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1 Alloding 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 asloep.
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 :
I hold that idol all divine.
Melt o'er the loved departed form,
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 shado
Smiles in the sainted hues of heaven. No spectre forms of pleasure fled,
Thy soft'ning, sweetning tints restore ; For thou canst give us back the dead,
E'en in the loveliest looks they wore. Then blest be Nature's gunrdian Muse,
Whose hand her perish'd grace redeems! Whose tablet of a thousand hues
The mirror of creation seems. From Love began thy high descent;
And lovers, charmd by gifts of thine, Shall bless thee mutely eloquent,
And call thee brightest of the Nine!
DRINKING-SONG OF MUNICH. SWEET Iser! were thy sunny realm
And flowery gardens mine,
To prop the tender vine:
And under every myrtle bower,
Like rivers crimsond with the beam
Of yonder planet bright,
Profusion of delight;
For wine can triumph over woe,
A paradise below.
But whither goes that wealth, and gladd'ning whom?
Fades in their gloom—And therefore I complain
glide, My Wallace's own stream, and once romantic Clyde!
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.
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,
When it were fitter I should take a flight-
But whither! Holy Pity, hear, oh hear!
Where I may wander in celestial light:
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,
Or keep in mind that I had ever been!
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, 1897. 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, 't is now a theme
That wakens thought too deep for song?
The Christian world has seen you, Greeks,
Heroic on your ramparts fall ;
The world has heard your widows' shrieks, Thy rosy blush, thy meaning eye,
And seen your orphans draggd 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
Insult your pale and prostrate land.
No! be your cause to England now,
That by permitting acts the wrong,
A theme for blushing—not for song,
To see her unavenging ships
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!
ON JAMES IV. OF SCOTLAND, WHO PELL 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 fale-she wept her grief"So perish ye for Nelson's blood,
That James, her loved, ber gallant chief, If deaths like thine can pay
Was gone for evermore : For blood so brave, or ocean wave
But this she learnt, thal, ere he fell, Can wash that crime away!”
(O men! O patriots! mark it well).
His fellow-soldiers round his fall
Mixing their kindred gore !
And this may serve to show : When kings are patriots, none will flyWhen 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,
Of social sprinkling bliss,
When I indulged the spell,
Words vainly try to tell ;-
Whose coming sunshine may
My fortune's future day:
TO JEMIMA, ROSE, AND ELEANORE,
THREE CELEBRATED SCOTTISH BEAUTIES.
LINES TO EDWARD LYTTON BULWER,
ON THE BIRTH OF HIS CHILD.
ADIEU, romance's heroines !
My heart is with you, Bulwer! and portrays
As o'er its little lips you smile and cling,
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 revell'd in the warmer breath
And richer bowers of Summer.
An archer for her lover,
A charm he could discover.
For this time were his reasonsIn short, young Love's a gallant boy, 'That likes all times and seasons.
SONG. "T 18 now the hour—'t is now the hour
Th bow at beauty's shrine ; Now, whilst our hearts confess the power
Of women, wit, and wine; And bearning eyes look on so bright, Wit springs, wine sparkles in their light.
DIRGE OF WALLACE.
SONG. They lighted a taper at the dead of night, O CHERUB Content! at thy moss-corer'd shrine, And chanted their holiest hymn;
I'd all the gay hopes of my bosom resign, But her brow and her bosom were damp with affright, I'd part with ambition thy vot'ry to be, Her eye was all sleepless and dim!
And breathe not a sigh but to friendship and thee! And the lady of Elderslie wept for her lord,
When a death-watch beat in her lonely room, But thy presence appears from my wishes to it, When her curtain had shook of its own accord; Like the gold-color'd clouds on the verge of the sky: And the raven had flapp'd at her window-board, No lustre that hangs on the green willow-tree, To tell of her warrior's doom!
Is so sweet as the smile of thy favor to me. "Now sing you the death-song, and loudly pray
In the pulse of my heart I have nourish'd a care For the soul of my knight so dear;
That forbids me thy sweet inspiration to share, And call me a widow this wretched day,
The noon of my life slow departing I see, Since the warning of God is here!
But its years as they pass bring no ridings of thee. For night-mare rides on my strangled sleep :The lord of my bosom is doom'd to die :
O cherub Content! at thy moss-cover'd shrine, His valorous heart they have wounded deep;
I would offer my vows if Matilda were mine ; And the blood-red tears shall his country weep,
Could I call her my own, whom enraptured I see. For Wallace of Elderslie!"
I would breathe not a sigh but to friendship and thee!
Those saints without the shirts arrived,
One evening late, to pigeon
About a league from Dijon;
On fagots briskly crackling:
To Jacquez and to Jacqueline.
In pious terms besought her
Then of thoughts and emotions each mutinous crowd
That rebell’d at stern reason and duty, Returning shall yield all their loyalty proud
To the haleyon dominion of Beauty.