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Close follow'd age, infirm old age,
The maidens that gather the fruits of the moor,' The winter of my year;
While weary and fainting they roam, When shall I fall before his rage,
Through the blue dazzling distance of noon-light To rise beyond the sphere?
The trees that remind them of home : I long to cast the chains away,
The children that range in the valley suspend That hold my soul a slave,
Their sports, and in ecstacy gaze, To burst these dungeon walls of clay, When they see the broad moon from its summit asEnfranchised from the grave.
cend, Life lies in embryo,-never free
And their school-house and grove in a blaze. T:!l Nature yields her breath;
O! sweet to my soul is that beautiful grove,
Awakening remembrance most dear;
When lonely in anguish and exile I rove,
Wherever its glories appear,
It gladdens my spirit, it soothes from afar
With tranquil and tender delight,
Alone in the desert of night.
For ever and ever gone o'er; When Evening closes Nature's eye,
Like the light of a smile, like the balm of a kiss, The Glow-worm lights her little spark,
They were,—but they will be no more. To captivate her favorite fly,
Yet wherefore of pleasures departed complain, And tempt the rover through the dark.
That leave such endearment behind ? Conducted by a sweeter star
Though the sun of their sweetness be sunk in the main, Than all that deck the fields above,
Their twilight still rests on the mind. He fondly hastens from afar,
Then peace to his ashes who planted these trees! To soothe her solitude with love.
Supreme o'er the landscape they rise,
With simple and lovely magnificence please
All bosoms, and ravish all eyes;
Nor marble, nor brass, could emblazon his fame The transient torch of Hymen cheers
Like his own sylvan trophies, that wave
In graceful memorial, and whisper his name,
And scatter their leaves on his grave.
Ah! thus, when I sleep in the desolate tomb,
May the laurels I planted endure,
On the mountain of high immortality bloom,
'Midst lightning and tempest secure!
Then ages unborn shall their verdure admire,
And nations sit under their shade,
While my spirit, in secret, shall move o'er my lyre, A conspicuous plantation, encompassing a school-house and
Aloft in their branches display'd. play-ground, on a bleak eminence, at Barlow, in Derbyshire; Hence, dream of vain-glory—the light drop of dew on the one hand facing the high moors, on the other, overlooking a richly-cultivated, well-wooded, and mountainous
That glows in the violet's eye, country, near the seat of a gentleman where the writer has In the splendor of morn, to a fugitive view, spent many happy hours.
May rival a star of the sky.
But the violet is pluck'd, and the dewdrop is flown, Now peace to his ashes who planted yon trees The star unextinguish'd shall shine: That welcome my wandering eye!
Then mine be the laurels of virtue alone,
And resemble a grove in the sky;
Tell me, thou dust beneath my feet
Thou dust that once hadst breath. A land-mark they rise ;-to the stranger forlorn,
Tell me how many mortals meet All night on the wild heath delay'd,
In this small hill of death? 'Tis rapture to spy the young beauties of morn
The mole that scoops with curious toil Unveiling behind their dark shade :
Her subterranean bed, The homeward-bound husbandman joys to behold,
Thinks not she plows a human soil,
And mines among the dead.
1 Bilberries, cluster-berries, and crano-berrios.
But, Oh! where'er she turns the ground,
My kindred earth I see;
Lived, breathed, and felt, like me.
Among the undistinguish'd hosts
My wondering eyes explore Awful, sublime, terrific ghosts,
Heroes and kings of yore : Tyrants, the comets of their kind,
Whose withering influence ran Through all the promise of the mind,
And smote and mildew'd man:Sages, the Pleiades of earth,
Whose genial aspects smiled, And flowers and fruitage sprang to birth
O'er all the human wild.
Yon gloomy ruffian, gash'd and gored,
Was he, whose fatal skill First beat the plowshare to a sword,
And taught the art to kill. Behind him skulks a shade, bereft
Of fondly-worshipp'd fame; He built the Pyramids, but left
No stone to tell his name.
Like me, these elder-born of clay
Enjoy'd the cheerful light, Bore the brief burthen of a day,
And went to rest at night. Far in the regions of the morn
The rising sun surveys Palmyra's palaces forlorn
Empurpled with his rays. The spirits of the desert dwell
Where eastern grandeur shone, And vultures scream, hyenas yell
Round Beauty's mouldering throne.
Sees, from the broken wall,
Ere the loose fragment fall.
To watch the sport of Fate,
And bows them with his weight.
Stupendous wrecks! appear To me less mournfully sublime
Than the poor Mole-hill here. Through all this hillock's crumbling mould
Once the warm life-blood ran; -Here thine original behold,
And here thy ruins, Man!
Ten thousand pulses beat :
How many mortals meet?
From ocean, earth, and sky,
Of slumbering millions lie. What scene of terror and amaze
Breaks through the twilight gloom? What hand invisible displays
The secrets of the tomb?
Who is the chief, with visage dark
As tempests when they roar?
Beyond the timid shore.
He steerd with stedfast eye;
His compass in the sky.
Struck the unshapen block,
A Venus from the rock.
Trembling with ecstacy of thought,
Behold the Grecian maid, Whom love's enchanting impulse taught
To trace a slumberer's shade.
All ages and all nations rise,
And every grain of earth Beneath my feet, before mine eyes,
Is startled into birth.
Sweet are the thefts of love ;-she stole
His image while he lay, Kindled the shadow to a soul,
And breathed that soul through clay.
With countenance of fire,
And framed the Æolian lyre.
The Muse's eldest-born;
The poet of the morn.
That echoed to his voice,
And earth and heaven rejoice. Though charm'd to meekness while he sung
The wild beasts round him ran; This was the triumph of his tongue, It tamed the heart of man.
Like gliding mists the shadowy forms
Through the deep valley spread, And like descending clouds in storms
Lower round the mountain's head. O'er the wide champaign while they pass,
Their footsteps yield no sound, Nor shake from the light trembling grass
A dew-drop to the ground.
Dim through the mist of twilight times
The ghost of Cyrus walks ; Behind him, red with glorious crimes,
The son of Ammon stalks.
The vision of the tomb is past;
Beyond it who can tell
Immortal spirits dwell?
When life's sore conflicts cease,
And I shall rest in peace.
The rainbow Hope arise,
That bends beyond the skies. From earth to heaven it swells and shines,
The pledge of bliss to Man; Time with Eternity combines,
And grasps them in a span.
Relentless Hannibal, in pride
Of sworn, fix'd hatred, lowers; Cæsar,-'t is Brutus at his side,
In peerless grandeur towers.
Dissolve the spectred gloom,
Portending Ilion's doom.
And hark! he strikes the lyre ;
The Argive Chiefs respire, And while his music rolls along,
The towers of Troy sublime,
Mock the destroyer, Time.
The storms of battle rage ;
Bewept in every age.
THE CAST-AWAY SHIP.
The subjects of the two following poems were suggested by the
Jose of the Blenheim, commanded by Sir Thomas Trowbridge, which was separated from the vessels under its convoy, during a storm in the Indian Ocean.-The Admiral's son afterwards made a voyage, without succese, in search of his father.-Trowbridge was one of Nelson's captains at the Battle of the Nile, but his ship unfortunately rai aground as he was bearing down on the enemy.
Genius of Homer! were Inine
To track thy fiery car, And in thy sun-set course to shine
A radiant evening star,
What theme, what laurel might the Muse
Reclaim from ages fled ?
To summon from the dead ?
Yonder his shadow fits away :
-Thou shalt not thus depart; Stay, thou transcendent spirit, stay,
And tell me who thou art!
"Tis Alfred !-In the rolls of Fame,
And on a midnight page, Blazes his broad refulgent name,
The watch-light of his age.
A Danish winter, from the north,
Howl'd o'er the British wild, But Alfred, like the spring, brake forth,
And all the desert smiled.
A VESSEL sail'd from Albion's shore,
To utmost India bound,
With broad sea-laurels crown'd
When Gallia's host was drown'd,
With shouts that rend the air,
Their joyful brows prepare :
And many a father's prayer,
In breathing slumber lay,
As rose the kindling day:
In morning's rich array:
See the tall vessel sail,
A swan before the gale;
Back to the deep he rollid the waves,
By mad invasion hurlid;
Defiance to the world.
And still that voice o'er land and sea
Shall Albion's foes appal;
Hear it, and tremble, Gaul!
But lo! the phantoms fade in flight,
Like fears that cross the mind, Like meteors gleaming through the night, Like thunders on the wind.
When, lessening through the flood of light, Their leader vanish'd from her sight.
oft had she hail'd its trophied prow,
Victorious from the war, And banner'd masts, that would not bow,
Though riven with many a scar; Oft had her oaks their tribute brought, To rib its flanks, with thunder fraught;
But late her evil star Had cursed it on its homeward way, _“The spoiler shall become the prey."
Like shooting stars, athwart the gloom
The merchant-sails were sped ;
They mark'd the high mast-head
While every gun-fire spread
- At length they saw, they heard no morc. There are to whom that ship was dear,
For love and kindred's sake;
Their inmost heart shall quake,
But never cease to ache;
Thus warn'd, Britannia's anxious heart
Throbb’d with prophetic woe, When she beheld that ship depart,
A fair ill-omen'd show! So views the mother, through her tears, The daughter of her hopes and fears,
When hectic beauties glow On the frail cheek, where sweetly bloom The roses of an early tomb.
No fears the brave adventurers knew,
Peril and death they spurn'd:
Jove's birds, that proudly burn'd,
And many a look they turn'd
THE SEQUEL He sought his sire from shore to shore,
He sought him day by day;
Breasting the ocean-spray:
Unconscious where it lay,
Still with affection true, Along the wild disastrous deep,
Thy father's course pursue ; Full in his wake of glory steer, His spirit prompts thy bold career,
His compass guides thee through; So, while thy thunders awe the sea, Britain shall find thy sire in thee.
But not to crush the vaunting foe,
In combat on the main,
In mortal triumph slain, Was their unutterable fate : _That story would the Muse relate,
The song might rise in vain; In ocean's deepest, darkest bed, The secret slumbers with the dead.
On India's long-expecting strand
Their sails were never furl'dNever on known or friendly land
By storms their keel was hurl'd; Their native soil no more they trod, They rest beneath no hallow'd sod;
Throughout the living world This sole memorial of their lot Remains,—they were, and they are not
To the Memory of "A Female whom Sickness had reconciled
to the Notes of Sorrow," who corresponded with the Author under this signature, on the first publication of his poems, in 1806, but died soon after; when her real name and merita were disclosed to him by one of her surviving friends.
The spirit of the Cape' pursued
Their long and toilsome way; At length, in ocean-solitude,
He sprang upon his prey : • Havoc !' the shipwreck-demon cried, Loosed all his tempests on the tide,
Gave all his lightnings play; The abyss recoil'd before the blast, Firm stood the seamen to the last.
My Song of Sorrow reach'd her ear;
What is the Poet's highest aim,
1 The Cape of Good Hope, formerly called the Cape of Storms.-See Camoens' Lusiad, Book V.
-With syren strains, Circean art,
No to the generous Bard belong
These are the Bard's sublimest views,
My Song of Sorrow reach'd HER ear;
A secret hand to me convey'd
My fancy form'd her young and fair,
Adorn'd with meekest maiden grace,
Such was the picture fancy drew,
Yet shall the friends who loved her weep, Though shrined in peace the sufferer sleep, Though rapt to heaven the saint aspire, With seraph guards, on wings of fire; Yet shall they weep;—for oft and well Remembrance shall her story tell, Affection of her virtues speak, With beaming eye and burning cheek, Each action, word, and look recall, The last, the loveliest of all, When on the lap of death she lay, Serenely smiled her soul away, And left surviving Friendship’s breast Warm with the sun-set of her rest.
O thou, who wert on earth unknown, Companion of my thought alone, Unchanged in heaven to me thou art, Still hold communion with my heart; Cheer thou my hopes, exalt my views, Be the good angel of my Muse; -And if to thine approving ear My plaintive numbers once were dear, If, falling round thy dying hours Like evening dews on closing flowers, They soothed thy pains, and through thy soul With melancholy sweetness stole, HEAR ME :—When slumber from mine eyes, That roll in irksome darkness, flies ; When the lorn spectre of unrest At conscious midnight haunts my breast ; When former joys and present woes, And future fears, are all my foes; Spirit of my departed friend, Calm through the troubled gloom descend,
1 Piu val d'ogni vittoria un bel soffrire.