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These heavy walls to me had grown
A hermitage-and all my own!
And half I felt as they were come
To tear me from a second home:
With spiders I had friendship made,
And watch'd them in their sullen trade;
Had seen the mice by moonlight play,
And why should I feel less than they?
We were all inmates of one place,
And I, the monarch of each race,
Had power to kill-yet, strange to tell!
In quiet we had learn'd to dwell—
My very chains and I grew friends,
So much a long communion tends
To make us what we are:-even I
Regain'd my freedom with a sigh.

WATERLOO.

THERE was a sound of revelry by night,
And Belgium's capital had gather'd then
Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright
The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men;
A thousand hearts beat happily, and when
Music arose with its voluptuous swell,

Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again,
And all went merry as a marriage-bell; [knell!
But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising
Did ye not hear it? No: 't was but the wind,
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street;
On with the dance! let joy be unconfined; [meet,
No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure
To chase the glowing hours with flying feet-
But hark!-that heavy sound breaks in once
As if the clouds its echo would repeat; [more,
And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! [roar!
Arm!-arm! it is-it is-the cannon's opening
Within a window'd niche of that high hall
Sat Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hear
That sound the first amidst the festival,
And caught its tone with death's prophetic ear;
And when they smiled because he deem'd it near,
His heart more truly knew that peal too well
Which stretch'd his father on a bloody bier, [quell:
And roused the vengeance blood alone would
He rush'd into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell.
Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,
And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago
Blush'd at the praise of their own loveliness;
And there were sudden partings, such as press
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs
Which ne'er might be repeated; who could guess
If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, [rise!
Since upon night so sweet, such awful morn could
And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed,
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;
And the deep thunder, peal on peal afar;
And near, the beat of the alarming drum

Roused up the soldier ere the morning star; While throng'd the citizens with terror dumb, Or whispering, with white lips-"The foe! They come, they come !"

And wild and high the "Cameron'sgathering" rose! The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes;— How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills, Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fills Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers With the fierce native daring which instils The stirring memory of a thousand years, [ears! And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, Dewy, with nature's tear-drops, as they pass, Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, Over the unreturning brave-alas!

Ere evening to be trodden like the grass

Which now beneath them, but above shall grow,

In its next verdure, when this fiery mass

[and low.

Of living valour rolling on the foe,
And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life,
Last eve in beauty's circle proudly gay,
The midnight brought the signal sound of strife,
The morn the marshalling in arms,-the day
Battle's magnificently stern array!

The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which, when rent, The earth is cover'd thick with other clay, Which her own clay shall cover, heap'd and pent, Rider and horse,-friend, foe,-in one red burial blent!

MONODY ON THE DEATH OF THE RIGHT HON. R. B. SHERIDAN.

SPOKEN AT DRURY-LANE THEATRE.

WHEN the last sunshine of expiring day
In summer's twilight weeps itself away,
Who hath not felt the softness of the hour
Sink on the heart, as dew along the flower?
With a pure feeling which absorbs and awes,
While Nature makes that melancholy pause,
Her breathing moment on the bridge where Time
Of light and darkness forms an arch sublime:
Who hath not shared that calm so still and deep,
The voiceless thought which would not speak but
A holy concord, and a bright regret, [weep,
A glorious sympathy with suns that set?
"Tis not harsh sorrow, but a tenderer wo,
Nameless, but dear to gentle hearts below,
Felt without bitterness, but full and clear,
A sweet dejection, a transparent tear,

Unmix'd with worldly grief or selfish stain,
Shed without shame, and secret without pain.
Even as the tenderness that hour instils
When summer's day declines along the hills,
So feels the fulness of our heart and eyes
When all of genius which can perish dies.
A mighty spirit is eclipsed-a power
Hath pass'd from day to darkness-to whose hour

Of light no likeness is bequeath'd-no name, Focus at once of all the rays of fame! The flash of wit-the bright intelligence, The beam of song-the blaze of eloquence, Set with their sun-but still have left behind The enduring produce of immortal mind; Fruits of a genial morn and glorious noon, A deathless part of him who died too soon, But small that portion of the wondrous whole, These sparkling segments of that circling soul, Which all embraced, and lighten'd over all, To cheer, to pierce, to please, or to appal. From the charm'd council to the festive board, Of human feelings the unbounded lord; In whose acclaim the loftiest voices vied, [pride. The praised, the proud, who made his praise their When the loud cry of trampled Hindostan* Arose to heaven in her appeal from man, His was the thunder-his the avenging rod, The wrath-the delegated voice of God! [blazed Which shook the nations through his lips--and Till vanquish'd senates trembled as they praised. And here, oh! here, where yet all young and warm The gay creations of his spirit charm, The matchless dialogue, the deathless wit, Which knew not what it was to intermit; The glowing portraits, fresh from life, that bring Home to our hearts the truth from which they spring; These wondrous beings of his fancy, wrought To fulness by the fiat of his thought, Here in their first abode you still may meet, Bright with the hues of his Promethean heat, A halo of the light of other days, Which still the splendour of its orb betrays. But should there be to whom the fatal blight Of failing wisdom yields a base delight; Men who exult when minds of heavenly tone Jar in the music which was born their own; Still let them pause-Ah! little do they know That what to them seem'd vice might be but wo. Hard is his fate on whom the public gaze Is fix'd forever, to detract or praise; Repose denies her requiem to his name, And folly loves the martyrdom of fame. The secret enemy whose sleepless eye Stands sentinel, accuser, judge, and spy, The foe, the fool, the jealous, and the vain, The envious who but breathe in other's pain, Behold the host! delighting to deprave, Who track the steps of glory to the grave, Watch every fault that daring genius owes Half to the ardour which its birth bestows, Distort the truth, accumulate the lie, And pile the pyramid of calumny! These are his portion-but if, join'd to these Gaunt poverty should league with deep disease, If the high spirit must forget to soar, And stoop to strive with misery at the door, To soothe indignity-and face to face Meet sordid rage, and wrestle with disgrace,

* See Fox, Burke, and Pitt's eulogy on Mr. Sheridan's speech on the charges exhibited against Mr. Hastings in the House of Commons. Mr. Pitt entreated the House to adjourn, to give time for a calmer consideration of the question than could then occur after the immediate effect of that oration.

To find in hope but the renew'd caress,
The serpent-fold of further faithlessness,-
If such may be the ills which men assail,
What marvel if at last the mightiest fail?
Breasts to whom all the strength of feeling given
Bear hearts electric, charged with fire from
Black with the rude collision, inly torn, [heaven,
By clouds surrounded, and on whirlwinds borne,
Driven o'er the lowering atmosphere that nurst
Thoughts which have turn'd to thunder-scorch-
But far from us and from our mimic scene [and burst.
Such things should be-if such have ever been;
Ours be the gentler wish, the kinder task,
To give the tribute glory need not ask,
To mourn the vanish'd beam, and add our mite
Of praise in payment of a long delight.
Ye orators! whom yet our councils yield,
Mourn for the veteran hero of your field!
The worthy rival of the wondrous Three !*
Whose words were sparks of immortality!
Ye bards! to whom the drama's muse is dear,
He was your master-emulate him here!
Ye men of wit and social eloquence!
He was your brother-bear his ashes hence!
While powers of mind, almost of boundless range,
Complete in kind-as various in their change,
While eloquence, wit, poesy, and mirth,
That humble harmonist of care on earth,
Survive within our souls-while lives our sense
Of pride in merit's proud pre-eminence,
Long shall we seek his likeness-long in vain,
And turn to all of him which may remain,
Sighing that Nature form'd but one such man,
And broke the die-in moulding Sheridan!

THE ISLES OF GREECE.

THE isles of Greece! the isles of Greece!
Where burning Sappho loved and sung,
Where grew the arts of war and peace,
Where Delos rose and Phoebus sprung!
Eternal summer gilds them yet,
But all, except their sun, is set.

The Scian and the Teian muse,

The hero's harp, the lover's lute, Have found the fame your shores refuse; Their place of birth alone is mute To sounds which echo further west Than your sires' "Islands of the Bless'd.” The mountains look on MarathonAnd Marathon looks on the sea; And musing there an hour alone,

I dream'd that Greece might still be free; For, standing on the Persians' grave, I could not deem myself a slave.

A king sate on the rocky brow

Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis; And ships, by thousands, lay below, And men in nations;-all were his!

Fox-Pitt-Burke.

He counted them at break of day-
And when the sun set, where were they?
And where are they?—and where art thou,
My country? On thy voiceless shore
The heroic lay is tuneless now-

The heroic bosom beats no more!
And must thy lyre, so long divine,
Degenerate into hands like mine?
"Tis something, in the dearth of fame,
Though link'd among a fetter'd race,
To feel at least a patriot's shame,

Even as I sing, suffuse my face;
For what is left the poet here?
For Greeks a blush-for Greece a tear.
Must we but weep o'er days more bless'd?
Must we but blush!-Our fathers bled.
Earth! render back from out thy breast

A remnant of our Spartan dead!
Of the three hundred grant but three,
To make a new Thermopyla.
What, silent still? and silent all?

Ah! no;-the voices of the dead
Sound like a distant torrent's fall,

And answer, " Let one living head,
But one arise, we come, we come!"
"Tis but the living who are dumb.
In vain-in vain: strike other chords;
Fill high the cup with Samian wine!
Leave battles to the Turkish hordes,

And shed the blood of Scio's vine!
Hark! rising to the ignoble call-
How answers each bold bacchanal!
You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet,
Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone?
Of two such lessons, why forget

The nobler and the manlier one?
You have the letters Cadmus gave-
Think ye he meant them for a slave?
Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!
We will not think of themes like these.
It made Anacreon's song divine;

He served-but served Polycrates-
A tyrant; but our masters then
Were still, at least, our country men.

The tyrant or the Chersonese

Was freedom's best and bravest friend, That tyrant was Miltiades!

Oh! that the present hour would lend Another despot of the kind! Such chains as his were sure to bind. Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! On Suli's rock and Parga's shore Exists the remnant of a line

Such as the Doric mothers bore; And there, perhaps, some seed is sown, The Heracleidan blood might own. Trust not for freedom to the FranksThey have a king who buys and sells. In native swords, and native ranks, The only hope of courage dwells;

But Turkish force and Latin fraud
Would break your shield, however broad.
Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!
Our virgins dance beneath the shade-
I see their glorious black eyes shine;
But, gazing on each glowing maid,
My own the burning tear-drop laves,
To think such breasts must suckle slaves.
Place me on Sunium's marbled steep-

Where nothing, save the waves and I, May hear our mutual murmurs sweep; There, swan-like, let me sing and die: A land of slaves shall ne'er be mineDash down yon cup of Samian wine!

SOLILOQUY OF MANFRED.

THE stars are forth, the moon above the tops Of the snow-shining mountains.-Beautiful! I linger yet with Nature, for the night Hath been to me a more familiar face Than that of man; and in her starry shade Of dim and solitary loveliness,

I learn'd the language of another world.
I do remember me, that in my youth,
When I was wandering,-upon such a night
I stood within the Coliseum's wall,
Midst the chief relics of almighty Rome;
The trees which grew along the broken arches
Waved dark in the blue midnight, and the star
Shone through the rents of ruin; from afar
The watch-dog bay'd beyond the Tiber; and
More near from out the Cæsars' palace came
The owl's long cry, and interruptedly,
Of distant sentinels the fitful song
Begun and died upon the gentle wind.
Some cypresses beyond the time-worn breach
Appear'd to skirt the horizon, yet they stood
Within a bowshot-Where the Cæsars dwelt,
And dwell the tuneless birds of night, amidst
A grove which springs through levell'd battlements,
And twines its roots with the imperial hearths,
Ivy usurps the laurel's place of growth;—
But the gladiators' bloody Circus stands,
A noble wreck in ruinous perfection!

While Caesars' chambers and the Augustan halls
Grovel on earth in indistinct decay.-

And thou didst shine, thou rolling moon, upon
All this, and cast a wide and tender light,
Which soften'd down the hoar austerity
Of rugged desolation, and fill'd up,
As 't were anew, the gaps of centuries,
Leaving that beautiful which still was so,
And making that which was not, till the place
Became religion, and the heart ran o'er
With silent worship of the great of old!-
The dead, but sceptred sovereigns, who still rule
Our spirits from their urns.-

"I was such a night! 'Tis strange that I recall it at this time; But I have found our thoughts take wildest flight Even at the moment when they should array Themselves in pensive order.

CECILIA METELLA.

THERE is a stern round tower of other days,
Firm as a fortress, with its fence of stone,
Such as an army's baffled strength delays,
Standing with half its battlements alone,
And with two thousand years of ivy grown,
The garland of eternity, where wave

The green leaves over all by time o'erthrown ;What was this tower of strength? within its cave What treasure lay so lock'd, so hid?-A woman's grave.

But who was she, the lady of the dead,

Tomb'd in a palace? Was she chaste and fair? Worthy a king's-or more-a Roman's bed? What race of chiefs and heroes did she bear? What daughter of her beauties was the heir? How lived, how loved, how died she? was she not So honour'd-and conspicuously there, Where meaner relics must not dare to rot, Placed to commemorate a more than mortal lot? Was she as those who love their lords, or they Who love the lords of others? such have been Even in the olden time, Rome's annals say. Was she a matron of Cornelia's mien, Or the light air of Egypt's graceful queen, Profuse of joy- -or 'gainst it did she war, Inveterate in virtue? Did she lean To the soft side of the heart, or wisely bar Love from amongst her griefs?-for such the affections are.

Perchance she died in youth: it may be, bow'd With woes far heavier than the ponderous tomb That weigh'd upon her gentle dust, a cloud Might gather o'er her beauty, and a gloom In her dark eye, prophetic of the doom Heaven gives its favourites-early death; yet shed A sunset charm around her, and illume, With hectic light, the Hesperus of the dead, Of her consuming cheek the autumnal leaf like red. Perchance she died in age-surviving all, Charms, kindred, children-with the silver gray On her long tresses, which might yet recall, It may be, still a something of the day

When they were braided, and her proud array And lovely form were envied, praised, and eyed By Rome-But whither would conjecture stray? Thus much alone we know-Metella died, [pride! The wealthiest Roman's wife; behold his love or I know not why-but, standing thus by thee, It seems as if I had thine inmate known, Thou tomb! and other days come back on me With recollected music, though the tone Is changed and soleren, like the cloudy groan Of dying thunder on the distant wind; Yet could I seat me by this ivied stone Till I had bodied forth the heated mind [behind; Forms from the flowing wreck which ruin leaves And from the planks, far shatter'd o'er the rocks, Built me a little bark of hope, once more To battle with the ocean and the shocks Of the loud breakers, and the ceaseless roar

Which rushes on the solitary shore

Where all lies founder'd that was ever dear: But could I gather from the wave-worn store Enough for my rude boat, where should I steer? There woos no home, nor hope, nor life, save what is here.

Then let the winds howl on! their harmony Shall henceforth be my music, and the night The sound shall temper with the owlets' cry, As I now hear them, in the fading light Dim o'er the bird of darkness' native site, Answering each other on the Palatine, [bright, With their large eyes, all glistening gray and And sailing pinions.-Upon such a shrine What are our petty griefs?-let me not number mine.

THE OCEAN.

On! that the desert were my dwelling-place, With one fair spirit for my minister, That I might all forget the human race, And, hating no one, love but only her! Ye elements!-in whose ennobling stir I feel myself exalted-Can ye not Accord me such a being? Do I err In deeming such inhabit many a spot? Though with them to converse can rarely be our lot.

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a rapture on the lonely shore; There is society, where none intrudes, By the deep sea, and music in its roar : I love not man the less, but nature more, From these our interviews, in which I steal From all I may be, or have been before, To mingle with the universe, and feel What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal. Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean-roll! Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain; Man marks the earth with ruin-his control Stops with the shore;-upon the watery plain The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain A shadow of man's ravage, save his own, When for a moment, like a drop of rain, He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, Without a grave, unknell'd, uncoffin'd, and unknown.

His steps are not upon thy paths,-thy fields Are not a spoil for him,-thou dost arise [wields And shake him from thee; the vile strength he For earth's destruction thou dost all despise, Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies, And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray And howling, to his gods, where haply lies His petty hope in some near port or bay, And dashest him again to earth;—there let him lay. The armaments which thunderstrike the walls Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake, And monarchs tremble in their capitals, The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make Their clay creator the vain title take Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war;

These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake,
They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar
Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar.
Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee-
Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they?
Thy waters wasted them while they were free,
And many a tyrant since; their shores obey
The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay
Has dried up realms to deserts:-not so thou,
Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play-
Time writes no wrinkle on thy azure brow-
Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now.
Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form
Glasses itself in tempests: in all time,

Calm or convulsed-in breeze, or gale, or storm,
Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime
Dark-heaving; boundless, endless, and sublime-
The image of eternity-the throne

Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime

The monsters of the deep are made; each zone Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone.

And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be Borne, like thy bubbles, onward: from a boy I wanton'd with thy breakers-they to me Were a delight; and if the freshening sea Made them a terror-'t was a pleasing fear, For I was as it were a child of thee, And trusted to thy billows far and near, And laid thy hand upon thy mane-as I do here.

TO THYRZA.

WITHOUT a stone to mark the spot,

And say, what truth might well have said

By all, save one, perchance forgot,

Ah, wherefore art thou lowly laid?
By many a shore and many a sea
Divided, yet beloved in vain;
The past, the future fled to thee

To bid us meet-no-ne'er again!
Could this have been-a word, a look
That softly said, "We part in peace,"
Had taught my bosom how to brook,

With fainter sighs, thy soul's release. And didst thou not, since Death for thee Prepared a light and pangless dart, Once long for him thou ne'er shall see,

Who held, and holds thee in his heart? Oh! who like him had watch'd thee here? Or sadly mark'd thy glazing eye In that dread hour ere death appear,

When silent sorrow fears to sigh,
Till all was past? But when no more
"I was thine to reck of human wo,
Affection's heart-drops, gushing o'er,

Had flow'd as fast-as now they flow.
Shall they not flow, when many a day
In these, to me, deserted towers,
Ere call'd but for a time away,

Affection's mingling tears were ours?

Ours too the glance none saw beside;
The smile none else might understand;
The whisper'd thought of hearts allied,
The pressure of the thrilling hand;
The kiss, so guiltless and refined,

That love each warmer wish forbore;
Those eyes proclaim'd so pure a mind,
Even passion blush'd to plead for more.
The tone, that taught me to rejoice,

When prone, unlike thee to repine; The song, celestial from thy voice,

But sweet to me from none but thine,
The pledge we wore-I wear it still,
But where is thine?-ah, where art thou?
Oft have I borne the weight of ill,

But never bent beneath till now!
Well hast thou left in life's best bloom
The cup of wo for me to drain;
If rest alone be in the tomb,

I would not wish thee here again:
But if in worlds more blest than this

Thy virtues seek a fitter sphere,
Impart some portion of thy bliss,

To wean me from mine anguish here.
Teach me too early taught by thee!
To bear, forgiving and forgiven:
On earth thy love was such to me;
It fain would form my hope in heaven!

STANZAS.

AWAY, away, ye notes of wo.

Be silent, thou once soothing strain,
Or I must flee from hence, for, oh!
I dare not trust those sounds again.
To me they speak of brighter days-
But lull the chords, for now, alas!

I must not think, I may not gaze
On what I am-on what I was.

The voice that made those sounds more sweet Is hush'd, and all their charms are fled; And now their softest notes repeat

A dirge, an anthem o'er the dead! Yes, Thyrza! yes, they breathe of thee, Beloved dust! since dust thou art; And all that once was harmony

Is worse than discord to my heart! "Tis silent all!-but on my car

The well-remember'd echoes thrill;

I hear a voice I would not hear,

A voice that now might well be still:
Yet oft my doubting soul 'twill shake;
Even slumber owns its gentle tone,
Till consciousness will vainly wake

To listen, though the dream be flown.
Sweet Thyrza! waking as in sleep,
Thou art but now a lovely dream;
A star that trembled o'er the deep,

Then turn'd from earth its tender beam.
But he, who through life's dreary way
Must pass, when heaven is veil'd in wrath,
Will long lament the vanish'd ray
That scatter'd gladness o'er his path.

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