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 WORCESTER FIELD, OR, THE CAVALIER : 
 
 A POEM IN FOUR CANTOS. 
 
 BY AGNES STRICKLAND. 
 
 " Since Sir Walter Scott laid aside his harp, we have met with few, if any, Poem* 
 equal in merit to the present, with reference to the peculiar class to which it belongs. 
 Many of the qualities which conferred so bright a charm upon the ' Lady of the Lake ' and 
 ' Marmion,' the free and flowing versification, the high and generous sentiments, and 
 energy of expression, may be traced in Worcester Field." New Monthly Magazine 
 
SEVEN AGES OF WOMAN, 
 
 OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Bv AGNES STRICKLAND, 
 
 AUTHORESS OF "WORCESTER FIELD; OR, THE CAVALIER.' 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 HURST, CHANCE, & CO. 65, ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD. 
 MDCCCXXV1I. 
 
BUNGAY: PRINTED BY J. R. AND C. CHILDS. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Page. 
 
 THE Seven Ages of Woman ..... 1 
 
 Stanzas. Night in the Metropolis . . . .11 
 
 Morning in the Metropolis ... 16 
 
 Lines on the River Waveney .... 21 
 
 The Funeral of King Charles 1 25 
 
 King Charles II. and the Cavalier's Daughter . . 30 
 
 Ode to the spirit of Music ..... 43 
 
 The Home-bound Ship ..... 47 
 
 Ode to the Closing Year ..... 52 
 The Escape of the Queen and Infant Son of James II. ) 
 from Whitehall ( 
 
 The Death-bed 60 
 
 Greek Song. The fall of Ipsara .... 66 
 
 The Enfranchised ; or, The Butterfly's First Flight . . 68 
 
 Stanzas. On June ...... 71 
 
 The Earthquake of Callao ..... 74 
 
 The Death of Summer ..... 80 
 
 The Reverse ....... 83 
 
 The Roman Triumph ...... 88 
 
 To the Spirit of Dreams ..... 94 
 
 The Legend of St. Valentine 99 
 
 The Evening Hour ...... 103 
 
 Oh Thoughts of High and Tender Melancholy . .105 
 
 The Bivouac . . .107 
 
viii CONTENTS. 
 
 Page. 
 
 Phillis and the Painter . . . . .113 
 
 The Massacre of the Nuns at Paris . . . .115 
 
 The Exiled Lover . . . . . .122 
 
 SONNETS. 
 On the New Year ...... 133 
 
 On the Closing Year ...... 134 
 
 The Bride 135 
 
 The Infant . .... 136 
 
 The Maniac . . . . . . .137 
 
 The Vision . . .... 138 
 
 To Greece 139 
 
 Translation from the Italian of Vittoria Colonna, ) 
 Marchesana Di Pescara . . j 
 
 Translation of Bernardo Tasso's Sonnet to the Moon . 141 
 
 Translation from Cardinal Bembo . . . .142 
 
 Translation from Petrarca ..... 143 
 Translation from Pope Urban . . . .144 
 
 To the City of Rome, from the Italian of Guidiccione . 145 
 
 To Peace, from the Italian of Bernardo Tasso . . 146 
 
THE SEVEN AGES OF WOMAN. 
 
 THOU, whose bold genius, in so short a span, 
 
 Marked the seven stages of the life of man ; 
 
 Yet hast omitted, in thy gifted page, 
 
 To paint the eras of his consort's age ; 
 
 Lend me thy deathless spirit, whilst I show 
 
 Each change of Woman's days, through weal and woe. 
 
 First, soft and helpless, innocent and mild, 
 Smiles in her nurse's arms the female child ; 
 
2 THE SEVEN AGES OF WOMAN. 
 
 Fresh from her Maker's hands, all pure and fair, 
 Unstained by sin, unruffled yet by care, 
 A stranger in this world of ceaseless strife, 
 Lovely and passionless her dawn of life. 
 
 Next see her seated at her mother's feet, 
 With eyes upraised the glance of love to meet ; 
 Gay as the birth of hope, all joy and grace, 
 The mind expanding brightens in her face ; 
 Speech partially unlocked, in silvery tone 
 She now essays to make her wishes known, 
 Now to explain her doubtful meaning tries, 
 With mingled eloquence of lips and eyes. 
 Here the first sorrows of the child begin, 
 The slumbering passions waken from within, 
 Each in its turn its growing strength reveals, 
 Anger, and love, and grief she keenly feels ; 
 With graver look and melancholy air 
 She cons the lesson with reluctant care : 
 
THE SEVEN AGES OF WOMAN. 
 
 The book, the pen, the needle, all engage, 
 And form the sorrows of the second stage. 
 
 A third advances toils and tasks are past, 
 And life's sweet summer brightly dawns at last ; 
 Spring's lovely buds expand to fairest flowers, 
 And Hope's enchantment gilds the sunny hours : 
 She, by the standard of her own pure mind, 
 Judges the cold, the selfish, and unkind ; 
 Earth and its children views in trusting mood, 
 And thinks that, like herself, they all are good ; 
 And blind to all its shoals, its storms, and strife, 
 She enters on the treacherous waves of life. 
 Ah ! sweet confiding season, o'er your bloom 
 Why should the blight of falsehood cast a gloom ? 
 O'er those high feelings, and that heart's warm glow, 
 A chilling damp the cruel world will throw ; 
 The noblest virtues which that mind adorn, 
 
 The false will mock, the wicked treat with scorn, 
 B 2 
 
THE SEVEN AGES OF WOMAN. 
 
 The crowd shall mark with cold invidious gaze, 
 And those will trample who should help to raise, 
 Till from the freezing glance of heartless pride, 
 Its fair endowments slighted worth will hide ; 
 This, in the lovely dayspring of her youth, 
 Shall cloud its sunshine and abuse its truth ; 
 Or bitterer far, perchance, is doomed to prove 
 The venomed shafts of unrequited love. 
 At first, by slow degrees, her gentle heart 
 Admits the poison, nor perceives the smart. 
 She loves the moonlight and the evening hour, 
 The river's margin, and the forest bower ; 
 There, wrapt in musings, she delights to stray, 
 And nurse the dream that steals her soul away : 
 All else to her is idle, dull, and vain, 
 Pleasure insipid, and exertion pain. 
 Too oft 'tis hers, by struggling pangs opprest, 
 To hide the thorn that rankles in her breast ; 
 
THE SEVEN AGES OF WOMAN. 
 
 With dying hopes to combat thronging fears, 
 
 And find a sad relief in gushing tears. 
 
 Alas ! she learns that cruel man can turn 
 
 From hearts like hers, and each warm feeling spurn ; 
 
 That he unmoved can all her anguish view, 
 
 And treat with cold contempt a love so true 
 
 So fond as hers which worlds could never buy, 
 
 And kings themselves to share might vainly sigh. 
 
 She weeps in secret, and she sits alone, 
 
 Pale as a sunless day whose hope is gone, 
 
 Absorbed in silent heart-consuming woe, 
 
 Reckless of all around, above, below. 
 
 This cannot last ; and Time, with noiseless wings, 
 
 Sweeps o'er her bosom and allays its stings, 
 
 And other hopes and calmer feelings brings. 
 
 So pass the three first stages of her life. 
 A fourth succeeds, and sees her now a wife ; 
 
6 THE SEVEN AGES OF WOMAN. 
 
 Yet not perchance of him who taught her heart 
 The earliest sigh, and caused its keenest smart. 
 Forgetful of the wrongs which man has given, 
 When linked to man, she makes his home a heaven 
 His nurse in sickness, and his joy in health, 
 His aid in poverty, his pride in wealth ; 
 Her heart the solace where his wounded mind 
 Flies for relief, and finds it ever kind ; 
 Where, when all fail him, he can still confide, 
 Its faith, like gold, more pure the more 'tis tried. 
 Though storms without on every side increase, 
 They cannot mine the house of love and peace, 
 Which on the rock of duty firmly stands, 
 While strife and folly perish on the sands. 
 
 But now a period still more blest shall come, 
 And crown with joy the calm delights of home ; 
 The sweetest era of the female life, 
 Which makes a mother of the happy wife, 
 
THE SEVEN AGES OF WOMAN. 
 
 And adds a cement to that holy tie, 
 For human happiness ordained on high ; 
 When round her board the olive branches spring, 
 And love's dear claimants to their mother cling ; 
 And she beholds beneath her anxious eyes 
 Her lovely hopes in fair succession rise. 
 The youngest, cradled on her fostering breast, 
 Sighs its delight, and softly sinks to rest. 
 Another darling, with bewitching grace, 
 Hides in the slumberer's robe his cherub face, 
 Then archly wanton, full of infant glee, 
 He laughs aloud, and peeps mamma to see. 
 A third more active boldly climbs her chair, 
 And pleads his right each fond caress to share ; 
 Whilst a fair girl who hangs upon her arm, 
 Rich in each playful wile and early charm, 
 In lisping tones her earnest wish has told, 
 That she ' sweet baby on her lap may hold.' 
 
THE SEVEN AGES OF WOMAN. 
 
 The happy mother on her infant train 
 Gazes with transport which amounts to pain ; 
 A smile of rapture on her lip appears, 
 But her soft eyes overflow with tender tears 
 Tears which e'en gazing seraphs might approve, 
 The holy weepings of maternal love. 
 
 
 Blest in her duties, calmly glide away 
 The busy hours of Life's meridian day, 
 Till Time advancing o'er the dial flings 
 A darker shade, and that sad epoch brings 
 That mournful stage of comfortless distress, 
 Which sees her now in widowed loneliness ; 
 Consumed by sorrow, and oppressed with gloom, 
 She sighs for refuge in the friendly tomb ; 
 Yet, as her glance upon her children falls, 
 She starts in anguish, and that wish recalls. 
 From mingled feelings now her eyes o'erflow, 
 The mother's softness with the widow's woe ; 
 
THE SEVEN AGES OF WOMAN. 
 
 Her bosom thrilling with an interest dear, 
 Which robs of bitterness the falling tear, 
 Her rebel heart sinks lowly, and her mind 
 Bows to the will of heaven, in grief resigned. 
 
 Slowly but sure Life's sands declining flow, 
 In ceaseless course. What now remains to show 
 Of Woman's days, when all has past away 
 That charmed the young, the thoughtless, and the gay, 
 And the fair fabric totters in decay ? 
 When youth, and health, and strength, and beauty's 
 
 beam, 
 
 Appear like traces of some distant dream, 
 Of which remembrance almost seems to fade 
 E'en from herself, who fondly once surveyed 
 Those bright possessions, and in raptured tone 
 Exclaimed exulting, ' These are all my own.' 
 Now reft of all faint, feeble, prest with age, 
 We mark her feelings in the last great stage ; 
 
10 THE SEVEN AGES OF WOMAN. 
 
 The feverish hopes, the fears, the cares of life, 
 
 No more oppress her with their torturing strife ; 
 
 The restless tumults of her early day 
 
 Have pass'd with beauty and with youth away. 
 
 She like some traveller who beholds the sun 
 
 Sinking before him ere his journey's done 
 
 Regrets not now to lose its noontide power, 
 
 But hails the coolness of the evening hour, 
 
 And feels a holy and divine repose 
 
 Rest on her spirit in the twilight close. 
 
 She in her children's children tastes again 
 
 Maternal pleasure and maternal pain, 
 
 To them imparts the knowledge years have given, 
 
 And points their hopes to soar with hers to heaven : 
 
 What though her eyes are dark in age's night, 
 
 Serener, brighter burns the inward light, 
 
 Guiding the spirit by its sacred ray, 
 
 To cast its mortal thralls and cares away, 
 
 And wait its summons to eternal day. 
 
STANZAS. 
 
 NIGHT IN THE METROPOLIS. 
 
 DEEP midnight o'er the crowded city throws 
 Her sable mantle, and essays to hide, 
 
 In shades congenial to their gloom, the woes 
 Which those abodes of luxury and pride, 
 
 Alike with poverty's sad haunts, enclose ; 
 Yet has her friendly influence vainly tried 
 
 To veil those restless scenes where guilt appears, 
 
 Rivalled alone in sway by care and tears. 
 
12 NIGHT IN THE METROPOLIS. 
 
 'Tis night but Darkness hangs in middle air, 
 Waving her dusky pinions, nor descends 
 
 On those unquiet streets, where the red glare 
 Of countless lamps with her dull sway contends ; 
 
 And, like the joyless mirth that revels there, 
 
 Seems but to mock the brightness which it lends 
 
 The lower space, while shadows more profound, 
 
 Marked by that light, hang heavily around. 
 
 The moon is at her full but her fair beams 
 
 Pierce not the hovering vapours which are spread 
 
 Before her glory, though at times she seems, 
 Labouring through that dense canopy, to shed 
 
 Her sickly, faint, and melancholy gleams ; 
 
 Like the dim glance of eyes from which are fled 
 
 The light of youth, and every pleasing ray 
 
 Of hope that charmed and cheered life's better day. 
 
NIGHT IN THE METROPOLIS. 13 
 
 'Twere strange to see, and passing sad to trace, 
 The causes which have scared or banished sleep 
 
 From those who now, in this unquiet place, 
 Vigils as varying as their fortunes keep. 
 
 Ah ! here are those who, having run the race 
 Of frantic folly, now awake to weep, 
 
 In bitter floods of unavailing tears, 
 
 Their blighted prospects and their wasted years. 
 
 Ah ! let not yet the restless brow of pain 
 Expect the soothing blessings of repose ; 
 
 This is the hour when Pleasure's heartless train 
 Pursue their maddening course, reckless of those 
 
 Who, worn with toil or suffering, sigh in vain 
 For sweet forgetfulness of care to close 
 
 Their weary eyes, till the gay revels cease, 
 
 And the approach of morn at length brings peace. 
 
14 NIGHT IN THE METROPOLIS. 
 
 Lo ! here the poet, by his lamp's dim light, 
 Twines in rapt musings the immortal wreath 
 
 Of smiling Fame, losing in visions bright 
 His dark reality. And with hushed breath, 
 
 There through the lonely watchings of the night, 
 Sits the pale mourner by the bed of death, 
 
 Anxious with erring fondness to delay 
 
 The spirit's freedom from its bonds of clay. 
 
 Wrought to his frenzy's pitch, the gamester there 
 Stakes his last hope upon the faithless die ; 
 
 Waiting the happy morn, yon plighted pair 
 Would bid the lingering moments swifter fly ; 
 
 Whilst the doom'd felon, writhing in despair, 
 Hears at dread intervals the watchman's cry 
 
 Proclaim the waning hours, whose gloomy knell 
 
 Alone disturbs the silence of his cell. 
 
NIGHT IN THE METROPOLIS. 15 
 
 When hours are numbered, 'tis a fearful thing 
 To note their flight, and feel them glide away, 
 
 Conscious of nothing but their vanishing, 
 Yet willing to give worlds for the delay 
 
 Of one poor moment, when the next may bring 
 That awful sentence, ' 'Tis too late to pray, 
 
 ' Time is to you no more, and Hope's fair light 
 
 * Breaks not the darkness of eternal night.' 
 
STANZAS. 
 
 MORNING IN THE METROPOLIS. 
 
 EMERGING slowly from the breast of night, 
 O'er the dim shadowy city morn awakes ; 
 
 She comes but veiled in vapours from the sight ; 
 Unlike her glorious rising, when she breaks 
 
 O'er vale and mountain in a flood of light ; 
 And with her balmy breathing softly shakes 
 
 Sleep from reviving nature, and appears 
 
 Bride-like in blushes, smiling through her tears. 
 
MORNING IN THE METROPOLIS. 
 
 But here, pale struggling through a misty shroud, 
 Her sickly and diminished beams are shed 
 
 O'er half-distinguished spires and structures proud, 
 And streets that echo scarce the lonely tread 
 
 Of one of that conflicting busy crowd, 
 
 That yesterday in waves tumultuous spread, 
 
 In quick succession flowing far and wide, 
 
 Far as the eye could glance on every side. 
 
 That eager, hurried, agitated mass, 
 
 Has past like clouds on the horizon seen ; 
 
 Or as reflections on a mirror-glass, 
 
 Leaving no vestige that they e'er had been. 
 
 So o'er Life's stage the multitude shall pass, 
 Like shadows fading from a dial e'en 
 
 As those have vanished who once filled this place, 
 
 And that they e'er existed left no trace. 
 
18 MORNING IN THE METROPOLIS. 
 
 Deep silence, which inspires a secret chill, 
 Reigns at this hour unbroken and profound ; 
 
 'Tis something awful, that strange breathless still, 
 Contrasted with the life that teems around ; 
 
 The crowded thousands, who shall shortly fill 
 These streets with all the busy mingled sound 
 
 Of overflowing throngs, whose noisy rush 
 
 Resembles some swoln torrent's ceaseless gush. 
 
 See spectre-like amidst that loneliness, 
 Unconscious of the keen inclement air 
 
 That rudely pierces through her tattered dress, 
 ,Glides yon pale tearless victim of despair ; 
 
 Once rich in health, and joy, and loveliness ; 
 But who would in the woe-worn features there 
 
 Recall the bright remembrance of her youth, 
 
 Her maiden charms, her purity, and truth. 
 
MORNING IN THE METROPOLIS. 19 
 
 She starts, as one more fallen rushes by 
 With loud delirious laughter and her own 
 
 Dark doom of deep and bitter misery 
 
 Appears more dreadful, as that maddening tone 
 
 Rings on her ear and with a shuddering sigh, 
 She on the days of peace for ever flown 
 
 A moment thinks ; then prays that o'er her woes, 
 
 And blighted fame, the grave may early close. 
 
 Port of the world ! where luxury and pride 
 Increase, and streets of palaces arise ; 
 
 Where gathering riches teem on every side, 
 And drooping genius unregarded sighs ; 
 
 And slighted worth, and merit, when allied 
 To chilling penury with hopeless eyes, 
 
 See wealth mispent, whose smallest part would heal 
 
 Their bitter griefs, and cure the cares they feel. 
 
 c2 
 
20 MORNING IN THE METROPOLIS. 
 
 City of splendour and of wretchedness ! 
 
 Oh ! could we like yon rising sun survey 
 The secrets of each dwelling and recess 
 
 Within thy bounds, how should we turn away 
 From those dire scenes of horror and distress, 
 
 Where conscious guilt would shun the eye of day ; 
 And restless sorrow starts from transient sleep, 
 In fresh -awakened agonies to weep. 
 
 Forbear the search, nor seek the veil to raise, 
 That hides the sum of human crime and woe ; 
 
 In mercy hides for who could calmly gaze 
 
 On all the sufferings one short hour could show, 
 
 Spent in that sad espial of the ways 
 
 And griefs of those, whose various fates below 
 
 So widely differ, but alike who are 
 
 Strangers and pilgrims in this world of care. 
 
LINES TO THE RIVER WAVENEY. 
 
 SWEET stream of my childhood ! still Fancy will fly 
 To thy green sunny vales with a pensive delight ; 
 
 There Memory wanders, and pours forth her sigh 
 To the spot that no longer may gladden my sight. 
 
 Long years have past by,and new scenes have displayed, 
 But none to my bosom a pleasure e'er gave 
 
 Like that which I felt as a child when I strayed, 
 And plucked the wild flowers that hung over thy 
 wave. 
 
LINES TO THE RIVER WAVENEY. 
 
 Oh, those blossoms were fairer, more dear to my heart, 
 Than the brightest that bloom in the gardens of 
 
 Pride ; 
 And the breeze which blew o'er them more sweets could 
 
 impart, 
 Than the fragrance of spice-groves on Araby's side. 
 
 Thy soft verdant meadows, when spring was at hand, 
 Were tinted with tenderer, lovelier green ; 
 
 At her earliest visit each bud would expand, 
 And vary with fresh opening beauties the scene. 
 
 How my bosom has bounded when summer drew near, 
 With her long sunny season so balmy and mild ; 
 
 Oh, ne'er to my spirit was summer so dear, 
 
 As when o'er thy waters, sweet Waveney ! she smil'd. 
 
 Thou soft peaceful river, how often I think 
 
 On the scenes where I wandered in youth's early day, 
 
LINES TO THE RIVER WAVENEY. 
 
 23 
 
 When I followed thy windings, and hung o'er thy brink, 
 With feelings since blighted or withered away. 
 
 Their brightness is faded by sickness and care, 
 And Sorrow has laid her cold hand on my heart ; 
 
 And the dreams of enchantment, that promised so fair, 
 No longer a charm to my spirit impart. 
 
 But Memory oft visits the spot that I love, 
 
 And lingering, points back through the vista of years, 
 
 Till in fancy thy valleys and uplands I rove, 
 And dwell on the picture reflection endears. 
 
 And Hope fondly whispers, a moment will come, 
 When the storms of affliction and fortune are past, 
 
 I shall find by thy soft flowing waters a home, 
 And sink to repose 'midst thy bowers at last. 
 
THE FUNERAL OF KING CHARLES I. 
 
 HISTORICAL SKETCH. 
 
 THROUGH the deep azure of the wintry night, 
 Unnumbered stars shone tremulously bright, 
 Slow moving on in their majestic march, 
 And spangling with their glories Heaven's high arch ; 
 Through boundless space they journey on sublime, 
 In their appointed course, unchanged by time, 
 Which changes all things yet they still are seen, 
 From age to age, immoveably serene ; 
 
THE FUNERAL OF KING CHARLES I. 25 
 
 The wreck of nations, and the tide of years, 
 
 The crimes they silently behold, the tears, 
 
 The hopes, the fears, the passions that enthral 
 
 The pilgrims of this low terrestrial ball, 
 
 To them are nothing less than winds that sweep 
 
 The heaving bosom of the restless deep ; 
 
 Or they would weep, whene'er they glanced below, 
 
 At the dread sum of human guilt and woe. 
 
 What mark they now of Fortune's dire reverse ? 
 See ! o'er the snow-clad plains a lonely hearse, 
 Towards stately Windsor's solitary towers, 
 Winds through deserted vales and leafless bowers ; 
 Which in congenial melancholy gloom, 
 Appear like mourners conscious of the doom 
 Of him their Royal Lord, who oft in vain 
 Had sighed to visit these loved scenes again ; 
 And after weary years of absence, past 
 In woe and wanderings, thus returns at last. 
 
26 THE FUNERAL OF KING CHARLES I. 
 
 He comes ! but stretched upon a bloody bier, 
 O'er which nor wife nor child may shed a tear ; 
 All, all are distant whom his soul held dear. 
 
 What though no stately canopy is spread, 
 With plumes and proud escutcheons o'er the dead : 
 See o'er the murdered monarch's sable pall, 
 Emblems of innocence, the snow-wreaths fall ! 
 
 But at what hour, and in what humble guise, 
 Are paid the Lord of England's obsequies ? 
 No solemn trains in sad procession bring 
 To their last home the relics of a king ; 
 No funeral pomp nor tuneful quire are there, 
 Nor death -march pealing on the midnight air, 
 Nor blazing torch nor tapers shed their light 
 Through the dim chapel at the burial rite ; 
 Nor through the vaulted pile proud anthems swell, 
 Nor solemn dirge is heard, nor tolling bell. 
 
THE FUNERAL OF KING CHARLES I. 27 
 
 The holy forms denied, which Christians pay 
 E'en to the meanest peasant's lifeless clay. 
 Yet in that dark and melancholy hour, 
 When those who shared the sunshine of his power, 
 Appalled by regicides, with general dread, 
 Forsake the ashes of the royal dead ; 
 And all the high distinctions once his own, 
 Wealth, grandeur, state, and majesty, are flown : 
 There still are those who brave all selfish fear, 
 To meet his lonely and neglected bier ; 
 And faithful to the last, with generous love, 
 Their stainless loyalty unshaken prove. 
 That glorious six who dauntlessly arose, 
 Scorning all perils, and from traitor- foes 
 Wrung boldly the reluctant boon, that they 
 In sacred earth their murdered Lord should lay. 
 
 Stern mourners these, in whom all softer woe 
 Is lost in indignation's fiery glow ; 
 
THE FUNERAL OF KING CHARLES I. 
 
 Theirs are the burning tears avengers shed, 
 Where wrath prevails o'er sorrow for the dead ; 
 Wrath for his countless wrongs, his lawless doom, 
 His bloody scaffold, and unhonoured tomb. 
 But, oh ! to him it recks not when or how 
 Those rites are paid false traitors disallow; 
 His wrongs, his griefs, his insults are forgot, 
 In this calm hour, and he regards it not. 
 The man of many sorrows is at rest, 
 And this last outrage troubles not the blest. 
 
 Lo ! silently his nameless grave above, 
 Are given the tears and unbought prayers of love ; 
 And though no monumental marbles grace, 
 Nor pompous records mark his resting place ; 
 Yet men unsullied by reproach or fear, 
 In reverential sorrow gathered near ; 
 The while a faithful hand inscribed the bier 
 
THE FUNERAL OF KING CHARLES I. 29 
 
 With one brief line, engraved with pious care, 
 Which simply told a monarch slumbered there, 
 Who in the dust his sceptre had laid down, 
 And changed an earthly for a heavenly crown. 
 
KING CHARLES II. AND THE CAVALIER'S 
 DAUGHTER. 
 
 DEEP silence was on earth and heaven was bright 
 With all its sparkling planetary train ; 
 
 The harvest-moon with her long glorious light 
 Was up, and gilding mountain, vale, and plain, 
 
 And shedding trembling splendour on the night. 
 And it seemed strange that any should complain, 
 
 Or mourn in such a scene, where all things were 
 
 So calmly beautiful, serene, and fair. 
 
KING CHARLES II. &c. 31 
 
 But, oh ! there are those moments in our fate, 
 When we are cold to Nature's loveliness ; 
 
 And when we view it it doth aggravate, 
 And add a keener sting to our distress, 
 
 By its strange contrast to our own sad state ; 
 And all that we in happier hours should bless, 
 
 We turn from with a sickening pang, and feel 
 
 As some have felt, alas ! but few reveal. 
 
 'Twas the third morning since the fatal strife 
 
 Was fought at Worcester, and from that dark day, 
 
 Slaughter, and woe, and horror, had been rife 
 On every side, and there was deep dismay 
 
 Among the vanquished many a noble life, 
 Although escaped from that unhallowed fray, 
 
 Was fiercely still pursued by lawless foes, 
 
 Marked with a fearful price, and doomed in blood to 
 close. 
 
32 KING CHARLES II. 
 
 Thus marked, and thus pursued by sordid men, 
 Who followed hard and hot upon his trace; 
 
 A youthful warrior in the forest glen, 
 
 Weary of urging his tired charger's pace, 
 
 Paused like a lion hunted to his den 
 While indignation flushed his faded face 
 
 To hues of fiery brightness, and his hand 
 
 Grasped with a sterner energy his brand. 
 
 Oh ! there might mingled fury and despair 
 
 In every look and attitude be seen, 
 Of that sad fugitive, who seemed to bear, 
 
 Though pale and woe-worn, the majestic mien 
 And glance of high command, the courtly air, 
 
 Which nought could change, though his gay smile 
 
 had been 
 
 Banished by early grief, whose shade had now 
 Clouded the sunshine of his lip and brow. 
 
AND THE CAVALIER'S DAUGHTER. 33 
 
 And who is he that rideth thus alone 
 Through the wild passes of this solitude ? 
 
 And hears at distance the dread blood-hound's tone 
 Ring through the hollow dingles of the wood ? 
 
 Servants, and friends, and followers, all are gone. 
 His perils are unshared yet such his mood, 
 
 He heeds it not ; for from red Worcester's plain 
 
 Sweeps the dank breeze that kissed the unburied slain. 
 
 Who may he be ? for keener pangs have crost 
 His soul at this, than bitterest thoughts can bring 
 
 Of his own lofty expectations lost, 
 
 And his hopes crushed to earth and withering. 
 
 Who but the leader of that slaughtered host ! 
 That throneless, houseless shadow of a king ! 
 
 Before whom is despair behind the doom 
 
 That bowed his father to a bloody tomb. 
 
34 
 
 KING CHARLES II. 
 
 Where shall he turn ? his foes are gathering near, 
 And he has fruitlessly with spur and rein 
 
 Plied his exhausted steed When on his ear 
 Fell a soft whisper ' Wherefore thus in vain 
 
 * Lingerest thou rashly, gallant Cavalier, 
 
 ' Where death surrounds thee if from Worcester^ 
 
 plain 
 ' Thou art a straggler, and thy fatal dress, 
 
 * And courtly mien, denote thee as no less/ 
 
 ' As such thou read'st me rightly, gentle maid ;' 
 The monarch answered ' And Tore heaven I brave 
 
 ' That fate which cruel Fortune but delayed 
 ' To render doubly bitter for I have, 
 
 * Through the wide realms o'er which my father swayed, 
 
 ' No shelter left me, lady, but the grave.' 
 
 * Not so, 7 she said, ' if thou could'st deign to share 
 ' A subject's humble roof and frugal fare.' 
 
AND THE CAVALIER'S DAUGHTER. 35 
 
 The youthful king had marked her loveliness, 
 And with a frank gay courtesy replied 
 
 ' By yon bright moon, it needs not my distress 
 ' To tempt me to attend so fair a guide.' 
 
 She led him through the forest's deep recess, 
 To a rude grotto by a streamlet's side, 
 
 For secresy contrived in earlier age ; 
 
 Perchance some outlawed priest's lone hermitage. 
 
 The monarch eyed her, as with winning grace 
 She bade him enter while the moon's soft light 
 
 Gleamed on the touching beauty of her face, 
 And eyes so wildly, languishingly bright 
 
 ' Fair saint, or guardian angel of the place, 
 ' For such thou seem'st to my admiring sight ;' 
 
 He said ' Who would not sceptred pomp resign, 
 
 ' To dwell a pilgrim at so sweet a shrine ? 7 
 
 D2 
 
36 
 
 KIXG CHARLES IT. 
 
 He spoke with ardent gaze but she again 
 
 Replied in mournful tone with faltering breath, 
 
 * Oh ! cease this light and amatory strain, 
 
 ' It suits not, my dread liege, the house of death. 
 
 ' Nay, start not ; my brave sire, from Worcester plain, 
 ' Came sorely wounded, to expire beneath 
 
 ' This lowly roof ; whence I, since evening's gloom, 
 
 ' Have roamed in quest of aid to lay him in the tomb.' 
 
 She ceased and flung her white arms o'er the bier 
 With such a burst of agonized despair, 
 
 As robbed the youthful monarch of a tear ; 
 
 While her dark locks, and cheek so purely fair, 
 
 On the cold bosom of the Cavalier 
 
 Rested, and mingled with his silvery hair, 
 
 That waved with the light breeze, while round his 
 head 
 
 The peaceful moon a trembling glory shed. 
 
AND THE CAVALIER'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 37 
 
 They watched in silence through the live-long night 
 By the dead warrior, in that lonely cell, 
 
 Till through the Gothic window the pale light 
 Streamed on the face of paler Isabel, 
 
 Who from the bosom of the lifeless knight 
 Uprose, as she had stifled the wild swell 
 
 Of her deep grief gazed on the new-born day, 
 
 Kissed the cold brow of death, and wiped her tears 
 away. 
 
 The brief and melancholy meal, which they 
 In silence took, was ended, and they gave 
 
 Their thoughts the last sad offices to pay 
 To the unconscious relics of the brave ; 
 
 And gilded by the eastern sun's first ray, 
 
 They by the slender streamlet scooped a grave, 
 
 And the dead soldier mournfully entombed 
 
 Where alders waved, and water lilies bloomed. 
 
38 KING CHARLES II. 
 
 The wood -dove sighed his requiem and the prayer 
 And tears of pious love were weeping paid 
 
 By Isabel and a rude croslet there 
 
 Was by the youthful monarch carved, and laid 
 
 On the low mound, to point to strangers where 
 A fellow-mortal's last abode was made. 
 
 But line or verse there was not, to imply 
 
 O'er whom the willows murmured lullaby. 
 
 Awhile they dwelt together, that young pair, 
 In such companionship of stainless love 
 
 As the pure spirits of the blessed share 
 In their celestial intercourse above. 
 
 At length the royal lover to the fair 
 
 Declared his soul's deep tenderness, and strove, 
 
 With passion's wildest eloquence, to gain 
 
 Consent with her for ever to remain. 
 
AND THE CAVALIER'S DAUGHTER. 39 
 
 Forsaking hopes of diadem and throne, 
 He vowed with her in this calm solitude 
 
 To dwell retired, unenvied, and unknown, 
 Esteeming her his all of earthly good ; 
 
 Dead to all others, and for her alone 
 
 Living and loving. But the maid withstood 
 
 His ardent pleading yea, though she repressed 
 
 The secret wishes of her own fond breast. 
 
 She bade him leave her, and destroy the spell 
 
 That bound him to this spot, though on her heart 
 
 A pang than death more bitter sternly fell, 
 
 As she pronounced, with pale lips, * We must part ! 
 
 ' The Lord of England was not born to dwell 
 ' In such inglorious softness Charles ! thou art 
 
 ' A nation's hope Awake ! depart ! and be 
 
 ' All that thy faithful friends expect of thee.' 
 
40 KING CHARLES II. 
 
 They parted but it lists not me to tell 
 Aught of the passionate regrets that broke 
 
 From the fond prince, nor perils that befell 
 Him in his wanderings, nor of that famed oak 
 
 In the deep solitudes of Boscobel ; 
 
 Or how stout Monk, in after years, the yoke 
 
 Of foul rebellion rent, and brought once more 
 
 The exiled monarch to his native shore. 
 
 But, Oh ! Adversity's sweet use in vain 
 Was given to him, whose riper years did shame 
 
 The promise of the boy. With his light train 
 The laughter-loving monarch blithely came, 
 
 After long years, to Worcester and again 
 
 He sought those scenes in quest of sylvan game, 
 
 Where he had 'scaped the perils that were now 
 
 Subjects for mirth and wit's gay overflow. 
 
AND THE CAVALIER'S DAUGHTER. 41 
 
 It chanced as freely he pursued this theme, 
 In pleasant vein he gained a lonely spot 
 
 Which, like the recollection of a dream, 
 Brought memory of things long since forgot 
 
 Fresh on his soul there was the winding stream 
 Still murmuring in its course, and there the grot 
 
 Where he found shelter in such fearful hour, 
 
 And dwelt a then pure guest in Beauty's bower. 
 
 He paused, to contemplate in musing mood 
 The scene around him, and in silence bound, 
 
 Gazed, till in tender melancholy flood, 
 
 Returned those lovely feelings early drowned 
 
 In Folly's maddening vortex. As he stood 
 
 Near that lone grave, he marked another mound ; 
 
 And on a simple cross remembered well 
 
 Were traced these words ' Here sleepeth Isabel.' 
 
42 .RING CHARLES II. &c. 
 
 A brief memorial ! How she died, or when, 
 Her scanty epitaph did not unfold ; 
 
 Whether her days were wasted in this glen, 
 Or late or early closed, it left untold. 
 
 And strange it did appear to worldly men, 
 Their monarch's tears fell fast upon the mould 
 
 That wrapt a nameless maid nor were aware 
 
 His first, last, truly loved one slumbered there. 
 
ODE TO THE SPIRIT OF MUSIC. 
 
 Music's Spirit ! tell me why 
 Thou dost sleep so silently, 
 Caged within a darksome cell, 
 Organ, viol, flute, or shell, 
 Till sweet breath or skilful fingers 
 Rouse the melody that lingers, 
 Slumbering in thy prison bound ; 
 And thou dost in tuneful. sound, 
 
44 ODE TO THE SPIRIT OF MUSIC. 
 
 To a touch thou lovest well, 
 All thy hidden magic tell, 
 And the eloquence that lies 
 In thy wakening ecstasies. 
 
 Spirit ! who in every part 
 Of earth, and air, and waters art, 
 To my wandering soul declare 
 How thou dost so deeply share 
 In each sense of pure delight, 
 Heard and felt, but hid from sight. 
 Thou in bush and brake art dwelling, 
 In the moonlight billow swelling, 
 With the gay lark sun-ward soaring, 
 With the nightingale deploring. 
 Thou o'er summer streams art dying, 
 And in morning zephyrs sighing ; 
 
ODE TO THE SPIRIT OF MUSIC. 45 
 
 Or, in notes of awe and wonder, 
 Bursting from the clouds in thunder. 
 
 I have heard thee in the grove ; 
 Blest thy voice in words of love ; 
 Caught thee, when all else was still, 
 In the mingling sounds that fill, 
 With soft murmuring notes, the plain, 
 From the busy insect train. 
 Felt thee, when the evening breeze 
 Waved the grass and stirred the trees. 
 Met thee oft in cloistered piles, 
 Pealing through Cathedral aisles. 
 Marked thy hoarser accents gush 
 In the cataract's wild rush. 
 Hailed thee, when the distant bells, 
 Blithely through my native dells, 
 Rang at eve, and Echo lone 
 Answered back their last sweet tone. 
 
46 ODE TO THE SPIRIT OF MUSIC. 
 
 And thou didst, Enchantress, bring 
 Long past rapture on thy wing ; 
 But to know thee, I must be, 
 Spirit ! borne to Heaven with thee, 
 Where thou dwell'st eternally. 
 
THE HOME-BOUND SHIP. 
 
 THE ship was homeward bound the thrilling cry 
 Of ' Land ! Our native land ! ' from tongue to tongue 
 
 Had been proclaimed, and hearts were beating high 
 With Hope's sweet tumult, as its echo rung ; 
 
 And rapture smiled or wept in many an eye, 
 While in the shrouds aloft the sea-boy sung 
 
 Snatches of songs, which bring to those who roam 
 
 The thoughts of welcome, and of home, sweet home. 
 
48 THE HOME-BOUND SHIP. 
 
 But gallantly before the favouring gales 
 She moves in all her pride, a pageant fair ; 
 
 The breezes wanton in her swelling sails, 
 And her gay fluttering pennons fan the air ; 
 
 While music is on deck, the dance prevails, 
 And every shape of gladness revels there, 
 
 Through the far wasted night ; as with her store 
 
 Of Indian wealth the vessel nears the shore. 
 
 But, hark ! e'en now with awful change of cheer, 
 The billows rave, the eddying whirlwinds blow, 
 
 And breaks the dismal sound on every ear, 
 Of crashing contact with dread rocks below, 
 
 And the wild shriek of agonizing fear ; 
 
 ' The ship is sinking,' in deep tones of woe, 
 
 Bursts from the lips of all, with piercing cries 
 
 For succour, as the roaring waters rise. 
 
THE HOME-BOUND SHIP. 49 
 
 And hues of death were seen on every face ; 
 
 And signs of terror e'en among the brave ; 
 And lovers folding in a last embrace 
 
 The trembling forms of those they could not save. 
 Then, for the lowered boats, the frantic race 
 
 And desperate struggle, while the ocean wave 
 Grew level with the deck, and kissed the feet 
 Of those for whom remained not a retreat. 
 
 There was the sob, the sigh, the whispered prayer, 
 And dismal outcry borne the billows o'er ; 
 
 While some absorbed in silent grief were there, 
 Who breathed no plaint, but gazed upon the shore 
 
 With the fixed glances of intense despair, 
 
 And thought of those they should behold no more, 
 
 With whom was fondly linked each tender tie 
 
 That knits life's cords, and makes it hard to die. 
 
50 THE HOME-BOUND SHIP. 
 
 That pause of bitter agony is past, 
 And the still agitated waters glide 
 
 O'er the last vestige of the buried mast. 
 But striving stoutly with the eddying tide, 
 
 The greedy billows, and the roaring blast, 
 In furious and tempestuous wrath allied, 
 
 And rising o'er their mingled might is seen 
 
 A gallant stripling with undaunted mien. 
 
 His widowed mother's hope the aid and joy 
 Of orphan sisters on the treacherous main, 
 
 With firm resolve no hardships could destroy, 
 For them Life's needful comforts to obtain, 
 
 Had early ventured this heroic boy, 
 
 Deeming all sufferings light and terrors vain, 
 
 That frowning Fortune sternly might oppose 
 
 To bar the vent'rous path he nobly chose. 
 
THE HOME-BOUND SHIP. 51 
 
 And must that glowing heart be whelmed beneath 
 The raging waters of the restless deep ? 
 
 And that fair form, untimely chilled in death, 
 Unshrouded in its gloomy caverns sleep ? 
 
 E'en now with fainting limbs and labouring breath 
 He strives, while thoughts of those who soon shall 
 weep 
 
 In cureless anguish for his fate, comes o'er 
 
 His soul, and nerves his failing arm once more. 
 
 His reeling eye grows dim, while from the strand 
 The fishers cheer him and intent to save, 
 
 The life-boat, launched by her determined band 
 Of dauntless heroes, dances o'er the wave ; 
 
 He sees not, feels not, does not understand 
 His own deliverance from a watry grave, 
 
 Till his fond mother's joyful sobs he hears, 
 
 And reads his recent peril in her tears. 
 E2 
 
ODE TO THE CLOSING YEAR. 
 
 OH, why should I attempt to ring 
 The knell of Time in dismal tone, 
 
 Or sadly tune my lyre, to sing 
 
 A requiem o'er the year that's gone ? 
 
 It has not been to me so bright, 
 That I should mourn its timely end, 
 
 Or sit me down in grief to write 
 Farewell to a departing friend. 
 
ODE TO THE CLOSING YEAR. 53 
 
 And if 't would tarry now with me, 
 
 I should, methinks, be apt to say, 
 ' Pass on ! I've had too much of thee, 
 
 ' To thank thee for an hour's delay.' 
 
 Thy course was marked, dark closing year, 
 By many a sigh and bitter tear, 
 By promised joy too long delayed, 
 By hopes that only bloomed to fade ; 
 By all that steals the cheek's warm glow, 
 And wrings the heart with silent woe, 
 Damps the gay plumes of Fancy's wing, 
 And nips her blossoms as they spring, 
 And turns the votive lay of gladness, 
 E'en in its flow, to strains of sadness, 
 And shades, with clouds of care and fear, 
 The promise of another year. 
 
 December I2th, 1823. 
 
THE ESCAPE OF THE QUEEN AND INFANT 
 SON OF JAMES II. FROM WHITEHALL. 
 
 HISTORICAL SKETCH. 
 
 IT was night but with darkness there came not 
 
 repose 
 
 To London, that city of splendour and woes ; 
 Her streets echoed still with alarum and din, 
 For foes were around her, and tumults within ; 
 Strange murmurs were mixed with the rush of the blast, 
 And the sweep of the rain falling heavy and fast. 
 
ESCAPE OF THE QUEEN, &c. 55 
 
 Ah ! who are the boatmen that venturously urge 
 
 That tempest-tost skiff o'er the black swollen surge 
 
 Of Thames, in his wrath fiercely foaming along, 
 
 While his tide flows in currents terrific and strong ? 
 
 See how they labour and stretch to the oar, 
 
 Midst the gloom of the night and the elements' roar. 
 
 Who may they be, who so rashly dare brave 
 
 December's rough gales on that perilous wave ? 
 
 Mark them ! their freight is no soldier or knight, 
 
 Or seaman of hardihood, valour, and might, 
 
 Who, through years of emprize, has accustomed his 
 
 form 
 
 To the blasts of the north, or the tropical storm. 
 That pale shrouded figure, who sits by the side 
 Of the steersman, regardless of tempest or tide, 
 Deeply feels the strange contrast, and change of this 
 
 scene, 
 From her own fair Italia's unclouded serene. 
 
56 ESCAPE OF THE QUEEN 
 
 But, oh ! not on this one brief thought does she cast, 
 Though the winds howl around her, the rain patters fast, 
 And drenches her garments, and drips from her hair, 
 For her heart only throbs with a mother's fond care ; 
 And she but wraps her mantle more tight o'er her breast, 
 That pillow to guard where her infant finds rest ! 
 That babe and that mother Oh ! England, they are 
 Thy fugitive queen and thy monarch's young heir, 
 Rudely driven from a palace they deem thee less kind 
 Than the rage of the waters and tempest combined. 
 Lo ! death is behind them new perils before 
 Though the oft-baffled shallop at length gains the 
 shore. 
 
 ' Have we crossed the dread river ? Then mount, and 
 
 away/ 
 
 * Not so, hapless queen, there is farther delay ; 
 ' The horses yet tarry, engaged for your flight, 
 ' But there's safety as yet in the shadow of night ; 
 
AND SON OF JAMES II. 57 
 
 ' And here mayst thou shelter, oh lady, awhile, 
 
 * Beneath the dark walls of old Lambeth's gray pile : 
 
 ' But, oh ! should the prince from his slumbers awake, 
 ' One cry might betray you good heavens ! what a 
 stake/ 
 
 1 No ! my heart's troubled beatings have rocked him 
 
 to sleep, 
 
 ' And he knows not the vigils his mother must keep ; 
 ' Unconscious of royalty's perils and woes, 
 ' As sweetly he tastes his unruffled repose, 
 ' Midst the dangers, the terrors, the gloom of this hour, 
 
 * As he did in the cradle of grandeur and power. 
 
 * The moan of the waters, the winds howling nigh, 
 ' To him have been music a rude lullaby ; 
 
 * For the elements' wrath is less cruel and wild 
 
 ' Than those whose fierce hatred pursues us, my 
 child/ 
 
58 ESCAPE OF THE QUEEN 
 
 She is silent but still her keen agonies speak 
 In her lip's quivering motion, her pale tearful cheek, 
 And the fast streaming eyes, that are raised in deep 
 
 prayer, 
 
 Or turned on the city in speechless despair ; 
 She seeks 'midst its lights, that in countless array 
 Before her in distance confusedly lay, 
 Her own royal home, whose proud walls yet contain 
 Her monarch, and sighs for its perils again. 
 Then starts as she catches at times from the shore, 
 In the hush of the blast, the vexed multitude's roar ; 
 And stands, in dread conflict of interest wild, 
 With her thoughts on her husband, her eyes on her 
 
 child : 
 
 In that fearful division, weak nature's strong strife, 
 Which which shall prevail, the fond mother or wife ? 
 That choice is not her's She turns weeping away, 
 Her consort's strict mandate of flight to obey, 
 
AND SON OF JAMES II. 59 
 
 As the low cautious whisper is borne to her ear, 
 ' All is ready delay not the steeds trample near,' 
 And that heart's bitter pangs, which no language could 
 
 tell, 
 Are unbreathed she but murmurs, ' Oh, London, 
 
 farewell ! ' 
 
THE DEATH-BED. 
 
 TWAS the soft season of departed day, 
 
 And the light breezes, with their fragrant breath, 
 
 Gave double sweetness to the eve of May, 
 
 And waved in wanton sport the woodbine wreath 
 
 That shaded a low casement, where the ray 
 Of western glory entering, stole beneath 
 
 The blossomed branches, and upon the bed 
 
 Of death a bright and trembling brightness shed ; 
 
THE DEATH-BED. 61 
 
 And gave a touching and unearthly grace 
 To features that retained much loveliness, 
 
 Although imprinted with the withering trace 
 Of that deep grief no language could express ; 
 
 Whose withering touch had early from her face 
 
 Stol'n the sweet smiles ; yet you might aptly guess 
 
 What they had been, by the angelic air 
 
 That, e'en in Life's last struggles, lingered there. 
 
 And there was beauty on that faded brow, 
 
 Which though her mortal sufferings might impair, 
 
 They could not banish, and its tintless snow 
 Was well contrasted by the raven hair 
 
 That fell, in negligent disordered flow, 
 O'er the pale cheek, so exquisitely fair, 
 
 On which one fluttered hectic spot alone 
 
 Told that it was not formed of Parian stone. 
 
62 THE DEATH-BED. 
 
 One white and wasted hand, of faultless mould, 
 Pillowed her cheek, the other lifelessly 
 
 Rested beside her, damp, relaxed, and cold ; 
 The book of holy writ lay open nigh, 
 
 As it had fallen from her powerless hold ; 
 And the dim glances of her failing eye 
 
 Appeared attracted by the sinking sun, 
 
 Whose earthly race, like hers, was almost run. 
 
 Who would have deemed the form so calm and still, 
 That in such pulseless languor rested now, 
 
 Had trembled with the agitating thrill 
 
 Of stern conflicting pangs, and felt the glow 
 
 Of vivid hope, and the alternate chill 
 
 Of freezing doubts ! and, lastly, learned to know 
 
 The certainty of all her wildest fears 
 
 Scarce dared to image woe too great for tears ! 
 
THE DEATH-DED. 63 
 
 She had been one who had too deeply loved 
 A mortal object, and on that false die, 
 
 Like a rash gamester, staked her all, and proved 
 The blindness, yea, the utter vanity, 
 
 Of those too ardent feelings, which had moved 
 Her to exalt in secret rivalry, 
 
 'Gainst heaven itself, the idol'who possess'd 
 
 The unreserved devotion of her breast. 
 
 He failed her, as all worldly trusts will fail 
 Those whose reliance is so fondly placed 
 
 On them, as hers was. One light envious tale, 
 Heard from unworthy lips, in sooth effaced 
 
 The love of years, as the first wanton gale 
 Destroys the characters unwisely traced 
 
 On treacherous sand, and as its breath sweeps o'er, 
 
 They fade before it, and return no more. 
 
64 THE DEATH-BED. 
 
 The truth came o'er her, like a sudden blow 
 That crushes into numbness every sense 
 
 E'en of its smart, and tears refused to flow, 
 In the keen agony and pangs intense 
 
 That followed this irremediable woe. 
 
 Her heart grew cold and though she tore from 
 thence 
 
 His worshipped image, yet the bitter strife 
 
 Sapped the internal principles of life. 
 
 From day to day she faded, like some flower, 
 On which untimely blights are withering shed, 
 
 Whose bosom meets the sunbeam and the shower, 
 Reckless of both. The charm of life had fled, 
 
 She felt, for ever yet, in that dark hour, 
 The dayspring from on high had visited 
 
 Her long benighted spirit, and the dew 
 
 Of peace descended peace divine and true. 
 
THE DEATH-BED. 65 
 
 Yea, the dense mists which had obscured her sight 
 Vanished beneath its influence and her soul, 
 
 In the first dawn of that celestial light, 
 Beheld the clouds of mortal sorrow roll 
 
 For ever from her ; and the stormy might 
 Of earthly passions, in their vain control, 
 
 Bound her no longer, and her closing eyes 
 
 Looked through the shades of death to endless ecstasies. 
 
GREEK SONG. 
 
 THE FALL OF IPSARA. 
 
 THOU hast fallen ! but long shall thy vanquishers be 
 Pale with awe, when they think of a conquest like thee, 
 Whose knell like the death-scattering thunderbolt 
 
 rolled, 
 As it burst in its terrors from Freedom's last hold. 
 
 That knell, oh Ipsara ! Greece heard not in vain, 
 When we rose at its summons on mountain and plain, 
 
THE FALL OF IPSARA. 67 
 
 And our rally for vengeance on land and on wave, 
 And our rush on the foe, was the answer we gave. 
 
 The fame of thy heroes, Ipsara, shall long 
 Be the theme of our bards in the tale and the song, 
 When the harp of old Greece is restrung, and her lays 
 Grow bright, as they flow with the light of our days. 
 
 When, in ages to come, they shall proudly recite 
 The deed that was done on St. Nicolo's height, 
 They shall hallow its ruins at Liberty's shrine, 
 And forget old Thermopylae's glories in thine. 
 
 F 2 
 
THE ENFRANCHISED ; OR, THE BUTTERFLY'S 
 FIRST FLIGHT. 
 
 THOU hast burst from thy prison, 
 
 Bright child of the air, 
 Like a spirit just risen 
 
 From its mansion of care. 
 
 Thou art joyously winging 
 
 Thy first ardent flight, 
 Where the gay lark is singing 
 
 Her notes of delight. 
 
THE ENFRANCHISED. 69 
 
 Where the sunbeams are throwing 
 
 Their glories on thine, 
 Till thy colours are glowing 
 
 With tints more divine. 
 
 Then tasting new pleasure 
 
 In Summer's green bowers, 
 Reposing at leisure 
 
 On fresh opened flowers ; 
 
 Or delighted to hover 
 
 Around them, to see 
 Whose charms, airy rover ! 
 
 Bloom sweetest for thee ; 
 
 And fondly exhaling 
 
 Their fragrance, till day 
 From thy bright eye is failing 
 
 And fading away. 
 
THE ENFRANCHISED. 
 
 Then seeking some blossom 
 Which looks to the west, 
 
 Thou dost find in its bosom 
 Sweet shelter and rest, 
 
 And there dost betake thee 
 
 Till darkness is o'er, 
 And the sunbeams awake thee 
 
 To pleasure once more. 
 
STANZAS. 
 
 ON JUNE. 
 
 OH! month of many blossoms ! thou dost come 
 In all thy summer beauty, like a bride 
 
 Whose hair is wreathed with roses. The gay hum 
 Of bees doth greet thee thou hast well supplied 
 
 The busy labourers with a countless sum 
 Of flowers, expanding now on every side 
 
 To thy sweet breath, m garden, mead, and vale, 
 
 On mossy bank, wild heath, and wooded dale. 
 
ON JUNE. 
 
 The cuckoo hails thee with her joyous voice ; 
 
 And the departing nightingale delays 
 Her flight to bid thee welcome. I rejoice 
 
 To see once more thy long, long sunny days, 
 And nights of starry splendour but my choice 
 
 Amidst thy many charms bewildered strays, 
 Delighted and enamoured with them all, 
 Pausing on each, uncertain where to fall. 
 
 Whether upon thy dew-bespangled morn, 
 Thy bright meridian, or mild evening hours, 
 
 When day's last tints so gloriously adorn 
 The glowing west thy ever balmy showers, 
 
 The breeze that wantons in thy blossomed corn, 
 Or softly sighs amidst thy woodbine bowers, 
 
 Kisses the crystal streams and meadows gay, 
 
 And steals fresh fragrance from the new-mown hay. 
 
ON JUNE. 73 
 
 Fair June ! thy gifts are so profusely spread, 
 
 That busy Fancy is uncertain how 
 And where to rest the very ground we tread 
 
 Is rich with treasures I have turned me now 
 To cull the strawberry from its lowly bed, 
 
 Yet am no less attracted by the bough 
 On which, bright blushing through the foliage green, 
 The tempting cherries red and ripe are seen. 
 
 Thou art the loveliest daughter of the year, 
 
 And of thy sister months there is not one 
 (Though all in turn are fair) that may appear 
 
 So beautiful as thou. The hasting sun 
 Doth speed too swiftly on in his career, 
 
 And brings thee to a close ; soon will be done 
 Thy days, delightful June, and we shall sigh 
 O'er thy short reign and pleasing memory. 
 
 Reydon, June 26th, 1827. 
 
THE EARTHQUAKE OF CALLAO. 
 
 ALONG the vast Pacific day's last smile 
 Reflected many a bay and verdant isle, 
 And spicy grove that from its rocky steep 
 Stretched its luxuriant branches o'er the deep, 
 And softly shadowed in the waters blue, 
 In mirror'd landscapes met the downward view ; 
 The billows, sleeping on the ocean's breast, 
 Forgot to murmur in their placid rest ; 
 
THE EARTHQUAKE OF CALLAO. 
 
 75 
 
 The languid breeze was lulled on vale and hill, 
 
 And every leaf lay motionless and still ; 
 
 The flowers, from blossomed boughs to lowly beds, 
 
 Had closed their bells and hung their beauteous heads ; 
 
 And Nature, plunged in lethargy profound, 
 
 Seemed as when in primeval slumbers bound, 
 
 Ere o'er her silent bosom void and vast 
 
 The quickening spirit of creation past. 
 
 The lonely watcher on the flagstaff's height 
 
 With musing eye surveyed the lovely sight, 
 
 When the departing sun shed glory down 
 
 On tranquil ocean, convent, tower, and town ; 
 
 And then his task resuming, half unfurl'd 
 
 Spain's haughty standard to the watery world ; 
 
 But ere the dull and languid air could raise 
 
 One drooping fold, his desultory gaze 
 
 Returns where, in the splendour of Peru, 
 
 A moment back the town had met his view, 
 
76 THE EARTHQUAKE OF CALLAO. 
 
 With domes, and palaces, and walls of might, 
 
 Reposing in a flood of rosy light. 
 
 But like the fading of a meteor's beam, 
 
 Or the delusive pageant of a dream, 
 
 Tis gone ! and ere mute Wonder can demand 
 
 The how ? or when ? or Reason understand 
 
 The awful change the reeling mountains swim 
 
 Before his dizzy sight, confused and dim ; 
 
 Dense clouds obscure the sunset- and that sound 
 
 Which bursts from the cavernous depths profound 
 
 Of earth's rent bosom, with terrific roar, 
 
 Tells the appalling tale from shore to shore. 
 
 Mixed with the sullen echoes of the bells, 
 
 Tolling from crashing towers their own deep knells ; 
 
 And, oh ! in that last dismal clangour rings 
 
 The fearful dirge-note of all living things. 
 
 Within that fated town, united there 
 
 In one dread gulph of ruin and despair, 
 
THE EARTHQUAKE OF CALLAO. 
 
 The grave hath oped its jaws, and young and old, 
 
 And high and low, in its insatiate fold 
 
 Are mingling crushed. The hopes and cares of life, 
 
 Its busy projects and its restless strife, 
 
 And all its social joys, with them are o'er, 
 
 And they have left no mourner to deplore 
 
 Their general doom, save that unhappy one 
 
 Who, of its breathing thousands, was alone 
 
 Spectator of that town's sad overthrow ; 
 
 The only victim conscious of his woe, 
 
 Preserved by cruel miracle of Fate, 
 
 To see his native land made desolate, 
 
 And all he ever loved, on that dread day, 
 
 Pass like a drama's shifting scene away, 
 
 And his whole race in one tremendous doom 
 
 Involved, and hurried living to the tomb. 
 
 Heartstruck, he drops from his relaxing hands 
 The useless ensign and bewildered stands, 
 
THE EARTHQUAKE OF CALLAO. 
 
 With glazing eyeballs and with stiffened neck, 
 
 A living statue gazing on the wreck 
 
 Of all his joys nor now discerns the spot 
 
 Where once arose in peace his humble cot, 
 
 Endeared by every tender spell that lies 
 
 In home's sweet bound, and love's delightful ties ; 
 
 But wife and children, happiness and home, 
 
 For him exist no longer he must roam 
 
 Through the wide world in utter loneliness, 
 
 Without one friend to sooth, one hope to bless. 
 
 All, all are strangers now there is no face 
 
 To him familiar of the human race ; 
 
 Nor aught remains to charm, to cheer, or throw 
 
 A ray of interest on his path of woe. 
 
 Yet months shall pass, and spring restore again 
 The flowers and blighted verdure of the plain ; 
 Another town in time's due course shall rise, 
 And prouder structures greet the morning skies ; 
 
THE EARTHQUAKE OF CALLAO. 79 
 
 Long silent echoes shall again rejoice 
 
 To hear gay childhood's shout and silvery voice ; 
 
 The smiling bridegroom and the flower-crowned bride 
 
 Shall tread new streets adorned in nuptial pride ; 
 
 Arts bloom afresh, and commerce bring once more 
 
 The flush of wealth and plenty to the shore ; 
 
 And busy population, far and wide 
 
 Extend an eager and increasing tide. 
 
 But he, lone relic of a vanished race, 
 
 Shall flee like troubled spirit from the place, 
 
 To pore in cureless anguish on the flood 
 
 That flows where once the town in splendour stood, 
 
 And rolls its sullen, melancholy waves 
 
 O'er his last home, and his loved kindred's graves. 
 
THE DEATH OF SUMMER. 
 
 BY the lengthening twilight hours, 
 By the chill and frequent showers, 
 By the flowerets pale and faded, 
 By the leaves with russet shaded, 
 By the grey and clouded morn, 
 By the drooping ears of corn, 
 Ripened now, and earthward tending, 
 As man when full of years is bending 
 
THE DEATH OF SUMMER. 81 
 
 Towards his kindred dust, where he 
 Lowly soon shall withering be ; 
 By the silence of each grove 
 Vocal late with notes of love, 
 By the meadows overspread 
 With the spider's wavy thread, 
 By the soft and shadowy sky, 
 By the thousand tears that lie 
 Every weeping bough beneath, 
 Summer ! we perceive thy death. 
 Summer ! all thy charms are past ! 
 Summer ! thou art waning fast ! 
 Scarcely one of all thy roses 
 On thy faded brow reposes ; 
 Day by day more feebly shining, 
 Sees thy glorious beams declining, 
 Though thy wan and sickly smile 
 Faintly lingers yet awhile. 
 
82 THE DEATH OF SUMMER. 
 
 Thrush and nightingale have long 
 Ceased to woo thee with their song ; 
 And on every lonely height 
 Swallows gather for their flight. 
 Streams, that in their sparkling course 
 Rippling flowed, are dark and hoarse ; 
 While the gale's inconstant tone, 
 Sweeping through the vallies lone, 
 Sadly sighs, with mournful breath, 
 Requiems for sweet Summer's death. 
 
THE REVERSE. 
 
 A SKETCH IN THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 THERE was a mingling and appalling sound 
 Of death-bells tolling, and the deep and loud 
 
 Roll of the muffled drum, whose notes profound 
 Were heard above the clamours of the crowd, 
 
 Pouring in stormy rushings to surround 
 That fatal scaffold, whereupon had bowed, 
 
 Day after day, the noblest of the land, 
 
 Beneath the insatiate headsman's bloody hand ; 
 
 G 2 
 
84 
 
 THE REVERSE. 
 
 And one this morn must die, who had been late 
 His country's darling, and had worn the wreath 
 
 Of frequent conquest. Honours, wealth, and state, 
 Were all his own, till they, whose fickle breath 
 
 Had loudest hailed him, now with causeless hate 
 And headlong fury, clamoured for his death ; 
 
 Yea, and pursued him with relentless gloom 
 
 And base revilings, to the block and tomb. 
 
 And in this dread reverse 'twas his to prove 
 The keenest pang which changing Fortune can 
 
 Inflict on those she flies from the remove 
 Of every former friend ! His vassals ran 
 
 To greet another lord ; his high-born love 
 In that dark hour forsook him for the man 
 
 Whose arts had work'd his downfall, and who now 
 
 Rose o'er his ruins with exulting brow. 
 
85 
 
 THE REVERSE. 
 
 And through the measured pauses of the bell, 
 Which gloomily proclaimed that his career 
 
 Had reached its close, he heard the joyous swell 
 Of their gay bridal peal, which smote his ear 
 
 In sounds more dismal even than his knell, 
 
 Or deep notes of the death-march rolling near ; 
 
 These were by him unheeded, though each tone 
 
 Told awfully of numbered moments gone. 
 
 But he, abandoned, injured, and betray'd 
 By all his soul reposed on, sternly turned 
 
 From the base crowd, disdaining to upbraid, 
 
 Though with indignant hues his proud cheek burned 
 
 And none did weep his fall, save a pale maid, 
 Whose love he had in hours of grandeur spurned, 
 
 And held as little worth, since partial Fate 
 
 Had cast her lot in Fortune's low estate. 
 
86 
 
 THE REVERSE. 
 
 And coldly, he had trampled that meek flower, 
 Who would have clung more closely to his side 
 
 In the eclipse of honours, wealth, and power, 
 Than in the lofty zenith of his pride. 
 
 Aye, and had shared the terrors of that hour, 
 
 From which had fled friends, vassals, plighted bride, 
 
 And all, save her whose streaming eyes grew dim 
 
 With the wild fixture of their gaze on him. 
 
 Such was his bitter thought when thought was vain, 
 
 And life itself was like a vision past, 
 With all its busy agitating train 
 
 Of hopes and fears ; yet did he turn to cast 
 On her a long and lingering look again 
 
 It was a look of love ! his first and last, 
 Bent on that tearful maid, to whom its light 
 Came like a sunbeam through eternal night. 
 
THE REVERSE. 
 
 She saw his death but as she'd seen it not 
 With folded hands and lifted eyes she stood 
 
 Still gazing fixedly on that dread spot, 
 
 Stained with iris fall and streaming with his blood ; 
 
 Her grief, though all-absorbing, seemed forgot 
 In the deep apathy that marked her mood. 
 
 'Twas silence all She neither wept nor sighed, 
 
 But, calm as infants sink to slumber, died. 
 
THE ROMAN TRIUMPH. 
 
 HISTORICAL SKETCH. 
 
 THERE was a triumph in imperial Rome, 
 Decreed Ostorius' legions marching home 
 From recent conquests won in Britain's Isle, 
 Where victory, with her bright and favouring smile, 
 Had graced their eagles, on that fatal plain 
 Where Freedom's last defender fought in vain ; 
 Now crowned with laurels, they return to claim 
 Their country's praises and immortal fame. 
 
THE ROMAN TRIUMPH. 
 
 But first with lances in the dust depressed, 
 
 And cypress sadly mingled with each crest ; 
 
 With pious care a mournful train sustain, 
 
 In funeral urns, the ashes of the slain ; 
 
 Who though they died amidst the shock of foes, 
 
 In hostile lands, shall peacefully repose, 
 
 With all the honours of the fallen brave, 
 
 Near the soft sound of Tyber's sacred wave. 
 
 Throughout the city joyful shouts resound, 
 
 The gates are garlanded, the columns bound 
 
 With victor laurels, while from lovely hands 
 
 Sweet flowers are showered upon the martial bands, 
 
 As in glad pomp the proud processions march 
 
 Through many a fair arcade and trophied arch ; 
 
 While the inspiring trumpets echo loud 
 
 The notes of triumph, and the exulting crowd 
 
 Hail with impetuous rapture their return ; 
 
 And tender eyes o'erflow, and fond hearts burn, 
 
90 THE ROMAN TRIUMPH. 
 
 As parents, wives, and friends, and children corne, 
 With eager haste, to speak their welcome home ; 
 While others in their envied progress prove 
 Beauty's applause and timid looks of love. 
 Tis transport all there is a joy for each, 
 In smile, or glance, or gratulating speech, 
 As each beholds once more some kindred tie, 
 Long lost to sight, but dear to memory. 
 
 But, oh ! what contrast to the wild despair 
 That guarded train of mournful captives share ; 
 The theme of wonder and the mark of scorn ; 
 Slowly they come, dejected and forlorn, 
 Aliens and exiles from their native land, 
 A weary, woeful, melancholy band, 
 Torn by oppressors from their much loved home, 
 To form a pageant for insulting Rome. 
 
THE ROMAN TRIUMPH. 91 
 
 Lo ! there the weeping widow of the brave 
 Clasps to her breaking heart an infant slave ; 
 And there the gray-haired hero, bowed with years, 
 Drops on his galling chain indignant tears ; 
 There frightened children, who lament aloud, 
 And gaze in terror on the hostile crowd, 
 Followed by many a pale and tearful maid, 
 And frantic lovers who the gods upbraid ; 
 And there the white-robed Druid lifts his hand, 
 And heaps prophetic curses on the land. 
 
 But who is he, majestic and alone, 
 Who in his country's fall forgets his own ! 
 Unbent by fortune, calm amidst his woes, 
 The last proud conquest of a host of foes ! 
 Not e'en that pang can his stern firmness move, 
 When each dear tie of kindred and of love, 
 Long parted from him, he beholds again, 
 Sad and dishonoured with the captive train ; 
 
92 THE ROMAN TRIUMPH. 
 
 And led in servile chains, a public show, 
 To swell the victor's triumph with their woe. 
 A king's, a husband's, and a father's grief, 
 Shake not the firmness of the patriot chief ; 
 Sublime he rises o'er the shocks of Fate, 
 In that dark hour unconquerably great, 
 Amidst the gaze of haughty Rome, the same 
 As when her legions trembled at his name ; 
 Awed by his glance the gathering crowd retire, 
 And, though in fetters, dread him and admire. 
 E'en the world's master, on the Roman throne, 
 Felt a slave's majesty eclipse his own ; 
 And blushed, when he beheld a servile chain 
 That god-like form dishonour and profane. 
 The lofty feelings of a generous foe 
 Rose in his altered soul the tender glow 
 Of gracious pity to his bosom crept, 
 And the imperial Claudius turned and wept ! 
 
THE ROMAN TRIUMPH. 93 
 
 Swift at his sign, with generous interest strong, 
 The Romans hastened to redress their wrong, 
 And from base bands released a hero's frame ! 
 But who that hero ? whose illustrious name, 
 Dear to the valiant honoured by the free 
 Is most of all, oh Britain, prized by thee ! 
 Need I declare Caractacus was he ! 
 
TO THE SPIRIT OF DREAMS. 
 
 SPIRIT ! who to shrouded eyes 
 Bringest such wild fantasies 
 As no waking glances yet, 
 In this work-day world, have met ; 
 Thou, who o'er the mind and brain, 
 With thy bright ideal train, 
 Wrapt in slumber's mantle stealest, 
 And such wond'rous power revealest, 
 
TO THE SPIRIT OF DREAMS. 95 
 
 That Earth's proudest children still 
 Are the puppets of thy will, 
 In the moment when each sense 
 Bows to thine omnipotence. 
 
 In thy mystic dramas we 
 Must perforce the actors be, 
 And submit to every change, 
 Be it ne'er so wild and strange. 
 Taking at thy will the shape 
 Of owlet, kitten, bat, or ape. 
 Mightiest monarchs, in the hour 
 Of thy more despotic power, 
 Lay aside their regal state 
 For a wandering beggar's fate ; 
 Whilst the landless wight in thee 
 Grasps imperial dignity. 
 Through the fen, the flood, the fire, 
 We must go at thy desire, 
 
96 TO THE SPIRIT OF DREAMS, 
 
 Over desert, rock, and mountain, 
 Treacherous sands and frozen fountain, 
 Deep in gloomy caves of ocean, 
 Where the waves with restless motion 
 Howl above with ceaseless roar, 
 From bleak Norway's stormy shore ; 
 For we passively obey 
 Thy unknown mysterious sway. 
 
 Oft thou dost to lovers bring 
 All the trembling hopes that spring 
 In the bosom's sealed recess, 
 Nurst in tearful tenderness ; 
 Which they, waking, dare not own, 
 And confess to thee alone. 
 Thou, to eyes that weep in vain, 
 Bring' st the loved and lost again, 
 In angelic looks revealing 
 All the warmth of earthly feeling, 
 
TO THE SPIRIT OF DREAMS. 
 
 Lingering in the radiant breast 
 
 Of the purified and blest ; 
 
 But thou dost with visions drear 
 
 Shake the murderer's couch with fear ; 
 
 Who indeed could aptest tell 
 
 All the terrors of thy spell, 
 
 Which doth far too dreadful seem 
 
 For thy coinage, Airy dream ! 
 
 Spirit, who, in gay confusion, 
 Through the regions of illusion 
 Lead'st in brilliant flights the mind, 
 By dull Reason unconfmed ; 
 Who, poor, grave, reflective elf, 
 Loves not sparklers like thyself, 
 But presumes not e'er to throw 
 Chills on thy poetic flow ; 
 For the scene which thou dost grace, 
 
 Is for her no time or place. 
 H 
 
98 TO THE SPIRIT OF DREAMS. 
 
 When through fairy land thou rangest, 
 
 And as wind unfettered changest, 
 
 With the flash of Fancy's wing, 
 
 To some wild fantastic thing 
 
 Yet unthought-of, but all-glowing 
 
 With magic lights of thine own throwing, 
 
 Which in hues divine and bright, 
 
 After thou hast ta'en thy flight, 
 
 Long and lovely leave behind 
 
 Shades of glory on the mind . 
 
THE LEGEND OF ST. VALENTINE. 
 
 FROM Britain's Isle in olden time, 
 By the strong power of truth sublime, 
 
 The Pagan rites were banished ; 
 And spite of Greek and Roman lore, 
 Each god and goddess famed of yore, 
 
 From grove and altar vanished. 
 
 For they, as sure became them best, 
 To Austin and Paulinus' 'hest, 
 
 Respectfully submitted, 
 H 2 
 
100 THE LEGEND OF ST. VALENTINE. 
 
 And left the land without delay, 
 Save Cupid, who still held a sway, 
 Too strong to passively obey, 
 Or be by saints outwitted. 
 
 For well the boy-god knew that he 
 Was far too potent e'er to be 
 Deposed and exiled quietly, 
 
 From his beloved dominion ; 
 And sturdily the urchin swore 
 He ne'er, to leave the British shore, 
 
 Would move a single pinion. 
 
 The saints at this were sadly vexed, 
 And much their holy brains perplexed 
 
 To bring the boy to reason ; 
 And when they found him bent to stay, 
 They built up convent-walls straightway, 
 
 And put poor Love in prison. 
 
THE LEGEND OF ST. VALENTINE. 
 
 But Cupid, though a captive made, 
 Soon met within a convent shade 
 
 New subjects in profusion ; 
 Albeit he found his Pagan name 
 Was heard by pious maid and dame, 
 
 With horror and confusion. 
 
 For all were there demure and coy, 
 And deemed a rebel heathen boy 
 
 A most unsaintly creature. 
 But Cupid found a way with ease 
 His slyest votaries' tastes to please, 
 
 And yet not change a feature. 
 
 For by his brightest dart the elf 
 Affirmed he 'd turn a saint himself, 
 To make their scruples lighter. 
 
 110 
 
102 THE LEGEND OF ST. VALENTINE. 
 
 So gravely hid his dimpled smiles, 
 His wreathed locks, and playful wiles, 
 Beneath a bishop's mitre. 
 
 Then Christians reared the boy a shrine, 
 And youths invoked Saint Valentine 
 
 To bless their annual passion ; 
 And maidens still his name revere, 
 And, smiling, hail his day each year, 
 A day to village lovers dear, 
 
 Though saints are out of fashion. 
 
THE EVENING HOUR. 
 
 SWEET is that hour, whose twilight shade has given 
 A milder radiance to the arch of heaven, 
 When, raised above the world, the lifted eye 
 Rests on the blending glories of the sky, 
 As the last brightness of departing day, 
 In mellow splendour, softly fades away ; 
 And glittering in the dew, each tree and flower 
 Breathe of the balmy freshness of the hour ; 
 
104 THE EVENING HOUR. 
 
 And the faint breezes from the distant hill 
 
 Sigh through the grove, and die along the rill. 
 
 Who hath not proved the sweet enchanting power, 
 
 The magic influence of the evening hour? 
 
 Who hath not felt each gloomy thought give way, 
 
 Soothed by the scene and charmed beneath its sway 
 
 Till hoty feelings lull with soft control 
 
 The strife and anguish of the troubled soul ; 
 
 Mild resignation in its depth appears, 
 
 And peace and heaven itself descend in tears. 
 
OH THOUGHTS OF HIGH AND TENDER 
 MELANCHOLY. 
 
 OH ! thoughts of high and tender melancholy, 
 That steal with holy softness o'er the soul ; 
 Who would exchange, for the vain noise of folly, 
 Your soothing influence and divine control ? 
 
 The world's delusive colours fade before ye, 
 When the afflicted breast admits your sway ; 
 Oh ! come with all your solemn sweetness o'er me, 
 And chase the gloom of earthly cares away. 
 
106 OH THOUGHTS, &c. 
 
 What though ye wear the pensive veil of sadness, 
 And bid us weep o'er idly wasted years, 
 
 Tis yours to calm the tumult and the madness 
 Of feverish hopes and agonizing fears. 
 
 Pure from the base alloy of earthward feeling, 
 Ye point the frailty of all human bliss ; 
 
 To breaking hearts and tearful eyes revealing 
 A world more worthy of our love than this. 
 
THE BIVOUAC. 
 
 O'ER many, who would never hail again 
 His glorious rising, sunk the evening sun ; 
 
 And misty Twilight on the battle plain 
 
 In tears descended, robed in shadows d'un ; 
 
 Like pensive mourner weeping o'er the slain, 
 
 She came the thunders of each deep-mouthed gun 
 
 And clash of weapons died, as o'er the field 
 
 Her peaceful veil in pity she revealed. 
 
108 THE BIVOUAC. 
 
 The bloody business of the fierce affray 
 
 Had closed but, oh ! 'twas only for the space 
 
 Of one short night ! How brief was the delay ! 
 And yet how wondrously it did efface 
 
 The rage of those who had that dreadful day 
 Met there as foes so deadly ; Sleep's embrace 
 
 Had locked the rival squadrons in repose, 
 
 And sweet oblivion of fatigue and w r oes. 
 
 They sank to slumber on the dewy ground 
 They lately had contested while afar, 
 
 Through clouds, like hostile towers that sternly frown'd, 
 Gleamed in the wat'ry west the evening star, 
 
 Marked by that weary band who, duty-bound, 
 Must keep that night the vigils of the war, 
 
 With eyes that could in very sadness weep, 
 
 To share their happier comrades' envied sleep. 
 
THE BIVOUAC. 
 
 Reared in the lap of softness, and perchance 
 New to the Bivouac, some stripling may 
 
 Lean drowsily upon his heavy lance, 
 
 And almost wish to rest like those who lay 
 
 Stretched in their last long slumber ; but a trance 
 Of tender thoughts comes o'er him thoughts that 
 stray 
 
 Back to his dear home circle distant far, 
 
 And held more precious midst the woes of war. 
 
 And shall he ever gaze on these again, 
 
 And hear that thrilling welcome, which doth seem 
 So doubly sweet, when that beloved train 
 
 Greets a long absent soldier. Oh, that theme 
 Has filled his eyes with tears for on this plain, 
 
 Already drenched with slaughter's sanguine stream, 
 He may before the morrow's sun is high 
 Rest with the slain, cold and unconsciously. 
 
1 10 THE BIVOUAC. 
 
 But thre are some whose hearts of loftier tone 
 Are warm with love of glory, and beat high 
 
 With warlike ardour terror is unknown, 
 And fear unfelt by these ; and if they sigh, 
 
 Tis with a fierce impatience, that alone 
 And idly thus they stand, while Victory 
 
 Doth beckon them to rush upon the foe, 
 
 And win bright laurels from the ranks below. 
 
 How mournful were the task to contemplate 
 The slain, the wounded, and the living mass 
 
 Of men on either side, whom the dire fate 
 Of war has sternly mingled here, alas ! 
 
 Could Truth inspire, and Poesy relate, 
 
 But one brief sketch of each, from the high class 
 
 Of those with sash, and plume, and 'broidered vest, 
 
 To the rough soldier with his scar-seamed breast ; 
 
THE BIVOUAC. 
 
 What tales of touching interest might I then 
 From dark Oblivion rescue and unfold ; 
 
 What strange memorials of unnoticed men, 
 
 The wild, the wise, the wondrous, and the bold, 
 
 Who now must sleep forgotten in this glen, 
 Unconscious tenants of the senseless mould, 
 
 That pillows now alike the fallen brave, 
 
 The lofty hero, and the crouching slave. 
 
 But bright eyes will be streaming in despair, 
 
 And fond hearts breaking for them though no wife, 
 
 Nor child, nor mother, comes with pious care 
 To seek, amidst the relics of the strife, 
 
 Some tenderly beloved one, yet there are 
 
 Many who, could they see this waste of life, 
 
 Would in the wildness of their agony 
 
 Sink by them on the bloody turf and die. 
 
112 THE BIVOUAC. 
 
 Yet full as sweetly as in peaceful hours 
 
 The nightingale pours forth from brake and bough 
 Her vesper strains and still the wilder flowers 
 
 Are softly waving, though they mingle now 
 With ringlets, (stained with blood and wet with 
 showers,) 
 
 That lately added grace to many a brow 
 Of lofty beauty, which dishonoured lies 
 Low in the dust, thence never more to rise. 
 
PHILLIS AND THE PAINTER. 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM THE ITALIAN OF GIOVANNI 
 GHERARDO DE ROSSI. 
 
 * Pingimi un Amorino.' 
 
 ' THOU ! whose art I most approve, 
 ' Skilful Painter ! paint me Love : ' 
 Phillis ta Apelles cries. 
 ' How should I V he straight replies. 
 
 Much surprised at this, the maid 
 Turned about, and quickly said, 
 * If, indeed, thou dost not know, 
 ' List, and I will tell thee how. 
 
114 PHILLIS AND THE PAINTER. 
 
 ' Paint a boy with angel face, 
 ' Full of charms, and full of grace, 
 ' In whose every look shall shine 
 ' Tenderness and truth divine. 
 
 ' O'er those eyes no fillet bind, 
 
 ' For I know he was not blind 
 
 ' On that day when first his dart 
 
 ' Through their glances reached my heart. 
 
 ' Let his lips divinely smile, 
 ' Make him lord of each soft wile, 
 ' Parent of each pleasing joy ; 
 ' Thus, oh ! thus depict the boy. 
 
 ' Heardst thou not ? Begin thy task ; 
 ' When 'tis finished, come and ask 
 ' Large rewards, and thou shalt have 
 ' All thine eager wish can crave.' 
 
PHILLIS AND THE PAINTER. H5 
 
 Phillis ceased and he again 
 Answered, ' Simple maid ! in vain 
 ' Thou wouldst tax, with guileless heart, 
 ' All the magic of my art. 
 
 ' Ere I seek to picture Love, 
 
 ' Wait awhile, fair maid, and prove, 
 
 ' If I may indeed portray 
 
 ' All the charms he wears to-day. 
 
 ' Phillis, these enchantments bright, 
 ' All are brief and swift of flight ; 
 * Even now a dark alloy 
 ' Mingles in thy cup of joy. 
 
 ' Pause a trifling space, and see 
 ' If Love remain unchanged to thee ; 
 ' If he should return ! and I 
 
 ' Will freely give what thou wouldst buy/ 
 I 2 
 
116 PHILLIS AND THE PAINTER. 
 
 Joyful went fair Phillis home, 
 Sure again with joy to come, 
 And the promised semblance claim, 
 Of Love still smiling, still the same. 
 
 But the sad reverse, alas ! 
 Vain illusions ! how ye pass ! 
 Hope's enchantments, bright and fair, 
 All dissolve in empty air. 
 
 Love, the maid has learned to know. 
 As her fierce and cruel foe ; 
 Charms and smiles have vanished all, 
 And his sweets have turned to gall. 
 
 ' Ah !' the experienced Painter said, 
 ' How your brilliant colours fade ; 
 ' See, how Love betrays the truth 
 ' Of ardent and confiding youth.' 
 
THE MASSACRE OF THE NUNS AT PARIS. 
 
 HISTORICAL SKETCH. 
 
 IT was the reign of terror Paris rang 
 
 Through all her stormy streets with sounds of woe, 
 And wrath, and horror ; there was ceaseless clang 
 
 Of arms, and eager rushing to and fro 9 
 
 Of murderous bands, who in dread descant sang 
 
 The wild Marsellois chant, not deep and low, 
 As erst it rose, but thundered as the proud 
 Enfuriate chorus of a lawless crowd. 
 
118 
 
 THE MASSACRE 
 
 And there were shrieks of agony from some, 
 Mixt with the multitude's discordant yells ; 
 
 And distant notes of the alarum drum, 
 And joyless pealing of unhallowed bells, 
 
 And the suppressed and melancholy hum, 
 
 ' New victims are at hand.' The death- march tells 
 
 Their near approach ; and those who would remain 
 
 Secure, from signs of pity must refrain. 
 
 And hard the task to many, for there were 
 Bright forms in that devoted company 
 
 Of consecrated maidens, young and fair, 
 Whose loveliness attracted every eye : 
 
 Yet had by ruffian hands been rudely there 
 
 Dragged from their convent's peaceful shades, to die 
 
 Amidst the brutal rabble's jests profane, 
 
 To whom their innocence appealed in vain. 
 
OF THE NUNS AT PARIS. 
 
 But yet there was no trait of female fear ; 
 
 What time they passed those murderous ranks 
 
 between, 
 Unveiled they passed, and not a single tear 
 
 Or sign of grief amidst that train was seen. 
 E'en when the fatal guillotine was near, 
 
 Their looks were still unruffled and serene, 
 And radiant with the bright expression given 
 By faith and high aspirings after heaven. 
 
 There did their hopes in perfect trust repose ; 
 
 And they repined not that the path should be 
 Stormy and short, that led them to the close 
 
 Of this dark pilgrimage of misery ; 
 And in sweet unison divinely rose 
 
 Their voices, * Father, we return to thee ! 
 ' Ours is the glorious crown of martyrdom ! 
 ' Oh ! Holy Spirit, come ! Creator, come ! ' 
 
120 
 
 THE MASSACRE 
 
 The heavenly strains continued even when 
 
 They mounted the dread scaffold's fatal stair, 
 
 In sounds more wildly thrilling ; and they then 
 Gave such unearthly sweetness to the air, 
 
 As to the wondering ears of guilty men 
 Seemed like a farewell to all mortal care, 
 
 Or holy hymnings of celestial love, 
 
 In which glad seraphs joined them from above. 
 
 Oh, yet it ceased not though the work of death 
 Commenced on that fair choir, and one by one 
 
 They bowed their necks the bloody axe beneath, 
 And faint and fainter grew the anthem's tone ; 
 
 Till one angelic voice, with tuneful breath, 
 Sustained the sacred melody alone 
 
 ' Ours is the glorious crown of martyrdom ! 
 
 ' Oh ! Holy Spirit, come ! Creator, come ! ' 
 
OF THE NUNS AT PARIS. 121 
 
 And, Oh ! the closing cadence that she sung 
 
 Was such, that those who heard it, said, that never 
 
 Had such wild music flowed from Woman's tongue. 
 Nor paused she, till the axe was raised to sever 
 
 Her guiltless head and the stern echo rung 
 
 Of the dread stroke that hushed her strains for ever. 
 
 And her pure soul dismissed, in heaven to meet 
 
 Angels of grace, who only sing more sweet. 
 
THE EXILED LOVER. 
 
 A BALLAD. 
 
 ' FAREWELL ! farewell ! my Ellen dear, 
 ' The north wind swells my sail ; 
 
 ' Oh, vain that sweet imploring tear, 
 ' For I must trust the gale. 
 
 ' A fallen sovereign's follower, I 
 ' His desperate fortunes share ; 
 
 ' And his last hopes all heavily 
 ' Are withered in despair. 
 
THE EXILED LOVER. 123 
 
 ' But, shall I ask thee to partake 
 
 ' My wandering, weary life ! 
 ' Oh ! never shalt thou, for my sake, 
 
 ' Become an outlaw's wife/ 
 
 ' Nay, trust me, Clifford, shared with thee, 
 
 * E'en death itself were light ; 
 
 ' And, oh ! what fate were hard to me 
 ' If I partook thy flight ? 
 
 ' For what are riches, power, and pride, 
 
 ' Unless enjoyed with thee? 
 * The meanest dwelling, by thy side, 
 
 * Were more than thrones to me. 
 
 ' And what is exile ? any home, 
 
 ' If shared with thee, must sure be blest ; 
 
 ' And wandering, if with thee I roam, 
 ' I shall not ask for rest.' 
 
124 THE EXILED LOVER. 
 
 ' And think'st thou, Ellen, 1 could brook 
 ' That thou such life should'st know ? 
 
 ' That I could on the sufferings look 
 1 Which thou must undergo ? 
 
 ' To take thee from thy lineal towers, 
 
 ' Thy coronet of pride 
 ' Thou wilt have neither land nor bowers, 
 
 ' When thou art Clifford's bride. 
 
 ' And thou must leave thy peaceful home, 
 ' And cross the stormy main : 
 
 ' And long and sadly we may roam, 
 ' Ere we come back again/ 
 
 ' Ah ! Clifford, what are halls, and towers, 
 
 ' And coronets, to me ? 
 ' Far happier if with wilder flowers 
 
 ' My hair were wreath'd by thee. 
 
THE EXILED LOVER. 125 
 
 ' And if, my love, when thou art nigh, 
 
 * The gathering tempest grows, 
 ' Tis but a ruder lullaby 
 
 * To rock us to repose/ 
 
 The moon has sunk, and rough the night, 
 
 Wild, wild the breakers roar ; 
 Young Clifford and the lady bright 
 
 Have left their native shore. 
 
 The wind was loud, the storm grew dark, 
 
 Its voice in thunder spoke ; 
 And fearfully against the bark 
 
 The raging billows broke. 
 
 Amidst the tempest's angry might 
 
 Fair Ellen stood unmoved ; 
 Or if her bosom owned affright, 
 
 It was for him she loved. 
 
126 THE EXILED LOVER. 
 
 And, ' Oh !' she sighed, ' more sweet to me 
 
 ' Thy wayward fate to share, 
 ' Than if possessed of all but thee 
 
 ' In yonder castle fair.' 
 
 ' Heaven's blessing on my gentle love ! 
 
 ' One only grief is mine ; 
 * That every danger I shall prove, 
 
 ' My Ellen, must be thine. 
 
 ' And thou who, like some tender flower, 
 
 ' But bloomed in softened air, 
 ' How wilt thou brook the stormy hour 
 
 ' Of terror and despair ? ' 
 
 ' Oh ! dearer to my heart this hour 
 
 ' Of peril and dismay, 
 ' Than if in pride of pomp and power 
 
 ' I shared a monarch's sway.' 
 
THE EXILED LOVER. 127 
 
 i 
 And sweeter then to Clifford's soul 
 
 Those tender accents fell, 
 Than e'en the first fond sighs she stole, 
 Her secret love to tell. 
 
 But now more dread the tempest's might, 
 
 More loud the wild wind's sweep ; 
 And few could gaze without affright, 
 
 Upon the raging deep. 
 
 The sails were rent, and fearfully 
 
 The foundering bark was tost ; 
 And all with one despairing cry, 
 
 Exclaimed, ' The ship is lost ! ' 
 
 And many a manly cheek grew pale, 
 
 That mocked at death before ; 
 They shuddered at the dismal gale, 
 
 Who braved the cannon's roar. 
 
128 
 
 THE EXILED LOVER. 
 
 'Tis awful, in the stormy wave, 
 
 To die at dead of night ! 
 To sink into the yawning grave, 
 
 That opens to the sight ! 
 
 Midst deepest horror, darkest gloom, 
 
 And roaring waters drear, 
 To perish, where your mournful doom 
 
 No pitying friend can hear. 
 
 The signals of distress are fired, 
 
 They fear it is in vain ; 
 More dismal, as their sound expired, 
 
 Was heard the raging main. 
 
 They toil, they pray and heavily 
 That gloomy night has past ; 
 
 And now with rapture they descry 
 The wished-for land at last. 
 
THE EXILED LOVER. 129 
 
 The vessel gains the Gallic shore, 
 
 Before the fresh breeze driven ; 
 They dread the tempest's wrath no more, 
 
 But breathe their thanks to heaven. 
 
 Long years have fled, and England's woes 
 
 Have past like storms away ; 
 The maidens twine each rival rose 
 
 In festal chaplets gay. 
 
 No emblems now of hate and death, 
 
 Those adverse blossoms meet ; 
 They're blended in one peaceful wreath, 
 
 In union calm and sweet. 
 
 Oppressed no more by grief and care, 
 
 Their wayward fortunes past ; 
 Brave Clifford and his Ellen fair 
 
 In pleasure dwell at last. 
 
130 THE EXILED LOVER. 
 
 In Henry's army none was seen 
 More valiant than the knight ; 
 
 And none was honoured by his queen 
 So much as Ellen bright. 
 
 Yet wished not they their days to waste 
 In grandeur's heartless round, 
 
 But sought those purer joys to taste, 
 In virtue only found. 
 
 And soon around the happy pair 
 
 A lovely offspring grew ; 
 Like gentle Ellen, sweet and fair, 
 
 Like Clifford, brave and true. 
 
SONNETS. 
 
133 
 
 ON THE NEW YEAR. 
 
 THE waves of Time in sure but silent tide 
 Are flowing onward in their swift career, 
 Bringing Eternity each hour more near ; 
 And we with careless glance behold them glide 
 From us for ever. And with thoughts allied 
 To mirth or madness, hail another year, 
 Born, like its elder brethren, to appear, 
 Then dream-like to Oblivion's caverns slide, 
 Vain and forgotten, as it ne'er had been ; 
 Or heeded only in its flight by those 
 To whom its joyless course, however brief, 
 Is marked by torturing cares and ceaseless woes ; 
 Unlike the bright perspective youth has seen, 
 Which gilds Life's ills with hope, and smiles at grief. 
 January, 1824. 
 
134 
 
 ON THE CLOSING YEAR. 
 
 ANOTHER year is closing shall we cast 
 
 No moral glances on its rapid flight ? 
 
 Are all its vanished days, or dark or bright, 
 
 Already lost in dim Oblivion's waste ? 
 
 Her cloudy veil, e'en now descending fast, 
 
 Hides with a mist invidious from the sight 
 
 All, save the checkered beams which Memory's light 
 
 Pours on the rainbow shadows of the past ; 
 
 Where smiles and tears, whatever was their source, 
 
 And joy, and care, alternate hope and fear, 
 
 Melting and blending in their mingled course, 
 
 Gleam through the vistas of the closing year 
 
 In varying colours, like the hues that rise 
 
 From showers and sunshine in the evening skies. 
 
135 
 
 THE BRIDE. 
 
 A HOLY softness glistened in her eyes, 
 
 As bright in tearful smiles the new-made bride 
 
 Surveyed the wedded lover by her side, 
 
 Now linked to her for ever, with the ties 
 
 Of Heaven's own blest cementing ; and with sighs 
 
 That breathed of speechless fondness, she replied 
 
 To his enraptured words, and strove to hide 
 
 Those sweet effusions, which at times would rise 
 
 To dim her radiant glances, like the dews 
 
 Which fall on summer mornings, and bespoke 
 
 Her heart's o'erflowing transport while the hues 
 
 Of Love's celestial painting softly broke 
 
 O'er her fair cheek, and added blushing grace 
 
 To each divine expression of her face. 
 
136 
 
 THE INFANT. 
 
 I SAW an infant health, and joy, and light 
 
 Bloomed on its cheek, and sparkled in its eye ; 
 
 And its fond mother stood delighted by, 
 
 To see its morn of being dawn so bright. 
 
 Again I saw it, when the withering blight 
 
 Of pale disease had fallen, moaning lie 
 
 On that sad mother's breast stern Death was nigh, 
 
 And Life's young wings were fluttering for their flight. 
 
 Last I beheld it stretched upon the bier, 
 
 Like a fair flower untimely snatched away, 
 
 Calm and unconscious of its mother's tear, 
 
 Which on its placid cheek unheeded lay ; 
 
 But on its lip the unearthly smile express'd, 
 
 * Oh ! happy child ! untried and early blest !' 
 
137 
 
 THE MANIAC. 
 
 SWEET summer flowers were braided in her hair, 
 As if in mockery of the burning brow 
 Round which they drooped and withered singing now 
 Strains of wild mirth, and now of vain despair, 
 Came the poor wreck of all that once was fair, 
 And rich in high endowments, ere deep woe 
 Like a dark cloud come o'er her, and laid low 
 Reason's proud fane, and left no brightness there. 
 Yet you might deem that grief was with the rest 
 Of all her cares forgotten, save when songs 
 And tales she heard of faithful love un blest, 
 Of man's deceit, and trusting maidens' wrongs. 
 Then, and then only, in her lifted eyes, 
 Remembrance beamed, and tears would slowly rise. 
 
138 
 
 THE VISION. 
 
 SHE rose before him, in the loveliness 
 
 And light of days long vanished, but her air 
 
 Was marked with tender sadness, as if Care 
 
 Had left his traces written, though distress 
 
 Was felt no longer. Through her shadowy dress, 
 
 And the dark ringlets of her flowing hair, 
 
 Trembled the silvery moon-beams, as she there 
 
 Stood, 'midst their weeping glory, motionless, 
 
 And pale as marble statue on a tomb. 
 
 But there were traits more heavenly in her face, 
 
 Than when her cheek was radiant with the bloom 
 
 Which his false love had blighted and she now 
 
 Came like some angel messenger of grace, 
 
 And looked forgiveness of his broken vow. 
 
139 
 
 TO GREECE. 
 
 THE maids, who wreathed the laurel crowns for those 
 Who fought at Marathon, did never twine 
 Garlands, oh Greece ! for nobler sons of thine, 
 Than these the champions of thy tears and woes. 
 Nor History, in her ample volume, shows 
 More glorious tales, since Fame did first consign 
 To her the pen of Time, and task divine 
 To rescue, from the dusky stream that flows 
 Down to Oblivion, each illustrious name 
 And fair achievement, than her present page 
 Shall now disclose, when she shall proudly write, 
 In deathless characters, the deeds and fame 
 Of Grecian heroes, who on this dark age 
 Have cast the brightness of immortal light. 
 
140 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM THE ITALIAN OF VICTORIA 
 COLONNA, MARCHESANA DI PESCARA. 
 
 ' O ! che tranquillo mar, che placid' onde.' 
 
 ON the calm billows of that tranquil sea, 
 A gallant bark with swelling sails was seen, 
 Freighted with treasures, moving proud and free, 
 With favouring breezes and with skies serene. 
 But soon thick clouds obscured the heavenly ray, 
 With fearful gloom the awful tempest rose ; 
 And none, who saw the dawning of that day, 
 Foretold how dark would be the evening's close. 
 So did my stars on me their aspects change, 
 By adverse winds o'er waves of sorrow driven, 
 Oppressed by cruel fates and fortunes strange, 
 Lorn, reft, and stricken by the shafts of heaven, 
 Gathering around me, threatening storms appear, 
 But still my soul beholds her polestar near. 
 
141 
 
 TRANSLATION OF BERNARDO TASSO'S SONNET TO 
 THE MOON. 
 
 ' Deh ! sgombra co' tuoi rai chiari e gelati.' 
 
 AH ! scatter with thy radiance cold and bright, 
 
 The dusky clouds that veil the earth and main, 
 
 Now Night on her accustomed rounds again, 
 
 In sable stole and starry mantle dight, 
 
 Returns to shut the landscape from our sight. 
 
 Already each green hill and flowery plain 
 
 Demand thy lovely beams, and sigh in vain 
 
 For dews descending from thy locks of light. 
 
 Look forth in all thy beauty, and array 
 
 The earth in trembling glory rise, and chase 
 
 Each envious vapour, and unveil thy face, 
 
 In rival splendour, to the orb of day. 
 
 Hear then, oh Moon ! shine forth revealed and fair, 
 
 In thy bright wanderings through the fields of air. 
 
142 
 
 TRANSLATION OF CARDINAL BEMBO'S SONNET. 
 
 ' Se gia ne' 1' eta piu verde e calda.' 
 
 IF in the summer season of my days 
 
 My ardent passions, scorning all control, 
 
 Forsook a thousand times thy holy ways ; 
 
 And e'en thy own fair gifts the rebel soul 
 
 Against thee dared presumptuously to raise ! 
 
 Now that hoar winter with unsparing might 
 
 Turns my thinned locks to snow r and chills my frame, 
 
 Father ! 'tis given me, through faith's pure light, 
 
 To hear thy precepts and adore thy name. 
 
 Remember not the errors of my youth, 
 
 Since the past time no sorrow can regain. 
 
 Preserve the future from each earthly stain, 
 
 And fill my bosom with thy sacred truth, 
 
 Nor let the trembling sinner hope in vain. 
 
143 
 
 . TRANSLATION OF PETRARCA'S SONNET. 
 
 ' Quanto piu m' avvicino al giorno estremo.' 
 
 THE nearer I approach that final day 
 Which brings our mortal sorrows to a close, 
 More clearly I perceive how swiftly flows 
 The tide of time, and human hopes decay, 
 And to myself in musing thoughts I say : 
 Now all my earthly ills, my love and woes, 
 From my freed soul shall pass, as fallen snows 
 Melt in the sunbeam from the hills away ; 
 And every fruitless wish shall fly with life, 
 Which I so long and rashly have pursued. 
 Nor smiles, nor tears, nor cares, nor worldly strife, 
 Shall on iny sweet and perfect peace intrude ; 
 And I by clearer lights shall see more plain 
 For what fallacious joys we sigh in vain. 
 
144 
 
 TRANSLATION OF POPE URBAN'S SONNET. 
 
 ' In se torna talhor' alia splendore.' 
 
 WHEN to thy splendour, Reason's feeble rays, 
 
 I wondering turn, my awe-struck soul repents 
 
 Its frequent failings, and in tears laments 
 
 The long-continued errors of its ways. 
 
 Ah ! why so often is my stedfast gaze 
 
 Obscured with gloomy thoughts and vain desires ? 
 
 And in my bosom the all-evil fires 
 
 Destroy each better purpose of my days. 
 
 Life flies meantime to its appointed end, 
 
 While lost in doubt I tremble and despair. 
 
 Oh ! King of Heaven ! in mercy hear my prayer, 
 
 And thy divine assistance deign to lend, 
 
 That holier feelings may this strife compose, 
 
 And thy blest glance of pity heal my woes. 
 
145 
 
 TO THE CITY OF ROME. 
 
 FROM THE ITALIAN OF GUTDICCIONE. 
 
 NURSE of the mighty ! who in ancient time 
 
 Filled thee with glory, and the world with fears ; 
 
 Once of the favouring gods the home sublime, 
 
 Now the abode of unavailing tears; 
 
 How can I see thee of thy honours reft, 
 
 And hear thy sighs, nor feel my heart overflow ? 
 
 Can I behold thee dark and joyless left, 
 
 And not partake my bleeding country's woe ? 
 
 Majestic in thy fall ! though fall'n so low, 
 
 My bosom thrills at thy still hallowed name ; 
 
 E'en at thy ruins I adoring bow. 
 
 Ah ! had I then beheld thee in thy fame, 
 
 When as a queen thy flowing locks around 
 
 The laurels of a conquered world were bound ! 
 
146 
 
 TO PEACE. 
 
 FROM THE ITALIAN OF BERNARDO TASSO. 
 
 Lo ! from her kindred heavens sweet peace descends ! 
 Her gentle hand the welcome olive rears ; 
 Long absent from us, once again she bends 
 Her course to bless us, and to dry our tears. 
 Before her singing, crowned with joyful flowers, 
 Comes the fair shepherdess, who fears not now 
 The spoiler's outrage or the tyrant's powers, 
 But leads her flocks where crystal waters flow ; 
 While bounteous Plenty, from her lifted urn, 
 Sheds her rich gifts on every smiling plain. 
 Pleasures and Loves, long scared by war, return, 
 And dance around her in exulting train. 
 Earth, sea, and air, confess her lovely sway, 
 And Echo long repeats, * Ah ! happy day.' 
 
NOTES. 
 
 THE FUNERAL OF KING CHARLES I. Page 24. 
 
 IN the 'ATHENE OXONIENSES' of that minute and indefatigable 
 antiquarian, Anthony a Wood, folio edition, Vol. ii. p. 703. there is a 
 most interesting account of the funeral of King Charles I. in the narra- 
 tive of Mr. Herbert, the attached servant and faithful companion of that 
 unfortunate prince, in all circumstances, from the time he left the Isle 
 of Wight until his death ; and who was also witness of his interment in 
 Windsor Chapel, he having obtained, on his second address to the Com- 
 mittee of Parliament, an order bearing date the 6th of February 1648, 
 authorizing him and Mr. Anthony Mildmay to bury the King's body 
 there. To the fidelity and correctness of Herbert's simple and touching 
 narrative in all its circumstances, ample and honourable testimony has 
 been rendered by Sir Henry Halford, in his account of opening the cof- 
 fin of King Charles I. in St. George's Chapel, Windsor, in April 1813. 
 And to such as are unacquainted with the minute particulars of this 
 singular historical fact, the following abstract from Herbert's narrative 
 may possibly be acceptable. 
 
 " Accordingly the corpse was carried thither [to Windsor] from St. 
 James's, February 7th, in a hearse covered with black velvet, drawn by 
 six horses covered with black cloth, attended by the gentlemen who 
 had waited upon his Majesty at Carisbrook Castle, and other places-, 
 since his Majesty's going from Newcastle. Mr. Herbert shewed the 
 governor, Colonel Whitchcot, the Committee's order for permitting Mr. 
 Herbert and Mr. Mildmay to bury him, the late King, in any place within 
 Windsor Castle that they should think meet and fit. In the first place, 
 in order thereunto they carried the King's body into the dean's house, 
 which was hung with black, and after to his usual bedchamber within 
 the palace. After which, they went to St. George's Chapel to take a 
 view thereof, and of the most fit and honourable place for the roya 
 corpse to rest in. 
 
 L 2 
 
148 
 
 " Having taken a view, they at first thought that the tomb-house, built 
 by Cardinal Wolsey, would be a fit place for his interment, but that 
 place, though adjoining, yet not being within the royal chapel, they 
 waved it, ******************** 
 * * * and pitched upon the vault where King Edward IV. had been 
 interred, being on the north side of the choir near the altar, that King 
 being one his Majesty would often make honourable mention of, and 
 from whom his Majesty was lineally propagated. That, therefore, in- 
 duced Mr. Herbert to give order to N. Harrison and Henry Jackson to 
 have that vault opened, partly covered with a large fair stone of touch, 
 raised within the arch adjoining, having a range of iron bars gilt, curi- 
 ously cut, according to church work, &c. But as they were about this 
 work, some noblemen came thither; namely, the Duke of Richmond, 
 the Marquis of Hertford, the Earl of Lindsay, and with them Dr. Juxon, 
 Bishop of London, who had licence from the Parliament to attend the 
 King's body to his grave. Those gentlemen therefore, Herbert and 
 Mildmay, thinking fit to submit and leave the choice of the place of 
 burial to those great persons, they in like manner viewed the tomb- 
 house and choir ; and one of the lords beating gently upon the pave- 
 ment with his staff, perceived a hollow sound, and thereupon ordering 
 the stones and earth to be removed, they discovered a descent into a 
 vault, where two coffins were laid near one another, the one very large 
 and of an antique form, the other little. These they supposed to be the 
 bodies of King Henry VIII. and Queen Jane Seymour, his third wife, as 
 indeed they were. The velvet palls that covered their coffins seemed 
 fresh, though they had lain there above one hundred years. 
 
 " The lords agreeing that the King's body should be in the same vault 
 interred, being about the middle of the choir, over against the eleventh 
 stall on the sovereigns' side; they gave order to have the King's name, 
 and year he died, cut in lead, ************** 
 ********** The girdle or superscription of capital 
 letters of lead, put about the King's coffin, had only these words, 
 
 ' KING CHARLES, 1648.' 
 
 " The King's body was then brought from his bedchamber down into 
 St. George's Hall, whence after a little stay it was with a slow and so- 
 lemn pace (much sorrow in most faces being then discernible) carried 
 by gentlemen of quality in mourning. The noblemen in mourning also 
 
149 
 
 held up the pall ; and the governor with several gentlemen, officers, and 
 attendants came after. 
 
 " It was then observed that, at such time as the King's body was 
 brought out from St. George's Hall, the sky was serene and clear ; but 
 presently it began to snow, and the snow fell so fast, that by the time 
 the corpse came to the west end of the royal chapel, the black velvet 
 pall was all white, (the colour of innocency,) being thick covered over 
 with snow. 
 
 " The body being set down by the bearers near the place of burial, the 
 Bishop of London stood ready with the Service-book in his hands, to 
 have performed his last duty to the King his master, according to the 
 order and form of burial of the dead set forth in the book of Common 
 Prayer ; which the lords likewise desired, but it would not be suffered by 
 Colonel Whitchcot, the governor of the castle, by reason of the directory, 
 to which (said he) he and others were to be conformable:' 
 
 THE ESCAPE OF THE QUEEN AND INFANT SON OF KING 
 JAMES II. FROM WHITEHALL. Page 54. 
 
 " On the 6th of December, in the evening, the Queen, with the nurse 
 carrying the Prince, then five months old, in her arms, and accompanied 
 by the Count de Lausune, so famous for his own misfortunes, and by a 
 few attendants, went privately from Whitehall. She crossed the Thames 
 in an open boat, in a dark night, in a heavy rain, in a high wind, whilst 
 the river was swollen, and at the coldest season of the year. A common 
 coach had been ordered to wait for her on the opposite side ; but by 
 some accident it had been delayed for an hour. During this time, she 
 took shelter under the walls of an old church at Lambeth ; turning her 
 eyes, streaming with tears, sometimes on the Prince, unconscious of the 
 miseries attendant upon royalty, and who upon that account raised the 
 greater compassion in her breast, and sometimes to the innumerable 
 lights of the city, amidst the glimmerings of which, she in vain explored 
 the Palace in which her husband was left, and started at every sound 
 she heard from thence." Sir John Dalrymple's Memoirs of Great Britain, 
 vol. i. p. 238. 
 
 Not less interesting than this beautiful and pathetic quotation from the 
 elegant historian above, is the account which King James himself gives 
 of this event, in his own Memoirs, torn. ix. p. 256 ; which when we con- 
 sider it was written by the husband and father of the royal fugitives 
 
150 
 
 must excite in the bosom of every person of sensibility feelings of the 
 most lively sympathy, for the anguish of heart in which he must have 
 indited it. 
 
 " All things being ready by this time for the Queen and Prince's de- 
 parture, it fell out opportunely enough that the Count de Lozune, a 
 French gentleman, was then at the court of England, whither he came 
 to offer his services to the King; but treachery and desertion of so many 
 false friends, made the zeal and fidelity of his true ones useless, at least 
 in reference to the war ; so his Majesty accepted of his offer another 
 way, as thinking him a proper person to attend upon the queen in this 
 voyage, and that under the notion of his returning to his own country 
 (there being no business for him in England) a yacht might be prepared, 
 and the Queen and Prince pass unsuspected in his company. 
 
 " The Queen had a great reluctancy to this journey, not so much for 
 the hazards and inconveniences of it, as to leave the King in so doubt, 
 ful a situation ; she having never done it hitherto in his greatest diffi- 
 culties and dangers. And therefore, when it was first proposed, her 
 Majesty absolutely refused it in reference to herself ; telling the Kfng 
 she was very willing the Prince her son should be sent to France, or 
 where it was thought most proper for his security, that she could bear 
 such a separation with patience ; but could never bear it with reference 
 to himself; that she would infinitely rather share his fortune, whatever 
 it should prove, than abandon him in his distress ; that all hardships, 
 hazards, or imprisonment itself would be more acceptable to her in his 
 company, than the greatest ease and security in the world without him, 
 unless he really proposed to come away himself too, then she was will- 
 ing to be sent before him, if he thought it a more proper method to con- 
 ceal their departure ; which the King assuring her he really did, her 
 Majesty consented to it at last. ************* 
 
 " This journey and separation therefore being at length resolved on, 
 the Queen disguising herself crossed the river upon the 9th of December, 
 taking with her only the Prince, his nurse, and two or three persons 
 more along with her to avoid suspicion, and had sent to have a coach 
 ready prepared on the other side, in which she went down to Gravesend, 
 and got safe aboard the yacht ; which, considering that the rabble was 
 up in all parts to intercept and plunder whoever they thought were 
 making their escape, was such a providence that nothing but a greater 
 danger could excuse from rashness and temerity in attempting ; but in 
 
151 
 
 such afflicting circumstances, where the government of a distressed 
 Prince is not only overturned, but himself and royal family in just ap- 
 prehensions of the most barbarous treatment, all other hazards and hard- 
 ships pass unregarded. Otherwise, for the queen to cross the river in a 
 tempestuous night, with the Prince not six months old, to wait in the 
 open air for a considerable time, till the coach was ready, and not only 
 exposed to the cold, but to the continual danger of being discovered, 
 which the least cry of the Prince might have done ; to travel in the 
 middle of an enraged people, without guards, servants, or convenience 
 sufficient to preserve them from common dangers, or even to defend 
 them from the cold, had been a tempting of providence on a less press- 
 ing occasion : however, it pleased God to bring them through all those 
 dangers." Clark's Edition of Stuart Papers, vol. ii. p. 244. 
 
 THE EARTHQUAKE OF CALLAO. Page 74. 
 
 At the destruction of Callao, in 1747, no more than one of the inhabit, 
 ants escaped ; and he, by a providence the most extraordinary. This 
 man was on the fort that overlooked the harbour, going to strike the 
 flag, when he perceived the sea to retire to a considerable distance ; and 
 then, swelling mountain high, it returned with great violence. The 
 people ran from their houses in terror and confusion : he heard a cry of 
 Miserere rise from all parts of the city ; and immediately all was silent 
 the sea had entirely overwhelmed it, and buried it for ever in its bosom. 
 But the same wave that destroyed it, drove a little boat by the place 
 where he stood, into which he threw himself and was saved. 
 
 THE ROMAN TRIUMPH. 
 
 But who is he, majestic and alone, 
 
 Who in his country' s fall forgets his own /Page 91. 
 
 " Even at Rome, the name of Caractacus was in high celebrity. The 
 Emperor, willing to magnify the* glory of the conquest, bestowed the 
 highest praise on the valour of the vanquished king. He assembled the 
 people to behold a spectacle worthy of their view. In the field before 
 the camp the praetorian bands were drawn up under arms. The fol- 
 lowers of the British chief walked in procession. The military accou- 
 trements, the harness, the rich collars, which he had gained in various 
 
152 
 
 battles, were there displayed with pomp. The wife of Caractacus, his 
 daughter, and his brother, followed next ; he himself closed the melan- 
 choly train. The rest of the prisoners, struck with terror, descended to 
 mean and abject supplications. Caractacus alone was superior to mis- 
 fortune. With a countenance unaltered, not a symptom of fear appear- 
 ing, no sorrow, no condescension, he behaved with dignity even in ruin." 
 Annals of Tacitvs, b. xii. p. 372. 
 
 Such is the touching portrait which the Roman historian has given of 
 the demeanour, under the most trying reverse of fortune, of the British 
 hero, who had for so many years opposed the masters of the world in 
 their full tide of conquest. The sequel is too well known to require de- 
 tail ; yet surely the free pardon and generous treatment which the royal 
 captives received from the emperor Claudius, should be recorded as 
 bright though solitary traits of greatness in the character of that feeble 
 and besotted prince. 
 
 MASSACRE OF THE NUNS AT PARIS. 
 
 And hard the task to many, for there were 
 
 Bright forms in that devoted company 
 
 Of consecrated maidens young and fair. Page 115. 
 
 Madame de Campan, in her Memoirs of Marie Antoinette, relates the 
 following anecdote : 
 
 " A community of nuns with their abbess were all condemned to the 
 guillotine, while the sanguinary fury of the French revolution was at its 
 height. Many of these victims were young and beautiful, and most of 
 them possessed angelic voices, and as they passed to execution, attired 
 in their monastic habits, through the stormy streets of Paris, regardless 
 of the insults of the ferocious mob, they raised the hymn of Veni Creator. 
 They had never been heard to sing it so divinely, and the celestial chorus 
 ceased not for a moment not when they ascended the steps of the scaf- 
 fold, nor while the work of death was going on, though it became feebler 
 as one after the other fell under the guillotine ; and at last it was sus- 
 tained but by one voice, which was that of the abbess, but that at length 
 ceased also, when she in turn submitted to the fatal stroke." 
 
 BUNGAY: PRINTED BY J. R. AND C. CHILDS.