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By the bodies, which lie all open to the sky, But when the bare and wintry woods we see, Tracking from Elbe to Rhine the tyrant's flight; | What then so cheerful as the holly-tree? By the widow's and the orphan's cry;

So scrious should my youth appear among
By the childless parent's misery;

The thoughtless throng;
By the lives which he hath shed;

So would I seem amid the young and gay
By the ruin he hath spread;

More grave than they,
By the prayers which rise for curses on his head,--

That in my age as cheerful I might be
Redeem, O France! thine ancient fame,
Revenge thy sufferings and thy shame,

As the green winter of the holly-tree.
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

Nor to the grave, not to the grave, my soul,
Where the blood of Condé flow'd;

Descend to contemplate
By thy murder'd Pichegru's fame;

The form that once was dear !
By murder'd Wright--an English name;

The spirit is not there
By murder'd Palm's atrocious doom;

Which kindled that dead eye,

Which throbb’d in that cold heart,
By murder'd Hofer's martyrdom,--
Oh! by the virtuous blood thus vilely spilt,

Which in that motionless hand
The villain's own peculiar, private guilt,

Hath met thy friendly grasp. Open thine eyes !--too long hast thou been blind;

The spirit is not there! Take vengeance for thyself, and for mankind !

It is but lifeless, perishable flesh

That moulders in the grave;
Earth, air, and water's ministering particles

Now to the elements

Resolved, their uses done.

Not to the grave, not to the grave, my soul, O READER! hast thou ever stood to see

Follow thy friend beloved;
The holly-tree ?

The spirit is not there!
The eye that contemplates it well perceives

Often together have we talk'd of death ; Its glossy leaves

How sweet it were to see Order'd by an intelligence so wise,

All doubtful things made clear; As might confound the Atheist's sophistries.

How sweet it were with powers
Below, a circling fence, its leaves are seen

Such as the Cherubim,
Wrinkled and keen;

To view the depth of heaven!
No grazing cattle through their prickly round

O Edmund! thou hast first
Can reach to wound;

Begun the travel of eternity!
But as they grow where nothing is to fear,

I look upon the stars,

And think that thou art there, Smooth and unarm’d the pointless leaves appear.

Unfetter'd as the thought that follows thee. I love to view these things with curious eyes, And we have often said how sweet it were And moralize;

With unseen ministry of angel power, And in this wisdom of the holly-tree

To watch the friends we loved.
Can emblem see

Edmund! we did not err!
Wherewith perchance to make a pleasant rhyme, sm

ne, Sure I have felt thy presence! Thou hast given One which may profit in the after time.

A birth to holy thought, Thus, though abroad perchance I might appear

Hast kept me from the world unstain'd and pure. Harsh and austere,

Edmund! we did not err!
To those who on my leisure would intrude

Our best affections here,
Reserved and rude,

They are not like the toys of infancy; Gentle at home amid my friends I'd be,

The soul outgrows them not; Like the high leaves upon the holly-tree.

We do not cast them off;

O, if it could be so, And should my youth, as youth is apt, I know,

It were indeed a dreadful thing to die! Some harshness show, All vain asperities I day by day

Not to the grave, not to the grave, my soul, Would wear away,

Follow thy friend beloved!

But in the lonely hour, Till the smooth temper of my age should be

But in the evening walk, Like the high leaves upon the holly-tree.

Think that he companies thy solitude ; And as, when all the summer trees are seen

Think that he holds with thee
So bright and green,

Mysterious intercourse;
The holly leaves a sober hue display

And though remembrance wake a tear, Less bright than they ;

There will be joy in grief.


“ Nay-nay-my little girl," quoth he, “It was a famous victory. « And everybody praised the Duke

Who this great fight did win.” “ And what good came of it at last ?”

Quoth little Peterkin. “ Why, that I cannot tell,” said he, “ But 'twas a famous victory."


The remembrance of youth is a sigh.-- Ali.

It was a summer evening,

Old Kaspar's work was done
And he before his cottage door

Was sitting in the sun,
And by him sported on the green
His little grandchild Wilhelmine.
She saw her brother Peterkin

Roll something large and round,
Which he beside the rivulet

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,

And with a natural sigh,
6. 'Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he,
“Who fell in the great victory.
6 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 every body said," quoth he,
“That 't was a famous victory.
My father lived at Blenheim then,

Yon little stream hard by ;
They burnt his dwelling to the ground,

And he was forced to fly;
So with his wife and child he fled,
Nor had he where to rest his head.
With fire and sword the country round

Was wasted far and wide ;
And many a childing mother then,

And new-born baby died;
But things like that, you know, must be

At every famous victory.
* They say it was a shocking sight

After the field was won;
For many thousand bodies here

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.

Max hath a weary pilgrimage

As through the world he wends;
On every stage, from youth to age,

Still discontent attends;
With heaviness he casts his eye

Upon the road before,
And still remembers with a sigh

The days that are no more.
To school the little exile goes,

Torn from his mother's arms,
What then shall soothe his earliest woes,

When novelty hath lost its charms? Condemn'd to suffer through the day

Restraints which no rewards repay, And cares where love has no concern, Hope lengthens as she counts the hours

Before his wish'd return.
From hard control and tyrant rules,
The unfeeling discipline of schools,

In thought he loves to roam,
And tears will struggle in his eye,
While he remembers with a sigh

The comforts of his home.
Youth comes ; the toils and cares of life

Torment the restless mind; Where shall the tired and harass'd heart

Its consolation find ?
Then is not Youth, as Fancy tells,

Life's summer prime of joy?
Ah no! for hopes too long delay'd
And feelings blasted or betray'd,

Its fabled bliss destroy ;
And Youth remembers with a sigh

The careless days of Infancy.
Maturer Manhood now arrives,

And other thoughts come on,
But with the baseless hopes of Youth

Its generous warmth is gone;
Cold, calculating cares succeed,
The timid thought, the wary deed,

The dull realities of truth;
Back on the past he turns his eye,
Remembering, with an envious sigh,

The happy dreams of Youth.
So reaches he the latter stage
Of this our mortal pilgrimage,

With feeble step and slow;
New ills that latter stage await,
And old Experience learns too late

That all is vanity below.

Life's vain delusions are gone by ;

Its idle hopes are o'er;
Yet Age remembers with a sigh

The days that are no more.


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 That Roderick took the shield, and round his own Hung it, and vaulted in the seat. My horse! My noble horse! he cried, with flattering hand Patting his high-arch'd neck ! the renegade I thank him fort-hath kept thee daintily! Orelio, thou art in thy beauty still, Thy pride and strength! Orelio, my good horse, Once more thou bearest to the field thy lord, He who so oft hath fed and cherish'd thee, He for whose sake, wherever thou wert seen, Thou wert by all men honour'd. Once again Thou hast thy proper master! Do thy part As thou wert wont; and bear him gloriously, My beautiful Orelio,-to the lastThe happiest of his fields !--Then he drew forth The cimeter, and, waving it aloft, Rode toward the troops; its unaccustom'd shape Disliked him. Renegade in all things! cried The Goth, and cast it from him; to the chiefs Then said, If I have done ye service here, Help me, I pray you, to a Spanish sword! The trustiest blade that e'er in Bilbilis Was dipp'd, would not to-day be misbestowed On this right hand !-Go, some one,Gunderick cried, And bring Count Julian'ssword. Whoe'er thou art, The worth which thou hast shown avenging him Entitles thee to wear it. But thou guest For battle unequipp'd-haste there, and strip Yon villain of his armour! Late he spake, So fast the Moors came on. It matters not, Replied the Goth; there's many a mountaineer, Who in no better armour cased this day Than his wonted leathern gipion, will be found In the hottest battle, yet bring off untouch'd The unguarded life he ventures.—Taking then Count Julian's sword, he fitted round his wrist The chain, and eyeing the elaborate steel With stern regard of joy—The African Under unbappy stars was born, he cried, Who tastes thy edge !—Make ready for the charge! They come—they come !-On, brethren, to the

field !The word is, Vengeance !

Vengeance was the word; From man to man, and rank to rank it pass’d, By every heart enforced, by every voice Sent forth in loud defiance of the foe. The enemy in shriller sounds return'd Their Akbar and the prophet's trusted name. The horsemen lower'd their spears, the infantry, Deliberately, with slow and steady step, [hissid, Advanced; the bow-strings twang'd, and arrows

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. What man is this, 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 fillid 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 Is he who in that garb of peace affronts Whole hosts, and sees them scatter where he turns! Auspicious Heaven beholds us, and some saint Revisits earth!


How beautiful is night! • A dewy freshness fills the silent air; No mist obscures, nor cloud, nor speck, nor stain,

Breaks the serene of heaven :
In full-orb’d glory yonder moon divine
Rolls through the dark-blue depths.

Beneath her steady ray

The desert-circle spreads,
Like the round ocean, girdled with the sky.

How beautiful is night!

Who, at this untimely hour,
Wanders o'er the desert sands?

· 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.


And oh! what odours the voluptuous vale

Scatters from jasmine bowers,

From yon rose wilderness, From cluster'd henna, and from orange groves

That with such perfume fill the breeze,

As Peris to their sister bear, i When from the summit of some lofty tree She hangs, engaged, the captive of the Dives.

They from their pinions shake
The sweetness of celestial flowers;

And as her enemies impure
From that impetuous poison far away
Fly groaning with the torment, she the while

Inhales her fragrant food.
Such odours flow'd upon the world,
When at Mohammed's nuptials, word

Went forth in heaven to roll
The everlasting gates of paradise
Back on their living hinges, that its gales
Might visit all below: the general bliss
Thrill'd every bosom, and the family
Of man, for once, partook a common joy.

This to a mother's sacred memory
Her son hath hallow'd. Absent many a year
Far over sea, his sweetest dreams were still
Of that dear voice which sooth'd his infancy :

And after many a fight against the Moor
| And Malabar, or that fierce cavalry
Which he had seen covering the boundless plain
Even to the utmost limits where the eye
Could pierce the far horizon,-his first thought,
In safety, was of her, who, when she heard
The tale of that day's danger, would retire
And pour her pious gratitude to heaven
In prayers and tears of joy. The lingering hour
Of his return, long-look'd for, came at length,
And full of hope he reach'd his native shore.
Vain hope that puts its trust in human life !
For ere he came the number of her days
Was full. O reader, what a world were this,
How unendurable its weight, if they
Whom Death hath sunder'd did not meet again!


"Tis pleasant, by the cheerful hearth, to hear Of tempests, and the dangers of the deep, And pause at times, and feel that we are safe ; Then listen to the perilous tale again, And with an eager and suspended soul, Woo terror to delight us; but to hear The roaring of the raging elements, To know all human skill, all human strength, Avail not; to look round and only see The mountain wave incumbent, with its weight Of bursting waters, o'er the reeling bark, O God, this is indeed a dreadful thing! And he who hath endured the horror once Of such an hour, doth never hear the storm Howl round his home, but he remembers it, And thinks upon the suffering mariner !

A SUB-MARINE CITY. Then 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.


HERE in solitude My soul was nurst, amid the loveliest scenes Of unpolluted nature. Sweet it was, As the white mists of morning roll’d away, To see the mountains' wooded heights appear Dark in the early dawn, and mark its slope, Rich with the blossom'd furze, as the slant sun On the golden ripeness pour'd a deepening light. Pleasant, at noon, beside the vocal brook, To lie me down and watch the floating clouds, And shape to fancy's wild similitudes Their ever-varying forms; and ho, most sweet! To drive my flock at evening to the fold, And hasten to our little hut, and hear The voice of kindness bid me welcome home.

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.

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Blend with all thoughts of gentleness and love.
Their hearts were open to the healing power
Of nature; and the splendour of the night,
The flow of waters, and that sweetest lay,
Came to them like a copious evening dew
Falling on vernal herbs which thirst for rain.

ONWARD they came, a dark continuous cloud

Of congregated myriads numberless, The rushing of whose wings was as the sound

Of a broad river, headlong in its course Plunged from a mountain summit; or the roar

Of a wild ocean in the autumn storm,

Shattering its billows on a shore of rocks. Onward they came, the winds impell’d them on, Their work was done, their path of ruin past, Their graves were ready in the wilderness.


« Behold the mighty army!” Moath cried,
« Blindly they move, impellid

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,
Sole mover he, and only spring of all.”

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?



Thus having said, the pious sufferer sate, Beholding with fix'd eyes that lovely orb, Till quiet tears confused in dizzy light The broken moonbeams. They too by the toil Of spirit, as by travail of the day Subdued, were silent, yielding to the hour. The silver cloud diffusing slowly past, And now into its airy elements Resolved is gone; while through the azure depth Alone in heaven the glorious moon pursues Her course appointed, with indifferent beams Shining upon the silent hills around, And the dark tents of that unholy host, Who, all unconscious of impending fate, Take their last slumber there. The camp is still ; The fires have moulder'd, and the breeze which stirs The soft and snowy embers, just lays bare At times a red and evanescent light, Or for a moment wakes a feeble flame. They by the fountain hear the stream below, Whose murmurs, as the wind arose or fell, Fuller or fainter reach the ear attuned. And now the nightingale, not distant far, Began her solitary song; and pour'd To the cold moon a richer, stronger strain Than that with which the lyric lark salutes The new-born day. Her deep and thrilling song Seem'd with its piercing melody to reach The soul, and in mysterious unison

My days among the dead are pass'd;

Around me I behold, Where'er these casual eyes are cast,

The mighty minds of old;
My never-failing friends are they,
With whom I converse day by day.
With them I take delight in weal,

And seek relief in wo;
And while I understand and feel

How much to them I owe,
My cheeks have often been bedew'd
With tears of thoughtful gratitude.

My thoughts are with the dead; with them

I live in long-past years;
Their virtues love, their faults condemn,

Partake their hopes and fears,
And from their lessons seek and find
Instruction with an humble mind.

My hopes are with the dead; anon

My place with them will be, And I with them shall travel on

Through all futurity : Yet leaving here a name, I trust, That will not perish in the dust.

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