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What are monuments of bravery,
Where no public virtues bloom?
What avail, in lands of slavery,

Trophied temples, arch and tomb?

Pageants! Let the world revere us
For our people's rights and laws,
And the breasts of civic heroes

Bared in Freedom's holy cause.

Yours are Hampden's, Russel's glory, Sydney's matchless shade is yours,— Martyrs in heroic story,

Worth a hundred Azincours!

We're the sons of sires that baffled
Crown'd and mitred tyranny:--
They defied the field and scaffold
For their birthrights-so will we!

THE MAID'S REMONSTRANCE.

NEVER wedding, ever wooing,
Still a lovelorn heart pursuing,
Read you not the wrong you're doing
In my cheek's pale hue?

All my life with sorrow strewing,
Wed, or cease to woo.

Rivals banish'd, bosoms plighted,
Still our days are disunited;
Now the lamp of hope is lighted,

Now half quench'd appears,
Damp'd, and wavering, and benighted,
Midst my sighs and tears.

Charms you call your dearest blessing,
Lips that thrill at your caressing,
Eyes a mutual soul confessing,

Soon you'll make them grow
Dim, and worthless your possessing,
Not with age, but woe!

SONG.

DRINK ye to her that each loves best, And if you nurse a flame

That's told but to her mutual breast, We will not ask her name.

Enough, while memory tranced and glad

Paints silently the fair,

That each should dream of joys he's had, Or yet may hope to share.

Yet far, far hence be jest or boast

From hallow'd thoughts so dear; But drink to them that we love most, As they would love to hear.

SONG.

WHEN Napoleon was flying From the field of Waterloo,

A British soldier, dying,

To his brother bade adieu!

"And take," he said, "this token

To the maid that owns my faith, With the words that I have spoken

In affection's latest breath."

Sore mourn'd the brother's heart,
When the youth beside him fell;
But the trumpet warn'd to part,
And they took a sad farewell.

There was many a friend to lose him,
For that gallant soldier sigh'd;

But the maiden of his bosom

Wept when all their tears were dried.

THE BEECH-TREE'S PETITION.

O LEAVE this barren spot to me! Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree! Though bush or floweret never grow My dark unwarming shade below; Nor summer bud perfume the dew Of rosy blush or yellow hue; Nor fruits of autumn, blossom-born, My green and glossy leaves adorn; Nor murmuring tribes from me derive Th' ambrosial amber of the hive; Yet leave this barren spot to me: Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!

Thrice twenty summers I have seen The sky grow bright, the forest green; And many a wintry wind have stood In bloomless, fruitless solitude, Since childhood in my pleasant bower First spent its sweet and sportive hour, Since youthful lovers in my shade Their vows of truth and rapture made; And on my trunk's surviving frame Carved many a long-forgotten name. Oh! by the sighs of gentle sound, First breathed upon this sacred ground: By all that Love has whisper'd here, Or Beauty heard with ravish'd ear; As Love's own altar honor me, Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!

SONG.

EARL March look'd on his dying child,
And smit with grief to view her-
The youth, he cried, whom I exiled,
Shall be restored to woo her.

She's at the window many an hour,
His coming to discover;

And her love look'd up to Ellen's bower,
And she look'd on her lover-

But ah! so pale, he knew her not,

Though her smile on him was dwelling. And am I then forgot-forgot?

It broke the heart of Ellen.

In vain he weeps, in vain he sighs,
Her cheek is cold as ashes;

Nor love's own kiss shall wake those eyes
To lift their silken lashes.

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"Say, then, did pitying Heaven condemn the deed,
When Vengeance bade thee, faithless lover! bleed?
Long had I watch'd thy dark foreboding brow,
What time thy bosom scorn'd its dearest vow!
Sad, though I wept the friend, the lover changed,
Still thy cold look was scornful and estranged,
Till, from thy pity, love, and shelter thrown,
I wander'd hopeless, friendless, and alone!

Why does my soul this gush of fondness feel!
Trembling and faint, I drop the guilty steel!
Cold on my heart the hand of terror lies,
And shades of horror close my languid eyes!
"Oh! 'twas a deed of Murder's deepest grain!
Could B -k's soul so true to wrath remain ?

A friend long true, a once fond lover fell!—
Where Love was foster'd could not Pity dwell?

"Unhappy youth, while yon pale crescent glows
To watch on silent Nature's deep repose,
Thy sleepless spirit, breathing from the tomb,
Foretells my fate, and summons me to come!
Once more I see thy sheeted spectre stand,
Roll the dim eye, and wave the paly hand!

"Soon may this fluttering spark of vital flame
Forsake its languid melancholy frame!
Soon may these eyes their trembling lustre close,
Welcome the dreamless night of long repose!
Soon
may this woe-worn spirit seek the bourne
Where, lull'd to slumber, Grief forgets to mourn!”

SONG.

Он, how hard it is to find
The one just suited to our mind;
And if that one should be
False, unkind, or found too late,
What can we do but sigh at fate,

And sing Woe's me-Woe's me!

Love's a boundless burning waste,
Where Bliss's stream we seldom taste,
And still more seldom flee
Suspense's thorns, Suspicion's stings;
Yet somehow Love a something brings
That's sweet-ev'n when we sigh 'Woe's me!"

STANZAS

ON THE THREATENED INVASION, 1803.
OUR bosoms we'll bare for the glorious strife,
And our oath is recorded on high,

To prevail in the cause that is dearer than life,
Or crush'd in its ruins to die!

Then rise, fellow-freemen, and stretch the right hand,
And swear to prevail in your dear native land!

"Oh! righteous Heaven! 'twas then my tortured soul 'Tis the home we hold sacred is laid to our trustFirst gave to wrath unlimited control!

Adieu the silent look! the streaming eye!
The murmur'd plaint! the deep heart-heaving sigh!
Long-slumbering Vengeance wakes to bitter deeds;
He shrieks, he falls, the perjured lover bleeds!
Now the last laugh of agony is o'er,

And pale in blood he sleeps, to wake no more!
""Tis done! the flame of hate no longer burns:
Nature relents, but, ah! too late returns!

1 Warwick Castle.

God bless the green Isle of the brave!
Should a conqueror tread on our forefathers' dust,
It would rouse the old dead from their grave!
Then rise, fellow-freemen, and stretch the right hand,
And swear to prevail in your dear native land!

In a Briton's sweet home shall a spoiler abide-
Profaning its loves and its charms?
Shall a Frenchman insult the loved fair at our side?
To arms! oh, my country, to arms!
Then rise, fellow-freemen, and stretch the right hand,
And swear to prevail in your dear native land!
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Shall a tyrant enslave us, my countrymen!-No!
His head to the sword shall be given-
A death-bed repentance be taught the proud foe,
And his blood be an offering to Heaven!
Then rise, fellow-freemen, and stretch the right hand,
And swear to prevail in your dear native land!

SONG.

WITHDRAW not yet those lips and fingers, Whose touch to mine is rapture's spell! Life's joy for us a moment lingers,

And death seems in the word-farewell.
The hour that bids us part and go,
It sounds not yet-oh! no, no, no!

Time, whilst I gaze upon thy sweetness,
Flies like a courser nigh the goal;
To-morrow where shall be his fleetness,
When thou art parted from my soul?
Our hearts shall heat, our tears shall flow,
But not together, no, no, no!

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What's hallow'd ground? "Tis what gives birth
To sacred thoughts in souls of worth!-
Peace! Independence! Truth! go forth
Earth's compass'd round;

And your high-priesthood shall make earth
All hallow'd ground.

CAROLINE.

PART I.

I'LL bid the hyacinth to blow,

I'll teach my grotto green to be; And sing my true love, all below

The holly bower and myrtle-tree.

There all his wild-wood sweets to bring, The sweet south wind shall wander by, And with the music of his wing

Delight my rustling canopy.

Come to my close and clustering bower,

Thou spirit of a milder clime, Fresh with the dews of fruit and flower, Of mountain-heath, and moory thyme.

With all thy rural echoes come,

Sweet comrade of the rosy day, Wafting the wild bee's gentle hum,

Or cuckoo's plaintive roundelay.

Where'er thy morning breath has play'd,
Whatever isles of ocean fann'd,
Come to my blossom-woven shade,

Thou wandering wind of fairy-land.

For sure from some enchanted isle,

Where Heaven and Love their sabbath holds,

Where pure and happy spirits smile,

Of beauty's fairest, brightest mould;

From some green Eden of the deep,

Where Pleasure's sigh alone is heaved, Where tears of rapture lovers weep, Endear'd, undoubting, undeceived;

From some sweet paradise afar,

Thy music wanders, distant, lostWhere Nature lights her leading star, And love is never cross'd.

Oh gentle gale of Eden bowers,

If back thy rosy feet should roam, To revel with the cloudless Hours In Nature's more propitious home.

Name to thy loved Elysian groves, That o'er enchanted spirits twine, A fairer form than cherub loves, And let the name be Caroline.

PART II.

TO THE EVENING STAR.

GEM of the crimson-color'd Even,
Companion of retiring day,
Why at the closing gates of Heaven,
Beloved star, dost thou delay?

So fair thy pensile beauty burns,

When soft the tear of twilight flows; So due thy plighted love returns,

To chambers brighter than the rose;

To Peace, to Pleasure, and to Love,

So kind a star thou seem'st to be, Sure some enamour'd orb above

Descends and burns to meet with thee.

Thine is the breathing, blushing hour,
When all unheavenly passions fly,
Chased by the soul-subduing power
Of Love's delicious witchery.

O! sacred to the fall of day,
Queen of propitious stars, appear,
And early rise, and long delay,
When Caroline herself is here!

Shine on her chosen green resort,

Whose trees the sunward summit crown, And wanton flowers, that well may court An Angel's feet to tread them down. Shine on her sweetly-scented road,

Thou star of evening's purple dome, That lead'st the nightingale abroad,

And guidest the pilgrim to his home.

Shine, where my charmer's sweeter breath
Embalms the soft exhaling dew,
Where dying winds a sigh bequeath
To kiss the cheek of rosy hue.

Where, winnow'd by the gentle air,
Her silken tresses darkly flow,
And fall upon her brow so fair,

Like shadows on the mountain snow.

Thus, ever thus, at day's decline,
In converse sweet, to wander far,

O bring with thee my Caroline,

And thou shalt be my Ruling Star!

FIELD FLOWERS.

YE field flowers! the gardens eclipse you, 'tis true, Yet, wildings of Nature, I dote upon you,

For ye waft me to summers of old,
When the earth teem'd around me with fairy delight,
And when daisies and buttercups gladden'd my sight,
Like treasures of silver and gold.

I love you for lulling me back into dreams
Of the blue Highland mountains and echoing streams,
And of birchen glades breathing their balm,
While the deer was seen glancing in sunshine remote,
And the deep mellow crush of the wood-pigeon's note
Made music that sweeten'd the calm.

Not a pastoral song has a pleasanter tune
Than ye speak to my heart, little wildings of June:
Of old ruinous castles ye tell,

Where I thought it delightful your beauties to find,
When the magic of Nature first breathed on my mind,
And your blossoms were part of her spell.

Ev'n now what affection the violet awakes;
What loved little islands, twice seen in their lakes,
Can the wild water-lily restore!

What landscapes I read in the primrose's looks,
And what pictures of pebbled and minnowy brooks
In the vetches that tangled their shore!

Earth's cultureless buds, to my heart ye were dear, Ere the fever of passion, or ague of fear

Had scathed my existence's bloom; Once I welcome you more, in life's passionless stage, With the visions of youth to revisit my age,

And I wish you to grow on my tomb.

STANZAS

ON THE BATTLE OF NAVARINO.
HEARTS of oak that have bravely deliver'd the brave,
And uplifted old Greece from the brink of the grave,
"Twas the helpless to help, and the hopeless to save,
That your thunderbolts swept o'er the brine;
And as long as yon sun shall look down on the wave,
The light of your glory shall shine.

For the guerdon ye sought with your bloodshed and toil,
Was it slaves, or dominion, or rapine, or spoil?
No! your lofty emprize was to fetter and foil

The uprooter of Greece's domain !

When he tore the last remnant of food from her soil, Till her famish'd sank pale as the slain!

Yet, Navarin's heroes! does Christendom breed
The base hearts that will question the fame of your
deed?

Are they men?-let ineffable scorn be their meed,
And oblivion shadow their graves!-

Are they women?-to Turkish serails let them speed!
And be mothers of Mussulman slaves.

Abettors of massacre! dare ye deplore

That the death-shriek is silenced on Hellas's shore? That the mother aghast sees her offspring no more By the hand of Infanticide grasp'd?

And that stretch'd on yon billows distain'd by their gore Missolonghi's assassins have gasp'd?

Prouder scene never hallow'd war's pomp to the mind, Than when Christendom's pennons woo'd social the wind,

And the flower of her brave for the combat combined, Their watch-word, humanity's vow ;

Not a sea-boy that fought in that cause, but mankind
Owes a garland to honor his brow!

Nor grudge, by our side, that to conquer or fall,
Came the hardy rude Russ, and the high-mettled Gaul;
For whose was the genius, that plann'd at its call,
Where the whirlwind of battle should roll?
All were brave! but the star of success over all
Was the light of our Codrington's soul.

That star of thy day-spring, regenerate Greek! Dimm'd the Saracen's moon, and struck pallid his cheek:

In its fast flushing morning thy Muses shall speak When their lore and their lutes they reclaim: And the first of their songs from Parnassus's peak Shall be "Glory to Codrington's name!"

LINES

ON LEAVING A SCENE IN BAVARIA.
ADIEU the woods and waters' side,
Imperial Danube's rich domain !
Adieu the grotto, wild and wide,

The rocks abrupt, and grassy plain!

For pallid Autumn once again Hath swell'd each torrent of the hill; Her clouds collect, her shadows sail, And watery winds, that sweep the vale Grow loud and louder still.

But not the storm, dethroning fast
Yon monarch oak of massy pile;
Nor river roaring to the blast

Around its dark and desert isle;
Nor church-bell tolling to beguile
The cloud-born thunder passing by,
Can sound in discord to my soul:
Roll on, ye mighty waters, roll!
And rage, thou darken'd sky!

Thy blossoms, now no longer bright;

Thy wither'd woods, no longer green; Yet, Eldurn shore, with dark delight I visit thy unlovely scene!

For many a sunset hour serene My steps have trod thy mellow dew, When his green light the fire-fly gave, When Cynthia from the distant wave Her twilight anchor drew,

And plow'd, as with a swelling sail,
The billowy clouds and starry sea:
Then, while thy hermit nightingale

Sang on his fragrant apple-tree,—
Romantic, solitary, free,

The visitant of Eldurn's shore,

On such a moonlight mountain stray'd As echo'd to the music made By Druid harps of yore.

Around thy savage hills of oak,

Around thy waters bright and blue, No hunter's horn the silence broke, No dying shriek thine echo knew; But safe, sweet Eldurn woods, to you The wounded wild deer ever ran, Whose myrtle bound their grassy cave, Whose very rocks a shelter gave From blood-pursuing man.

Oh, heart effusions, that arose

From nightly wanderings cherish'd here; To him who flies from many woes, Even homeless deserts can be dear! The last and solitary cheer Of those that own no earthly home, Say-is it not, ye banish'd race, In such a loved and lonely place Companionless to roam?

Yes! I have loved thy wild abode,

Unknown, unplow'd, untrodden shore, Where scarce the woodman finds a road, And scarce the fisher plies an oar: For man's neglect I love thee more; That art nor avarice intrude

To tame thy torrent's thunder-shock, Or prune thy vintage of the rock Magnificently rude.

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