Though Naples to her leaden sleep Yet, despots! turn, and trembling, view Your potency how vain; Behold a generous nation true, Behold regenerate Spain. I CAN NOT BUT SIGH. I CAN not but sigh, when the friends of my youth, I can not but sigh, when the visions of joy, I can not but sigh, while reviewing the years, I can not but sigh, when futurity's scroll, Unfolding, gives sign of no pleasure in store; When regret for the past still remains on the soul, While the present is lost in aspiring to more. I can not but sigh, when heart-stricken, I scan The victims of misery that float down the stream; And e'en while recounting the bliss of frail man, I can not but sigh, for that bliss is a dream. WHEN THE LAST TEAR. WHEN the last tear of love is shed, O, then, what art, what pageantry Of worth deceased, shall tell? what bust To years shall breathe the memory Of those that slumber, dust with dust? For marbled busts will disappear, Vain is the pageant, vain is art, To glean from years a living name; One simple deed from virtue's heart Alone can consecrate its fame. THERE IS AN HOUR. THERE is an hour of peaceful rest, There is a soft, a downy bed, There is a home for weeping souls, By sin and sorrow driven; When tost on life's tempestuous shoals, And all is drear-'tis heaven. |