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But soon he knew himself the most un fit
Ofman to herd with Man; with whom he held
Little in commop, untaught to submit
His thoughts to others, though his soul was quella
In youth by his own thoughts; still uncompellid,
He would not yield dominion of his mind
To spirits against whom his own rebellid;

Proud though in desolation, which could find
A life within itself, to breathe without mankind.

Where rose the mountains, there to him were friends;
Where roll'd the ocean, thereon was his home
Where a blue sky, and glowing clime, extends,
He had the passion and the power to roam ;
The desert, forest, cavern, breaker's foam,
Were unto him companionship; they spake
A mutual language, clearer than the tome

Of his land's tongue, which he would oft forsake
For Nature's pages glass'd by sunbeams on the lake.

Like the Chaldean, he could watch the stars,
Till he had peopled, them with beings bright
As their own beams; and earth, and earth-born jars,
And human frailties, were forgotten quite:
Could he have kept his spirits to that flight
He had been happy? but his clay will sink
Its spark immortal, envying it the light

To which it mounts, as if to break the link
That keeps us from yon heaven which wous us to its brink,

But in man's dwellings he became a thing
Restless and worn, and stern and wearisome,
Droop'd as a a wild-born falcon with clipt wing,
To whom the boundless air alone were home:
Then came his fit again, which to o'ercome,
As eagerly the barr’d-up bird will beat.
His breast and beak against the wiry dome

Till the blood tinge his plumage, so the heat
Of his impeded soul would through his bosom eat,

XVI. Self-exiled Harold wanders forth again, With nought of hope left, but with less of gloom. The very knowledge that he liv'd in vain, That all was over on this side the tomb, Had made Despair a smilingness assume, Which, though 'twere wild, -as on the plundered wreck When mariners would madly meet their doom

With draughts intemperate on the sipking deck,
Did yet inspire a cheer, which he forebore to check.

Stop! -for thy tread is on an Empire's dust?
An Earthquake's spoil is sepulchred below!
Is the spot mark'd with no colossal bust?
Nor column trophied for triumphal show?

but the nioral's truth tells simpler so,
As the ground was before, thus let it be?
How that red rain hath made the harvest grow!

And is this all the world has gained by thee,
Thou first and last of fields! king-making Victory!

And Harold stands upon this place of skulls,
The grave of France, the deadly Waterloo !
How in an hour the power which gave annuls
Its gifts, transferring fame as fleeting too!
In“ pride of place” [1] here last the eagle flew,
Then tore with bloody talon the rent plain,
Pierced by the shaft of banded nations through;

Ambition's life and labours all were vain;
He wears the shattered links of the world's broken chain.

Fit retribution ! Gaul may champ the bit
And foam in fetters; but is Earth more free?
Did nations combat to make One submit;
Or league to teach all kiugs true sovereignty?
What! shall reviving Thraldom again be
The patched-up idol of enlightened days?
Shall we, who struck the Lion down, shall we

Pay the Wolf homage; proffering lowly gaze
And servile knees to throues : No ; prove before ye praise!

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If not, o'er one fallen despot boast no more!
In vain fair cheeks were furrowed with hot tears
For Europe's flowers long rooted up before
The trampler of her vineyards; in vain years
Of death, depopulation, bondage, fears,
Have all been borne, and broken by the accord
Of roused-up millions: all that most endears

Glory, is when the myrtle wreathes a sword
Such as Harmodius (2) drew on Atheu's tyrant lord.

XXI. There was a sound of revelry by night, And Belgium's capital had gathered then Her beauty and her Chivalry, and bright The lamps shone o'er fair woinan and brave men; A thousand hearts beat happily ; and when Music arose with its voluptuous'swell, Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again, "And (3) all went merry as a marriage-bell; But hush ! hark; a deep sound like a rising knell !

XXII. Did ye not hear it ?-No; 'twas but the wind, Or the car rattling o'er the stony street; On with the dance! let joy be unconfined; No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet But, bark !--that heavy sound breaks in once more, As if the clouds its echo would repeat;

And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! Arm! Aru! it is it is the cannon's opening roar!

XXIII. Within a windowed niche of that high ball Sate Brunswick's tated chieften; he did hear That sound the first amidst the festival, And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear; And when they smiled because hc deem'd it near, His heart more truly knew that peal too well Which strech'd his father on a bloody bier,

And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell: He'rush'd into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell.

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Ab! then and there was hurrying to and fro
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,
And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago
Blush'd at the praise of their own loveliness ;
And there were sudden partings, such as press,
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs
Which ne'er might be repeated; who could guess

If ever more should meet those mutual eyes,
Since upon nights so sweet such awful morn could rise?

And there was mounting in hot haste; the steed,
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war,
And the deep thunder peal on peal afar,
And near, the beat of the alarming drum
Roused up the soldier ere the morning star;

While throng'd the citizens with terror dumb,
Or whispering, with white lips-“The foe! They come!


[they come!" And wild and high the “ Cameron's gathering" rose ! The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes :* How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills, Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fills Their mountain-pipe, so fills the mountaineers With the fierce native daring which instils

The stirring memory of a thousand years, [ears! And (4) Evan's,(5) Donald's fame rings in each clansman's

XXVII. And Ardennes (6) waves above them her green leaves, Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass, Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, Over the unreturning brave,-alas! Ere evening to be trodden like the grass Which now beneath them, but above shall grow In its next verdure, when this fiery mass

Of living valour, rolling on the foe And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low,

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life,
Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay,
The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife
The morn the marshalling in arms,--the day
Battle's magnificently-stern array!
The thunder-clouds close v'er it, which when rent
The earth is covered thick with other clay

Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent, Rider and horse,-friend, foe-in one red burial bleut.

Their praise is hymn'd by loftier harps than mine ;
Yet one I would select from that proud throng,
Partly because they blend me with his line,
And partly that I did his sire some wrong,
And partly that bright names will hallow song ;
And his was of the bravest, and when shower'd
The death-bolts deadliest the thinn'd files along,

Even where the thickest ot' war's tempest lower'd,
They reachd no nobler breast than thine, young, gallant


[Howard! There have been tears and breaking hearts for thee. And miue were nothing, had I such to give; But when I stood beneath the fresh green tree, Which living waves there thou didst cease to live, And saw around me the wild field revive With fruits and fertile promise, and the Spring Come forth her work of gladness to contrive,

With all her reckless birds upon the wing, I turn'd from all she brought to those she could not bring.

I tura'd to thee, to thousands, of whom each
And one as alla ghastly gap did make
In his own kind and kindred, whom to teach
Forgetfulness were mercy for their sake;
The Archangel's trump, 'not Glory's, upust awake
Those whom they thirst for; though the sound of fame
May for a moment soothe, it cannot slake

Tho fever of vain longing, and the name
So honored but assumes a stronger, bitterer claim.

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