What are monuments of bravery, Trophied temples, arch and tomb? Pageants! Let the world revere us 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 THE MAID'S REMONSTRANCE. NEVER wedding, ever wooing, All my life with sorrow strewing, Rivals banish'd, bosoms plighted, Now half quench'd appears, Charms you call your dearest blessing, Soon you'll make them grow 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, There was many a friend to lose him, 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, She's at the window many an hour, And her love look'd up to Ellen's bower, 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, Nor love's own kiss shall wake those eyes "Say, then, did pitying Heaven condemn the deed, Why does my soul this gush of fondness feel! A friend long true, a once fond lover fell!— "Unhappy youth, while yon pale crescent glows "Soon may this fluttering spark of vital flame SONG. Он, how hard it is to find And sing Woe's me-Woe's me! Love's a boundless burning waste, STANZAS ON THE THREATENED INVASION, 1803. To prevail in the cause that is dearer than life, Then rise, fellow-freemen, and stretch the right hand, "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! And pale in blood he sleeps, to wake no more! 1 Warwick Castle. God bless the green Isle of the brave! In a Briton's sweet home shall a spoiler abide- Shall a tyrant enslave us, my countrymen!-No! 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. Time, whilst I gaze upon thy sweetness, What's hallow'd ground? "Tis what gives birth And your high-priesthood shall make earth 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, 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, 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, O! sacred to the fall of day, 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 Where, winnow'd by the gentle air, Like shadows on the mountain snow. Thus, ever thus, at day's decline, 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, I love you for lulling me back into dreams Not a pastoral song has a pleasanter tune Where I thought it delightful your beauties to find, Ev'n now what affection the violet awakes; What landscapes I read in the primrose's looks, 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. For the guerdon ye sought with your bloodshed and toil, 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 Are they men?-let ineffable scorn be their meed, Are they women?-to Turkish serails let them speed! 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 Nor grudge, by our side, that to conquer or fall, 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. 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 Around its dark and desert isle; 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, Sang on his fragrant apple-tree,— 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. H |