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- Blest and thrice blest the Roman
Who sces Rome's brightest day, Who sees that long victorious pomp
Wind down the Sacred Way, And through the bellowing Forum,
And round the Suppliant's Grove, L'p to the everlasting gates
or Capitolian Jove.
Where soft Orortes murmurs
Beneath the laurel shades;
of dark-red colonnades; Where in the still deep water,
Sheltered from waves and blasts, Bristles the dusky forest
Of Byrsa's thousand masts ; Where fur-clad hunters wander
Amidst the Northern ice; Where through the sand of morning-anj
The camel bears the spice;
Far o'er the Western foam,
The mighty name of Rome."
“Then where, o'er two bright havens,
The towers of Corinth frown; Where the gigantic King of day
On his own Rhodes looks down ;
A POEM WHICH OBTAINED THE CHANCELLOR'S MEDAL AT THE CAMBRIDGE COMMENCEMENT
On! land 10 Memory and to Freedom dear, Heedless, like him, the impending stroke await, Land of the melting lyre and conquering spear, And sport and wanton on the brink of fate. Land of the vine-clad hill, the fragrant grove,
What 'vails it that where yonder heighits aspire, Of arts and arms, of Genius and of Love,
With ashes piled, and scathed with rills of fire, Flear, fairest Italy. Though now no more Gigantic phantoms dimly seem to glide,* The glittering eagles awe the Atlantic shore, In misty files, along the mountain's side, Nor at thy feet the gorgeous Orient flings
To view with threatening scowl your fated lands, The blood-bought treasures of her tawny Kings, And toward your city point their shadowy hands? Though vanished all that formed thine old renown, In vain celestial omens prompted fear, The laurel garland, and the jewelled crown, And nature's signal spoke the ruin near. The avenging poniard, the victorious sword, In vain through many a night ye viewed from far Which reared thine empire, or thy rights restored, 'The meteor flag of elemental war Yet still the constant Muscs haunt thy shore, Unroll its blazing folds from yonder height, And love to linger where they dwelt of yore. | In fearful sign of carth's intestine fight. If e'er of old they deigned, with favouring smile, In vain Vesuvius groaned with wrath supprest, To tread the sea-girt shores of Albion's isle, And muttered thunder in his burning breast. To smooth with classic arts our rugged tongue, Long since the Eagle from that flaming peak And warm with classic glow the British song, Hath soared with screams a safer nest to seek. Oh! bid them snatch their silent-harps which wave Awed by the infernal beacon's fitful glare, On the lone oak that shades thy Maro's grave, * The howling fox hath left his wonted lair; And sweep with magic hand the slumbering strings, Nor dares the browsing goat in venturous leap To fire the poet. -For thy clime he sings,
To spring, as erst, from dizzy stecp to steep.-Thy scenes of gay delight and wild despair, Man only mocks the peril. Man alone Thy varied forms of awful and of fair.
Defies the sulphurous flame, the warning groan. How rich that climate's sweets, how wild its While instinct, humbler guardian, wakes and saves, storms,
Proud reason sleeps, nor knows the doom it braves. What charms array it, and what rage deforms, But see the opening theatre invites Well have they mouldering walls, Pompeii, known. I The fated myriads to its gay delights. Decked in those charms, and by that rage o'er. In, in, they swarm, tumultuous as the roar thrown.
Of foaming breakers on a rocky shore. Sad City, gayly dawned thy latest day,
The enraptured throng in breathless transport views And poured its radiance on a scene as gay.
The gorgeous temple of the Tragic Muse. The leaves scarce rustled in the sighing brecze; There, while her wand in shadowy pomp arrays In azure dimples curled the sparkling seas,
Ideal scenes, and forms of other days, And as the golden tide of light they quaffed, Fair as the hopes of youth, a radiant band, Campania's sunny meads and vineyards laughed, The sister arts around her footstool stand, While gleamed each lichened oak and giant pino 1. To deck their Queen, and lend a milder grace On the far sides of swarthy Apennine.
To the stern beauty of that awful face:
Above the echoing roofs the peal prolong
Admiring thousands own the moral spell,
Melt with the melting strains of fancied wo, His iron front, and deigns a transient smile; With terror sicken, or with transport glow. There, frantic with delight, the ruddy boy
Oh! for a voice like that which pealed of old Scarce treads on earth, and bounds and laughs with Through Salem's cedar courts and shrines of gold, joy.
And in wild accents round the trembling dome From every crowded altar perfumes rise
Proclaimed the havoc of avenging Rome; In billowy clouds of fragrance to the skies.
While every palmy arch and sculptured tower The milk-white monarch of the herd they lead, Shook with the footsteps of the parting power. With gilded horns, at yonder shrine to bleed; Such voice might check your tears, which idly streart And while the victim crops the broidered plain, For the vain phantoms of the poet's dream. And frisks and gambols towards the destined fane, They little deem that like himself they stray
* Dio Cassius relates that figures of gigantic size sp. To death, unconscious, o'er a flowery way;
peared for some time previous to the destruction of Pom
peii, on the summits of Vesuvius. This appearance was • See Eustace's description of the Tomb or Virgil, on probably occasioned by the fantastic forins which the the Neapolitan coast.
smoke from the crater or the volcano assumed. VOL. IV.-72
Might bid those terrors rise, those sorrows flow;
is burning brain, Till Fear o’erstrained in stupor dies away, And Madness wrests her victim from dismay. His arms sink down; his wild and stony eye Glares without sight on blackest vacancy. He feels not, sees not; wrapped in senseless trance His soul is still and listless as his glance. One cheerless blank, one rayless mist is there, Thoughts, senses, passions, live not with despair. Haste, Famine, haste, to urge the destined close, And lull the horrid scene to stern repose.
Yet ere, dire Fiend, thy lingering tortures cen
* The capital of the Corinthian pillar is carved, as is well known, in imitation of the acanthus. Mons. de Chateaubriand, as I have found since this Poem was written, has employed o same image in his Travels.
# It is the custom of the modern Greeks to adorn corpses profusely with flowers
THE BATTLE OF IWRY. 57.1 Q * e
The wand of eloquence, whose magic sway Now shall thy deathless memory live entwined
And thou, sad city, raise thy drooping head, Each grace of §, lyre or Tully's page.
Had Fate reprieved thee till the frozen North Thy fame shall snatch from time agreener bloom,
oured in wild swarms its hoarded millions forth, Shall spread where'er the Muse has rear'd her
[HENRY the Fourth, on his accession to the French crown, was opposed by a large part of his subjects, under the Duke of Mayenne, with the assistance of Spain and Savoy. In March, 1590, he gained a decisive victory over that party at Ivry. Before the battle, he addressed his troops, “My children, if you lose sight of your colours, rally to my white plume—you will always find it in the path to honour and glory.” His conduct was answerable to his promise. Nothing could resist his impetuous valour, and the leaguers underwent a total and bloody defeat. In the midst of the rout, Henry followed, crying, “Save the French!” and his clemency added - a number of the enemies to his own army. .Mikin's Biographical Dictionary.]
Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are:
Oh! how our hearts were beating, when at the dawn of day,
The king is come to marshal us, in all his armour drest,
Hurrah! the foes are moving ! Hark to the mingled din
Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin:
The fiery Duke is pricking fast across Saint Andre's plain,
With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne.
- Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France,
• The well-known name of Attila
Now God-be praised, the day is ours!, Mayenne hath turned his rein D'Aumale hath cried for quarter-the Flemish Count is slain, Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a Biscay gale; The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags, and cloven mail; And then we thought on vengeance, and all along our van, “Remember St. §. was passed from man to man; But out spake gentle Henry then, “No Frenchman is my foe; Down, down with every foreigner; but let your brethren go.” Oh! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war, As our sovereign lord, King Henry, the soldier of Navarre!
Ho! maidens of Vienna! Ho! matrons of Lucerne! Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall return: Ho! Philip, send for charity, thy Mexican pistoles, That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spearmen's souls' Ho! gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms be bright! Ho! burghers of St. Genevieve, keep watch and ward to-night! For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath raised #. slave, And mocked the counsel of the wise and the valour of the brave. Then glory to his holy name, from whom all glories are; A rid glory to our sovereign lord, King Henry of Navarre.