XVIII.

"But on my soul Alhama weighs,
And on my inmost spirit preys;
And if the King his land hath lost,
Yet others may have lost the most.

Woe is me, Alhama !

XIX.

"Sires have lost their children, wives
Their lords, and valiant men their lives!
One what best his love might claim
Hath lost, another wealth, or fame.

Woe is me, Alhama!

XX.

"I lost a damsel in that hour,
Of all the land the loveliest flower;
Doubloons a hundred I would pay,
And think her ransom cheap that day."
Woe is me Alhama!

XXI.

And as these things the old Moor said, They sever'd from the trunk his head; And to the Alhambra's wall with speed 'Twas carried, as the King decreed.

Woe is me, Alhama!

XXII.

And men and infants therein weep
Their loss, so heavy and so deep;
Granada's ladies, all she rears
Within her walls, burst into tears.
Woe is me, Alhama!

XXIII.

And from the windows o'er the walls
The sable web of mourning falls;
The King weeps as a woman o'er
His loss, for it is much and sore.

Woe is me, Alhama!

SONETTO DI VITTORELLI.

PER MONACA.

Sonetto composto in nome di un genitore, a cui era morta poco innanzi una figlia appena maritata: e diretto al genitore della sacra sposa.

Di due vaghe donzelle, oneste, accorte
Lieti e miseri padri il ciel ne feo,

Il ciel, che degne di più nobil sorte
L'una e l'altra veggendo, ambo chiedeo.
La mia fu tolta da veloce morte

A le fumanti tede d' imeneo:
La tua, Francesco, in suggellate porte
Eterna prigioniera or si rendeo.
Ma tu almeno potrai de la gelosa

Irremeabil soglia, ove s' asconde,
La sua tenera udir voce pietosa.
Io verso un fiume d' amarissim' onde,

Corro a quel marmo, in cui la figlia or posa,
Batto, e ribatto, ma nessun risponde.

STANZAS FOR MUSIC.

I.

THEY say that Hope is happiness;

But genuine Love must prize the past,
And Memory wakes the thoughts that bless:
They rose the first-they set the last;

II.

And all that Memory loves the most
Was once our only Hope to be,
And all that Hope adored and lost
Hath melted into Memory.

III.

Alas! it is delusion all:

The future cheats us from afar,

Nor can we be what we recall,

Nor dare we think on what we are.

TRANSLATION FROM VITTORELLI.

ON A NUN.

Sonnet composed in the name of a father, whose daughter had recently died shortly after her marriage; and addressed to the father of her who had lately taken the veil.

Of two fair virgins, modest, though admired,

Heaven made us happy; and now, wretched sires,
Heaven for a nobler doom their worth desires,
And gazing upon either, both required.

Mine, while the torch of Hymen newly fired
Becomes extinguish'd, soon-too soon-expires:
But thine, within the closing grate retired,
Eternal captive, to her God aspires.

But thou at least from out the jealous door,
Which shuts between your never-meeting eyes,
May'st hear her sweet and pious voice once more:

I to the marble, where my daughter lies,

Rush, the swoln flood of bitterness I pour,

And knock, and knock, and knock-but none replies.

ON THE UST OF HELEN BY CANOVA,80

In this beloved marble view,

Above the works and thoughts of man,
What Nature could, but would not, do,

And Beauty and Canova can!

Beyond imagination's power,
Beyond the Bard's defeated art,

With immortality her dower,
Behold the Helen of the heart!'

November, 1816.

SONG FOR THE LUDDITES.81

I.

As the Liberty lads o'er the sea

Bought their freedom, and cheaply, with blood,
So we, boys, we

Will die fighting, or live free,

And down with all kings but King Ludd!

II.

When the web that we weave is complete, And the shuttle exchanged for the sword, We will fling the winding sheet

O'er the despot at our feet,

And die it deep in the gore he has pour'd.

III.

Though black as his heart its hue, Since his veins are corrupted to mud, Yet this is the dew

Which the tree shall renew

Of Liberty, planted by Ludd!

December, 1816.

VERSICLES.82

I READ the "Christabel ;"
Very well :

I read the "Missionary;"

Pretty-very:

I tried at "Ilderim;"

Ahem!

I read a sheet of "Margret of Anjou;”

Can you?

I turn'd a page of Scott's "Waterloo ;"

Pooh! pooh!

I look'd at Wordsworth's milk-white "Rylstone Doe;"

Hillo !

&c. &c. &c.

March, 1817.

SO, WE'LL GO NO MORE A ROVING.

I.

So, we'll go no more a roving

So late into the night,

Though the heart be still as loving,
And the moon be still as bright.

II.

For the sword outwears its sheath,
And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And love itself have rest.

III.

Though the night was made for loving,
And the day returns too soon,

Yet we'll go no more a roving

By the light of the moon.

TO THOMAS MOORE.

WHAT are you doing now,
Oh Thomas Moore?
What are you doing now,
Oh Thomas Moore?
Sighing or suing now,
Rhyming or wooing now,
Billing or cooing now,

Which Thomas Moore?

But the Carnival's coming,
Oh Thomas Moore !
The Carnival's coming,

Oh Thomas Moore !

1817.