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" 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."
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—50 will we!
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 MAID'S REMONSTRANCE.
In my cheek’s pale hue?
Wed, or cease to woo.
Now half quench'd appears,
Midst my sighs and tears.
Soon you'll make them grow
Not with age, but woe!
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 10 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!
DRINK ye to her that each loves best,
And if you nurse a flame
We will not ask her name.
Paints silently the fair,
Or yet may hope to share.
From hallow'd thoughts so dear ;
As they would love to hear.
And smit with grief to view her
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 loverBut 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.
Her cheek is cold as ashes;
SONG. WEEN Napoleon was flying
From the field of Waterloo, A British soldier, dying,
To his brother bade adieu !
LOVE AND MADNESS.
Why does my soul this gush of fondness feel?
Trembling and faint, I drop the guilty steel ! AN ELEGY, WRITTEN IN 1795. Cold on my heart the hand of terror lies, Hark! from the battlements of yonder tower'
And shades of horror close my languid eyes! The solemn bell has toll’d the midnight hour!
“Oh! 't was a deed of Murder's deepest grain ! Roused from drear visions of distemper'd sleep,
Could B -k's soul so true to wrath remain ! Poor B kwakes—in solitude to weep!
A friend long true, a once fond lover fell
Where Love was foster'd could not Pity dwell! “Cease, Memory, cease, (the friendless mourner cried) To probe the bosom too severely tried !
“Unhappy youth, while yon pale crescent glows Oh! ever cease, my pensive thoughts, to stray
To watch on silent Nature's deep repose, Through the bright fields of Fortune's better day,
Thy sleepless spirit, breathing from the tomb, When youthful Hope, the music of the mind,
Foretells my fate, and summons me to come! Tuned all its charms, and E-N was kind !
Once more I see thy sheeted spectre stand,
Roll the dim eye, and wave the paly hand! " Yet, can I cease, while glows this trembling frame, « Soon may this fluttering spark of vital flame In sighs to speak thy melancholy name? I hear thy spirit wail in every storm!
Forsake its languid melancholy frame! In midnight shades I view thy passing form! Soon may these eyes their trembling lustre close, Pale as in that sad hour when doom'd to feel,
Welcome the dreamless night of long repose ! Deep in thy perjured heart, the bloody steel! Soon may this woe-worn spirit seek the bourne
Where, lull’d to slumber, Grief forgets to mourn!"
And if that one should be
What can we do but sigh at fate, Half-mingling pity with the gall of scorn,
And sing Woe's me-Woe's me!
Love's a boundless burning waste,
Suspense's thorns, Suspicion's stings ;
STANZAS “Say, then, did pitying Heaven condemn the deed, When Vengeance bade thee, faithless lover! bleed?
ON THE THREATENED INVASION, 1803. Long had I watch'd thy dark foreboding brow, OUR bosoms we'll bare for the glorious strife, What time thy bosom scorn'd its dearest vow! And our oath is recorded on high, Sad, though I wept the friend, the lover changed, To prevail in the cause that is dearer than life, Still thy cold look was scornful and estranged, Or crush'd in its ruins to die! Till, from thy pity, love, and shelter thrown, Then rise, fellow-freemen, and stretch the right hand, I wander'd hopeless, friendless, and alone!
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!
God bless the green Isle of the brave! Adieu the silent look! the streaming eye!
Should a conqueror tread on our forefathers' dust, The murmur'd plaint! the deep heart-heaving sigh! It would mouse the old dead from their grave! Long-slumbering Vengeance wakes to bitter deeds; Then rise, fellow-freemen, and stretch the right hand, He shrieks, he falls, the perjured lover bleeds ! And swear to prevail in your dear native land! Now the last laugh of agony is o'er, And pale in blood he sleeps, to wake no more!
In a Briton's sweet home shall a spoiler abide
Profaning its loves and its charms? “'Tis done! the flame of hate no longer burns :
Shall a Frenchman insult the loved fnir at our side? Nature relents, but, ah! too late returns!
To arms! oh, my country, to arms!
And swear to prevail in your dear native land! 1 Warwick Castle.
Shall a tyrant enslave us, my countrymen -No!
His head to the sword shall be given
And his blood be an offering to Heaven!
Is 't death to fall for Freedom's right? He's dead alone that lacks her light! And murder sullies in Heaven's sight
The sword he draws:What can alone ennoble fight?
A noble cause !
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 ihe 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!
Give that! and welcome War to brace
The charging cheer,
Shall still be dear.
O God above!
To Peace and Love.
Where they are not
Belie the vaunt,
With chime or chaunt.
Erect and free,
To bow ihe knee?
Yon church-yard's bowers?
A part of ours.
That ne'er are riven,
And up to heaven!
And will not cool,
In Lethe's pool.
Their turf may bloom;
Their coral tomb.
The ticking wood-worm mocks thee, man!
A temple given
Its space is Heaven!
The harmonious spheres
By mortal ears.
Of heavenly love!
Shall yet be drawn,
But strew his ashes to the wind
Lifts thine on high ?
Is not to die.
What's hallow'd ground ? "Tis what gives birth
Earth 's compass'd round;
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.
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.
Thine is the breathing, blushing hour,
When all unheavenly passions fly, Chased by the soul-subduing power
Of Love's delicious witchery. 0! 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!
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, lost Where 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.
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 sweetend 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 !
TO THE EVENING STAR.
Gen of the crimson-color'd Even,
Companion of retiring day,
Beloved star, dost thou delay ?
When soft the tear of twilight flows; So due thy plighted love returns,
To chambers brighter than the rose;
For pallid Autumn once again
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!
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,
On such a moonlight mountain stray'd
As echo'd to the music made
Around thy waters bright and blue,
No dying shriek thine echo knew;
But safe, sweet Eldurn woods, to you The wounded wild deer ever ran,
Whose myrtle bound their grassy cavo,
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
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.
Earth's cultureless buds, to my heart ye were dear,
Had scathed my existence's bloom;
And I wish you to grow on my lomb.
That your thunderbolts swept o'er the brine;
The light of your glory shall shine.
The uprooter of Greece's domain !
Till her famish'd sank pale as the slain!
And oblivion shadow their graves! -
And be mothers of Mussulman slaves.
By the hand of Infanticide grasp'd ?
Missolonghi's assassins have gasp'd ?
Their watch-word, humanity's vow ;-
Owes a garland to honor his brow!
Where the whirlwind of battle should roll ?
Was the light of our Codrington's soul.
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 !"
Imperial Danube's rich domain!
The rocks abrupt, and grassy plain!
1 In Catholic countries you often hear the church-belis rung to propitiate Heaven during thunder-storms.