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TO A LADY. Wen Man, expellid from Eden's howers,

A moment linger'd near the gate, . Each scene recall'd the vanish'd hours,

And bade him curse his future fate.

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

Woe is me, Alhama ! 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 ! 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 !

But, wandering on through distant climes,

He learnt to bear his load of grief; Just gave a sigh to other times,

And found in busier scenes relief. Thus, lady, will it be with me,

And I must view thy charms no more; For whilst I linger near to thee,

I sigh for all I knew before. In flight I shall be surely wise,

Escaping from temptation's snare; I cannot view my paradise

Without a wish to enter there.




STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 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; 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. 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.

TO THOMAS MOORE. My boat is on the shore,

And my bark is on the sea ; But, before I go, Tom Moore,

Here's a double health to thee! Here's a sigh to those who love me,

And a smile to those who hate ; And, whatever sky's above me,

Here's a heart for every fate. Though the ocean roar around me,

Yet it still shall bear me on; Though a desert should surround me,

It Hath springs that may be won. Were't the last drop in the well,

As I gasped upon the brink, Ere my fainting spirit fell,

'Tis to thee that I would drink. With that water, as this wine,

The libation I would pour Should be--Peace with thine and mine,

And a health to thee, Tom Moore.

Ou Venice! Venice! wben thy marble walls

Are level with the waters, there shall be A cry of nations o'er thy sunken halls,

A loud lament along the sweeping sea ! If I, a northern wanderer, weep for thee, What should thy sons do?-anything but weep : And yet they only murmur in their sleep. In contrast with their fathers—as the slime, The dull green ooze of the receding, deep, Is with the dashing of the spring-tide foam That drives the sailor shipless to his home, Are they to those that were; and thus they creep, Crouching and crab-like, through their sapping

streets. Oh! agony—that centuries should reap No mellower harvest! Thirteen hundred years Of wealth and glory turn’d to dust and tears, And every monument the stranger meets, Church, palace, pillar, as a mourner greets ; And even the Lion all subdued appears, And the harsh sound of the barbarian drum, With dull and daily dissonance, repeats The echo of thy tyrant's voice along The soft waves, once all musical to song, That beaved beneath the moonlight with the throng Of gondolas—and to the busy hum Of cheerful creatures, whose most sinful deeds Were but the overbeating of the heart, And flow of too much bappiness, which needs The aid of age to turn its course apart From the luxuriant and voluptuous flood Of sweet sensations, battling with the blood. But these are better than the gloomy errors, The weeds of nations in their last decay, When Vice walks forth with her unsoften'd terrors, And Mirth is madness, and but smiles to slay; And hope is nothing but a false delay, The sick man's lightning half an hour ere death, When Faintness, the last mortal birth of Pain,


And apathy of limb, the dull beginning

Cities and generations-fair, when free-
Of the cold staggering race which Death is win- For, Tyranny, there blooms no bud for thee!

Steals vein by vein and pulse by pulse away ;
Yet so relieving the o'er-tortured clay,

Glory and Empire ! once upon these towers To him appears renewal of his breath,

With Freedom-godlike 'Triad! how ye sate ! And freedom the mere numbness of his chain ; The league of the mightiest nations, in those hours And then he talks of life, and how again

When Venice was an envy, might abate, He feels his spirit soaring—albeit weak,

But did not quench her spirit ; in her fate And of the fresher air, which he would seek : All were enwrapp'd: the feasted monarchs knew And as he whispers knows not that he gasps, And loved their hostess, nor could learn to hate, That his thin finger feels not what it clasps, Although they humbled—with the kingly few And so the film comes o'er him, and the dizzy The many felt, for from all days and climes Chamber swims round and round, and shadows She was the voyager's worsbip; even lier crimes busy,

Were of the softer order-born of Love, At which he vainly catches, ilit and gleam,

She drank no blood, nor fatten'd on the dead, Till the last rattle chokes the strangled scream, But gladden'd where her harmless conquests spread; And all is ice and blackness—and the earth For these restored the Cross, that from above That which it was the moment ere our birth. Hallow'd her sheltering banners, which incessant

Flew between earth and the unholy Crescent,

Which, if it waned and dwindled, Earth may thank II.

The city it bas clothed in chains, which clank There is no hope for nations !-Search the page Now, creaking in the ears of those who owe

Of many thousand years—the daily scene, The name of Freedom to her glorious struggles ; The flow and ebb of each recurring age,

Yet she but shares with them a common woe, The everlasting to be which hath been,

And call’d the “ kingdom ” of a conquering foe, Hath taught us nought, or little : still we lean But knows what all —and, most of all, we knowOn things that rot beneath our weight, and wear With what set gilded terms a tyraut juggles ! Our strength away in wrestling with the air : For 'tis our nature strikes us down : the beasts

IV. Slaughter'd in hourly hecatombs for feasts

The name of Commonwealth is past and gone Are of as high an order—they must go

O'er the three fractions of the groaning globe; Even where their driver goads them, though to Venice is crush’d, and Holland deigns to own slaughter.

A sceptre, and endures the purple robe ;
Ye men, who pour your blood for kings as water, If the free Switzer yet bestrides alone
What have they given your children in return ? His chainless mountains, 'tis but for a time,
A heritage of servitude and woes,

For tyranny of late is cunning grown,
A blindfold bondage, where your hire is blows. And in its own good season tramples down
What! do not yet the red-bot ploughshares burn, The sparkles of our ashes. One great clime,
O’er which you stumble in a false ordeal,

Whose vigorous offspring by dividing ocean
And deem this proof of loyalty the real ;

Are kept apart and nursed in the devotion Kissing the hand that guides you to your scars, Of Freedom, which their fathers fought for, and And glorying as you tread the glowing bars ? Bequeath'd-a heritage of heart and hand, All that your sires have left you, all that Time And proud distinction from each other land, Bequeaths of free, and History of sublime, Whose sons must bow them at a monarch's motion, Spring from a different theme! Ye see and read, As if his senseless sceptre were a wand Admire and sigh, and then succumb and bleed ! Full of the magic of exploded scienceSave the few spirits who, despite of all,

Still one great clime, in full and free defiance, And worse than all, the sudden crimes engender'd Yet rears her crest, unconquer'd and sublime, By the down-thundering of the prison-wall, Above the far Atlantic !-She has taught And thirst to swallow the sweet waters tender'd, Her Esau-brethren that the haughty flag, Gushing from Freedom's fountains, when the The floating fence of Albion's feebler crag, crowd,

May strike to those whose red right hands have Madden'd with centuries of drought, are loud,

bought And trample on each other to obtain

Righits cheaply earn’d with blood. Still, still for The cup which brings oblivion of a chain

ever, Heavy and sore, in which long yoked they plough'd Better, though each man's life-blood were a river, The sand, or if there sprung the yellow grain, That it should flow, and overflow, than creep 'Twas not for them, their necks were too much Through thousand lazy channels in our veins, bow'd,

Damm'd like the dull canal with locks and chains, And their dead palates chew'd the cud of pain : And moving, as a sick man in his sleep, Yes! the few spirits,-who, despite of deeds Three paces, and then faltering :--better be Which they abhor, confound not with the cause Where the extinguish'd Spartans still are free, Those momentary starts from Nature's laws, In their proud charnel of Thermopyle, Which, like the pestilence and earthquake, smite Than stagnate in our marslı,—or o'er the deep But for a term, then pass, and leave the earth Fly, and one current to the ocean add, With all her seasons to repair the blight

One spirit to the souls our fathers had, With a few summers, and again put forth

One freeman more, America, to thee!

TRANSLATION FROM VITTORELLI. Mine, while the torch of Hymen newly fired

Becomes extinguish’d, soon—too soon–expires : ON A NUN.

But thine, within the closing grate retired, Sonnet composed in the name of a father whose daughter had recently died shortly after her marriage : and addressed to But thou at least from out the jealous door,

Eternal captive, to her God aspires. the father of her who had lately taken the veil.

Which shuts between your never-meeting eyes, Op two fair virgins, modest, though admired, May'st hear her sweet and pious voice once more: Heaven made us happy ; and now, wretched I to the marble, where my daughter lies, sires,

Rush,—the swoln flood of bitterness I pour, Heaven for a nobler doom their worth desires, And knock, and knock, and knock-but none And gazing upon either, both required.


Domestic Pieces.


EPISTLE TO AUGUSTA. My sister! my sweet sister ! if a name

Dearer and purer were, it should be thine : Mountains and seas divide us, but I claim

No tears, but tenderness to answer mine :
Go where I will, to me thou art the same-

A loved regret which I would not resign.
There yet are two things in my destiny-
A world to roam through, and a home with thee.

Perhaps the workings of defiance stir

Within me—or perhaps a cold despair,
Brought on when ills habitually recur,-

Perhaps a kinder clime, or purer air,
(For even to this may change of soul refer,

And with light armour we may learn to bear,)
Have taught me a strange quiet, which was not
The chief companion of a calmer lot.

I feel almost at times as I have felt

In happy childhood, trees, and flowers, and brooks, Which do remember me of where I dwelt

Ere my young mind was sacrificed to books, Come as of yore upon me, and can melt

My heart with recognition of their looks ; And even at moments I could think I see Some living thing to love—but none like thee.

The first were nothing—had I still the last,

It were the haven of my happiness; But other claims and other ties thou hast,

And mine is not the wish to make them less.
A strange doom is thy father's son's, and past

Recalling, as it lies beyond redress;
Reversed for him our grandsire's fate of yore-
He had no rest at sea, nor I on shore.
If my inheritance of storms hath been

In other elements, and on the rocks
Of perils, overlook'd or unforeseen,

I have sustained my share of worldly shocks,
The fault was mine ; nor do I seek to screen

My errors with defensive paradox;
I have been cunning in mine overthrow,
The careful pilot of my proper woe.
Mine were my faults, and mine be their reward :

My whole life was a contest, since the day
That gave me being, gave me that which marrd

The gift-a fate, or will, that walk'd astray;
And I at times have found the struggle hard,

And thought of shaking off my bonds of clay :
But now I fain would for a time survive,
If but to see what next can well arrive.

Here are the Alpine landscapes wbich create

A fund for contemplation ;-to admire
Is a brief feeling of a trivial date;

But something worthier do such scenes inspire.
Here to be lonely is not desolate,

For much I view which I could most desire,
And, above all, a lake I can behold
Lovelier, not dearer, than our own of old.


Oh that thou wert but with me!-but I grow

The fool of my own wishes, and forget
The solitude which I have vaunted so

Has lost its praise in this but one regret;
There may be others which I less may show ;-

I am not of the plaintive mood, and yet
I feel an ebb in my philosophy,
And the tide rising in my alter'd eye.

Kingdoms and empires in my little day

I have outlived, and yet I am not old; And when I look on this, the petty spray

Of my own years of trouble, which have rollid
Like a wild bay of breakers, melts away :

Something. I know not what-does still uphold
A spirit of slight patience ;—not in vain,
Even for its own sake, do we purchase pain.

I did remind thee of our own dear Lake,

By the old Hall which may be mine no more.
Leman's is fair ; but think not I forsake

The sweet remembrance of a dearer shore :
Sad havoc Time must with my memory make,

Ere that or thou can fade these eyes before;
Though, like all things which I have loved, they are

Resign’d for ever, or divided far.

The world is all before me: I but ask

Methought that joy and health alone could be Of Nature that with which she will comply- Where I was not--and pain and sorrow here ! It is but in her summier's sun to bask,

And is it thus ?—it is as I foretold, To mingle with the quiet of her sky,

And shall be more so; for the mind recoils To see her gentle face without a mask,

Upon itself, and the wreck'd heart lies cold, And never gaze on it with apathy.

While heaviness collects the shatter'd spoils. She was my early friend, and now shall be

It is not in the storm nor in the strife My sister till I look again on thee.

We feel benumb’d, and wish to be no more,

But in the after-silence on the shore, I can reduce all feelings but this one ;

When all is lost, except a little life. And that I would not ;-for at length I see I am too well avenged !—but 'twas my right! Suchi scenes as those wherein my life begun.

Whate'er my sins might be, thou wert not sent The earliest-even the only paths for me, To be the Nemesis who should requiteHad I but sooner learnt the crowd to shun,

Nor did Heaven choose so near an instrument. I had been better than I now can be ;

Mercy is for the merciful !-if thou The passions which have torn me would have slept; Hast been of such, 'twill be accorded now. I had not suffer'd, and thou hadst not wept. Thy nights are banish'd from the realms of sleep!

Yes! they may flatter thee, but thou shalt feel With false Ambition what had I to do?

A hollow agony which will not heal, Little with Love, and least of all with Fame; For thou art pillow'd on a curse too deep: And yet they came unsought, and with me grew, Thou hast sown in my sorrow, and must reap

And made me all which they can make-a name. The bitter harvest in a woe as real ! Yet this was not the end I did pursue ;

I have had many foes, but none like thee; Surely I once beheld a nobler aim.

For 'gainst the rest myself I could defend, But all is over-I am one the more

And be avenged, or turn them into friend ; To baffled millions which have gone before. But thou in safe implacability

Hadst nought to dread—in thy own weakness And for the future, this world's future may

shielded, From me demand but little of

niy care ;

And in my love, which hath but too much yielded, I have outlived myself by many a day,

And spared, for thy sake, some I should not Having survived so many things that were ;

spare ; My years have been no slumber, but the prey And thus upon the world-trust in thy truth, Of ceaseless vigils : for I had the share

And the wild fame of my ungovern'd youthOf life which might have fill'd a century,

On things that were not, and on things that Before its fourth in time had pass'd me by. And for the remnant which may be to come

Even upon such a basis hast thou built

A monument, whose cement hath been guilt ! I am content; and for the past I feel

The moral Clytemnestra of thy lord, Not thankless, for within the crowded sum

And hew'd down with an unsuspected sword, Of struggles, happiness at times would steal :

Fame, peace, and hope-and all the better life And for the present, I would not benumb

Which, but for this cold treason of thy heart, My feelings further.-Nor shall I conceal

Might still have risen from out the grave of strife, That with all this I still can look around,

And found a nobler duty than to part. And worship Nature with a thought profound.

But of thy virtues didst thou make a vice,

Trafficking with them in a purpose cold, For thee, my own sweet sister, in thy heart

For present anger, and for future gold I know myself secure, as thou in mine;

And buying other's grief at any price. We were and are-I am, even as thou art

And thus once enter'd into crooked ways, Beings who ne’er each other can resign; The early truth, which was thy proper praise, It is the same, together or apart,

Did not still walk beside thee-but at times,
From life's commencement to its slow decline
We are entwined : let death come slow or fast,

And with a breast unknowing its own crimes,

Deceit, averments incompatible, The tie which bound the first endures the last !

Equivocations, and the thoughts which dwell

In Janus-spirits-the significant eye
Which learns to lie with silence-the pretext

Of prudence, with advantages annex’d-

The acquiescence in all things which tend,
No matter how, to the desired end-

All found a place in thy philosophy.
And thou wert sad—yet I was not with thee ! The means were worthy, and the end is won-

And thou wert sick, and yet I was not near ; I would not do by thee as thou hast done !




"Impar Congressus Achilli.”



Yes! where is he, the champion and the child The “good old times ” —all times when old are of all that's great or little, wise or wild ; good

Whose game was empires, and whose stakes were

thrones; Are gone; the present might be if they would ;

Whose table earth-whose dice were human bones? Great things have been, and are, and greater still Want little of mere mortals but their will:

Behold the grand result in yon lone isle,
A wider space, a greener field, is given

And, as thy nature urges, weep or smile.
To those who play their “tricks before high heaven.” Sigh to behold the eagle's lofty rage
I know not if the angels weep, but men

Reduced to nibble at his narrow cage;
Have wept enough-for what ?-to weep again!

Smile to survey the queller of the nations
Now daily squabbling o'er disputed rations ;
Weep to perceive him mourning, as he dines,

O’er curtail'd dishes and o'er stinted wines ;
All is exploded—be it good or bad.

O'er petty quarrels upon petty things.
Reader !'remember when thou wert a lad,
Then Pitt was all; or, if not all, so much,

Is this the man who scourged or feasted kings |

Behold the scales in which bis fortune hangs, His very rival almost deem'd him such.

A surgeon's statement, and an earl's harangues ! We, we have seen the intellectual race

A bust delayed, a book refused, can shake Of giants stand, like Titans, face to face

The sleep of him who kept the world awake. Athos and Ida, with a dashing sea

Is this indeed the tamer of the great, Of eloquence between, which flow'd all free,

Now slave of all could lease or irritateAs the deep billows of the Ægean roar

The paltry gaoler and the prying spy, Betwixt the Hellenic and the Phrygian shore.

The staring stranger with his note-book nigh? But where are they—the rivals! a few feet

Plunged in a dungeon he had still been great; Of sullen earth divide each winding sheet.

How low, low little was this middle state,
How peaceful and how powerful is the grave,
Which hushes all! a calm, unstormy wave,

Between a prison and a palace, where

How few could feel for what he had to bear! Which oversweeps the world. The theme is old

Vain his complaint,—my lord presents his bill, Of " dust to dust ;” but half its tale untold :

His food and wine were doled out duly still ; Time tempers not its terrors-still the worm

Vain was his sickness, never was a clime Winds its cold folds, the tomb preserves its form,

So free from homicide-to doubt's a crime; Varied above, but still alike below;

And the stiff surgeon, who maintain’d his cause, The urn may shine, the ashes will not glow, Though Cleopatra's mummy cross the sea

Hath lost his place, and gain’d the world's applause. O'er which from empire she lured Anthony;

But smile—though all the pangs of brain and heart

Disdain, defy, the tardy aid of art; Though Alexander's urn a show be grown On shores he wept to conquer, though unknown- Though, save the few fond friends and imaged face How vain, how worse than vain, at length appear

Of that fair boy liis sire shall ne'er embrace,

None stand by bis low bed—though even the mind The madman's wish, the Macedonian's tear! He wept for worlds to conquer-balf the earth

Be wavering, which long awed and awes mankind : Knows not his name, or but his death, and birth,

Smile—for the fetter'd eagle breaks his chain,

And higher worlds than this are his again.
And desolation ; while his native Greece
Hath all of desolation, save its peace,
He" wept for worlds to conquer !” be who ne'er

How, if that soaring spirit still retain
Conceived the globe, he panted not to spare ! A conscious twiliglit of his blazing reign,
With even the busy Northern Isle unknown, How must he smile, on looking down, to see
Which holds his urn, and never knew his throne. The little that he was and sought to be!

What though his name a wider empire found

Than his ambition, though with scarce a bound;
But wbere is he, the modern, mightier far, Though first in glory, deepest in reverse,
Who, born no king, made monarchs draw his car, He tasted empire's blessings and its curse;
The new Sesostris, whose unharness' kings, Though kings, rejoicing in their late escape
Freed from the bit, believe themselves with wings, From chains, would gladly be their tyrant's ape;
And spurn the dust o'er which they crawld of late, How must he smile, and turn to yon lone grave,
Chain'd to the chariot of the chieftain's state ? | The proudest sea-mark that o’ertops the wave !

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