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And loves on deer-borne car to ride,
With barren darkness by his side.
Round the shore where loud Lofoden
Whirls to death the roaring whale,
Round the hall where Runic Odin

Howls his war-song to the gale;
Save when adown the ravaged globe
He travels on his native storm,
Deflow'ring Nature's grassy robe,
And trampling on her faded form:-
Till light's returning lord assume

The shaft that drives him to his polar field,
Of power to pierce his raven plume,
And crystal-cover'd shield.

O sire of storms! whose savage ear
The Lapland drum delights to hear,
When Frenzy, with her blood-shot eye,
Implores thy dreadful deity,
Archangel! power of desolation!

Fast descending as thou art,
Say, hath mortal invocation

Spells to touch thy stony heart?
Then, sullen Winter, hear my prayer,
And gently rule the ruin'd year;
Nor chill the wanderer's bosom bare,

Nor freeze the wretch's falling tear-
To shuddering want's unmantled bed
Thy horror-breathing agues cease to lead,
And gently on the orphan head
Of innocence descend.

But chiefly spare, O king of clouds!
The sailor on his airy shrouds ;
When wrecks and beacons strew the steep
And spectres walk along the deep.
Milder yet thy snowy breezes

Pour on yonder tented shores,
Where the Rhine's broad billow freezes,
Or the dark-brown Danube roars.
Oh, winds of Winter! list ye there

To many a deep and dying groan;

Or start, ye demons of the midnight air,

At shrieks and thunders louder than your own. Alas! ev'n your unhallow'd breath

May spare the victim fallen low; But man will ask no truce to death, No bounds to human woe.'

Unconscious of the doom, we dreamt, alas!
That ev'n these walls, ere many months should pass,
Which but return sad accents for her now,
Perhaps had witness'd her benignant brow,
Cheer'd by the voice you would have raised on high,
In bursts of British love and loyalty.

But, Britain! now thy chief, thy people mourn,
And Claremont's home of love is left forlorn :----
There, where the happiest of the happy dwelt,
The 'scutcheon glooms, and royalty hath felt
A wound that every bosom feels its own,-
The blessing of a father's heart o'erthrown-
The most beloved and most devoted bride
Torn from an agonized husband's side,
Who "long as Memory holds her seat" shall view
That speechless, more than spoken, last adieu,
When the fix'd eye long look'd connubial faith,
And beam'd affection in the trance of death.
Sad was the pomp that yester-night beheld,
As with the mourner's heart the anthem swell'd;
While torch succeeding torch illumed each high
And banner'd arch of England's chivalry.
The rich plumed canopy, the gorgeous pall,
The sacred march and sable-vested wall,-
These were not rites of inexpressive show,
But hallow'd as the types of real woe!
Daughter of England! for a nation's sighs,
A nation's heart went with thine obsequies!-
And oft shall time revert a look of grief
On thine existence, beautiful and brief.
Fair spirit! send thy blessing from above
On realms where thou art canonized by love!
Give to a father's, husband's bleeding mind,
The peace that angels lend to human kind;
To us, who in thy loved remembrance feel
A sorrowing, but a soul-ennobling zeal-
A loyalty that touches all the best

And loftiest principles of England's breast!
Still may thy name speak concord from the tomb-
Still in the Muse's breath thy memory bloom!
They shall describe thy life-thy form portray;
But all the love that mourns thee swept away,
"T is not in language or expressive arts
To paint-yet feel it, Britons, in your hearts!

LINES

Spoken by Mr. ****, at Drury-Lane Theatre, on the first opening of the house after the death of the Princess Charlotte, 1817.

BRITONS! although our task is but to show
The scenes and passions of fictitious woe,
Think not we come this night without a part
In that deep sorrow of the public heart,
Which like a shade hath darken'd every place,
And moisten'd with a tear the manliest face!
The bell is scarcely hush'd in Windsor's piles,
That toll'd a requiem from the solemn aisles,
For her, the royal flower, low laid in dust,
That was your fairest hope, your fondest trust.

1 This ode was written in Germany, at the close of 1800, before the conclusion of hostilities.

LINES

ON THE GRAVE OF A SUICIDE.

By strangers left upon a lonely shore,
Unknown, unhonor'd, was the friendless dead;
For child to weep, or widow to deplore,

There never came to his unburied head:
All from his dreary habitation fled.
Nor will the lantern'd fisherman at eve

Launch on that water by the witches' tow'r,
Where hellebore and hemlock seem to weave
Round its dark vaults a melancholy bow'r,
For spirits of the dead at night's enchanted hour.

They dread to meet thee, poor unfortunate!
Whose crime it was, on life's unfinish'd road
To feel the stepdame buffetings of fate,
And render back thy being's heavy load.
Ah! once, perhaps, the social passions glow'd

Joy to the band' this day on Egypt's coast,
Whose valor tamed proud France's tricolor,
And wrench'd the banner from her bravest host,
Baptized Invincible in Austria's gore!

Joy for the day on red Vimeira's strand,
When, bayonet to bayonet opposed,
First of Britannia's host her Highland band
Gave but the death-shot once, and foremost closed!

Is there a son of generous England here,
Or fervid Erin ?-he with us shall join,
To pray that in eternal union dear,

The rose, the shamrock, and the thistle twine!

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BRAVE men who at the Trocadero fell

Beside your cannons conquer'd not, though slain,
There is a victory in dying well

For Freedom, and ye have not died in vain ;
For come what may, there shall be hearts in Spain
To honor, aye embrace your martyr'd lot,
Cursing the Bigot's and the Bourbon's chain,
And looking on your graves, though trophied not,
As holier, hallow'd ground than priests could make
the spot!

What though your cause be baffled-freemen cast
In dungeons-dragg'd to death, or forced to flee;
Hope is not wither'd in affliction's blast-
The patriot's blood's the seed of Freedom's tree;
And short your orgies of revenge shall be,
Cowl'd Demons of the Inquisitorial cell!
Earth shudders at your victory,-for ye

Are worse than common fiends from Heaven that fell,
The baser, ranker sprung, Autochthones of Hell!

Go to your bloody rites again-bring back
The hall of horrors and the assessor's pen,
Recording answers shriek'd upon the rack;
Smile o'er the gaspings of spine-broken men;-
Preach, perpetrate damnation in your den ;-
Then let your altars, ye blasphemers! peal
With thanks to Heaven, that let you loose again,
To practise deeds with torturing fire and steel
No eye may search-no tongue may challenge or
reveal!

Yet laugh not in your carnival of crime
Too proudly, ye oppressors!-Spain was free;
Her soil has felt the foot-prints, and her clime
Been winnow'd by the wings of Liberty;
And these even parting scatter as they flee
Thoughts-influences, to live in hearts unborn,
Opinions that shall wrench the prison-key
From Persecution-show her mask off-torn,

Glory to them that die in this great cause!
Kings, Bigots, can inflict no brand of shame,
Or shape of death, to shroud them from applause:—
No!-manglers of the martyr's earthly frame!
Your hangmen fingers cannot touch his fame.
Still in your prostrate land there shall be some
Proud hearts, the shrines of Freedom's vestal flame.
Long trains of ill may pass unheeded, dumb,
But vengeance is behind, and justice is to come.

SONG OF THE GREEKS.

AGAIN to the battle, Achaians!
Our hearts bid the tyrants defiance;
Our land, the first garden of Liberty's tree-
It has been, and shall yet be, the land of the free:
For the cross of our faith is replanted,
The pale dying crescent is daunted,
And we march that the foot-prints of Mahomet's slaves

May be wash'd out in blood from our forefathers'graves.
And the sword shall to glory restore us.
Their spirits are hovering o'er us,

Ah! what though no succor advances,
Nor Christendom's chivalrous lances
Are stretch'd in our aid-be the combat our own!
For we've sworn by our Country's assaulters,
And we'll perish or conquer more proudly alone:
By the virgins they've dragg'd from our altars,
By our massacred patriots, our children in chains,
By our heroes of old, and their blood in our veins,
That, living, we shall be victorious,

Or that, dying, our deaths shall be glorious.

A breath of submission we breathe not;
The sword that we've drawn we will sheathe not!
Its scabbard is left where our martyrs are laid,
And the vengeance of ages has whetted its blade.
Earth may hide-waves engulf-fire consume us,
But they shall not to slavery doom us :

If they rule, it shall be o'er our ashes and graves;
But we've smote them already with fire on the waves,
And new triumphs on land are before us.
To the charge!-Heaven's banner is o'er us.

This day shall ye blush for its story,
Or brighten your lives with its glory.
Our women, oh, say, shall they shriek in despair,
Or embrace us from conquest with wreaths in their hair?
Accursed may his memory blacken,

If a coward there be that would slacken
Till we've trampled the turban and shown ourselves
worth

Being sprung from and named for the godlike of earth.
Strike home, and the world shall revere us
As heroes descended from heroes.

Old Greece lightens up with emotion
Her inlands, her isles of the Ocean;

Fanes rebuilt, and fair towns shall with jubilee ring,
And the Nine shall new-hallow their Helicon's spring:

And tramp her bloated head beneath the foot of Scorn. Our hearths shall be kindled in gladness,

1 The 42d regiment.

That were cold and extinguish'd in sadness;

Whilst our maidens shall dance with their white To welter in the combat's foremost thrust,

waving arms,

Singing joy to the brave that deliver'd their charms,
When the blood of yon Mussulman cravens
Shall have purpled the beaks of our ravens.

SONG OF HYBRIAS THE CRETAN. My wealth's a burly spear and brand, And a right good shield of hides untann'd, Which on my arm I buckle:

With these I plow, I reap, I sow,

With these I make the sweet vintage flow, And all around me truckle.

But your wights that take no pride to wield A massy spear and well-made shield,

Nor joy to draw the sword: Oh, I bring those heartless, hapless drones, Down in a trice on their marrow-bones, To call me King and Lord.

FRAGMENT

FROM THE GREEK OF ALCMAN.

THE mountain summits sleep:-glens, cliffs, and

caves,

Are silent all the black earth's reptile broodThe bees-the wild beasts of the mountain wood: In depths beneath the dark-red ocean's waves

Its monsters rest, whilst wrapt in bower and spray Each bird is hush'd that stretch'd its pinions to the day.

MARTIAL ELEGY

FROM THE GREEK OF TYRTEUS.

How glorious fall the valiant, sword in hand,
In front of battle for their native land!
But oh what ills await the wretch that yields,
A recreant outcast from his country's fields!
The mother whom he loves shall quit her home,
An aged father at his side shall roam;
His little ones shall weeping with him go,
And a young wife participate his woe;
While scorn'd and scowl'd upon by every face,
They pine for food, and beg from place to place.

Stain of his breed! dishonoring manhood's form, All ills shall cleave to him:-Affliction's storm Shall blind him wandering in the vale of years, Till, lost to all but ignominious fears,

He shall not blush to leave a recreant's name,
And children, like himself, inured to shame.

But we will combat for our fathers' land,
And we will drain the life-blood where we stand
To save our children:-fight ye side by side,
And serried close, ye men of youthful pride,
Disdaining fear, and deeming light the cost
Of life itself in glorious battle lost.

Leave not our sires to stem th' unequal fight, Whose limbs are nerved no more with buoyant might; Nor, lagging backward, let the younger breast Permit the man of age (a sight unbless'd)

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His hoary head dishevell❜d in the dust,
And venerable bosom bleeding bare.

But youth's fair form, though fall'n, is ever fair,
And beautiful in death the boy appears,
The hero boy, that dies in blooming years:
In man's regret he lives, and woman's tears,
More sacred than in life, and lovelier far,
For having perish'd in the front of war.

SPECIMENS OF TRANSLATION FROM MEDEA.

Σκαιους δε λεγων, κουδέν τι σοφους
Τους προσθε βροτους ουκ αν αμαρτοις.

Medea, v. 194, p. 63, Glasg. edit.

TELL me, ye bards, whose skill sublime
First charm'd the ear of youthful Time,
With numbers wrapt in heavenly fire,
Who bade delighted echo swell
The trembling transports of the lyre,
The murmur of the shell-
Why to the burst of Joy alone
Accords sweet Music's soothing tone?
Why can no bard, with magic strain,
In slumbers steep the heart of pain?
While varied tones obey your sweep,
The mild, the plaintive, and the deep,
Bends not despairing Grief to hear
Your golden lute, with ravish'd ear?
Oh! has your sweetest shell no power to bind
The fiercer pangs that shake the mind,
And lull the wrath at whose command
Murder bares her gory hand?

When, flush'd with joy, the rosy throng
Weave the light dance, ye swell the song!
Cease ye vain warblers! cease to charm
The breast with other raptures warm!
Cease! till your hand with magic strain
In slumbers steep the heart of pain!

SPEECH OF THE CHORUS IN THE SAME TRAGEDY,

TO DISSUADE MEDEA FROM HER PURPOSE OF PUTTING HER CHILDREN TO DEATH, AND FLYING FOR PROTECTION TO ATHENS.

STROPHE I.

O HAGGARD queen! to Athens dost thou guide
Thy glowing chariot, steep'd in kindred gore;
Or seek to hide thy damned parricide

Where Peace and Mercy dwell for evermore?
The land where Truth, pure, precious, and sublime,
Wooes the deep silence of sequester'd bowers,
And warriors, matchless since the first of time,
Rear their bright banners o'er unconquer'd towers!

Where joyous youth, to Music's mellow strain, Twines in the dance with nymphs for ever fair, While spring eternal, on the lilied plain,

Waves amber radiance through the fields of air!

In thy devoted bosom-and the hand

That smote its kindred heart might yet be prone To deeds of mercy. Who may understand

Thy many woes, poor suicide, unknown ?-
He who thy being gave shall judge of thee alone.

REULLURA.'

STAR of the morn and eve,

Reullura shone like thee,

And well for her might Aodh grieve,
The dark-attired Culdee.2

Peace to their shades! the pure Culdees
Were Albyn's earliest priests of God,
Ere yet an island of her seas

By foot of Saxon monk was trode,
Long ere her churchmen by bigotry
Were barr'd from holy wedlock's tie,
"Twas then that Aodh, famed afar,

In Iona preach'd the word with power, And Reullura, beauty's star,

Was the partner of his bower.

But, Aodh, the roof lies low,

And the thistle-down waves bleaching, And the bat flits to and fro

Where the Gael once heard thy preaching; And fallen is each column'd aisle

Where the chiefs and the people knelt.
"T was near that temple's goodly pile
That honor'd of men they dwelt.
For Aodh was wise in the sacred law,
And bright Reullura's eyes oft saw
The veil of fate uplifted.
Alas, with what visions of awe

Her soul in that hour was gifted-
When pale in the temple and faint,
With Aodh she stood alone
By the statue of an aged Saint!
Fair sculptured was the stone,
It bore a crucifix;

Fame said it once had graced
A Christian temple, which the Picts
In the Britons' land laid waste:

The Pictish men, by St. Columb taught,
Had hither the holy relic brought.
Reullura eyed the statue's face,

And cried, "It is he shall come,

Even he, in this very place,
To avenge my martyrdom.

"For, woe to the Gael people!

Ulvfagre is on the main,

And Iona shall look from tower and steeple
On the coming ships of the Dane;

1 Reullura, in Gaelic, signifies "beautiful star."

2 The Culdees were the primitive clergy of Scotland, and apparently her only clergy from the sixth to the eleventh century. They were of Irish origin; and their monastery, on the island of Iona or [colmkill, was the seminary of Christianity in North Britain. Presbyterian writers have wished to prove them to have been a sort of Presbyters, strangers to the Roman Church and Episcopacy. It seems to be established that they were not enemies to Episcopacy; but that they were not slavishly subjected to Rome, like the clergy of later periods, appears by their resisting the Papal ordinances respecting the celibacy of religious men, on which account they were ultimately displaced by the Scottish sovereigns to make way for more Popish canons.

And, dames and daughters, shall all your locks
With the spoiler's grasp entwine?

No! some shall have shelter in caves and rocks,
And the deep sea shall be mine.
Baffled by me shall the Dane return,
And here shall his torch in the temple burn,
Until that holy man shall plow

The waves from Innisfail.
His sail is on the deep e'en now,
And swells to the southern gale."

"Ah! knowest thou not, my bride,"

The holy Aodh said,

"That the Saint whose form we stand beside Has for ages slept with the dead?" "He liveth, he liveth," she said again,

"For the span of his life tenfold extends Beyond the wonted years of men.

He sits by the graves of well-loved friends That died ere thy grandsire's grandsire's birth; The oak is decayed with old age on earth, Whose acorn-seed had been planted by him;

And his parents remember the day of dread When the sun on the cross look'd dim, And the graves gave up their dead.

"Yet, preaching from clime to clime,
He hath roam'd the earth for ages,
And hither he shall come in time
When the wrath of the heathen rages,
In time a remnant from the sword-
Ah! but a remnant to deliver;
Yet, blest be the name of the Lord!

His martyrs shall go into bliss for ever.
Lochlin,' appall'd, shall put up her steel,
And thou shalt embark on the bounding keel;
Safe shalt thou pass through her hundred ships,
With the Saint and a remnant of the Gael,
And the Lord will instruct thy lips

To preach in Innisfail."2

The sun, now about to set,

Was burning o'er Tiriee,

And no gathering cry rose yet

O'er the isles of Albyn's sea. Whilst Reullura saw far rowers dip

Their oars beneath the sun, And the phantom of many a Danish ship, Where ship there yet was none. And the shield of alarm' was dumb, Nor did their warning till midnight come, When watch-fires burst from across

From Rona and Uist and Skey, To tell that the ships of the Dane And the red-hair'd slayers were nigh.

Our islesmen arose from slumbers,

And buckled on their arms;
But few, alas! were their numbers
To Lochlin's mailed swarms.
And the blade of the bloody Norse

Has fill'd the shores of the Gael
With many a floating corse,

And with many a woman's wail.

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They have lighted the islands with Ruin's torch,
And the holy men of Iona's church
In the temple of God lay slain;

All but Aodh, the last Culdee,
But bound with many an iron chain,
Bound in that church was he.

And where is Aodh's bride?

Rocks of the ocean flood!

Plunged she not from your heights in pride, '
And mock'd the men of blood?
Then Ulvfagre and his bands

In the temple lighted their banquet up,
And the print of their blood-red hands

Was left on the altar-cup.

"Twas then that the Norseman to Aodh said, "Tell where thy church's treasure's laid, "Or I'll hew thee limb from limb."

As he spoke the bell struck three,

And every torch grew dim

That lighted their revelry,

But the torches again burnt bright,
And brighter than before,

When an aged man of majestic height
Enter'd the temple door.

Hush'd was the revellers' sound,

They were struck as mute as the dead,

And their hearts were appall'd by the very sound Of his footstep's measured tread,

Nor word was spoken by one beholder,

While he flung his white robe back on his shoulder, And stretching his arms-as eath

Unriveted Aodh's bands,

As if the gyves had been a wreath Of willows in his hands.

All saw the stranger's similitude

To the ancient statue's form;
The Saint before his own image stood,
And grasp'd Ulvfagre's arm.

Then uprose the Danes at last to deliver
Their chief, and shouting with one accord,
They drew the shaft from its rattling quiver,
They lifted the spear and sword,

And levell'd their spears in rows.
But down went axes and spears and bows,
When the Saint with his crosier sign'd,

The archer's hand on the string was stopt, And down, like reeds laid flat by the wind, Their lifted weapons dropt.

The Saint then gave a signal mute,

And though Ulvfagre will'd it not,
He came and stood at the statue's foot,
Spell-riveted to the spot,

Till hands invisible shook the wall,
And the tottering image was dash'd
Down from its lofty pedestal.

On Ulvfagre's helm it crash'd-
Helmet, and skull, and flesh, and brain,
It crush'd as millstone crushes the grain.
Then spoke the Saint, whilst all and each
Of the Heathen trembled round,

And the pauses amidst his speech
Were as awful as the sound :

"Go back, ye wolves, to your dens," he cried, "And tell the nations abroad,

How the fiercest of your herd has died

That slaughter'd the flock of God.
Gather him bone by bone,

And take with you o'er the flood
The fragments of that avenging stone
That drank his Heathen blood.
These are the spoils from lona's sack,
The only spoils ye shall carry back;
For the hand that uplifteth spear or sword

Shall be wither'd by palsy's shock,
And I come in the name of the Lord
To deliver a remnant of his flock.

A remnant was call'd together,

A doleful remnant of the Gael,

And the Saint in the ship that had brought him

hither

Took the mourners to Innisfail.

Unscathed they left Iona's strand,

When the opal morn first flush'd the sky,

For the Norse dropt spear, and bow, and brand, And look'd on them silently;

Save from their hiding-places came

Orphans and mothers, child and dame:

But alas! when the search for Reullura spread,

No answering voice was given,

For the sea had gone o'er her lovely head,
And her spirit was in Heaven,

THE TURKISH LADY.

"T WAS the hour when rites unholy Call'd each Paynim voice to prayer,

And the star that faded slowly

Left to dews the freshen'd air.

Day her sultry fires had wasted,

Calm and sweet the moonlight rose:

Ev'n a captive spirit tasted

Half oblivion of his woes.

Then 't was from an Emir's palace
Came an eastern lady bright:
She, in spite of tyrants jealous,

Saw and loved an English knight. "Tell me, captive, why in anguish

Foes have dragg'd thee here to dwell, Where poor Christians as they languish Hear no sound of sabbath bell?"

""T was on Transylvania's Bannat,
When the Crescent shone afar,
Like a pale disastrous planet
O'er the purple tide of war-

"In that day of desolation,
Lady, I was captive made;
Bleeding for my Christian nation
By the walls of high Belgrade."
"Captive! could the brightest jewel
From my turban set thee free?"—
"Lady, no!-the gift were cruel,
Ransom'd, yet if reft of thee.

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