And temper with the sternness of the brain
Thoughts motherly, and meek as womanhood.
Wisdom doth live with children round her knees:
Books, leisure, perfect freedom, and the talk
Man holds with week-day man in the hourly walk
Of the mind's business: these are the degrees
By which true sway doth mount; this is the stalk
True power doth grow on; and her rights are these.
Festivals have I seen that were not names:
This is young Bonaparte's natal day,*
And his is henceforth an established sway,
Consul for life. With worship France proclaims
Her approbation, and with pomps and games.
Heaven grant that other cities may be gay!
Calais is not; and I have bent my way
To the sea-coast, noting that each man frames
His business as he likes. Far other show
My youth here witnessed, in a prouder time;
The senselessness of joy was then sublime!
Happy is he, who, caring not for pope,
Consul, or king, can sound himself to know
The destiny of man, and live in hope.
Look now on that adventurer who hath paid
His vows to Fortune; who, in cruel slight
Of virtuous hope, of liberty, and right,
Hath followed wheresoe'er a way was made
By the blind goddess; ruthless, undismayed;
And so hath gained at length a prosperous height
Round which the elements of worldly might
Beneath his haughty feet, like clouds, are laid!
Oh, joyless power that stands by lawless force!
Curses are his dire portion, scorn and hate,
• Written at Calais, August 15th, 1802.
Internal darkness and unquiet breath;
And, if old judgments keep their sacred course, Him from that height shall Heaven precipitate By violent and ignominious death.
THE EXTINCTION OF THE VENETIAN
REPUBLIC.
ONCE did she hold the gorgeous East in fee;
And was the safeguard of the West: the worth
Of Venice did not fall below her birth,
Venice, the eldest child of Liberty.
She was a maiden city, bright and free;
No guile seduced, no force could violate;
And when she took unto herself a mate,
She must espouse the everlasting sea!
And what if she had seen those glories fade,
Those titles vanish, and that strength decay;
Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid
When her long life hath reached its final day:
Men are we, and must grieve when even the shade
Of that which once was great is passed away.
THE KING OF SWEDEN.
THE Voice of song from distant lands shall call
To that great king; shall hail the crownèd youth
Who, taking counsel of unbending truth,
By one example hath set forth to all
How they with dignity may stand; or fall;
If fall they must. Now, whither doth it tend?
And what to him and his shall be the end?
That thought is one which neither can appall
Nor cheer him: for the illustrious Swede hath done
The thing which ought to be: he stands above
All consequences; work he hath begun
Of fortitude, and piety, and love,
Which all his glorious ancestors approve :
The heroes bless him, him their rightful son.
Call not the royal Swede unfortunate,
Who never did to fortune bend the knee;
Who slighted fear, rejected steadfastly
Temptation; and whose kingly name and state
Have "perished by his choice, and not his fate!"
Hence lives he, to his inner self endeared;
And hence, wherever virtue is revered,
He sits a more exalted potentate,
Throned in the hearts of men. Should Heaven ordain
That this great servant of a righteous cause
Must still have sad or vexing thoughts to endure,
Yet may a sympathising spirit pause,
Admonished by these truths, and quench all pain
In thankful joy and gratulation pure.
TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE.
TOUSSAINT, the most unhappy man of men!
Whether the whistling rustic tend his plough
Within thy hearing, or thy head be now
Pillowed in some deep dungeon's earless den;
O miserable chieftain! where and when
Wilt thou find patience? Yet die not! do thou
Wear rather in thy bonds a cheerful brow:
Though fallen thyself, never to rise again,
Live, and take comfort. Thou hast left behind
Powers that will work for thee, air, earth, and skies:
There's not a breathing of the common wind
That will forget thee; thou hast great allies;
Thy friends are exultations, agonies,
And love, and man's unconquerable mind.
EXPULSION OF NEGROES FROM FRANCE,
DRIVEN from the soil of France, a female came
From Calais with us, brilliant in array,
A negro woman like a lady gay,
Yet downcast as a woman fearing blame;
Meek, destitute, as seemed, of hope or aim
She sate, from notice turning not away,
But on all proffered intercourse did lay
A weight of languid speech,-
-or at the same
Was silent, motionless in eyes and face.
Meanwhile those eyes retained their tropic fire,
Which, burning independent of the mind,
Joined with the lustre of her rich attire
To mock the outcast-O ye heavens be kind!
And feel, thou earth, for this afflicted race!
DOVER, ON THE DAY OF LANDING.
HERE, on our native soil we breathe once more.
The cock that crows, the smoke that curls, that sound
Of bells,-those boys who in yon meadow-ground
In white-sleeved shirts are playing,—and the roar
Of the waves breaking on the chalky shore,
All, all are English. Oft have I looked round
With joy in Kent's green vales; but never found
Myself so satisfied in heart before.
Europe is yet in bonds; but let that pass,
Thought for another moment. Thou art free,
My country! and 'tis joy enough and pride
For one hour's perfect bliss, to tread the grass
Of England once again, and hear and see,
With such a dear companion at my side.
Inland, within a hollow vale, I stood;
And saw, while sea was calm and air was clear,
The coast of France, the coast of France how near!
Drawn almost into frightful neighbourhood.
I shrunk, for verily the barrier flood
Was like a lake, or river bright and fair,
A span of waters; yet what power is there!
What mightiness for evil and for good!
Even so doth God protect us if we be
Virtuous and wise. Winds blow, and waters roll,
Strength to the brave, and power, and deity,
Yet in themselves are nothing! One decree
Spake laws to them, and said that by the soul
Only the nations shall be great and free!
THE SUBJUGATION OF SWITZERLAND.
Two voices are there; one is of the sea,
One of the mountains; each a mighty voice.
In both from age to age thou didst rejoice,
They were thy chosen music, Liberty!
There came a tyrant, and with holy glee
Thou fought'st against him; but hast vainly striven.
Thou from thy Alpine holds at length art driven,
Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee.
Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft;
Then cleave, oh, cleave to that which still is left!
For, high-souled maid, what sorrow would it be
That mountain floods should thunder as before,
And ocean bellow from his rocky shore,
And neither awful voice be heard by thee!
O FRIEND! I know not which way I must look
For comfort, being, as I am, oppressed,
|