O Thou, the direst martyr of the time, To Shadowy Virtue-but substantial Crime-- Through life or death, shame, glory, good, or ill, * Belthazar Gerard, who assassinated William the First, prince of Orange, at Delft. He entertained the design six years before its execution! He said he did it to expiate his sins; that Prince being at the head of the Protestants Thy doom,--O what created Thing might know, Could Heaven have patience still, and could'st not Thou? TO THE MEMORY OF THE ABBÉ EDGEWORTH. O Thou! that at thy king's command, In Panoply by hands not made; While hosts less fearless though in mail array'd; 'Mid prosp❜ring vice, by virtue half inspir'd, Thy noble bearing view'd, and menac'd, and admir'd; 'Tis not the lot of common clay, To win the glories of that morn, And bear a brighter crown away, Than from thy monarch's brow was torn ! Την απ' ανωθεν πανοπλίαν ; l'his intrepid soldier of Christ was requested to at tend the king of France on the scaffold. He cheerfully complied, although it was the universal opinion, that his life would be sacrificed. As the axe descended, he exclaimed with a loud voice, “Fils de St. Louis, montez au ciel.' Struck and overawed by such magnanimity, displayed at such a moment, the troops, on his descent from the scaffold, presented arms, and made a lane for him to pass through their files unmolested ! TO CANOVA. Europe, the World has but one Canova i Had'st thou been born when Nature's hand Was young, She'd copied thee; But She is old, and trusts to Time DON CARLOS. « Vulnus alit venis, et cæco carpitur igni.” O, why has he harness'd his warrior-steed f Expell'd is the Moor, and his countrymen freed, Has his castle no charms?-'tis the noblest in Spain, - Of Grenada the bulwark and pride! Have youth, health, and beauty, been lavish'd in vain? Of renown and of riches-a tide? But she that could hear them, and share them, is gone, Those eyes are extinguish'd in night, That sadden'd or brighten'd for Carlos alone, Or melted in streams of delight; Like the eagle he flew,-but he pined like the dove,Where the Cross with the Crescent had strife! He liv'd but to love! he died but to prove How sweeter his love, than his life! |