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" And take,” he said, “ this token

To the maid that owns my faith, With the words that I have spoken

In affection's latest breath."

What are monuments of bravery,

Where no public virtues bloom ? What avail, in lands of slavery,

Trophied temples, arch and tomb? Pageants !-Let the world revere us

For our people's rights and laws, And the breasts of civic heroes

Bared in Freedom's holy cause. Yours are Hampden's, Russel's glory,

Sydney's matchless shade is yours,Martyrs in heroic story,

Worth a hundred Azincours ! We're the sons of sires that baffled

Crown'd and mitred tyranny :They defied the field and scaffold

For their birthrights—50 will we!

Sore mourn'd the brother's heart,

When the youth beside him fell; But the trumpet warn'd to part,

And they took a sad farewell. There was many a friend to lose him,

For that gallant soldier sigh'd; But the maiden of his bosom

Wept when all their tears were dried.

THE MAID'S REMONSTRANCE.
NEVER wedding, ever wooing,
Still a lovelorn heart pursuing,
Read you not the wrong you 're doing

In my cheek’s pale hue?
All my life with sorrow strewing,

Wed, or cease to woo.
Rivals banish'd, bosoms plighted,
Still our days are disunited ;
Now the lamp of hope is lighted,

Now half quench'd appears,
Damp'd, and wavering, and benighted,

Midst my sighs and tears.
Charms you call your dearest blessing,
Lips that thrill at your caressing,
Eyes a mutual soul confessing,

Soon you'll make them grow
Dim, and worthless your possessing,

Not with age, but woe!

THE BEECH-TREE'S PETITION.

O LEAVE this barren spot to me! Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree! Though bush or floweret never grow My dark unwarming shade below; Nor summer bud perfume the dew Of rosy blush or yellow hue; Nor fruits of autumn, blossom-born, My green and glossy leaves adorn; Nor murmuring tribes from me derive Th' ambrosial amber of the hive; Yet leave this barren spot 10 me: Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!

Thrice twenty summers I have seen The sky grow bright, the forest green; And many a wintry wind have stood In bloomless, fruitless solitude, Since childhood in my pleasant bower First spent its sweet and sportive hour, Since youthful lovers in my shade Their vows of truth and rapture made; And on my trunk's surviving frame Carved many a long-forgotten name. Oh! by the sighs of gentle sound, First breathed upon this sacred ground: By all that love has whisper'd here, Or Beauty heard with ravish'd ear; As Love's own altar honor me, Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!

SONG.

DRINK ye to her that each loves best,

And if you nurse a flame
That's told but to her mutual breast,

We will not ask her name.
Enough, while memory tranced and glad

Paints silently the fair,
That each should dream of joys he's had,

Or yet may hope to share.
Yet far, far hence be jest or boast

From hallow'd thoughts so dear ;
But drink to them that we love most,

As they would love to hear.

SONG.
Earl March look'd on his dying child,

And smit with grief to view her
The youth, he cried, whom I exiled,

Shall be restored to woo her. She's at the window many an hour,

His coming to discover; And her love look'd up to Ellen's bower,

And she look'd on her loverBut ah! so pale, he knew her not,

Though her smile on him was dwelling. And am I then forgot-forgot ?

It broke the heart of Ellen.
In vain he weeps, in vain he sighs,

Her cheek is cold as ashes;
Nor love's own kiss shall wake those eyes
To lift their silken lashes.

SONG. WEEN Napoleon was flying

From the field of Waterloo, A British soldier, dying,

To his brother bade adieu !

LOVE AND MADNESS.

Why does my soul this gush of fondness feel?

Trembling and faint, I drop the guilty steel ! AN ELEGY, WRITTEN IN 1795. Cold on my heart the hand of terror lies, Hark! from the battlements of yonder tower'

And shades of horror close my languid eyes! The solemn bell has toll’d the midnight hour!

“Oh! 't was a deed of Murder's deepest grain ! Roused from drear visions of distemper'd sleep,

Could B -k's soul so true to wrath remain ! Poor B kwakes—in solitude to weep!

A friend long true, a once fond lover fell

Where Love was foster'd could not Pity dwell! “Cease, Memory, cease, (the friendless mourner cried) To probe the bosom too severely tried !

“Unhappy youth, while yon pale crescent glows Oh! ever cease, my pensive thoughts, to stray

To watch on silent Nature's deep repose, Through the bright fields of Fortune's better day,

Thy sleepless spirit, breathing from the tomb, When youthful Hope, the music of the mind,

Foretells my fate, and summons me to come! Tuned all its charms, and E-N was kind !

Once more I see thy sheeted spectre stand,

Roll the dim eye, and wave the paly hand! " Yet, can I cease, while glows this trembling frame, « Soon may this fluttering spark of vital flame In sighs to speak thy melancholy name? I hear thy spirit wail in every storm!

Forsake its languid melancholy frame! In midnight shades I view thy passing form! Soon may these eyes their trembling lustre close, Pale as in that sad hour when doom'd to feel,

Welcome the dreamless night of long repose ! Deep in thy perjured heart, the bloody steel! Soon may this woe-worn spirit seek the bourne

Where, lull’d to slumber, Grief forgets to mourn!"
“Demons of Vengeance! ye at whose command
I grasp'd the sword with more than woman's hand,
Say ye, did Pity's trembling voice control,
Or horror damp, the purpose of my soul ?

SONG,
No! my wild heart sat smiling o'er the plan, Oh, how hard it is to find
Till Hate fulfill'd what baffled Love began! The one just suited to our mind;

And if that one should be
“ Yes ; let the clay-cold breast that never knew False, unkind, or found too late,
One tender pang to generous Nature true,

What can we do but sigh at fate, Half-mingling pity with the gall of scorn,

And sing Woe's me-Woe's me!
Condemn this heart, that bled in love forlorn!

Love's a boundless burning waste,
“And ye, proud fair, whose soul no gladness warms, Where Bliss's stream we seldom taste,
Save Rapture's homage to your conscious charms! And still more seldom flee
Delighted idols of a gaudy train,

Suspense's thorns, Suspicion's stings ;
Il can your blunter feelings guess the pain, Yet somehow Love a something brings
When the fond faithful heart, inspired to prove That's sweet-ev'n when we sigb Woe's me!"
Friendship refined, the calm delight of love,
Feels all its tender strings with anguish torn,
And bleeds at perjured Pride's inhuman scorn!

STANZAS “Say, then, did pitying Heaven condemn the deed, When Vengeance bade thee, faithless lover! bleed?

ON THE THREATENED INVASION, 1803. Long had I watch'd thy dark foreboding brow, OUR bosoms we'll bare for the glorious strife, What time thy bosom scorn'd its dearest vow! And our oath is recorded on high, Sad, though I wept the friend, the lover changed, To prevail in the cause that is dearer than life, Still thy cold look was scornful and estranged, Or crush'd in its ruins to die! Till, from thy pity, love, and shelter thrown, Then rise, fellow-freemen, and stretch the right hand, I wander'd hopeless, friendless, and alone!

And swear to prevail in your dear native land! “Oh! righteous Heaven! 'twas then my tortured soul 'Tis the home we hold sacred is laid to our trustFirst gave to wrath unlimited control!

God bless the green Isle of the brave! Adieu the silent look! the streaming eye!

Should a conqueror tread on our forefathers' dust, The murmur'd plaint! the deep heart-heaving sigh! It would mouse the old dead from their grave! Long-slumbering Vengeance wakes to bitter deeds; Then rise, fellow-freemen, and stretch the right hand, He shrieks, he falls, the perjured lover bleeds ! And swear to prevail in your dear native land! Now the last laugh of agony is o'er, And pale in blood he sleeps, to wake no more!

In a Briton's sweet home shall a spoiler abide

Profaning its loves and its charms? “'Tis done! the flame of hate no longer burns :

Shall a Frenchman insult the loved fnir at our side? Nature relents, but, ah! too late returns!

To arms! oh, my country, to arms!
Then rise, fellow-freemen, and stretch the right hand,

And swear to prevail in your dear native land! 1 Warwick Castle.

Shall a tyrant enslave us, my countrymen -No!

His head to the sword shall be given
A death-bed repentance be taught the proud foe,

And his blood be an offering to Heaven!
Then rise, fellow-freemen, and stretch the right hand,
And swear to prevail in your dear native land!

Is 't death to fall for Freedom's right? He's dead alone that lacks her light! And murder sullies in Heaven's sight

The sword he draws:What can alone ennoble fight?

A noble cause !

SONG.

WITHDRAW not yet those lips and fingers,

Whose touch to mine is rapture's spell! Life's joy for us a moment lingers,

And death seems in the word — farewell. The hour that bids us part and go, It sounds not yet-oh! no, no, no! Time, whilst I gaze upon thy sweetness,

Flies like a courser nigh ihe goal; To-morrow where shall be his fleetness,

When thou art parted from my soul ? Our hearts shall heat, our tears shall flow, But not together, no, no, no!

Give that! and welcome War to brace
Her drums! and rend Heaven's reeking space!
The colors planted face to face,

The charging cheer,
Though Death's pale horse lead on the chase,

Shall still be dear.
And place our trophies where men kneel
To Heaven !—but Heaven rebukes my zeal !
The cause of Truth and human weal,

O God above!
Transfer it from the sword's appeal

To Peace and Love.
Peace, Love! the cherubim, that join
Their spread wings o'er Devotion's shrine-
Prayers sound in vain, and temples shine,

Where they are not
The heart alone can make divine

Religion's spot.
To incantations dost thou trust,
And pompous rites in domes august ?
See mouldering stones and metal's rust

Belie the vaunt,
That man can bless one pile of dust

With chime or chaunt.

HALLOWED GROUND.
What's hallow'd ground ? Has earth a clod
Its Maker meant not should be trod
By man, the image of his God,

Erect and free,
Unscourged by Superstition's rod

To bow ihe knee?
That's hallow'd ground—where, mourn'd and miss'd,
The lips repose our love has kiss'd ;-
But where's their memory's mansion? Is 't

Yon church-yard's bowers?
No! in ourselves their souls exist,

A part of ours.
A kiss can consecrate the ground
Where mated hearts are mutual bound:
The spot where love's first links were wound,

That ne'er are riven,
Is hallow'd down to earth's profound,

And up to heaven!
For time makes all but true love old;
The burning thoughts that then were told
Run molten still in memory's mould;

And will not cool,
Until the heart itself be cold

In Lethe's pool.
What hallows ground where heroes sleep?
'Tis not the sculptured piles you heap!
In dews that heavens far distant weep

Their turf may bloom;
Or Genii twine beneath the deep

Their coral tomb.

The ticking wood-worm mocks thee, man!
Thy temples-creeds themselves grow wan!
But there's a dome of nobler span,

A temple given
Thy faith, that bigots dare not ban-

Its space is Heaven!
Its roof star-pictured Nature's ceiling,
Where trancing the rapt spirit's feeling,
And God himself to man revealing,

The harmonious spheres
Make music, though unheard their pealing

By mortal ears.
Fair stars ! are not your beings pure?
Can sin, can death your worlds obscure ?
Else why so swell the thoughts at your

Aspect above?
Ye must be Heavens that make us sure

Of heavenly love!
And in your harmony sublime
I read the doom of distant time;
That man's regenerate soul from crime

Shall yet be drawn,
And reason on his mortal clime

Immortal dawn.

But strew his ashes to the wind
Whose sword or voice has served mankind
And is he dead, whose glorious mind

Lifts thine on high ?
To live in hearts we leave behind

Is not to die.

What's hallow'd ground ? "Tis what gives birth
To sacred thoughts in souls of worth!
Peace! Independence! Truth! go forth

Earth 's compass'd round;
And your high-priesthood shall make earth
AU hallow'd ground.

CAROLINE

PART I.

To Peace, to Pleasure, and to Love,

So kind a star thou seem'st to be, Sure some enamour'd orb above

Descends and burns to meet with thee.

I'LL bid the hyacinth to blow,

I'll teach my grotto green to be ; And sing my true love, all below

The holly bower and myrtle-tree.

There all his wild-wood sweets to bring,

The sweet south wind shall wander by, And with the music of his wing

Delight my rustling canopy. Come to my close and clustering bower,

Thou spirit of a milder clime, Fresh with the dews of fruit and flower,

of mountain-heath, and moory thyme.

With all thy rural echoes come,

Sweet comrade of the rosy day, Wafting the wild bee's gentle hum,

Or cuckoo's plaintive roundelay.

Thine is the breathing, blushing hour,

When all unheavenly passions fly, Chased by the soul-subduing power

Of Love's delicious witchery. 0! sacred to the fall of day,

Queen of propitious stars, appear, And early rise, and long delay,

When Caroline herself is here! Shine on her chosen green resort,

Whose trees the sunward summit crown, And wanton flowers, that well may court

An Angel's feet to tread them down. Shine on her sweetly-scented road,

Thou star of evening's purple dome, That lead'st the nightingale abroad,

And guidest the pilgrim to his home. Shine, where my charmer's sweeter breath

Embalms the soft exhaling dew, Where dying winds a sigh bequeath

To kiss the cheek of rosy hue. Where, winnow'd by the gentle air,

Her silken tresses darkly flow, And fall upon her brow so fair,

Like shadows on the mountain snow. Thus, ever thus, at day's decline,

In converse sweet, to wander far, O bring with thee my Caroline,

And thou shalt be my Ruling Star!

Where'er thy morning breath has play'd,

Whatever isles of ocean fann'd, Come to my blossom-woven shade,

Thou wandering wind of fairy-land.

For sure from some enchanted isle,

Where Heaven and Love their sabbath holds, Where pure and happy spirits smile,

of beauty's fairest, brightest mould ;

From some green Eden of the deep,

Where Pleasure's sigh alone is heaved, Where tears of rapture lovers weep,

Endear’d, undoubting, undeceived ;

From some sweet paradise afar,

Thy music wanders, distant, lost Where Nature lights her leading star,

And love is never cross'd.

Oh gentle gale of Eden bowers,

If back thy rosy feet should roam, To revel with the cloudless Hours

In Nature's more propitious home.

Name to thy loved Elysian groves,

That o'er enchanted spirits twine, A fairer form than cherub loves,

And let the name be Caroline.

FIELD FLOWERS. Ye field flowers! the gardens eclipse you, 'tis true, Yet, wildings of Nature, I dote upon you,

For ye waft me to summers of old, When the earth teem'd around me with fairy delight, And when daisies and buttercups gladden'd my sight,

Like treasures of silver and gold. I love you for lulling me back into dreams Of the blue Highland mountains and echoing streams,

And of birchen glades breathing their balm, While the deer was seen glancing in sunshine remote, And the deep mellow crush of the wood-pigeon's note

Made music that sweetend the calm. Not a pastoral song has a pleasanter tune Than ye speak to my heart, little wildings of June :

of old ruinous castles ye tell, Where I thought it delightful your beauties to find, When the magic of Nature first breathed on my mind,

And your blossoms were part of her spell. Ev'n now what affection the violet awakes ; What loved little islands, twice seen in their lakes,

Can the wild water-lily restore ! What landscapes I read in the primrose's looks, And what pictures of pebbled and minnowy brooks In the vetches that tangled their shore !

PART II.

TO THE EVENING STAR.

Gen of the crimson-color'd Even,

Companion of retiring day,
Why at the closing gates of Heaven,

Beloved star, dost thou delay ?
So fair thy pensile beauty burns,

When soft the tear of twilight flows; So due thy plighted love returns,

To chambers brighter than the rose;

For pallid Autumn once again
Hath swell'd 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 cavo,

Whose very rocks a shelter gave From blood-pursuing man

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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.

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 lomb.

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 mothers 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'd on 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!
Diimid 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 !"

LINES
ON LEAVING A SCENE IN BAVARIA.
ADIKU 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-belis rung to propitiate Heaven during thunder-storms.

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