stretch, And not for me a heart will sigh ; The happy in their happiness, Will not to woe a thought incline, The wretched feel a fierce distress, Too much their own to think of mine ; 356 THE WANDERER'S ROUNDELAY. And few will be The tears for me, When I am lain beneath the tree. There was a time when joy ran high, And every sadder thought was weak, Tears did not always dim this eye. Or sorrow always stain this cheek ; And even now, I often dream, When sunk in feverish broken sleep, Of things that were, and things that seem, And friends that love ; then wake to weep, That few must be The tears for me, When I am lain beneath the tree. Travllers lament the clouded skies, The moralist the ruiiVd hall ; And when the unconscious lily dies, How many mark and mourn its fall : But I no dirge for me will ring, No stone will mark my resting spot, I am a suffering, withering thing, Just seen, and slighted, and forgot ; And few will be The tears for me, When I am lain beneath the tree. 9 AHMED THE SLAVE. 357 * Yet welcome hour of parting breath, Come sure unerring dart, there's room For sorrow in the arms of death, For disappointment in the tomb ! What though the slumbers there be deep, Though not by kind remembrance blest ; To slumber is to cease to weep, — To sleep forgotten is to rest : Oh ! sound shall be The rest for me, When I am lain beneath the tree. AHMED THE SLAVE. The sun disappears, and the twilight of even Gives rest to the toil of poor Ahmed the slave ; But why does he gaze on the westerly heaven, And watch the pale eve-star that gleams o'er the wave ? Perhaps His the thought of his life's early pleasures, Of kindred and friends that has rush'd to his mind ; And sighing he mourns for the long-vanishM treasures, And all their endearments, with freedom combined. 358 AHMED THE SLAVE. And fast down his cheek now, the tear-drops are falling, The sounds of his sadness in murmurs arise ; For memory, each beloved object recalling, Convey'd in illusion the past to his eyes. '• Perhaps, native stream, on thy bosom is shining That sun which has given me respite from toil ; Perhaps on thy green banks my friends are reclining, Or dance 'neath the trees of my own happy soil. " Perhaps from the chase now my brothers returning, In freedom exult o'er the spoils of the day ; Perhaps in their lone-hut my parents are mourning The loss of their first-born, a captive away. " And thou, my loved Mora, in solitude weeping, Dost thou pine for thy husband, or rave for his wrong, Or sing, while my babe on thy bosom is sleeping, The plaint of thy sadness, my funeral song ? " Ah ! never again shall the prey of the forest By me be aroused from its deep coverM lair ; Nor, Ahmed, the prize of the chase which thou borest, Again on thy toil-stiffen'd limbs shalt thou bear. " No more, O my wife ! to my arms shall I press thee, ltepose on thy bosom, or sleep by thy side — My innocent babe, never more shall I bless thee, My heart's fondest darling — my pleasure — my pride ! AHMED THE SLAVE. 359 " Oh ! never again shall the voice of affection Sound sweet as the light summer breeze to mine ears ; I'm lost to each dear, to each long-loved connection, To weep where the cruel ones scoff at my tears. " But death will soon quiet my life's wild commotion, The darkness that hangs on my days will be o'er ; My spirit will fly from these shores of the ocean, To thee, native land, to be exiled no more. 4 ' When, Christian, the poor Negro's corpse thou art viewing, Perchance thou may'st breathe for his sufferings a sigh, And own, while thy conscience the thought is pursuing, 'Twas thy hard oppressions which forced him to die. " But oh, will the Being thou worshipp'st in heaven, The God to whose judgment thy deeds must appear; Above will He tell thee, thy crime is forgiven, When the blood of thy slave has written it there ?" [ 360 ] THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB. FROM " HEBREW MELODIES." By Lord BYRON. The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold ; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue waves roll nightly on deep Galilee. Like the leaves of the forest, when summer is green, That host with their banners at sunset were seen : Like the leaves of the forest, when autumn hath blown, That host on the morrow lay wither'd and strown. For the angel of death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed on the face of the foe as he pass'd ; And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still! THE FAREWELL. 361 And there lay the steed, with his nostrils all wide, But through it there rolFd not the breath of his pride ; And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. And there lay the rider distorted and pale, With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail ; And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal ; And the might of the Gentile unsmote by the sword, Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord ! THE FAREWELL. FROM " ROKEBY." By Sir WALTER SCOTT. The sound of Rokeby's woods 1 hear, They mingle with the song ; Dark Greta's voice is in mine ear, I must not hear them long. ggO ODE TO TRUTH. From every loved and native haunt The native heir must stray ; And like a ghost which sun-beams daunt, Must part before the day. Soon from the halls my fathers reared, Their 'scutcheons may descend, A line so long beloved and fear'd May soon obscurely end. No longer here Matilda's tone Shall bid these echoes swell, Yet shall they hear her proudly own The cause in which we fell. ODE TO TRUTH. By MASON. Say, will no white-robed Son of Light, Swift-darting from his heavenly height, Here deign to take his haUWd stand; Here wave his amber locks ; unfold His pinions clothed with downy gold ; Here, smiling, stretch his tutelary wand ? ODE TO TRUTH. 363 And you, ye host of saints ! — for ye have known Each dreary path in Life's perplexing maze, Though now ye circle yon eternal throne With harpings high of inexpressive praise, — Will not your train descend in radiant state, To break with Mercy's beam this gathering cloud of Fate ? 'Tis silence all. No Son of Light Darts swiftly from his heavenly height : No train of radiant saints descend. " Mortals, in vain ye hope to find, If guilt, if fraud has stain'd your mind, Or saint to hear, or angel to defend."" So Truth proclaims. I hear the sacred sound Burst from the centre of her burning throne : Where aye she sits with star-wreath'd lustre crown'd: A bright sun clasps her adamantine zone. So Truth proclaims : her awful voice I hear : With many a solemn pause it slowly meets my ear. " Attend, ye sons of men ! attend and say, Does not enough of my refulgent ray Break through the veil of your mortality ? Say, does not reason in this form descry Unnumber'd, nameless glories, that surpass The angel's floating pomp, the seraph's glowing grace ? Shall, then, your earth-born daughters vie With me ? Shall she, whose brightest eye 364 ODE TO TRUTH. But emulates the diamond's blaze, Whose cheek but mocks the peach's bloom, AVhose breath the hyacinths perfume, Whose melting voice the warbling woodlark's lays ; Shall she be deem'd my rival ? Shall a form Of elemental dross, of mould'ring clay, Vie with these charms empyreal ? The poor worm Shall prove her contest vain. Life's little day Shall pass, and she is gone : while I appear Flush'd with the bloom of youth through heavens eter- nal year. Know, mortals ! know, ere first ye sprung, Ere first these orbs in ether hung, I shone amid the heavenly throng ; These eyes beheld Creation's day, This voice began the choral lay, And taught archangels their triumphant song. Pleased I survey'd bright Nature's gradual birth, Saw infant light with kindling lustre spread, Soft vernal fragrance clothe the flow'ring earth, And ocean heave on its extended bed ; Saw the tall pine aspiring pierce the sky, The tawny lion stalk, the rapid eagle fly. Last, Man arose, erect in youthful grace, Heaven's hallow'd image stamp'd upon his face, And, as he rose, the high behest was given, " That I alone of all the host of heaven, O WEEP NOT THUS. 36t> K ti r " Should reign protectress of the godlike youth Thus the Almighty spake: he spake, and calTd me Truth. O WEEP NOT THUS. FROM THE PORTUGUESE OF CAMOENS. By Lord STRANGFORD. O, weep not thus ! we both shall know Ere long, a happier doom ; There is a place of rest below, Where thou and I shall surely go, And sweetly sleep, released from woe, Within the tomb ! My cradle was the couch of care, And sorrow rockM me in it : Fate seem'd her saddest robe to wear On the first day that saw me there, And darkly shadow'd with despair, My earliest minute. E'en then the griefs I now possess, As natal boons were given ; ;}C6 TO THE STRANGER. And the fair form of happiness, Which hover d round intent to bless, Scared by the phantoms of distress, Flew back to heaven ! For I was made in joy's despite, And meant for misery's slave ; And all my hours of brief delight Fled like the speedy wings of night, Which soon shall wheel their sullen flight Across my grave ! TO THE STRANGER. FROM THE PERSIAN OF ACHMED ARDEBEILI. Is then this tranquil life so irksome grown ? Are these sweet solitudes devoid of charms ? And is fair Nature foriu'd for me alone ? For still her love my aged bosom warms. As when in active youth I fondly stray'd By Abi-koura, or the Caspian shore, With rapture her romantic mind survey'd ; And all her hues of beauty o'er and o'er ; TO THE STRANGER. 367 Felt the mild sway of her attractive pow'r To smooth, refine, and harmonize the heart ; To waft delight with ev'ry winged hour, With every changing scene new joys impart. O had those simple scenes of joy remahi'd Present, as now, in retrospective view, Had mern'ry through my riper years retain'd The traits of nature youth's wild pencil drew, Then had not dreams of unsubstantial bliss Display'd their dazzling veil before my sight ; Nor luxury's spell unchain'd, nor serpent hiss Of Envy's demon, changed my noon to night. — A long tempestuous night, whose hollow blast Raised into billowy rage my anguish'd soul, Presaging future wrongs to crown the past, Indignantly I spurn'd at base control ; Spurn'd at the bonds — the maxims that enslave To abject views, the free, the generous mind ; Disdaining dark revenge, resolved to brave The dangerous desert, and abjure mankind. "Twas then, resign'd to heaven, I sought repose, And here, with liberty, repose I found ; With every rising morn new comforts rose, Each day fair Nature lovelier smiled around, i368 TO THE STRANGER. And smiled within, and gently whisper'd peace ; Calm reason heard her voice with mild assent, And bade the tumult of the passions cease, While health and temperance led to sweet content. And here, I hourly bless the heavenly hand That led, through yon lone wilds, my lonely way ; Preserved me from the Tartar's wandring band, And from night-howling savage beasts of prey. That when ambition, envy, sensual love, Had triumphed over gratitude a while, Bade a dark miscreant, and his 'sociates, prove The just reward of violence and guile. For vainly man, or fiends infernal, strive To strike the blow that Providence disowns ; In vain would force essay, or art contrive, To crush an insect, or perpetuate thrones. A wonderous chain of causes and effects Combines mute nature, animals, and man ; Whether the being's passive, or reflects, Or acts instinctive, in the general plan. That chain impending from the throne divine, Can ne'er be broken by created force : While pure intention of the heart is thine, No act that follows will disgrace its source. TO THE STRANGER. 369 Thy woes have risen from thy father's crime, And I, his earlier victim, pity thee ; O, may the gently soothing hand of time Pour o'er thy griefs the balm that comforts me. He is no more, and Selima is blest, Since Heaven in mercy claimed her as its own : That world of charms his treachery possest, Delusive hope long pictured mine alone. Depart in peace, and with my last farewell Receive the counsel of experienced years : Pride, avarice, luxury, from the breast expel, Or they will guide thee to a fount of tears. Let not the atrocious deeds of demon power Produce malignant influence on thy mind ; But imitate the autumnal cloud, whose shower Revives the plain, when thirsty suns have shined. Thou art the child of her in life adored, And still, in death, remember , d with a sigli : Thou art the offspring of a man abhorr'd, Whose memory often clouds my mental eye ! Yet learn this truth, from his once deadly foe, I felt more pleasure here to shield his son, Than he, ambition's votary, could forego, When his career of short-lived power was run. 2 a 370 TO THE STKANGER. Henceforth, his name in dark oblivion rest, No more remembrance bid his actions live ; May the All-merciful and ever-blest, Forgive his frailties, as I now forgive ! To thee, these tranquil scenes no solace yield, Nor seem my words congenial to thine ear : That ardent spirit seeks a different field, For peace and nature only, harbour here. To me, yon spreading cedar's friendly shade, Yields more delight, in summer's sultry hour, Than erst the pomp of grandeur's vain parade, Than all the dazzling charms of wealth and power. O'er broken rocks, I love to climb the steep, And trace, through yon wild glens, the winding way, O'erhung with gloomy pines, whose shadows deep Almost exclude the living light of day ; Gain some rude prominence — thence widely view The varied prospects of the wilds below ; Or distance fading to etherial blue, While nearer mountains catch the evening glow. Hear oft, delighted, at the close of day, The little warbler's briefly broken song, Till the sweet nightingale assume the lay, Whose notes soft echoes from thexrocks prolong. TO THE STKAXGER. J371 And oft the azure arch of heaven survey, When silent night advances calm and clear ; Trace, through its signs, the planetary way, And various aspects of the changeful year. As roll the stars around the radiant pole, I contemplate the power that gave them birth, And gives expansion to a free-born soul, To raise its views above this little earth. On fancy's wing, with lightnings swiftly fly, Through all the regions of etherial space ; Mix with the happy spirits of the sky, And o'er the clouds the blazing meteors chase. These are delights to which thou wilt not soar ; In the closed Harem see soft pleasures reign ; Seek courtly interest, fortune's golden store, Or rush to conquest o'er the bloody plain. Win flattery's favour, and aspire to fame ; Ascend the dangerous pinnacle of power ; Let pompous titles supersede thy name. Nor heed the threatening storms that o'er thee lower. When youth retires, when fortune adverse proves, And gloomy care thine every hope invades ; Perhaps remembrance of these silent groves May lead thy footsteps oft to lonely shades — 372 LINES ON THE TOMB OF TWO LOVERS. May lead thee far — induce thee here to stray, And seek old Achmed in his calm abode ; His voice shall cheer thee, kindly bid thee stay, And strive to lighten thy oppressive load. Or if, since fate resistless reigns o'er all, And soon or late will claim our fleeting breath, Should Achmed hear the blest angelic call, And this dear cell become the cave of death — If then the sigh of sorrow heave thy breast, Or tear of tender pity mourn my doom, Form here my grave, here let my relics rest, ""Pis all I ask from man — a simple tomb ! LINES, WRITTEN ON THE TOMB OF TWO LOVERS. By the Hon. HENRY ERSKINE. £A narrow vale, bordering on a burn near , was sud- denly filled up by the fragments of a hillock which gave way, beneath whose acclivity rose a bank, the favourite rendezvous of two young villagers who were betrothed. From the day that this romantic spot was destroyed, the lovers were heard of no more. Twenty years had elapsed, when a friend of Mr LINES ON THE TOMB OF TWO LOVERS. 1373 Erskine's, who purchased the ground, employed labourers to dig and clear the rubbish that disfigured the banks of the streamlet. Buried in the ruins were found two skeletons, yet entire, and locked in each other's arms. The proprietor has erected a rustic monument to the memory of the unfortunate pair, and shaded it with a grove of cypress. J STRANGER. Say, gentle herdsman, why so drear Waves o'er this bank the cypress shade ? Know'st thou if chance has placed it here, Or if it mark the silent dead ? SHEPHERD. Yes, stranger ! ev'ry swain can tell Why waves this melancholy grove, And in thy breast, if nature dwell, The tale will tenderest pity move. For here a gentle pair are laid, Their knell untolTd, their dirge unsung. Soft as the summer's gale the maid, The youth as hardy winter strong. To where the bank o'erhangs the stream, (Sweet stream that muxm'ring winds below,) To melt in love's delicious dream, The youthful pair would often go. 374 LIKES OK THE TOMB OF TWO LOVERS. One mora they sought the wonted scene, Fondly they sought — but ne'er return'd ; Their weeping kindred searched in vain, And the distracted village mourn'd. Though now rolTd on the twentieth year, Ne'er was their doubtful fate forgot, Dark melancholy hover'd here, And superstition shunn'd the spot. Till late, beneath the sultry ray, As digging deep the ruin'd mound, A V here link'd in love and death they lay, These hands their fleshless relics found. O blessed be the breast that shares Another's joy, another's pain ! But for Palemon's pious cares Their relics had been found in vain. He bade them here protected rest, He raised around the mournful gloom, The turf with sweeter flow'rets drest, And kindly rear'd the rustic tomb. STRANGER. Shepherd, this gentle, generous deed, Approving Heaven will sure repay ! Through life his love's best wishes speed, And close in peace his lengthcn'd day ! 1 375 1 EXTRACT, FROM " THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 11 By Sir WALTER SCOTT. Fain would the Knight in turn require The name and state of Ellen's sire. Well shew'd the elder lady's mien, That courts and cities she had seen ; Ellen, though more her looks display 1 d The simple grace of silvan maid, In speech and gesture, form and face, Shew'd she was come v of gentle race ; 'Twere strange, in ruder rank to find Such looks, such manners, and such mind. Each hint the Knight of Snowdown gave, Dame Margaret heard with silence grave ; Or Ellen, innocently gay, Turn'd all inquiry light away : — " Wierd women we ! by dale and down We dwell, afar from tower and town. We stem the flood, we ride the blast, On wandering knights our spell we cast ; While viewless minstrels touch the string, 'Tis thus our charmed rhymes we sing. 11 — 376 EXTRACT FROM THE LADY OF THE LAKE. She sung, and still a harp unseen FilPd up the symphony between. SONG. " Soldier, rest ! thy warfare o'er, Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking ; Dream of battled fields no more, Days of danger, nights of waking. In our isle's enchanted hall, Hands unseen thy couch are strewing, Fairy strains of music fall, Every sense in slumber dewing. Soldier, rest ! thy warfare o'er, Dream of fighting fields no more ; Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking, Morn of toil, nor night of waking. " No rude sounds shall mock thine ear, Armour's clang, or war^steed champing, Trump nor pibroch summon here Mustering, clan or squadron tramping. Yet the lark's shrill fife may come At the day-break from the fallow, And the bittern sound his drum, Booming from the sedgy shallow. Ruder sounds shall none be near, Guards nor warders challenge here, Here's no war-steed's neigh and champing, Shouting clans or squadrons tramping." EXTRACT FROM THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 877 She paused — then, blushing, led the lay To grace the stranger of the day. Her mellow notes a while prolong The cadence of the flowing song, Till to her lips in measured frame The minstrel verse spontaneous came. SONG CONTINUED. " Huntsman, rest ! thy chase is done ; While our slumbrous spells assail ye, Dream not, with the rising sun, Bugles here shall sound reveillie. Sleep ! the deer is in his den ; Sleep ! thy hounds are by thee lying ; Sleep ! nor dream in yonder glen, How thy gallant steed lay dying. Huntsman, rest ! thy chase is done, Think not of the rising sun, For at dawning to assail ye, Here no bugles sound reveillie. 1, L 378 ] STANZAS, By Lord BYRON. ^Composed October the 11th, 1819, during the night in a thunder-storm, when the guides had lost the road to Zitza, near the range of mountains formerly called Pindus, in Albania.]] Chill and mirk is the nightly blast Where Pindus mountains rise, And angry clouds are pouring fast The vengeance of the skies. Our guides are gone, our hope is lost ; And lightnings, as they play, But shew where rocks our path hath cross'd, Or gild the torrent's spray Is yon a cot I saw, though low, When lightning broke the gloom ? — How welcome were its shade ! — Ah no ! "Tis but a Turkish tomb ! Through sounds of foaming waterfalls I hear a voice exclaim — My way-worn countryman, who calls On distant England's name. STANZAS. 379 A shot is fired — by foe or friend ? Another — "'tis to tell The mountain peasants to descend, And lead us where they dwell. Oh ! who in such a night will dare, Will tempt the wilderness ? And who 'mid thunder peals can hear Our signal of distress ? And who that heard our shouts would rise To try the dubious road ? Nor rather deem from nightly cries That outlaws were abroad. Clouds burst, skies flash, oh dreadful hour ! More fiercely pours the storm ! Yet here one thought has still the power To keep my bosom warm. While wandering through each broken path, O'er brake and craggy brow ; While elements exhaust their wrath, Sweet Florence, where art thou ? Not on the sea, not on the sea, Thy bark hath long been gone : Oh, may the storm that pours on me, Bow down my head alone ! 380 STANZAS. Full swiftly blew the loud Siroc, When last I press'd thy lip ; And long ere now with foaming shock, ImpelTd thy gallant ship. Now thou art safe ; and long ere now Hast trod the shore of Spain ; 'Twere hard if aught so fair as thou Should linger on the main. And since I now remember thee In darkness and in dread, As in those hours of revelry Which mirth and music sped — Do thou, amid the fair white walls, If Cadiz yet be free, At times from out their latticed halls Look o'er the dark blue sea : Then think upon Calypso's isles Endeard by days gone by, To others give a thousand smiles, To me a single sigh. And when the admiring circle mark The paleness of thy face, A half-form'd tear, a transient spark Of melancholy grace ; PARADISE AND THE PERI. 381 Again thou'lt smile, and blushing shun Some coxcomb's raillery ; Nor own for once thou thought on one Who ever thinks on thee. Though smile and sigh alike are vain, When sever'd hearts repine ; My spirit flies o'er earth and main, And sighs in search of thine. PARADISE AND THE PERI. FROM " LALLA ROOKH. By T. MOORE, Esq. One morn a Peri at the gate Of Eden stood, disconsolate ; And as she listen'd to the springs Of life within, like music flowing, And caught the light upon her wings Through the half-open portal glowing, She wept to think her recreant race Should e'er have lost that glorious place ! 382 PARADISE AND THE PERI. " How happy,' 1 exclainTd this child of air, " Are the holy spirits who wander there, 'Mid flowers that never shall fade or fall ! Though mine are the gardens of earth and sea, And the stars themselves have flowers for me, One bloom of Heaven out-blooms them all ! " Though sunny the Lake of cool Cashmere, With its plane-tree Isle reflected clear, And sweetly the fonts of that valley fall ; Though bright are the waters of Sing-su-hay, And the golden floods that thitherward stray,* Yet oh, "'tis only the blest can say How the waters of Heaven outshine them all ! " Go wing thy flight from star to star, From world to luminous world as far As the universe spreads its flaming wall ; Take all the pleasures of all the spheres, And multiply each through endless years, One minute of Heaven is worth them all !" • The Altan Kol, or Golden River of Tibet, which runs into the Lakes of Sing-su-hay, has abundance of gold in the sands, which em- ploys the inhabitants all the summer in gathering it Description of Tibet by Pinkerton. [ 383 ] TO MISS CRUIKSHANKS, A VERY YOUNG LADY. WRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF OF A BOOK FRESENTED TO HER. By ROBERT BURNS. Beauteous rose-bud, young and gay, Blooming on thy early May, Never may\st thou, lovely flower, Chilly shrink in sleety shower ! Never Boreas' hoary path, — Never Eums"' poisonous breath, — Never baleful stellar lights, Taint thee with untimely blights ! Never, never, reptile thief, Riot on thy virgin leaf ! Nor e\\\ Sol so fiercely view Thy bosom blushing still with dew ! May'st thou long, sweet crimson gem, Richly deck thy native stem ; 384 LINES. Till some evening, sober, calm, Dropping dews and breathing balm, While all around the woodland ring's, And every bird thy requiem sings j Thou, amid thy dirgeful sound, Shed thy dying honours round, And resign to parent earth The loveliest form she e'er gave birth. The preceding Lines from the Poems of Robert Burns, were addressed to a Young Lady on St Valentine's Day 1807 ; and replied to two years afterwards, By ELIZABETH SCOTT. Though the rose-bud, which once was thy favVite flower, No longer delighteth thine eye, Yet think not, that such is thy bloom-killing power, 'Twill bend o'er its bosom and die. Ah no ! Fate benignant, the blossom will spare, Will bid it expand to the sight ; Who knows, but ere long, some kind hand may prepare A shelter to shield it from blight ! SONG. 386 e And wlien some sad ev'ning it droops its weak head, (For droop it too certainly must !) As round it its last dying honours are shed, Its sweets intermingled with dust ; The birds to its meniry a requiem may sing ; The hills may re-echo the strain ; Through woodland and valley the anthem may ring, And the low wind sigh over the plain. Some heart more to constancy given than thine, With the throb of affection may heave ; And sorrowing see the poor rlow'ret decline, Asa victim, it sinks to the grave. SONG OF A CHIKKASAH WIDOW. By ROBERT SOUTHEY, Esq. ? Twas the voice of my husband that came on the gale, The unappeased spirit in anger complains, Rest, rest, OUanahta, be still ! The day of revenge is at hand. 2b 386 song. The stake is made ready, the captives shall die, To-morrow the song of their death thou shalt hear, To-morrow thy widow shall wield The knife and the nre, — be at rest ! The vengeance of anguish shall soon have its course ; The fountains of grief and of fury shall flow — I will think, Ollanahta ! of thee, Will remember the days of our love. Ollanahta, all day by thy war-pole I sat, Where idly thy hatchet of battle is hung ; I gazed on the bow of thy strength, As it waved on the stream of the wind. The scalps that we number'd in triumph were there, And the musket that never was levell'd in vain ; What a leap has it given to my heart, To see thee suspend it in peace. When the black and blood banner was spread to the gale, When thrice the deep voice of the war-drum was heard, I remember thy terrible eyes, How they shot the dark glance of thy joy. I remember the hope that shone over thy cheek, As thy hand from the pole reach'd its doers of death, Like the ominous gleam of the cloud, Ere the thunder and lightning are born. song. 387 He went, and ye came not to warn him in dreams, Kindred spirits of Him who is holy and great ! And where was thy warning, O Bird, The untimely announcer of ill. Alas ! when thy brethren in conquest return'd ; When I saw the white plumes bending over their heads, And the pine-boughs of triumph before, Where the scalps of their victory swung :— t The war-hymn they pour'd, and thy voice was not there, I calTd thee, alas ! the white deer-skin was brought, And thy grave was prepared in the tent Which I had made ready for joy ! Ollanahta ! all day by thy war-pole I sit, — Ollanahta ! all night I weep over thy grave ; To-morrow the victims shall die, And I shall have joy in revenge ! [ 388 ] THE CRUSADER'S RETURN. FROM " IVANHOE. 11 By Sir WALTER SCOTT. High deeds achieved of knightly fame, From Palestine the champion came ; The cross upon his shoulder borne, Battle and blast had dimmed and torn. Each dint upon his batter'd shield Was token of a foughten field ; And thus beneath his lady's bow'r He sung, as fell the twilight hour : " Joy to thee, fair ! — thy knight behold, Returned from yonder land of gold ; No wealth he brings, nor wealth can need, Save his good arms and battle- steed ; His spurs to dash against a foe, His lance and sword to lay him low ; Such all the trophies of his toil, Such — and the hope of Tekla's smile. THK CRUSADER 1 S RETURN. 389 " Joy to the fair ! whose constant knight Her favour fired to feats of might : Unnoted shall she not remain Where meet the bright and noble train ; Minstrel shall sing, and herald tell — ' Mark yonder maid of beauty well, ""Tis she for whose bright eyes was won, The listed fields of Ascalon ! " * Note well her smile ! it edged the blade Which fifty wives to widows made, When vain his strength and Mahound's spell, Iconium's turban'd soldan fell. See'st thou her locks whose sunny glow Half shews, half shades her neck of snow ? Twines not of them one golden thread, But for its sake a Paynim bled. -1 " " Joy to thee, fair ! — my name unknown, Each deed, and all its praise thine own ; Then, oh ! unbar this churlish gate, The night-dew falls, the hour is late. Inured to Syria's glowing breath, I feel the north breeze chill as death ; Let grateful love quell maiden shame, And grant him bliss who brings thee fame. 11 [ 390 : TO MY NATIVE VALE. By ELIZABETH SCOTT. To thee I'll tune my long neglected lyre, My solace oft in youth's unclouded morn, Ere ruthless blight of adverse fortune dire Had wither'd hope and left me sorrow's thorn ; Yes, I will sweep again its chords for thee, For thou like it, art dear to memory. Nor ever yet one venal theme it knew, Rude though its lay, truth dwelt upon its strings ; Round Nature's solitudes its song it threw, As wild as that an Indian warrior sings, To tell his foes their tortures have not power To bend his spirit in his life's last hour. Thrice beauteous Vale ! where Kent meand'ring flows, And rolls its peaceful waters to the sea ! Where health seems borne on ev'ry breeze that blows, Still will I love, — Oh, still remember thee ! Where'er my way I wend, where'er I roam, My soul shall hail thee as its native home ! TO MY NATIVE VALE. 391 What though thy castle now no longer rears In feudal majesty its towers on high, Yet, through the vista of departed years In all its pride it lives to Fancy's eye, I see the lordly banner o'er it float, I hear the minstrel-harp's exulting note. Thy church too ! holy venerable pile ! More grand, more solemn in its age than when Streaming adown each lofty spacious aisle, The pious chaunt first caught the ears of men ; Or meek devotion, kneeling low to Heaven, There breath'd the orison to be forgiven. Thy church-yard path, how often have I trod, What time the pealing organ's liquid tone Sweird on the sense, as link'd with hymns to God It rose upborne on ether to his throne, And mused upon the scatter'd thousands round. Who never more would list to mortal sound ! And many a summer's sun I've seen descend ; Seen on thy girdling hills its last beam sleep ; Watch'd the soft tints of ev'ning mildly blend, Or mark'd the dew upon thy valleys weep, Till the dark shadows of approaching night Obscured the last faint rays of ling'ring light. 392 THE COMET. Farewell, thou land, which my light footsteps prest Ere sin had known me, cruelty had crush'd ! Repining Spirit, cease ! thou shalt have rest Where sorrow comes not — ev'ry wail is hush'd. Be thankful for the benefits thou hast, Nor weakly grieve o'er evils that are past. THE COMET. By J. HOGG, Esq. Stkanger of Heaven ! I bid thee hail ! Shred from the pall of glory riven, That flashest in celestial gale, Broad pennant of the King of Heaven. Art thou the flag of woe and death, From angel's ensign staff unfurFd ? Art thou the standard of his wrath, Waved o'er a sordid, sinful world ? No : from thy pure pellucid beam, That erst o'er plains of Bethlem shone, No latent evil we can deem, Fair herald from the eternal Throne ! THE COMET. VVhate'er portends thy front of fire, Thy streaming locks so lovely pale, — Or peace to man, or judgment dire, Stranger of Heaven ! I bid thee hail ! Where hast thou beam'd these thousand years ? Why sought the polar paths again ? From wilderness of glowing spheres, To fling thy vesture o'er the wain ? And when thou climb'st the milky way, And vanishest from human view, Myriads of worlds shall hail thy ray, Through fields of yon empyreal blue. Oh ! on thy rapid prow to glide ! To sail the boundless sky with thee ! And plow the twinkling stars aside, Like foam-bells on a tranquil sea : To brush the embers from the sun ; The icicles from off the pole ; Then far to other systems run ; Where other moons and planets roll ! Stranger of Heaven ! O let thine eye Smile on a wild enthusiast's dream ; Eccentric as thy course on high, And airy as thine ambient beam. 2c fJ94 OH ! WKEP FOR THOSE. And long, long may thy silver ray Our northern clime at eve adorn ; Then wheeling to the east away, Light the grey portals of the morn OH! WEEP FOR THOSE. FROM " HEBREW MELODIES." By Lord BYRON. Oh ! weep for those that weep by Babel's stream, Whose shrines are desolate, whose lands a dream ; Weep for the harp of Judah's broken shell ; Mourn — where their God hath dwelt, the godless dwell ! And where shall Israel lave her bleeding feet ? And when shall Zion's songs again seem sweet ? © © And Judah's melody once more rejoice The hearts that lcap'd before its heavenly voice ? OH ! WEEP FOR THOSE. 395 Tribes of the wan'dring foot and weary breast, How shall ye flee away and be at rest ! The wild dove hath her nest, the fox his cave, Mankind their country — Israel but the grave ! THE END. EDINBURGH : PRINTED BY JAMES BALLANT YN E & CO. 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