I thought to have selected the white flowers Whether, since both my parents willed the change, Regard me mildly with her azure eyes, Gently he moved her off, and drew her back, And the dark depths of nature heaved and burst. A groan that shook him shook not his resolve. An aged man now entered, and without One word, stepped slowly on, and took the wrist Of the pale maiden. She looked up and saw The fillet of the priest and calm cold eyes. Then turned she where her parent stood, and cried “O father! grieve no more: the ships can sail.” ON HIS SEVENTY-FIFTH BIRTHDAY I STROVE with none; for none was worth my strife, I warmed both hands before the fire of life, THOMAS CAMPBELL [1777-1844] YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND A NAVAL ODE YE mariners of England That guard our native seas, Whose flag has braved a thousand years Your glorious standard launch again To match another foe, And sweep through the deep, While the stormy winds do blow; While the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow. The spirits of your fathers Shall start from every wave!— For the deck it was their field of fame Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell Your manly hearts shall glow, While the stormy winds do blow; Britannia needs no bulwark, No towers along the steep; Her march is o'er the mountain waves, Her home is on the deep. With thunders from her native oak She quells the floods below As they roar on the shore, When the stormy winds do blow; When the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow. The meteor flag of England Till danger's troubled night depart When the storm has ceased to blow; THOMAS MOORE [1779-1852] PRO PATRIA MORI WHEN he, who adores thee, has left but the name Of his fault and his sorrows behind, Oh! say wilt thou weep, when they darken the fame Yes, weep, and however my foes may condemn, For Heaven can witness, though guilty to them, With thee were the dreams of my earliest love; Oh! blest are the lovers and friends who shall live But the next dearest blessing that Heaven can give Is the pride of thus dying for thee. By those tresses unconfined, By that lip I long to taste; What words can never speak so well; Maid of Athens! I am gone: Though I fly to Istambol, Athens holds my heart and soul; WHEN WE TWO PARTED WHEN We two parted To sever for years, Pale grew thy cheek and cold, Truly that hour foretold The dew of the morning They name thee before me, In secret we met In silence I grieve That thy heart could forget, Thy spirit deceive. If I should meet thee After long years, How should I greet thee?— With silence and tears. |