By the bodies, which lie all open to the sky, Tracking from Elbe to Rhine the tyrant's flight; By the widow's and the orphan's cry; By the childless parent's misery; By the lives which he hath shed; By the ruin he hath spread; By the prayers which rise for curses on his head,-Redeem, O France! thine ancient fame, Revenge thy sufferings and thy shame, Open thine eyes!--too long hast thou been blind; Take vengeance for thyself, and for mankind! By those horrors which the night Witness'd when the torches' light To the assembled murderers show'd Where the blood of Condé flow'd; By thy murder'd Pichegru's fame; By murder'd Wright--an English name; By murder'd Palm's atrocious doom; By murder'd Hofer's martyrdom,-Oh! by the virtuous blood thus vilely spilt, The villain's own peculiar, private guilt, Open thine eyes!--too long hast thou been blind; Take vengeance for thyself, and for mankind! THE HOLLY-TREE. O READER! hast thou ever stood to see The eye that contemplates it well perceives Order'd by an intelligence so wise, Below, a circling fence, its leaves are seen No grazing cattle through their prickly round But as they grow where nothing is to fear, I love to view these things with curious eyes, And in this wisdom of the holly-tree Can emblem see Wherewith perchance to make a pleasant rhyme, One which may profit in the after time. Thus, though abroad perchance I might appear To those who on my leisure would intrude Gentle at home amid my friends I'd be, And should my youth, as youth is apt, I know, All vain asperities I day by day Would wear away, Till the smooth temper of my age should be Like the high leaves upon the holly-tree. And as, when all the summer trees are seen The holly leaves a sober hue display But when the bare and wintry woods we see, So would I seem amid the young and gay That in my age as cheerful I might be THE DEAD FRIEND. NoT to the grave, not to the grave, my soul, The form that once was dear! The spirit is not there Earth, air, and water's ministering particles Resolved, their uses done. Not to the grave, not to the grave, my soul, The spirit is not there! Often together have we talk'd of death; Sure I have felt thy presence! Thou hast given Hast kept me from the world unstain'd and pure. Edmund! we did not err ! Our best affections here, They are not like the toys of infancy; The soul outgrows them not; We do not cast them off; O, if it could be so, It were indeed a dreadful thing to die! Not to the grave, not to the grave, my soul, Think that he companies thy solitude; THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM. Ir was a summer evening, Old Kaspar's work was done Roll something large and round, In playing there had found; He came to ask what he had found, That was so large, and smooth, and round. Old Kaspar took it from the boy, Who stood expectant by; And then the old man shook his head, ""Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he, "I find them in the garden, For there's many here about; And often, when I go to plough, The ploughshare turns them out! For many thousand men," said he, "Were slain in that great victory." "Now tell us what 't was all about," Young Peterkin he cries; While little Wilhelmine looks up, With wonder-waiting eyes; "Now tell us all about the war, And what they kill'd each other for." "It was the English," Kaspar cried, "Who put the French to rout; But what they kill'd each other for, I could not well make out. But everybody said," quoth he, "That 't was a famous victory. 66 My father lived at Blenheim then, Yon little stream hard by ; They burnt his dwelling to the ground, So with his wife and child he fled, "With fire and sword the country round Was wasted far and wide; But things like that, you know, must be "They say it was a shocking sight Lay rotting in the sun; But things like that, you know, must be After a famous victory. "Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won, And our good prince Eugene." "Why, 't was a very wicked thing!" Said little Wilhelmine. MAN hath a weary pilgrimage Upon the road before, Restraints which no rewards repay, In thought he loves to roam, Youth comes; the toils and cares of life Then is not Youth, as Fancy tells, Its fabled bliss destroy; The happy dreams of Youth. Life's vain delusions are gone by; RODERICK IN BATTLE. COUNT Julian's soldiers and the Asturian host Set up a shout, a joyful shout, which rung Wide through the welkin. Their exulting cry With louder acclamation was renew'd, When from the expiring miscreant's neck they saw Thy pride and strength! Orelio, my good horse, Rode toward the troops; its unaccustom'd shape The trustiest blade that e'er in Bilbilis The word is, Vengeance! Vengeance was the word; From man to man, and rank to rank it pass'd, The enemy in shriller sounds return'd And javelins hurtled by. Anon the hosts Met in the shock of battle, horse and man [mace, Conflicting; shield struck shield, and sword, and And curtle-axe on helm and buckler rung; Armour was riven, and wounds were interchanged, And many a spirit from its mortal hold Hurried to bliss or bale. Well did the chiefs Of Julian's army in that hour support Their old esteem; and well Count Pedro there Enhanced his former praise; and by his side, Rejoicing like a bridegroom in the strife, Alphonso through the host of infidels Bore on his bloody lance dismay and death. But there was worst confusion and uproar, There widest slaughter and dismay, where, proud Of his recover'd lord, Orelio plunged Through thickest ranks, trampling beneath his feet The living and the dead. Where'er he turns, The Moors divide and fly. Appall'd they say, who to the front of war Bareheaded offers thus his naked life? Replete with power he is, and terrible, Like some destroying angel! Sure his lips Have drank of Kaf's dark fountain, and he comes Strong in his immortality! Fly! fly! They said; this is no human foe!-Nor less Of wonder fill'd the Spaniards when they saw How flight and terror went before his way, And slaughter in his path. Behold, cries one, With what command and knightly ease he sits The intrepid steed, and deals from side to side His dreadful blows! Not Roderick in his power Bestrode with such command and majesty That noble war-horse. His loose robe this day Is death's black banner, shaking from its folds Dismay and ruin. Of no mortal mould What man is this, Is he who in that garb of peace affronts NIGHT. How beautiful is night! A dewy freshness fills the silent air; In full-orb'd glory yonder moon divine The desert-circle spreads, Like the round ocean, girdled with the sky. Who, at this untimely hour, No station is in view, Nor palm-grove, islanded amid the waste. The mother and her child, The widow'd mother and the fatherless boy, They at this untimely hour, Wander o'er the desert sands. ALAODIN'S PARADISE. AND oh! what odours the voluptuous vale From cluster'd henna, and from orange groves When from the summit of some lofty tree Fly groaning with the torment, she the while Such odours flow'd upon the world, ЕРІТАРН. THIS to a mother's sacred memory In prayers and tears of joy. The lingering hour LISTENING TO STORMS. "Tis pleasant, by the cheerful hearth, to hear To know all human skill, all human strength, CHILDHOOD OF JOAN OF ARC. HERE in solitude My soul was nurst, amid the loveliest scenes Their ever-varying forms; and ho, most sweet! A SUB-MARINE CITY. THEIR golden summits in the noonday light, Shone o'er the dark-green deep that roll'd between ; For domes and pinnacles, and spires were seen Peering above the sea-a mournful sight! Well might the sad beholder ween from thence What works of wonder the devouring wave Had swallow'd there, when monuments so brave Bore record of their old magnificence. And on the sandy shore, beside the verge Of ocean, here and there a rock-hewn fane Resisted in its strength the surf and surge That on their deep foundations beat in vain. In solitude the ancient temples stood, Once resonant with instrument and song, And solemn dance of festive multitude; Now as the weary ages pass along, Hearing no voice save of the ocean flood, Which roars for ever on the restless shores; Or, visiting their solitary caves, The lonely sound of winds, that moan around, Accordant to the melancholy waves. AN EASTERN EVENING. EVENING comes on: arising from the stream, Homeward the tall flamingo wings his flight; And where he sails athwart the setting beam, His scarlet plumage glows with deeper light. The watchman, at the wish'd approach of night, Gladly forsakes the field, where he all day, To scare the winged plunderers from their prey, With shout and sling, on yonder clay-built height, Hath borne the sultry ray. Hark! at the Golden Palaces, The Bramin strikes the hour. For leagues and leagues around, the brazen sound Rolls through the stillness of departing day, Like thunder far away. THE LOCUST CLOUD. ONWARD they came, a dark continuous cloud "Behold the mighty army!" Moath cried, 66 By the blind element. And yonder birds, our welcome visitants, Lo! where they soar above the embodied host, Pursue their way, and hang upon their rear, And thin their spreading flanks, Rejoicing o'er their banquet! Deemest thou The scent of water on some Syrian mosque Placed with priest-mummery, and the jargon-rites Which fool the multitude, hath led them here From far Khorassan? Allah, who decreed Yon tribe the plague and punishment of man, These also hath he doom'd to meet their way: Both passive instruments Of his all-acting will, EVENING. THUS having said, the pious sufferer sate, The broken moonbeams. They too by the toil Resolved is gone; while through the azure depth Blend with all thoughts of gentleness and love. IMMORTALITY OF LOVE. THEY sin who tell us love can die. With life all other passions fly, All others are but vanity; In heaven ambition cannot dwell, Nor avarice in the vaults of hell; Earthly these passions of the earth, They perish where they have their birth; But love is indestructible: Its holy flame for ever burneth, From heaven it came, to heaven returneth. Too oft on earth a troubled guest, At times deceived, at times oppress'd, It here is tried and purified, Then hath in heaven its perfect rest: It soweth here with toil and care, But the harvest-time of love is there. Oh! when a mother meets on high The babe she lost in infancy, Hath she not then, for pains and fears, The day of wo, the watchful night, For all her sorrow, all her tears, An over-payment of delight? STANZAS. Mr days among the dead are pass'd; The mighty minds of old; With them I take delight in weal, My thoughts are with the dead; with them Their virtues love, their faults condemn, My hopes are with the dead; anon |