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Earth's cultureless buds, to my heart ye were dear, Ere the fever of passion, or ague of fear

Had scathed my existence's bloom ; Once I welcome you more, in life's passionless stage, With the visions of youth to revisit my age,

And I wish you to grow on my tomb.

STANZAS ON THE BATTLE OF NAVARINO. HEARTS of oak that have bravely deliver'd the brave, And uplifted old Greece from the brink of the grave, T was the helpless to help, and the hopeless to save,

That your thunderbolts swept o'er the brine ; And as long as yon sun shall look down on the wave,

The light of your glory shall shine. For the guerdon ye sought with your bloodshed and toil, Was it slaves, or dominion, or rapine, or spoil ? No! your lofty emprize was to fetter and foil

The uprooter of Greece's domain ! When he tore the last remnant of food from her soil,

Till her famish'd sank pale as the slain ! Yet, Navarin's heroes ! does Christendom breed The base hearts that will question the fame of your

deed? Are they men ?-let ineffable scorn be their meed,

And oblivion shadow their graves ! Are they women?—to Turkish serails let them speed!

And be mother of Mussulman slaves. Abettors of massacre ! dare ye deplore That the death-shriek is silenced on Hellas's shore ? That the mother aghast sees her offspring no more

By the hand of Infanticide grasp'd ? And that stretch'don yon billows distain'd by their gore

Missolonghi's assassins have gasp'd ? Prouder scene never hallow'd war's pomp to the mind, Than when Christendom's pennons woo'd social the

wind, And the flower of her brave for the combat combined,

Their watch-word, humanity's vow ;Not a sea-boy that fought in that cause, but mankind

Owes a garland to honor his brow! Nor grudge, by our side, that to conquer or fall, Came the hardy rude Russ, and the high-mettled Gaul; For whose was the genius, that plann'd at its call,

Where the whirlwind of battle should roll ? All were brave! but the star of success over all

Was the light of our Codrington's soul. That star of thy day-spring, regenerate Greek! Dimm'd the Saracen's moon, and struck pallid his

cheek : In its fast flushing morning thy Muses shall speak

When their lore and their lutes they reclaim : And the first of their songs from Parnassus's peak

Shall be “ Glory to Codrington's name !"

For pallid Autumn once again Hath swellid each torrent of the hill;

Her clouds collect, her shadows sail,

And watery winds, that sweep the vale Grow loud and louder still. But not the storm, dethroning fast

Yon monarch oak of massy pile; Nor river roaring to the blast

Around its dark and desert isle ;

Nor church-bell' tolling to beguile The cloud-born thunder passing by,

Can sound in discord to my soul :

Roll on, ye mighty waters, roll!
And rage, thou darken'd sky!
Thy blossoms, now no longer bright;

Thy wither'd woods, no longer green;
Yet, Eldurn shore, with dark delight

I visit thy unlovely scene!

For many a sunset hour serene
My steps have trod thy mellow dew,
When his green light the fire-fly gave,

When Cynthia from the distant wave
Her twilight anchor drew,
And plow'd, as with a swelling sail,

The billowy clouds and starry sea :
Then, while thy hermit nightingale

Sang on his fragrant apple-tree, —

Romantic, solitary, free,
The visitant of Eldurn's shore,

On such a moonlight mountain stray'd

As echo'd to the music made
By Druid harps of yore.
Around thy savage hills of oak,

Around thy waters bright and blue,
No hunter's horn the silence broke,

No dying shriek thine echo knew;

But safe, sweet Eldurn woods, to you The wounded wild deer ever ran,

Whose myrtle bound their grassy cave,

Whose very rocks a shelter gave
From blood-pursuing man.
Oh, heart effusions, that arose

From nightly wanderings cherish'd here; To him who flies from many woes,

Even homeless deserts can be dear!

The last and solitary cheer
Of those that own no earthly home,

Say—is it not, ye banish'd race,

In such a loved and lonely place
Companionless to roam ?
Yes! I have loved thy wild abode,

Unknown, unplow'd, untrodden shore,
Where scarce the woodman finds a road,

And scarce the fisher plies an oar:

For man's neglect I love thee more; That art nor avarice intrude

To tame thy torrent's thunder-shock,

Or prune thy vintage of the rock Magnificently rude.

LINES ON LEAVING A SCENE IN BAVARIA. ADIEU the woods and waters' side,

Imperial Danube's rich domain! Adieu the grotto, wild and wide,

The rocks abrupt, and grassy plain!

1 In Catholic countries you often hear the church-bello rung to propitiato Heaven during thunder-storms.

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1 Alluding to the well-known tradition respecting the origin of painting, that it arose from a young Corinthian female tracing the shadow of her lover's profile on the wall, as he lay asleep. Like rivers crimson'd with the beam

Of yonder planet bright,
Our balmy cups should ever stream

Profusion of delight;
No care should touch the mellow heart,
And sad or sober none depart;

For wine can triumph over woe, And Love and Bacchus, brother powers Could build in Iser's sunny bowers

A paradise below.

Then for a beam of joy to light

In Memory's sad and wakeful eye! Or banish from the noon of night

Her dreams of deeper agony. Shall song its witching cadence roll ?

Yea, even the tenderest air repeat, That breathed when soul was knit to soul,

And heart to heart responsive beat? What visions rise! to charm, to melt!

The lost, the loved, the dead, are near! Oh, hush that strain, too deeply felt!

And cease that solace, too severe ! But thou serenely silent art!

By heaven and love was taught to lend A milder solace to the heart,

The sacred image of a friend. All is not lost! if, yet possest,

To me that sweet memorial shine :-
If close and closer to my breast

I hold that idol all divine.
Or, gazing through luxurious tears,

Melt o'er the loved departed form,
Till death's cold bosom half appears

With life, and speech, and spirit warm. She looks! she lives! this tranced hour

Her bright eye seems a purer gem Than sparkles on the throne of power,

Or glory's wealthy diadem. Yes, Genius, yes! thy mimic aid

A treasure to my soul has given, Where Beauty's canonized shade

Smiles in the sainted hues of heaven. No spectre forms of pleasure fled,

Thy soft'ning, sweet'ning tints restore ; For thou canst give us back the dead,

E'en in the loveliest looks they wore. Then blest be Nature's guardian Muse,

Whose hand her perish'd grace redeems! Whose tablet of a thousand hues

The mirror of creation seems. Frorn Love began thy high descent;

And lovers, charm'd by gifts of thine, Shall bless thee mutely eloquent,

And call thee brightest of the Nine!

LINES
ON REVISITING A SCOTTISH RIVER.
AND call they this Improvement ?—to have changed
My native Clyde, thy once romantic shore,
Where Nature's face is banish'd and estranged,
And Heaven reflected in thy wave no more ;
Whose banks, that sweeten'd May-day's breath before
Lie sere and leafless now in summer's beam,

With sooty exhalations cover'd o'er;
And for the daisied green-sward, down thy stream
Unsightly brick-lanes smoke, and clanking engines

gleam.
Speak not to me of swarms the scene sustains ;
One heart free tasting Nature's breath and bloom
Is worth a thousand slaves to Mammon's gains.
But whither goes that wealth, and gladd'ning whom?
See, left but life enough, and breathing-room
The hunger and the hope of life to feel,
Yon pale Mechanic bending o'er his loom,
And Childhood's self as at Ixion's wheel,
From morn till midnight task'd to earn its little meal.
Is this Improvement ?—where the human breed
Degenerates as they swarm and overflow,
Till Toil grows cheaper than the trodden weed,
And man competes with man, like foe with foe,
Till Death, that thins them, scarce seems public woe?
Improvement !-smiles it in the poor man's eyes,
Or blooms it on the cheek of Labor ?-No-
To gorge a few with Trade's precarious prize,
We banish rural life, and breathe unwholesome skies.
Nor call that evil slight; God has not given
This passion to the heart of man in vain,
For Earth's green face, th' untainted air of Heaven,
And all the bliss of Nature's rustic reign.
For not alone our frame imbibes a stain
From fetid skies; the spirit's healthy pride
Fades in their gloom-And therefore I complain
That thou no more through pastoral scenes shouldst

glide, My Wallace's own stream, and once romantic Clyde!

DRINKING-SONG OF MUNICH.
SWEET Iser! were thy sunny realm

And flowery gardens mine,
Thy waters I would shade with elm

To prop the tender vine:
My golden flagons I would fill
With rosy draughts from every hill ;

And under every myrtle bower,
My gay companions should prolong
The laugh, the revel, and the song,
To many an idle hour.

P2

LINES ON REVISITING CATHCART. Oh! scenes of my childhood, and dear to my heart, Ye green-waving woods on the margin of Cart, How blest in the morning of life I have stray'd By the stream of the vale and the grass-cover'd glade

Then, then, every rapture was young and sincere,

LINES WRITTEN IN SICKNESS.
Ere the sunshine of bliss was bedimm'd by a tear,
And a sweeter delight every scene seem'd to lend, OH, death! if there be quiet in thine arms,
That the mansion of peace was the house of a FRIEND.

And I must cease-gently, oh, gently come,

To me! and let my soul learn no alarms,
Now the scenes of my childhood and dear to my heart, But strike me, ere a shriek can echo, dumb,
All pensive I visit, and sigh to depart;

Senseless, and breathless.--And thou, sickly life.
Their flowers seem to languish, their beauty to cease, If the decree be writ, that I must die,
For a stranger inhabits the mansion of peace. Do thou be guilty of no needless strife,

Nor pull me downwards to mortality,
But hush'd be the sigh that untimely complains,

When it were fitter I should take a flight-
While Friendship and all its enchantment remains,
While it blooms like the flower of a winterless clime, And lift me to some far-off skyey sphere,

But whither? Holy Pity, hear, oh hear!
Untainted by chance, unabated by time.

Where I may wander in celestial light:
Might it be so—then would my spirit fear

To quit the things I have so loved, when seen

The air, the pleasant sun, the summer green,THE “NAME UNKNOWN;"

Knowing how few would shed one kindly tear,
IN IMITATION OF KLOPSTOCK.

Or keep in mind that I had ever been!
PROPHETIC pencil! wilt thou trace
A faithful image of the face,

Or wilt thou write the “ Name Unknown," LINES ON THE STATE OF GREECE, Ordain'd to bless my charmed soul,

OCCASIONED BY BEING PRESSED TO MAKE IT A And all my future fate control,

SUBJECT OF POETRY, 1827. Unrivall’d and alone?

In Greece's cause the Muse, you deem, Delicious Idol of my thought!

Ought still to plead, persisting strong ; Though sylph or spirit hath not taught

But feel you not, it is now a theme
My boding heart thy precious name;

That wakens thought too deep for song ?
Yet musing on my distant fate,
To charms unseen I consecrate

The Christian world has seen you, Greeks,
A visionary tlame.

Heroic on your ramparts fall;

The world has heard your widows' shrieks,
Thy rosy blush, thy meaning eye,

And seen your orphans dragg’d in thrall
Thy virgin voice of melody,
Are ever present to my heart;

Even England brooks that, reeking hot,
Thy murmur'd vows shall yet be mine,

The ruffian's sabre drinks your veins, My thrilling hand shall meet with thine,

And leaves your thinning remnant's lot And never, never part!

The bitter choice of death or chains. Then fly, my days, on rapid wing,

Oh! if we have nor hearts nor swords Till Love the viewless treasure bring;

To snatch you from the assassins' brand, While I, like conscious Athens, own

Let not our pity's idle words
A power in mystic silence seal'd,

Insult your pale and prostrate land.
A guardian angel unreveal’d,
And bless the “Name Unknown!"

No! be your cause to England now,

That by permitting acts the wrong,
A thought of horror to her brow,

A theme for blushing—not for song,
TRAFALGAR.

To see her unavenging ships
WHEN Frenchmen saw, with coward art,

Ride fast by Greece's funeral pile, The assassin shot of war

"Tis worth a curse from Sibyl lips ! That pierced Britain's noblest heart,

"Tis matter for a demon's smile!
And quench'd her brightest star,
Their shout was heard,—they triumph'd now,

LINES
Amidst the battle's roar,
And thought the British oak would bow,

ON JAMES IV. OF SCOTLAND, WHO FELL AT THE Since Nelson was no more.

BATTLE OF FLODDEN. But fiercer flamed old England's pride,

'Twas he that ruled his country's heart And-mark the vengeance due,

With more than royal sway; “Down, down, insulting ship," she cried,

But Scotland saw her James depart, “ To death, with all thy crew!

And sadden'd at his stay.

She heard his fate-she wept her grief“ So perish ye for Nelson's blood,

That James, her loved, her gallant chief, If deaths like thine can pay

Was gone for evermore : For blood so brave, or ocean wave

But this she learnt, that, ere he fell, Can wash that crime away!”

(O men! O patriots! mark it well),

His fellow-soldiers round his fall
Inclosed him like a living wall,

Mixing their kindred gore !
Nor was the day of Flodden done,
Till they were slaughter'd one by one ;

And this may serve to show : When kings are patriots, none wi AlyWhen such a king was doom'd to die,

Oh who would death forego ?

In such an hour—in such an hour,

In such an hour as this,
While pleasure's fount throws up a shower

of social sprinkling bliss,
Why does my bosom heave the sigh
That mars delight ?—She is not by!
There was an hour—there was an hour

When I indulged the spell,
That love wound round me with a power

Words vainly try to tell ;-
Though love has fill'd my chequer'd doom
With fruits and thorns, and light and gloom-
Yet there's an hour—there's still an hour

Whose coming sunshine may
Clear from the clouds that hang and lour

My fortune's future day:
That hour of hours beloved will be
That hour that gives thee back to me!

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TO JEMIMA, ROSE, AND ELEANORE,

THREE CELEBRATED SCOTTISH BEAUTIES. ADIEU, romance's heroines ! Give me the nymphs, who this good hour May charm me, not in fiction's scenes, But teach me beauty's living power ;My harp, that has been mute too long, Shall sleep at beauty's name no more, So but your smiles reward my song, Jemima, Rose, and Eleanore,In whose benignant eyes are beaming The rays of purity and truth; Such as we fancy woman's seeming, In the creation's golden youth ;The more I look upon thy grace, Rosina, I could look the more, But for Jemima's witching face, And the sweet voice of Eleanore. Had I been Lawrence, kings had wanted Their portraits, till I'd painted yours; And these had future hearts enchanted When this poor verse no more endures; I would have left the congress faces, A dull-eyed diplomatic corps, Till I had grouped you as the graces Jemima, Rose, and Eleanore. The Catholic bids fair saints befriend him; Your poet's heart is Catholic 100,His rosary shall be flowers ye send him, His saint-days when he visits you. And my sere laurels for my duty, Miraculous at your touch would rise, Could I give verse one trace of beauty Like that which glads me from your eyes. Unseald by you, these lips have spoken, Disused to song for many a day ; Ye've tuned a harp whose strings were broken, And warm'd a heart of callous clay; So, when my fancy next refuses To twine for you a garland more, Come back again and be my muses, Jemima, Rose, and Eleanore,

LINES TO EDWARD LYTTON BULWER,

ON THE BIRTH OF HIS CHILD. My heart is with you, Bulwer! and portrays The blessings of your first paternal days ; To clasp the pledge of purest, holiest faith, To taste one's own and love-born infant's breath, I know, nor would for worlds forget the bliss. I've felt that to a father's heart that kiss, As o'er its little lips you smile and cling, Has fragrance which Arabia could not bring. Such are the joys, ill mock'd in ribald song, In thought, ev'n fresh'ning life our life-time long, That give our souls on earth a heaven-drawn bloom Without them we are weeds upon a tomb. Joy be to thee, and her whose lot with thine Propitious stars saw truth and passion twine : Joy be to her who in your rising name Feels love's bower brighten'd by the beams of fame, I lack'd a father's claim to her—but knew Regard for her young years so pure and true, That, when she at the altar stood your bride, A sire could scarce have felt more sire-like pride.

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SONG. WHEN Love came first to Earth, the Spring

Spread rose-buds to receive him, And back he vow'd his flight he'd wing

To heaven, if she should leave him. But Spring, departing, saw his faith

Pledged to the next new-comerHe revellid in the warmer breath

And richer bowers of Summer.
Then sportive Autumn claim'd by rights

An archer for her lover,
And even in Winter's dark, cold nights

A charm he could discover.
Her routs and balls, and fireside joy,

For this time were his reasons In short, young Love's a gallant boy, That likes all times and seasons.

SONG. 'T is now the hour—'t is now the hour

Ty bow at beauty's shrine ; Now, whilst our hearts confess the power

Of women, wit, and wine; And beaming eyes look on so bright, Wit springs, wine sparkles in their light.

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