WRITTEN IN A BLANK LEAF OF LA PEROUSE'S VOYAGES.
OVED Voyager! whose pages had a zest
More sweet than fiction to my wond'ring breast,
When, rapt in fancy, many a boyish day
I tracked his wanderings o'er the watery way,
Roamed round the Aleutian isles in waking dreams,
Or plucked the fleur-de-lys by Jesso's streams—
Or gladly leaped on that far Tartar strand,
Where Europe's anchor ne'er had bit the sand,
Where scarce a roving wild tribe crossed the plain,
Or human voice broke nature's silent reign;
But vast and grassy deserts feed the bear,
And sweeping deer-herds dread no hunter's snare.
Such young delight his real records brought,
His truth so touched romantic springs of thought,
That all my after-life-his fate and fame
Entwined romance with La Perouse's name.
Fair were his ships, expert his gallant crews,
And glorious was th' emprize of La Perouse,
Humanely glorious! Men will weep for him,
When many a guilty martial fame is dim:
He ploughed the deep to bind no captive's chain-
Pursued no rapine-strewed no wreck with slain;
And, save that in the deep themselves lie low,
His heroes plucked no wreath from human woe.
"Twas his the earth's remotest bounds to scan,
Conciliating with gifts barbaric man—
Enrich the world's contemporaneous mind,
And amplify the picture of mankind.
Far on the vast Pacific-midst those isles,
O'er which the earliest morn of Asia smiles,
He sounded and gave charts to many a shore
And gulf of Ocean new to nautic lore;
Yet he that led Discovery o'er the wave,
Still finds himself an undiscovered grave.
He came not back-Conjecture's cheek grew pale,
Year after year-in no propitious gale
His lilied banner held its homeward way,
And Science saddened at her martyr's stay.
An age elapsed-no wreck told were or when
The chief went down with all his gallant men,
Or whether by the storm and wild sea flood
He perished, or by wilder men of blood-
The shudd'ring Fancy only guess'd his doom,
And Doubt to Sorrow gave but deeper gloom.
An age elapsed-when men were d ad or grey,
Whose hearts had mourned him in their youthful day;
Fame traced on Mannicōlo's shore at last
The boiling surge had mounted o'er his mast.
The islesmen told of some surviving men,
But Christian eyes beheld them ne'er again.
Sad bourne of all his toil-with all his band-
To sleep, wrecked, shroudless, on a savage strand !
Yet what is all that fires a hero's scorn
Of death the hope to live in hearts unborn :
Life to the brave is not its fleeting breath,
But worth-foretasting fame, that follows death.
That worth had La Perouse-that meed he won ;
He sleeps his life's long stormy watch is done.
In the great deep, whose boundaries and space
He measured, Fate ordained his resting-place;
But bade his fame, like th' Ocean rolling o'er
His relics-visit every earthly shore.
Fair Science on that Ocean's azure robe,
Still writes his name in picturing the globe,
And paints (what fairer wreath could glory twine?)
His watery course—a world-encircling line.
ON THE CAMP HILL, NEAR HASTINGS.
N the deep blue of eve,
Ere the twinkling of stars had begun,
Or the lark took his leave
Of the skies and the sweet setting sun,
I climbed to yon heights,
Where the Norman encamped him of old,
With his bowmen and knights,
And his banner all burnished with gold.
At the Conqueror's side
There his minstrelsy sat harp in hand,
In pavilion wide;
And they chanted the deeds of Roland.
Still the ramparted ground
With a vision my fancy inspires,
And I hear the trump sound,
As it marshalled our Chivalry's sires.
On each turf of that mead
Stood the captors of England's domains,
That ennobled her breed
And high-mettled the blood of her veins.
Over hauberk and helm,
As the sun's setting splendour was thrown,
Thence they looked o'er a realm-
And to-morrow beheld it their own.
Uprise again, immortal Polish Land?—
Whose flag brings more than chivalry to mind,
And leaves the tri-color in shade behind-
A theme for uninspired lips too strong;
That swells my heart beyond the power of song-
Majestic men, whose deeds have dazzled faith,
Ah! yet your fate's suspense arrests my breath;
Whilst, envying bosoms bared to shot and steel,
I feel the more that fruitlessly I feel.
Poles with what indignation I endure
Th' half-pitying servile mouths that call you poor;
Poor is it England mocks you with her grief,
That hates, but dares not chide th' Imperial Thief?
France with her soul beneath a Bourbon's thrall,
And Germany that has no soul at all-
States, quailing at the giant overgrown,
Whom dauntless Poland grapples with alone?
No, ye are rich in fame e'en whilst ye bleed;
We cannot aid you-we are poor indeed!
In Fate's defiance-in the world's great eye,
Poland has won her Immortality!
The Butcher, should he reach her bosom now,
Could tear not Glory's garland from her brow;
Wreathed, filleted, the victim falls renowned,
And all her ashes would be holy ground!
But turn, my soul, from presages so dark;
Great Poland's spirit is a deathless spark
That's fanned by Heaven to mock the Tyrant's rage;
She, like the eagle, will renew her age,
And fresh historic plumes of Fame put on-
Another Athens after Marathon-
Where eloquence shall fulmine, arts refine,
Bright as her arms that now in battle shine.
Come-should the heavenly shock my life destroy
And shut its flood-gates with excess of joy;
Come but the day when Poland's fight is won-
And on my gravestone shine the morrow's sun-
The day that sees Warsaw's cathedral glow
With endless ensigns ravished from the foe-
Her women lifting their fair hands with thanks,
Her pious warriors kneeling in their ranks,
The scutcheoned walls of high heraldic boast,
The odorous altar's elevated host,
The organ sounding through the aisle's long glooms,
The mighty dead seen sculptured o'er their tombs
(John, Europe's saviour-Poniatowski's fair
Resemblance-Kosciusko's shall be there);
The tapered pomp-the halleluiah's swell,
Shall o'er the soul's devotion cast a spell,
Till visions cross the rapt enthusiast's glance,
And all the scene becomes a waking trance.
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