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 summer'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! Such 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 bad 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.

are

Even upon such a basis hast thou built And for the remnant which may be to come

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 goldI know myself secure, as thou in mine ;

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

And with a breast unknowing its own crimes, We are entwined : let death come slow or fast,

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-
LINES

The acquiescence in all things which tend,
ON HEARING THAT LADY BYRON WAS ILL.

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!

The Age of Bronze ;

OR, CARMEN SECULARE ET ANXUS HAUD MIRABILIS.

"Imper Congressus Achilli."

11

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;

Whose game was empires, and whose stakes were Are gone; the present might be if they would;

thrones; Great things have been, and are, and greater still

Whose table earth-whose dice were human bones? 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."

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, All is exploded-be it good or bad.

O’er curtail'd dishes and o'er stinted wines;

O’er petty quarrels upon petty things. Reader! remember when thou wert a lad,

Is this the man who scourged or seasted kings? Then Pitt was all ; or, if not all, so much,

Behold the scales in which his fortune bangs, His very rival almost deem'd him such. We, we have seen the intellectual race

A surgeon's statement, and an earl's barangues !

A bust delayed, a book refused, can shake
Of giants stand, like Titans, face to face-
Athos and Ida, with a dashing sea

The sleep of him who kept the world awake.

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

Now slave of all could tease or irritate-
As the deep billows of the Ægean roar

The paltry gaoler and the prying spy,
Betwixt the Hellenic and the Phrygian shore.
But where are they—the rivals! a lew feet

The staring stranger with his note-book nigh?

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

How low, how little was this middle state, How peaceful and how powerful is the grave,

Between a prison and a palace, where Wbich hushes all ! a calm, unstormy wave,

How few could feel for what he had to bear! W bich 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 homieide—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,

Hath lost his place, and gain'd the world's applause. Though Cleopatra's mummy cross the sea

But smile—though all the pangs of brain and heart O'er which from empire she lured Anthony;

Disdain, defy, the tardy aid of art; Though Alexander's urn a show be grown

Though, save the few fond friends and imaged face On shores he wept to conquer, though unknownHow vain, how worse than vain, at length appear

Of that fair boy lis sire shall ne’er embrace, The madman's wish, the Macedonian's tear!"

None stand by bis low bed—though even the mind

Be wavering, which long awed and awes mankind : He wept for worlds to conquer-half the earth

Smile-for the fetter'd eagle breaks his chain, Knows not his name, or but his death, and birth,

| And higher worlds than this are his again.
And desolation ; while bis 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 be 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 III.

Than his ambition, though with scarce a bound; But where is he, the modern, nightier far,

Though first in glory, deepest in reverse, Who, born no king, made monarchis draw his car- He tasted empire's blessings and its curse; The new Sesostris, whose unharness'd 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!

•

What though his gaoler, duteous to the last, Poland ! o'er which the avenging angel pass'd, Scarce deem'd the coffin's lead could keep hiin fast, But left thee as he found thee, still a waste, Refusing one poor line along the lid,

Forgetting all thy still enduring claim, To date the birth and death of all it bid ;

Thy lotted people and extinguish'd name. That name shall hallow the ignoble shore,

Thy sigh for freedom, thy long-flowing tear,
A talisman to all save him who bore :

That sound that crashes in the tyrant's ear-
The fleets that sweep before the eastern blast Kosciusko! On-on-on-the thirst of war
Shall bear their sea-boys hail it from the mast; Gasps for the gore of serfs and of their czar.
When Victory's Gallic column sball but rise, The half barbaric Moscow's minarets
Like Pompey's pillar, in a desert's skies,

Gleam in the sun, but 'tis a sun that sets !
The rocky isle that holds or held his dust,

Moscow ! thou limit of his long career, Shall crown the Atlantic like the hero's bust, For which rude Charles bad wept his frozen tear And mighty nature o'er his obsequies

To see in vain—he saw thee-how with spire Do more than niggard envy still denies.

and palace fuel to one common fire. But what are these to him? Can glory's lust To this the soldier lent his kindling match, Touch the freed spirit or the fetter'd dust?

To this the peasant gave his cottage thatch, Small care hath he of what his tomb consists; To this the merchant flung bis hoarded store, Nought if he sleeps-nor more if he exists : The prince his hall--and Moscow was no more! Alike the better-seeing shade will smile

Sublimest of volcanoes ! Etna's flame On the rude cavern of the rocky isle,

Pales before thine, and quenchless Hecla's tame; As if his ashes found their latest home

Vesuvius shows his blaze, a usual sight
In Rome's Pantheon or Gaul's mimic dome For gaping tourists, from his hackney'd height:
He wants not this; but France shall feel the want Thou stand'st alone unrivallid, till the fire
Of this last consolation, though so scant:

To come, in which all empires shall expire.
Her honour, fame, and faith demand his bones,
To rear above a pyramid of thrones;

Thou other element ! as strong and stern,
Or carried onward in the battle's van,

To teach a lesson conquerors will not learn ! To form, like Guesclin's' dust, her talisman. Whose icy wing flapped o'er the faltering foe, But be it as it is the time may come

Till fell a hero with each flake of snow;
His name shall beat the alarm, like Ziska's drum. How did thy numbing beak and silent fang

Pierce, till hosts perish'd with a single pang!
In vain shall Seine look up along his banks

For the gay thousands of his dashing ranks !
Oh heaven ! of which he was in power a feature; In vain shall France recall beneath her vines
Oh earth ! of which he was a noble creature : Her youth-their blood flows faster than her wines;
Thou isle ! to be remember'd long and well,

Or stagnant in their human ice remains That saw'st the unfledged eaglet chip his shell ! In frozen mummies on the Polar plains. Ye Alps, which view'd him in his dawning flights In vain will Italy's broad sun awaken Hover, the victor of a hundred fights!

Her offspring chilld; its beams are now forsaken. Thou Rome, who saw'st thy Cæsar's deeds out. Of all the trophies gather'd from the war, done!

What shall return the conqueror's broken car! Alas! why pass'd he too the Rubicon

The conqueror's yet unbroken heart! Again The Rubicon of man's awaken'd rights,

The horn of Roland sounds, and not in vain. To herd with vulgar kings and parasites ?

Lutzen, where fell the Swede of victory, Egypt! from whose all dateless tombs arose Beholds him conquer, but, alas ! not die: Forgotten Pharaohs from their long repose,

Dresden surveys three despots fly once more And shook within their pyramids to hear

Before their sovereign,-sovereign as before ; A new Cambyses thandering in their ear :

But there exhausted Fortune quits the field, While the dark shades of forty ages stood,

And Leipsic's treason bids the unvanquish'd yield. Like startled giants by Nile's famous flood;

The Saxon jackal leaves the lion's side Or from the pyramid's tall pinnacle

To turn the bear's, and woll's, and fox's guide; Belield the desert peopled, as from hell,

And backward to the den of his despair With clashing hosts, who strew'd the barren sand, The forest monarch shrinks, but finds no lair ! To re-manure the uncultivated land ! Spain! which, a moment mindless of the Cid, Oh ye ! and each and all! Oh France ! who Beheld his banner flouting thy Madrid !

found Austria! which saw thy twice-ta'en capital Thy long fair fields plouglı’d up as hostile ground, Twice spared to be the traitress of his fall!

Disputed foot by foot, till treason, still Ye race of Frederic!-Frederics but in name His only victor, from Montmartre's hill And falsehood-heirs to all except his fame : Look'd down o'er trampled Paris ! and thou Isle, Who, crush'd at Jena, crouched at Berlin, fell Which seest Etruria from thy ramparts smile, First, and but rose to follow! Ye who dwell Thou momentary shelter of his pride, Where Kosciusko dwelt, remembering yet

Till woo'd by danger, his yet weeping bride! The unpaid amount of Catherine's bloody debt! Oh, France ! retaken by a single march,

Whose path was through one long triumphal arch!

Won half by blander, half by treachery :

| But driven from thence awhile, yet not for aye, Oh, dull Saint Helen! with thy gaoler niglı Break o'er th' Ægean, mindful of the day Hear! bear Prometheus from his rock appeall

Of Salamis !—there, there the waves arise, To earth, air, ocean, all that felt or feel

| Not to be lull'd by tyrant victories. His power and glory, all who get shall hear

Lone, lost, abandon'd in their utmost need A name eternal as the rolling year;

By Christians, unto whom they gave their creed, He teaches them the lesson taught so long,

The desolated lands, the ravaged isle, So oft, so vainly-learn to do no wrong!

The foster'd feud encouraged to beguile,
A single step into the right bad made

The aid evaded, and the cold delay,
This man the Washington of worlds betray'd : Prolong'd but in the hope to make a prey ;-
A single step into the wrong has given

These, these shall tell the tale, and Greece can His name a doubt to all the winds of heaven;

show The reed of Fortune, and of thrones the rod, The false friend worse than the infuriate foe. Of fame the Moloch or the demigod ;

But this is well: Greeks only should free Greece, His country's Cæsar, Europe's Hannibal, ·

Not the barbarian, with his mask of peace. Without their decent dignity of fall.

How should the autocrat of bondage be Yet Vanity herself had better taught

The king of serfs, and set the nations free? A surer path even to the fame he sought,

Better still serve the haughty Mussulman, By pointing out on history's fruitless page

Than swell the Cossaque's prowling caravan ;
Ten thousand conquerors for a single sage.

Better still toil for masters, than await,
While Franklin's quiet memory climbs to heaven, The slave of slaves, before a Russian gate,
Calming the lightning which he thence had riven, Number'd by hordes, a human capital,
Or drawing from the no less kindled earth

A live estate, existing but for thrall,
Freedom and peace to that which boasts his birth; Lotted by thousands, as a meet reward
While Washington's a watchword, such as ne'er For the first courtier in the Czar's regard ;
Shall sink while there's an echo left to air :

While their immediate owner never tastes While even the Spaniard's thirst of gold and war His sleep, sans dreaming of Siberia's wastes : Forgets Pizarro to shout Bolivar!

Better succumb even to their own despair, Alas! why must the same Atlantic wave

And drive the camel than purvey the bear.
Which wafted freedom gird a tyrant's grave-

VII.
The king of kings, and yet of slaves the slave,
Who burst the chains of millions to renew

But not alone within the hoariest clime
The very fetters which his arm broke through, Where Freedom dates her birth with that of
And crush'd the rights of Europe and his own,

Time,
To flit between a dungeon and a throne ?

And not alone where, plunged in night, a crowd
Of Incas darken to a dubious cloud,

The dawn revives : renown'd, romantic Spain
But 'twill not be—the spark's awaken'd-lo ! Holds back the invader from her soil again.
The swarthy Spaniard feels his former glow;

Not now the Roman tribe nor Punic horde The same high spirit which beat back the Moor

Demand her fields as lists to prove the sword; Through eight long ages of alternate gore

Not now the Vandal or the Visigoth Revives--and where ? in that avenging clime

Pollute the plains, alike abhorring both; Where Spain was once synonymous with crime

Nor old Pelayo on his mountain rears Where Cortes and Pizarro's banner flew,

The warlike fathers of a thousand years. The infant world redeems her name of “ New." That seed is sown and reap'd, as oft the Moor 'Tis the old aspiration breathed afresh,

Sighs to remember on his dusky shore. To kindle souls within degraded flesh,

Long in the peasant's song or poet's page Such as repulsed the Persian from the shore Has dwelt the memory of Abencerrage ; Where Greece was-No! she still is Greece once The Zegri, and the captive victors, flung more.

Back to the barbarous realm from whence they One common cause makes myriads of one breast,

sprung. Slaves of the East, or helots of the West :

But these are gone—their faith, their swords, their On Andes' and on Athos' peaks unfurld,

sway, The self-same standard streams o'er either world : Yet left more anti-christian foes than they ; The Athenian wears again Harmodius' sword;

| The bigot monarch, and the butcher priest, The Chili chief abjures his foreign lord;

The Inquisition, with her burning feast, The Spartan knows himself once more a Greek, The faith's red “auto,” fed with human fuel, Young Freedom plumes the crest of each cacique ; While sate the catholic Moloch, calmly cruel, Debating despots, hemm'd on either shore,

Enjoying, with inexorable eye,
Shrink vainly from the roused Atlantic's roar; That fiery festival of agony !
Through Calpe's strait the rolling tides advance, The stern or feeble sovereign, one or both
Sweep slightly by the half-tamed land of France, By turns; the hauglitiness whose pride was sloth ;
Dash o'er the old Spaniard's cradle, and would fain | The long degenerate noble; the debased
Unite Ausonia to the mighty main :

Hidalgo, and the peasant less disgraced,
But more degraded; the unpeopled realm ;

The once proud navy which forgot the helm; (1) I refer the reader to the first address of Promethens in Æschylus, when he was left alone by his attendants, and before

The once impervious phalanx disarray'd ; the arrival of the chorus of sea-nymphs.

| The idle forge that form’d Toledo's blade;