What though the fiend's torpedo-touch arrest
Each gentler, finer impulse of the breast;
Still shall this active principle preside,
And wake the tear to Pity's self denied.
The intrepid Swiss, who guards a foreign shore,
Condemn'd to climb his mountain-cliffs no more,
If chance he hears the song so sweetly wild,
Which on those cliffs his infant hours beguiled,
Melts at the long-lost scenes that round him rise,
And sinks a martyr to repentant sighs.

Ask not if courts or camps dissolve the charm:
Say why VESPASIAN loved his Sabine farm;
Why great NAVARRE, when France and freedom bled,
Sought the lone limits of a forest-shed.

When DIOCLETIAN'S self-corrected mind
The imperial fasces of a world resign'd,
Say why we trace the labours of his spade,
In calm Salona's philosophic shade.

Say, when contentious CHARLES renounced a throne,
To muse with monks unletter'd and unknown,
What from his soul the parting tribute drew?
What claim'd the sorrows of a last adieu?
The still retreats that soothed his tranquil breast
Ere grandeur dazzled, and its cares oppress'd.

Undamp'd by time, the generous Instinct glows
Far as Angola's sands, as Zembla's snows;
Glows in the tiger's den, the serpent's nest,
On every form of varied life imprest.

The social tribes its choicest influence hail:-
And when the drum beats briskly in the gale,
The war-worn courser charges at the sound,
And with young vigour wheels the pasture round.

Oft has the aged tenant of the vale
Lean'd on his staff to lengthen out the tale;
Oft have his lips the grateful tribute breathed,
From sire to son with pious zeal bequeathed.
When o'er the blasted heath the day declined,
And on the scathed oak warr'd the winter-wind;
When not a distant taper's twinkling ray

Gleam'd o'er the furze to light him on his way;
When not a sheep-bell soothed his listening ear,
And the big rain-drops told the tempest near;
Then did his horse the homeward track descry,
The track that shunn'd his sad, inquiring eye;
And win each wavering purpose to relent,
With warmth so mild, so gently violent,

That his charm'd hand the careless rein resign'd,
And doubts and terrors vanish'd from his mind.

Recall the traveller, whose alter'd form Has borne the buffet of the mountain-storm; And who will first his fond impatience meet? His faithful dog's already at his feet!

Yes, though the porter spurn him from the door, Though all that knew him, know his face no more, His faithful dog shall tell his joy to each,

With that mute eloquence which passes speech.—

And see, the master but returns to die!
Yet who shall bid the watchful servant fly?

The blasts of heaven, the drenching dews of earth,
The wanton insults of unfeeling mirth,

These, when to guard Misfortune's sacred grave,
Will firm Fidelity exult to brave.

Led by what chart, transports the timid dove
The wreaths of conquest, or the vows of love?
Say, through the clouds what compass points her
flight?

Monarchs have gazed, and nations bless'd the sight.
Pile rocks on rocks, bid woods and mountains rise,
Eclipse her native shades, her native skies:-
'Tis vain! through Ether's pathless wilds she goes,
And lights at last where all her cares repose.

Sweet bird! thy truth shall Harlem's walls attest, And unborn ages consecrate thy nest.

When, with the silent energy of grief,

With looks that ask'd, yet dared not hope relief, Want with her babes round generous Valour clung, To wring the slow surrender from his tongue, "T was thine to animate her closing eye; Alas! 'twas thine perchance the first to die, Crush'd by her meagre hand, when welcomed from the sky.

Hark! the bee winds her small but mellow horn, Blithe to salute the sunny smile of morn.

O'er thymy downs she bends her busy course,
And many a stream allures her to its source.
'Tis noon, 't is night. That eye so finely wrought,
Beyond the search of sense, the soar of thought,
Now vainly asks the scenes she left behind;
Its orb so full, its vision so confined!

Who guides the patient pilgrim to her cell?
Who bids her soul with conscious triumph swell?
With conscious truth retrace the mazy clue
Of summer-scents, that charm'd her as she flew?
Hail MEMORY, hail! thy universal reign
Guards the least link of Being's glorious chain.

7*

NOTES

TO

PLEASURES OF MEMORY.

PART I.

P. 66, 1. 1.

How oft, when purple evening tinged the west.

VIRGIL, in one of his Eclogues, describes a romantic attachment as conceived in such circumstances; and the description is so true to nature, that we must surely be indebted for it to some early recollection. "You were little when I first saw you. You were with your mother gathering fruit in our orchard, and I was your guide. I was just entering my thirteenth year, and just able to reach the boughs from the ground."

So also Zappi, an Italian Poet of the last century. "When I used to measure myself with my goat, and my goat was the tallest, even then I loved Clori."

P. 67, 1. 7.

Up springs, at every step, to claim a tear.

I came to the place of my birth, and cried, "The friends of my Youth, where are they?"-And an echo answered, "Where are they?"-From an Arabic MS.

P. 70, 1. 1

Awake but one, and lo, what myriads rise!

When a traveller, who was surveying the ruins of Rome, expressed a desire to possess some relic of its ancient grandeur, Poussin, who attended him, stooped down, and gather