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Some fairer, better sport prefer;
TO .....1

And feel for us, if not for her.
Ah ! little thought she, when, with wild delight, For this presumption, soon or late,
By many a torrent's shining track she flew,

Know thine shall be a kindred fate.
When mountain-glens and caverns full of night Another shall in vengeance rise-
O’er her young mind divine enchantment threw, Sing Harriet's cheeks, and Harriet's eyes ;
That in her veins a secret horror slept,

And, echoing back her wood-notes wild,

- Trace all the mother in the child !
That her light footsteps should be heard no more,
That she should die—nor watched, alas ! nor wept
By thee, unconscious of the pangs she bore.

Yet round her couch indulgent Fancy drew
The kindred forms her closing eye required.

The sun-beams streak the azure skies,
There didst thou stand—there, with the smile she

And line with light the mountain's brow : knew ;

With hounds and horns the hunters rise,

And chase the roebuck thro’ the snow.
She moved her lips to bless thee, and expired.
And now to thee she comes ; still, still the same

From rock to rock, with giant-bound,
As in the hours gone unregarded by!

High on their iron poles they pass ; To thee, how changed, comes as she ever came ;

Mute, lest the air, convulsed by sound,

Rend from above a frozen mass.
Health on her cheek, and pleasure in her eye!
Nor less, less oft, as on that day, appears,

The goats wind slow their wonted way,
When lingering, as prophetic of the truth,

Up craggy steeps and ridges rude; By the way-side she shed her parting tears—

Marked by the wild wolf for his prey,
For ever lovely in the light of Youth !

From desert cave or hanging wood.
And while the torrent thunders loud,
And as the echoing cliffs reply,

The huts peep o'er the morning-cloud,

Perched, like an eagle's nest, on high.
On thee, blest youth, a father's hand confers
The maid thy earliest, fondest wishes knew.'

Each soft enchantment of the soul is hers;

Go-you may call it madness, folly ; Thine be the joys to firm attachment due.

You shall not chase my gloom away! As on she moves with hesitating grace,

There's such a charm in melancholy, She wins assurance from his soothing voice;

I would not, if I could, be gay. And, with a look the pencil could not trace,

Oh, if you knew the pensive pleasure Smiles thro' her blushes, and confirms the choice.

That fills my bosom when I sigh, Spare the fine tremors of her feeling frame !

You would not rob me of a treasure To thee she turns—forgive a virgin's fears !

Monarchs are too poor to buy. To thee she turns with surest, tenderest claim; Weakness that charms, reluctance that endears; At each response the sacred rite requires, From her full bosom bursts the unbidden sigh. THE FRAGMENT OF A STATUE OF HERCULES, A strange mysterious awe the scene inspires; And on her lips the trembling accents die.

And dost thou still, thou mass of breathing stone, O'er her fair face what wild emotions play! (Thy giant limbs to night and chaos hurled) What lights and shades in sweet confusion blend ! Still sit as on the fragment of a world ; Soon shall they fly, glad harbingers of day, Surviving all, majestic and alone ? And settled sunshine on her soul descend ! What tho' the Spirits of the North, that swept

Rome from the earth, when in her pomp she slept, Ah soon, thine own confest, ecstatic thought !

Smote thee with fury, and thy headless trunk That hand shall strewthysummer-path with flowers; Deep in the dust ʼmid tower and temple sunk ; And those blue eyes, with mildest lustre fraught,

Soon to subdue mankind 'twas thine to rise,
Gild the calm current of domestic hours !

Still, still unquelled thy glorious energies !
Aspiring minds, with thee conversing, caughts

Bright revelations of the Good they sought;

By thee that long-lost spell * in secret given,

To draw down Gods, and lift the soul to Heaven ! Ah! why with tell-tale tongue reveal 2 What most her blushes would conceal?

3 In the gardens of the Vatican, where it was placed by Why lift that modest veil to trace

Julius II., it was long the favourite study of those great The seraph-sweetness of her face?

men to whom we owe the revival of the arts, Michael

Angelo, Raphael, and the Caracci. 1 On the death of her sister.

4 Once in the possession of Praxiteles, if we may believe 2 Alluding to some verses which she had written on an an ancient epigram on the Gnidian Venus.--Analecta Vet. elder sister.

Poetarum, III. 200.




In orange-groves and myrtle-bowers,

That breathe a gale of fragrance round, Mixe be a cot beside the hill;

I charm the fairy-footed hours
A bee-hive's hum shall sooth my ear;

With my loved lute's romantic sound;
A willowy brook, that turns a mill,

Or crowns of living laurel weave,
With many a fall shall linger near.

For those that win the race at eve. The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch,

The shepherd's horn at break of day, Shall twitter from her clay-built nest;

The ballet danced in twilight glade, Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,

The canzonet and roundelay And share my meal, a welcome guest.

Sung in the silent green-wood shade ;

These simple joys, that never fail,
Around my ivy'd porch shall spring

Shall bind me to my native vale.
Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew;
And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing
In russet gown and apron blue.

The village-church, among the trees,

Child of the sun! pursue thy rapturous flight, Where first our marriage-vows were given,

Mingling with her thou lov’st in fields of light; With merry peals shall swell the breeze,

And, where the flowers of Paradise unfold,
And point with taper spire to heaven.

Quaff fragrant nectar from their cups of gold.
There shall thy wings, rich as an evening-sky,
Expand and shut with silent ecstacy!

-Yet wert thou once a worm, a thing that crept

On the bare earth, then wrought a tomb and slept. TO THE GNAT.

And such is man; soon from his cell of clay When by the green-wood side, at summer eve, To burst a seraph in the blaze of day. Poetic visions charm my closing eye; And fairy-scenes, that fancy loves to weave, Shift to wild notes of sweetest minstrelsy ; 'Tis thine to range in busy quest of prey, Thy feathery antlers quivering with delight,

Brush from my lids the hues of heaven away,

SEPTEMBER 2, 1812.
And all is Solitude, and all is Night!
-Ah now thy barbed shaft, relentless fly,

Blue was the loch, the clouds were gone,
Unsheaths its terrors in the sultry air!

Ben-Lomond in his glory shone,
No guardian sylph, in golden panoply,

When, Luss, I left thee; when the breeze
Lifts the broad shield, and points the glittering spear. Bore me from thy silver sands,
Now near and nearer rush thy whirring wings,

Thy kirk-yard wall among the trees,
Thy dragon-scales still wet with human gore.

Where, grey with age, the dial stands ; Hark, thy shrill horn its fearful larum flings!

That dial so well-known to me !
-I wake in horror, and dare sleep no more!

—Tho'many a shadow it had shed,
Beloved Sister, since with thee
The legend on the stone was read.

The fairy-isles fled far away ;

That with its woods and uplands green,

Where shepherd-huts are dimly seen,
TREAD lightly here; for here, 'tis said,
When piping winds are hushed around,

And songs are heard at close of day;

That too, the deer's wild covert, fled,
A small note wakes from underground,

And that, the asylum of the dead :
Where now his tiny bones are laid.
No more in lone and leafless' groves,

While, as the boat went merrily,

Much of Rob Roy the boat-man told ; With ruffled wing and faded breast,

His arm that fell below his knee,
His friendless, homeless spirit roves ;

His cattle-ford and mountain-hold.
-Gone to the world where birds are blest!
Where never cat glides o’er the green,

Tarbat, 2 thy shore I climbed at last ;

And, thy shady region passed, Or school-boy's giant form is seen;

Upon another shore I stood, But Love, and Joy, and smiling Spring

And looked upon another flood ;3
Inspire their little souls to sing !

Great Ocean's self ! ('Tis He who fills
That vast and awful depth of hills ;)
Where many an elf was playing round,

Who treads unshod his classic ground ;

And speaks, his native rocks among,
DEAR is my little native vale,

As Fingal spoke, and Ossian sung. The ring-dove builds and murmurs there ;

Night fell ; and dark and darker grew Close by my cot she tells her tale

That narrow sea, that narrow sky, To every passing villager.

As o'er the glimmering waves we flew ; The squirrel leaps from tree to tree,

The sea-bird rustling, wailing by. And shells his nuts at liberty.

2 Signifying in the Gaelic language an Isthmus. Inscribed on an urn in the flower-garden at Hafod. 3 Loch-long.


AN INSCRIPTION FOR A TEMPLE DEDICATED TO THE GRACES. 4 APPROACH with reverence. There are those within, Whose dwelling place is Heaven. Daughters of Jove, From them flow all the decencies of Life ; Without them nothing pleases, Virtue's self Admired not loved : and those on whom They smile, Great though they be, and wise, and beautiful, Shine forth with double lustre.

And now the grampus, half-descried,
Black and huge above the tide ;
The cliffs and promontories there,
Front to front, and broad and bare ;
Each beyond each, with giant-feet
Advancing as in haste to meet ;
The shattered fortress, whence the Dane
Blew his shrill blast, nor rushed in vain,
Tyrant of the drear domain ;
All into midnight-shadow sweep
When day springs upward from the deep !!
Kindling the waters in its flight,
The prow wakes splendour; and the oar,
That rose and fell unseen before,
Flashes in a sea of light !
Glad sign, and sure! for now we hail
Thy flowers, Glenfinnart, in the gale ;
And bright indeed the path should be,
That leads to Friendship and to Thee !

Oh blest retreat and sacred too !
Sacred as when the bell of prayer,
Tolled duly on the desert air,
And crosses decked thy summits blue.
Oft, like some loved romantic tale,
Oft shall my weary mind recall,
Amid the hum and stir of men,
Thy beechen grove and waterfall,
Thy ferry with its gliding sail,
And Her—the Lady of the Glen !



SHEPHERD, or Huntsman, or worn Mariner, Whate'er thou art, who wouldst allay thy thirst, Drink and be glad. This cistern of white stone, Arched, and o’erwrought with many a sacred

verse, This iron cup chained for the general use, And these rude seats of earth within the grove, Were given by Fatima. Borne hence a bride, 'Twas here she turned from her beloved sire, To see his face no more. Oh, if thou canst, ('Tis not far off) visit his tomb with flowers ; And with a drop of this sweet water fill The two small cells scooped in the marble there, That birds may come and drink upon his grave, Making it holy 3


WELL, when her day is over, be it said
That, though a speck on the terrestrial globe,
Found with long search and in a moment lost,
She made herself a name—a name to live
While science, eloquence, and song divine,
And wisdom, in self-government displayed,
And valour, such as only in the Free,
Shall among men be honoured.

Every sea
Was covered with her sails ; in every port
Her language spoken ; and, where'er you went,
Exploring, to the east or to the west,
Even to the rising or the setting day,
Her arts and laws and institutes were there,
Moving with silent and majestic march,
Onward and onward, where no pathway was ;
There her adventurous sons, like those of old,
Founding vast empires 5-empires in their turn
Destined to shine thro' many a distant age
With sun-like splendour.

Wondrous was her wealth, The world itself her willing tributary ; Yet, to accomplish what her soul desired, All was as nothing; and the mightiest kings, Each in his hour of strife exhausted, fallen, Drew strength from Her, their coffers from her own Filled to o'erflowing. When her fleets of war Had swept the main ; when not an adverse prow, From pole to pole, far as the sea-bird flies, Ruffled the tide ; and they themselves were gone, Gone from the eyes and from the minds of men, Their dreadful errands so entirely doneUp rose her armies ; on the land they stood, Fearless, erect; and in an instant smote Him with his legions.

Yet ere long 'twas hers, Great as her triumphs, to eclipse them all, To do what none had done, none had conceived, An act how glorious, making joy in Heaven ! When, such her prodigality, condemned

4 At Woburn-Abbey.

5 North America speaks for itself; and so indeed may wo say of India, when such a territory is ours in a region so remote“a territory larger and more populous than Great Britain and France and Spain, and Germany and Italy together;" when a company of merchants, from such small beginnings, have established a dominion so absolute,“where Trajan never penetratedandwhere the phalanx of Alexander refused to proceed"-a dominion over a people for ages civilized and cultivated, while we were yet in the woods.

6 Alluding to the battle of Waterloo. The illustrious Man who commanded there on our side, and who, in his anxiety to do justice to others, never fails to forget himself, said many years afterwards to the Author with some agitation, when relating an ockurrence of that day, “It was a battle of giants !"

1 A phenomenon described by many navigators.

2 There is a beautiful story, delivered down to us from antiquity, which will here perhaps occur to the reader.

Icarius, when he gave Penelope in marriage to Ulysses, endeavoured to persuade him to dwell in Lacedæmon; and, when all he urged was to no purpose, he entreated his daughter to remain with him. When Ulysses set out with his bride for Ithaca, the old man followed the chariot, till, overcome by his importunity, Ulysses consented that it should be left with Penelope to decide whether she would proceed with him or return with her father. It is related, says Pausanias, that she made no reply, but that she covered herself with her veil; and that Icarius, perceiving at once by it that she inclined to Ulysses, suffered her to depart with him.

A statue was afterwards placed by her father as a memorial in that part of the road where she had covered herself with her veil. It was still standing there in the days of Pausanias, and was called the statue of Modesty.

3 A Turkish superstition.

To toil and toil, alas, how hopelessly,

Say, must he know remorse ? must Passion come, Herself in bonds, for ages unredeemed

Passion in all or any of its shapes, As with a god-like energy she sprung,

To cloud and sully what is now so pure ? All else forgot, and, burdened as she was,

Yes, come it must. For who, alas ! has lived, Ransomed the African.

Nor in the watches of the night recalled
Words he has wished unsaid and deeds undone ?

Yes, come it must. But if, as we may hope,

He learns-ere long to discipline his mind,

And onward goes, humbly and cheerfully, 18**.

Assisting them that faint, weak though he be,
THESE are the groves a grateful people gave And in his trying hours trusting in God-
For noblest service ; and from age to age,

Fair as he is, he shall be fairer still ;
May they, to such as come with listening ear, For what was Innocence will then be Virtue.
Relate the story ! Sacred is their shade;
Sacred the calm they breathe-oh, how unlike

Oh, if the selfish knew how much they lost,
What in the field 'twas his so long to know ;

What would they not endeavour, not endure,
Where many a mournful, many an anxious thought, To imitate, as far as in them lay,
Troubling, perplexing, on his weary mind

Him who his wisdom and his power employs
Preyed, ere to arms the morning-trumpet called ;

In making others happy!
Where, till the work was done and darkness fell,
Blood ran like water, and, go where thou wouldst,
Death in thy path-way met thee, face to face.

For on, regardless of himself, He went ;

July, 1831.
And, by no change elated or depressed,
Fought, till he won the imperishable wreath,

GRENVILLE, to thee my gratitude is due
Leading the conquerors captive ; on he went,

For many an hour of studious musing here, Bating nor heart nor hope, whoe'er opposed ;

For many a day-dream, such as hovered round The greatest warriors, in their turn, appearing ;

Hafiz, or Sadi; thro' the golden East, The last that came, the greatest of them all

Search where we would, no fairer bowers than these, One scattering fear, as born but to subdue,

Thine own creation ; where, called forth by thee, And, even in rout, in ruin, scattering fear;

“ Flowers worthy of Paradise, with rich inlay, So long, till warred on by the elements,

Broider the ground,” and every mountain-pine Invincible ; the mightiest of the earth!

Elsewhere unseen (his birth-place in the clouds, When such the service, what the recompense ?

His kindred sweeping with majestic march What was not due to him if he survived ?

From cliff to cliff along the snowy ridge Yet, if I err not, a renown as fair,

Of Caucasus, or nearer yet the Moon) And fairer still,' awaited him at home ;

Breathes heavenly music.-Yet much more I owe When in his place, day after day, he stood,

For what so few, alas! can hope to share, The party-zeal, that round him raged, restraining; or in thy

garden-chair that wheels its course

Thy converse ; when, among thy books reclined, --His not to rest, while his the strength to serve.

Slowly and silently thro' sun and shade,
Thou speak'st, as ever thou art wont to do,

In the calm temper of philosophy;

-Still to delight, instruct, whate'er the theme.
MAN to the last is but a froward child ;
So eager for the future, come what may,
And to the present so insensible !

WRITTEN IN JULY, Oh, if he could in all things as he would,

1834. Years would as days and hours as moments be;

GREY, thou hast served, and well, the sacred Cause He would, so restless is his spirit here,

That Hampden, Sydney died for. Thou hast stood, Give wings to Time, and wish his life away!

Scorning all thought of Self, from first to last,

Among the foremost in that glorious field ; The heart, they say, is wiser than the schools ; From first to last; and, ardent as thou art, And well they may. All that is great in thought, Held on with equal step as best became That strikes at once as with electric fire,

A lofty mind, loftiest when most assailed ; And lifts us, as it were, from earth to heaven, Never, though galled by many a barbed shaft, Comes from the heart; and who confesses not By many a bitter taunt from friend and foe, Its voice as sacred, nay almost divine,

Swerving, nor shrinking. Happy in thy Youth, When inły it declares on what we do,

Thy Youth the dawn of a long summer-day ; Blaming, approving ? Let an erring world But in thy Age still happier; thine to earn Judge as it will, we care not while we stand The gratitude of millions yet unborn; Acquitted there ; and oft, when clouds on clouds Thine to conduct, through ways how difficult, Compass us round and not a track appears, A mighty people in their march sublime Oft is an upright heart the surest guide,

From Good to Better. Great thy recompence, Surer and better than the subtlest head;

When in their eyes thou read'st what thou hast done; Still with its silent counsels thro' the dark

And may'st thou long enjoy it ; may'st thou long Onward and onward leading.

Preserve for them what still they claim as theirs,

That generous fervour and pure eloquence, This Child, so lovely and so cherub-like,

Thine from thy birth and Nature's noblest gifts, (No fairer spirit in the heaven of heavens)

To guard what They have gained !

D 2


(Such as He shed on Nelson's closing grave;

How soon to claim the sympathy He gave :)
October 10, 1806.

In Him, resentful of another's wrong,
WHOE'ER thou art, approach, and, with a sigh, The dumb were eloquent, the feeble strong.
Mark where the small remains of Greatness lie.2

Truth from his lips a charm celestial drewThere sleeps the dust of FOX for ever gone; Ah, who so mighty and so gentle too ? How near the Place where late his glory shone ! What tho’ with War the madding Nations rung, And, tho' no more ascends the voice of Prayer, 6 Peace,” when He spoke, was ever on his tongue ! Tho' the last footsteps cease to linger there, Amid the frowns of Power, the tricks of State, Still, like an awful Dream that comes again, Fearless, resolved, and negligently great! Alas, at best, as transient and as vain,

In vain malignant vapours gathered round;
Still do I see (while thro’ the vaults of night He walked, erect, on consecrated ground.
The funeral-song once more proclaims the rite) The clouds, that rise to quench the Orb of day,
The moving Pomp along the shadowy aisle, Reflect its splendour, and dissolve away!
That, like a Darkness, filled the solemn Pile ; When in retreat He laid his thunder by,
The illustrious line, that in long order led, For lettered ease and calm Philosophy,
Of those that loved Him living, mourned Him dead; Blest were his hours within the silent grove,
Of those the Few, that for their Country stood Where still his god-like Spirit deigns to rove;
Round Him who dared be singularly good; Blest by the orphan's smile, the widow's prayer,
All, of all ranks, that claimed him for their own; For many a deed, long done in secret there.
And nothing wanting --but Himself alone ! 3 There shone his lamp on Homer's hallowed page,

Oh say, of Him now rests there but a name ; There, listening, sate the hero and the sage;
Wont, as He was, to breathe ethereal flame? And they, by virtue and by blood allied,
Friend of the Absent, Guardian of the Dead ! Whom most He loved, and in whose arms He
Who but would here their sacred sorrows shed ? died.

Friend of all Human-kind! not here alone 1 After the funeral of the Right Hon. CHARLES JAMES

(The voice, that speaks, was not to Thee unknown) Fox. 2 Venez voir le peu qui nous reste de tant de grandeur, &c. Long, long shall England be revered in Thee!

Wilt Thou be missed.-0’er every land and sea Bossuet, Oraison funèbre de Louis de Bourbon. 3 Et rien enfin ne manque dans tous ces honneurs, que

And, when the Storm is hushed-in distant years, celui à qui or les rend.-Ibid.

Foes on thy grave shall meet, and mingle tears !




Many of the incidents will now be thought extraThe following Poem (or, to speak more properly, vagant ; yet they were once perhaps received with what remains of it 4) has here and there a lyrical something more than indulgence. It was an age turn of thought and expression. It is sudden in of miracles ; and who can say that among the its transitions, and full of historical allusions ; venerable legends in the library of the Escurial, leaving much to be imagined by the reader.

or the more authentic records which fill the great The subject is a voyage the most memorable in chamber in the Archivo of Simancas, and which the annals of mankind. Columbus was a person of relate entirely to the deep tragedy of America, , extraordinary virtue and piety, acting under the there are no volumes that mention the marvellous sense of a Divine impulse ; and his achievement the things here described ? Indeed the

story, as already discovery of a New World, the inhabitants of told throughout Europe, admits of no heightening. which were shut out from the light of Revelation, Such was the religious enthusiasm of the early and given up, as they believed, to the dominion of writers, that the Author had only to transfuse it malignant spirits.

into his verse; and he appears to have done little

more ; though some of the circumstances, which 4 The Original in the Castilian language, according to the Inscription that follows, was found among other MSS.

he alludes to as well-known, have long ceased to in an old religious house near Palos, situated on an island

be so. By using the language of that day, he has formed by the river Tinto, and dedicated to our Lady of La called up Columbus “in his habit as he lived;" Rábida. The Writer describes himself as having sailed

and the authorities, such as exist, are carefully wi th Columbus; but his style and manner are evidently given by the Translator. of an after-time,

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