PART II.

’Twas day! and all was bright and fair!-- Tis night!--and thunders rend the air;-- The lightning’s blaze illumes the shore;-- In driving hail, the torrents pour. Oh! ’tis a night, whose dreadful shade Seem’d but for hell’s dark demons made, And Fancy’s eye might, in the storm, Trace many a wild mysterious form.

Upon an heath, unmov’d by all, That human nature can appal, 10 Dark Dira stood!--and, by her side, Buoy’d up by vengeful woman’s pride, Like some fair angel’s slender form, Near the dire demon of the storm, The lightning’s blaze, with lurid glare, Shew’d Geraldine pale, standing there. And can no fear, can no remorse, Stop, stop thee, from thy dreadful course?-- Oh! think, in what a gulph of crime, Thou sink’st thy soul to endless time! 20 Oh, think! oh, pause! oh, haste to fly From such a gulph of misery! On every feature of her face, Nought but one fix’d resolve you’d trace, And vain, alas! is human skill, When woman once is bent on ill.

This wither’d heath, the fiends are wont, With annual festival, to haunt; And quaff, from many a murderer’s skull, Bowls with blood-streams bubbling full! 30 And where has been their blasting tread, There never shrub can lift its head-- There never fall the dews of night-- There never beams the solar light!

On Dira’s magic-shielded head Burst, with fierce blaze, the lightnings red; But, ere they singed one hair, they fell, And own’d the power of her spell. Convuls’d her looks,--her eye-balls glare,-- Her elfin locks stream to the air,-- 40 Arms, neck, and breast expos’d and bare, As if the wild wind’s rage to dare. While nature trembled at the sin, They now th’ infernal rites begin.

Within her lean and bony hand, Dark Dira held a mystic wand; Thrice, with that wand, she struck the ground, And mutter’d many a mystic sound: Then turning to the paly fair, Who shudder’d, half-repentant, there, 50 Full on her cold and trembling hand, She struck the hell-devoted wand; And, strange to say, one drop of blood (As if to mar its whiteness) stood On that fair hand, then downwards bore, And fell, and was perceived no more; But where it dropp’d, there instant came, From the seer earth, a dark-blue flame;-- When on that flame the sorceress glanc’d, Round, and round, and round she danc’d, 60 With action wild, and gesture dread, This rhime uncouth she sung or said:-- “Mighty child of darkness, hear! “Queen of the sable sons of hell, “Hecate, now incline thy ear, “Listen to thy Dira’s spell! “And ye dark train, “That sport at midnight o’er th’ infernal plain, “To my charms, now witness bear, “Charms to all your vot’ries dear. 70 “Lo! into these flames I fling “Basilisk’s eye, and scorpion’s sting, “And the bat’s wing! “Fire, subservient to my will, “Burn fiercer, hotter, faster still! “To aid my charm, “Lo! in thy flames, I cast a murderer’s arm.

“Toad, once tenant of the tomb, “Beetle black, and infant’s thigh, “Screech owl’s egg, and raven’s plume, 80 “Mad dog’s foam, and viper’s skin, “Mandrake’s brain, and black cat’s eye, “I throw thy mystic flames within. “Fire, subservient to my will, “Burn fiercer, hotter, faster still! “Lo! again to aid my vow, “Hemlock, and the cypress bough, “Night-shade, yew, and all that bloom “O’er the charnel, or the tomb; “Each potent herb, each magic thing, 90 “To complete my spells, I bring!”

She ceas’d;--and now, with vivid rays, Fiercely tow’rs th’ infernal blaze; The traveller, who, on that black night, Beheld from far, the demon light, Paus’d for awhile!--his pray’rs he said, Then spurr’d his steed in wond’ring dread; The owl, who caught the distant ray, Bore back his pinions in dismay; The dog, who saw the blaze afar, 100 That seem’d to burst like meteor star, In horror stood!--to bark, and tried, But found his trembling tongue was tied.

Now as high the hell-flames whirl, In Dira throws the golden curl; Round, and round again she flings, In hellish dance, and thus she sings:-- “Thou who rul’st the realms below, “Receive the grateful sacrifice, “Around thy fire-flames pacing thrice, 110 “Thy servant offers now! “Cut away, “On nuptial day, “Lo! into these flames, I throw “Ringlet of a deadly foe; “And as it now is eat by flame, “So may the head from whence it came,-- “So may the heart,--so may the frame, “Of that detested enemy, “Wither, and consume, and burn, 120 “Decay like visions of the morn, “In bitt’rest pangs of agony!”

Turn we again to hall and bow’r, Where Hymen gilds each halcyon hour;-- To Osmond, and his jovial train Of lordly friends, turn we again! Like seamen, feasting safe on shore, Little reck’d they of the tempest’s roar:-- Hark! the minstrels tune their lyre, And sing of love’s celestial fire, 130 In melting music’s soothing measures, Tell its more than earthly pleasures! While Osmond’s eyes, with passion streaming, Are on his lovely Emma beaming! Hark! the minstrels change their theme, A nobler fire illumes their dream! Of Osmond’s deeds, of Osmond’s might, Bulwark of the field of fight! How, mid heaps of slaughter’d foes, High, his laurell’d crest arose; 140 How, on Gallia’s hostile shore, Mid many a stream of crimson gore, His arm----Ah! whence that piercing cry! What means that scream of agony? Turn, Osmond, turn thine orbs of pride, Behold thy pallid, fainting bride! She gasps for breath,--she strives to speak,-- In vain her voice would silence break: Her locks upstand, her eye-balls glare, Her trembling form convulsions tear. 150 ‘Assistance,--help!’ young Osmond cries; ‘Help! or my angel Emma, dies.’ But vain was help!--he scarce had said, Ere her pure soul had ever fled; And she, whose sight could rapture bring, Was now pale, cold, and withering! In madd’ning grief, and dark despair, Lord Osmond gaz’d, as rooted there; So still, unheeding all, he stood,-- It seem’d the calm of fortitude! 160 But, sudden starting from his trance, He cast on her one piercing glance; Then threw himself upon her breast, And her unconscious lips he prest; And, torn by frenzy and dismay, Clasp’d in his arms the lifeless clay, And mourn’d the hopes of many a day,-- In one dire moment snatch’d away! But lo! around the banner’d hall, A sudden gloom appear’d to fall, 170 The glimmering lamps burn dark and blue, And tinge the walls with ghostly hue; And far more loud the tempests roar And rage against the sounding shore. Lo! what a forked flash is there, Hark! what a peal bursts through the air; The frighted earth appears to quake, The lofty tow’rs in terror shake; And Osmond’s feasters, here and there, Disperse in wild and wondering fear. 180 Then, where the madd’ning bridegroom lay, A dark-blue flame was seen to play, And, like a sylph, in lightning-storm, Amid it rose a female form! But on her pale, majestic face, A mix’d expression you might trace, Of pride, of rage, triumphant joy;-- A something seeking to destroy. One step to Osmond first she made, And thus with deep low tone she said:-- 190 “Osmond, behold! arise! arise! “On me, once more, direct thine eyes; “She, whom with treach’ry’s perjur’d part, “Thou left’st to cure a broken heart, “Has liv’d to blast, base traitor, know, “Thy youth with bitterest pangs of wo. “Gaze on--weep on--o’er that cold fair, “Who lies, bereft of being, there; “And know, if pleasure it may be, “_That glorious work_ was done by me!” 200 She spoke;--and, as she mov’d away, Laugh’d, like a demon o’er his prey.

Fierce flash’d in Osmond’s eyes the fire Of vengeful rage, of deepest ire. Sprang from his place, his dirk he drew, And swift on Geraldine he flew; One single moment scarce was o’er, Ere that keen dirk was red with gore. She fell!--but, haughty e’en in death, No groan, no sigh, consum’d her breath. 210 But, though she sunk upon that ground, Never again her corpse was found: And, strange to say, I’ve heard the tale, That, borne upon the passing gale, Unearthly screams and voices ran, And sounds--far from the sounds of man!

When Osmond had that death-blow giv’n, His eyes, his hands, uprais’d to heav’n, (To _Emma_ ever true,) he cried, ‘I come!--receive me, Oh! my bride!’ 220 Then plung’d his dirk into his side, Gasp’d out his Emma’s name,--and died!

IMPROMPTU

ON SEEING A TEAR ON THE CHEEK OF A YOUNG LADY AT THE RECITAL OF A TALE OF WOE.

_Written at Fourteen._

Precious drop of heav’nly feeling, Purer than the driven snows, Down the cheek of beauty stealing, At the tale of Mira’s woes.

Is that beamy radiance melting? Does that eye less bright appear? Love in Pity’s bosom sheltering, Wafts his arrows on a tear!

Translations from Horace.

Translations from Horace[14].

ODE XV. BOOK I.

_Written at Thirteen._

When o’er the seas the treach’rous shepherd bore His lovely hostess, to the Dardan shore; Lull’d was each wave, and hush’d each stormy breeze, By Nereus soften’d to ingrateful ease; That the dire fate to Priam’s race they bring, Of mighty woes, the pitying god may sing.

“Ah! hapless Paris, in an evil day, “Thou bear’st thy burthen from her home away. “To break thy guilty ties, the Greeks conspire, “And wrap thy father’s ancient realms in fire. 10 “What labour trickles from each warlike face, “Alas! what carnage dyes the Dardan race; “Pallas prepares e’en now her flying car, “The helm, the ægis, and desire of war! “By guardian Venus’ soft assistance bold, “In vain, you comb your flowing locks of gold; “In vain, your finger sweeps th’ unwarlike string, “And tender measures, loved by females, sing; “In vain, you fly the Cretan lance; in vain, “From Ajax swift, you scour your native plain; 20 “Though harmless through the airy tide be sped “The dart, so hateful to the nuptial bed, “Yet still, though late, th’ adult’rous ringlets must “Be steep’d in blood, and scatter’d in the dust. “See stern Ulysses, terror of thy race; “And Pylian Nestor’s venerable grace; “Teucer, and Sthenelus, renown’d in war, “Or skill’d to guide the coursers and the car. “Ah! hapless Paris, dost thou also see, “Where godlike Merion scours the plain for thee; 30 “Where fierce Tydides, greater than his sire, “Searches for thee, and burns with vengeful ire? “As when some stag perceives, with fearful eyes, “Across the vale the tawny wolf, and flies; “So shalt thou fly! forgetful of thy fame;-- “Not thus thou promised to the Spartan dame. “Achilles’ angry fleet may bring delay, “But not less sure th’ inevitable day; “The fate-allotted time will soon expire, “And Troy shall sink beneath the Grecian fire.” 40

ODE XVI. BOOK II.

_Written at Fourteen._

When shipwreckt, mid the wide Ægean seas, The wearied sailor prays to heav’n for ease; When the dark clouds o’er Cynthia’s splendour low’r, And glimmering stars refuse to lend their pow’r; For ease, for ease, the warlike Thracian cries, In vain, for ease, the quiver’d Parthian sighs: That blessing, Grosphus, never can be sold For blushing purple, or for blazing gold. For neither wealth, nor regal power control The wretched tumults of the madd’ning soul. 10 And care, alas! will pour her baleful crowd Around the vaulted mansions of the proud. Happy the man, whose humble board is spread With the coarse viands that his fathers fed. Nor trembling Fear, nor Av’rice, sordid guest! Can e’er disturb his lightly-peaceful rest. Why do we waste, in things that ne’er may be, The flying hours of short mortality? Fools that we are!--Oh, wherefore do we run To climates mellow’d by another sun? 20 When roves the exile from his native sky, Say!--can he ever hope himself to fly?

Ah, no!--for care is swifter than the hind,-- For care is swifter than the eastern wind.

How blest that soul, which, moderately gay, Unheeds the morrow, and enjoys to-day;-- Sweetens with smiles, the bitterness of strife, For perfect bliss can ne’er be found in life! Achilles fell, in life’s primæval day; The hand of time, Tithonus wore away. 30 And that long life, by Fate denied to thee, Perhaps, indulgent, she may give to me.

A hundred herds adorn thy fertile fields, For thee, Sicilia, hundred oxen yields; For thee, the courser eager snuffs the plain, Bows his proud neck, and seems to court the rein; For thee, with long, and loosely-sweeping flow, The Lybian dye reveals its purple glow. To me, propitious Fate, with kindly hand, Has giv’n some portion of paternal land, 40 And deign’d the lays of Horace to inspire, With one bright beam of ancient Graia’s fire; And whilst in talent, and in virtue proud, To scorn the malice of the vulgar crowd.

Translation

OF THE FIRST CHORUS

IN THE

ŒDIPUS TYRRANNUS OF SOPHOCLES.

_Written at Fourteen._

STROPHE.

Oh! sweet-tongued oracle of Phœbus, say, To aid th’ illustrious Thebans’ ancient shore, Dost thou from golden Delphos bend thy way, Where thousand altars daily incense pour? God, we invoke thee by thy three-fold name, Rack’d with suspence, and palpitating fear, Whate’er thou now, or henceforth shalt proclaim, We list in silence, and with reverence hear. Child of Hope, immortal Fame, Deign the dark decree to prove; 10 Thy pow’r omnipotent we claim, Pallas! progeny of Jove!

ANTISTROPHE.

To thee, we raise our suppliant hands, Diana, queen of forests cold, To where the stately forum stands, Seated on thy throne of gold. God of the distant-wounding bow, Apollo, hear, avert our wo. If e’er before ye gave us aid, When burthen’d with the monster-maid, 20 Averters of Misfortune’s band, Oh! now assist our suff’ring land.

Alas! to you, we suppliant call, And, crush’d with ills unnumber’d, fall, Whilst all our people pine away with grief, And vain each plan to bring the wish’d relief; Our corn is wasted in the barren earth, Our women sink beneath th’ untimely birth; Corpse upon corpse promiscuously expire, Flocking to gloomy Pluto’s dreary reign, 30 As birds, who, swifter than th’ unwearied fire, Fall in vast numbers o’er the azure main. Unnumber’d deaths, alas! exhaust our land-- Unhonour’d corpses load the burning strand. Mothers and wives, thy sacred altars round, Emit one sad, one darkly-mournful sound; Perpetual Pæans lengthen on the gale, And dismal sighs and mournful groans prevail. Oh! haste then, golden Pallas, heav’nly maid, Deign, in all thy might to aid, 40 And cause to fly this dreadful god, Who smites us with his baleful rod; And, sword and buckler laid aside, Destroys us with o’erwhelming tide; Drive him, banish’d, from our home, Where th’ unbounded ocean’s foam-- Or where th’ Ægean waters roar Around the barb’rous Thracian’s shore. What night has spar’d awhile!--the day Has unrelenting swept away. 50 Oh, potent Jove! thy thunders bare, Oh, bid thy lightnings pierce the air, And wrap beneath the blazing storm, The murd’rous fury’s raging form. Oh, King of Lycia! now thy darts employ, Beneath thy arms this god destroy. Those weapons, oh, Diana? pour, With which thou hunt’st the Lycian boar. And thou, who lov’st the nymphs to lead, With golden mitre round thy head, 60 Guardian God of Theban shore, Purple Bacchus, we implore, Oh, rear thy blazing brand on high, Against this monster of the sky, And banish, madd’ning with the pain, The god, most hated of the heav’nly train.

PARNASSUS[15];

A VISION.

_Written at Fourteen Years and a Half._

Loves not thy soul, when sated with the crowd, And all the trifles of the great and proud;-- Loves not thy soul, its wearied pow’rs to bless, With the rich charms of pensive loneliness?-- To turn thine eye, in mem’ry’s fond survey, To scenes and pleasures faded long away; Till they fall on thee, like spring’s grateful rain, And, in idea, thou liv’st them o’er again? Or, if bright Hope extends her magic wand, To the dark future’s cloud-encircled land; 10 Dost thou not feel a secret wish to view Th’ entangled vale, thou hast to wander through? While Fancy loves to deck the scene with flow’rs, Gather’d from Glory’s fields, or Pleasure’s roseate bow’rs; Till, perhaps, some passing peasant’s laughter’s roll, Breaks the soft spell that binds thy wand’ring soul. Yes, thou hast felt it, at that grateful hour, When eve excites the Muse’s heav’nly pow’r,-- When all is calm!--when nothing rude is near, To bound the pensive eye, or wound the ear! 20 When Zephyr, wakened by paternal spring, Rimples the waters with his roseate wing; And, like a lover, wooes them with a sigh, Sweet, but soon over, as he wanders by.

’Twas such an eve as this, I lately stood On the green banks that shade Brent’s humble flood, And mus’d o’er pleasures past, o’er scenes to be, The cheering lights of dim futurity; Till softly o’er my mind began to creep Th’ unearthly calm of visionary sleep. 30

Methought, a spacious plain before me lay, Ting’d with that light which gilds the dawn of day; Beauteous in every charm that can impart Aught to delight, or captivate the heart: Like those bright realms[16], replete with ev’ry joy, That Venus rear’d to please her fav’rite boy. Far up the wide expanse, was clearly seen, A mountain cover’d with eternal green: There, wreath’d in flow’rs of heav’n’s own splendid hue, This hallow’d word blaz’d on the distant view, 40 “PARNASSUS!”----

By the fair bow’rs, and streams, that fill’d this plain, Were wide-dispers’d the ancient bardic train:-- There (by a roaring cat’ract’s sweeping force, That from Parnassus took its turbid course) Tow’rd Homer’s form! in majesty sublime, The living monument, of lasting time; And near to him, beneath a spreading tree, Stood thy wild Sire[17], imperial Tragedy! And farther on, with eye, and stroke of fire, High Pindar woke the transports of his lyre; 50 While by a river, fann’d with Zephyr’s breeze, Lay the mild shade of melting Sophocles; There, many a form, in awful splendour bright, Caught the wild, wondering raptures of my sight:-- Maro and Horace, godlike sons of Fame, And am’rous Ovid’s ever-pleasing name; While, through the air, that hush’d itself to hear, Tibullus’ sweetness thrill’d the list’ning ear; And mighty Lucan, with illustrious strain, Told the dread scenes of fam’d Pharsalia’s plain: 60 With gather’d arms, curl’d lip, and eye severe, Stood Juvenal--alone, calm, stern, austere.

Methought the scene was changed!--a wider plain, Spread with a gaudy, but a trifling train, Before me lay!----No more could I behold The hallow’d mountain, or its fields of gold; Till, as I strain’d mine eye, I view’d afar, Its shrouded beams, like Herschel’s distant star. Again I turn’d my eye upon the band, Who pour’d their numbers o’er this humbler land; 70 These were, I soon perceiv’d, the bards who smile, In this fair era, o’er Britannia’s isle. The first, was one, whom many-tongued Renown Has deem’d the brightest gem that decks the Muse’s crown.

Apart from all he stood!--his burning eye He strove to turn in rapture to the sky. Upon his lyre he leant: and, as he sung, His curling ringlets o’er his shoulders hung; In ev’ry look the trifler gave, he sought To shew how wisely, and how deep he thought; 80 And to his flowing garb, and studied pace, He strove, but strove in vain, to give a grace. His first, his chiefest aim, his dearest pride, To write!--how different from the world beside; For this he rack’d his brain!--it would not do! For every effort, more degen’rate grew. At length he found a method to succeed, ’Twas this!--to celebrate each impious deed, To _Vice_ the charms of _Virtue_ to impart, To thrill the senses!--but corrupt the heart! 90 While I gaz’d on this bard!--methought a sound, Wild, sweet, but awful, swell’d along the ground; I turn’d mine eye! and, by a mould’ring tow’r, Espied a form of such high grace and pow’r,-- It seem’d as if Apollo from the skies Had rov’d, and now had met my wond’ring eyes. It was that bard, whose justly-lasting fame, Illustrious Caledon is proud to claim!-- It was that bard, whose wild majestic lay, The floods of time shall never sweep away! 100 Fast by his side, soul-moving C----l stood-- C----l, the wise, the noble, and the good. These two were in the open paths that led To green Parnassus’ ever-radiant head. Not far from them, in green, and vig’rous age, Reclin’d at ease a venerable sage; Like some calm stream his peaceful numbers flow, Serenely soft, dispassionately slow; Not his the genius that can soar sublime, On wings of Glory, o’er the wrecks of time: 110 Yet Fame’s fair pages shall record him long, No humble vot’ry at the shrine of song. Beneath the luxuries of a neighb’ring bow’r, I view’d the figure of fantastic M----; Around the poet’s myrtle-wreathed head, A train of gaudy insects hovered; Sudden he rises! and with haste pursues The splendid fly, that boasts the richest hues; And long upheld the chace! until it flew 119 Within his grasp!--and then he straight withdrew. It griev’d me to behold so vast a mind, Ideas so grand, and talents so refin’d, Desert Parnassus, to pursue a fly, And change, for trifles, Immortality!

Two well-known sons of rapture-raising song, Now slowly swept the radiant fields along. Heroic S----, whose Parnassian lays Richly deserve Britannia’s laureate bays. With this great vot’ry of Apollo’s name, The pensive shade of hallow’d R---- came; 130 Each melting line, that this soft poet sung, Flow’d from the heart, its richness to the tongue; He, who has gain’d a fame for aye to last, By singing of the Pleasures that are past. While I did gaze on them, across the plain, Like summer vapours, swept a jovial train, Issuing from these, I caught th’ unmeaning note Of senseless C----’s empty numbers float; W---- was there, who follow’d Homer’s rule, In every line, to study Nature’s school; 140 For as his heroes drive the waggon, so Rustic and rude his humble verses flow.

Far to the hinder side, a mountain spread, With shadowy clouds impervious, o’er its head, Hiding whate’er beneath the veil might be, With the dark mantle of futurity. In vain, my searching eye-balls seek t’ explore The hidden secrets of that mystic shore.

From time to time, a legion would emerge From its dark region’s shade-encircled verge: 150 But most, ere yet a few short stops were o’er, Fell to the earth, and were beheld no more! A few, indeed, a farther distance past; But, though they sunk not first, they sunk at last. Yet, as _they_ fell, from forth the sable land, All careless of their fate, another band In swift succession issued forth, till they Soon, in their turn, sunk down the dangerous way.

Methought my feet with rash, unhallow’d tread, My longing eyes, to this dark region led; 160 Methought my hand already seiz’d the shroud, That o’er it hung its canopy of cloud;-- Methought, mid those just rushing on to light, I view’d a form, with awful grandeur bright; Upon his beaming brows, in leaves of gold, “Britannia’s greatest glory” was enroll’d! Scarce could I snatch a momentary trace Of these high words, when, through the darksome place, Burst forth these accents, awful, loud, and drear, “Hold back, hold back, rash mortal, and forbear!”

Scarce was it utter’d, ere the wondrous scene, 171 And those who fill’d it, were no longer seen; And, in the stead of that remember’d dream, I view’d the waves that swell Brent’s shallow stream; And heard the tinkling from the distant fold, Stead of the strains from many a lyre of gold, That e’en but now, had bound the melting soul, In thralls of heav’nly, but of vain control. The grateful spell is broke!--the treasur’d tone-- The hallow’d visions--yes, alas!--are flown! 180 And I must back to scenes of loathsome life, Pregnant with sorrow, and profuse with strife.

Yes! though the hand of time has scarcely spread His roseate wreath of youth around my head, Yet I have felt, how keen the piercing dart, That grief can give, to lacerate the heart.-- Yes, I have felt, how full of care, alas! The thorny paths that man is doom’d to pass. But for a bright, and ofttimes cheering ray, Athwart my dark and melancholy way; 190 For many a soothing, many a raptur’d hour, I bless, my Muse, thy sweet celestial pow’r. Oh, mayst thou still continue, o’er my soul, To hold, for aye, thine heav’n-inspir’d control. Oh, mayst thou still in many a dream like this, Give thine unearthly purity of bliss! Till snatch’d from life, from all its trammels free, I lose its searing bitterness--in thee!

Upon the Death

OF

A LATE MAN OF QUALITY,

Well known for his Atheistical Principles.

_Written at Thirteen._

Behold that man by Fortune’s fickle pow’r, The gilded fav’rite of the “varying hour;”-- The gallant lord, whom noble ladies love, Whom senates homage, and whom crowds approve.

For him, the bards attune their soften’d lays, In mellow notes, declare their patron’s praise;-- For him, soft luxury courts each distant shore, To tempt his palate with its varied store;-- For him, the goblet flows with Gallia’s wine, And wit, and beauty, all their pow’rs combine; 10 His sov’reign’s smile illumes his pageant day; And thronging courtiers servile incense pay. Revers’d the scene!--behold him stript of all! Though great his height, yet greater still his fall! Ah! see him stretch’d upon his dying bed, His vain associates, num’rous flatt’rers fled: Dim are those eyes, once darting soul and fire-- Pallid that cheek, which ladies wont t’ admire;-- Clos’d are those lips, once eloquently gay, Whose fire of wit illum’d the festive day;-- 20 Ah! see his wasted limbs convuls’d by death, Painful, and hard, he draws his quivering breath.

How different far, he views the face of things!-- How poor the comfort worldly wisdom brings!-- How deep he rues the fatal time that’s past, When each new day was guiltier than the last;-- How much regrets the tale of former years, The wide, black prospect, scarce a virtue cheers: Tremendous mem’ry, to his mind displays, The vice, the crimes, that stain’d his earlier days. 30 Lo, he starts up;--his matted ringlets stare, Like dying lamps, his glazing eye-balls glare. Heard ye that scream?--and see ye not the fiend, Come hot from hell to warn him of his end? See ye him grin?--and wide display a scroll, The horrid records of the sable soul? Or is it Conscience all?--Again that cry, That mocks description in its agony. Peace!--peace!--upon that withering sound at last, To heav’n’s high Judgement-Seat th’ escaping spirit’s past. 40

TO LYRA.

_Written at Fifteen Years Old._

By Idalia’s secret grove-- By the streams so dear to love-- By the beds, and fragrant bow’rs, Fram’d from Flora’s brightest flow’rs-- By the heart’s first hope, first fear, Tell me!--dost thou love me, dear?

By the transports of the lyre, Bursting forth in hallow’d fire-- By thy tongue’s celestial lay, Melting all the soul away-- 10 By the heart’s first hope, first fear, Tell me!--dost thou love me, dear?

By the passion-breathing sigh, When youthful rapture rises high-- By the drop of glist’ning dew, In thine eye of violet blue-- By the heart’s first hope, first fear, Tell me!--dost thou love me, dear?

By thy bosom’s heaving snow-- By thine orb’s averted glow-- 20 By this lovely hand of thine, Trembling, thrilling, now in mine-- By the heart’s first hope, first fear, Tell me!--dost thou love me, dear?

FAREWELL TO LYRA.

_Written at Fifteen._

Farewell, oh farewell! though distance may sever The persons of lovers, their hearts it can never; And mine will still, Lyra, be tending on thee, As the bird of the night on his own fragrant tree[18]. Can I think of the tear in thine orbit of blue, When I falt’ringly murmur’d, “My Lyra, adieu!”-- Can I think of that hand, as it trembled in mine, How pensive, yet sweet, was its exquisite thrill; While my pulse woke the motion of transport in thine, 9 Like the balm of the gale on the breast of the rill. Can I think of the gift, when thou sigh’d, “we must part,” That thou cast o’er my bosom to lie on my heart; And as my keen anguish, thou sawest the while, Thou strove to look up with a soul-soothing smile; But when there, thou caught the wild glancing of pain, Thou burst into tears (oh, how heartfelt!) again:-- Can I think of that scene, which remembrance will show, As the sweetest, yet bitt’rest, it ever can know-- Can I think of that scene, and, oh! e’er can I be, E’en in thought, for a moment unfaithful to thee? 20 And now, as thy gift to my bosom I’m pressing, Oh! dost thou not think, my belov’d, it will glow, Like the mariner’s star--like the pilgrim’s last blessing, To guide and to cheer through this desert of wo. And if ever my country should call to the field Of Honour’s thick slaughter, and Death’s scenes of gore, Oh, dost thou not think that my head it will shield, As the magical charms of the wizards of yore. As it rests on my heart, I shall think that thine eye Nerves mine arm, and enkindles the flame of my soul, It will soften that heart to the conquer’d’s weak cry-- It will blend with its courage, soft Mercy’s control. Or should Fate ever guide, in the patriot’s high cause, To the senate of wisdom, oh, think’st thou this token Will not cull to thy lover his country’s applause-- Will not keep the firm ties of the patriot unbroken? And if e’er, for a moment, his bosom should swerve From the dictates of Honour, he’s sworn to observe, As he feels thy lov’d gift on his bosom recline, 39 Will not all there again straight be Virtue’s and thine?

Yes, my Lyra, while life in thy lover can dwell-- While remembrance can give that endearing farewell, He will carry this gift through life’s thorn-sprouting maze; ’Twill sublimate rapture--’twill soften despair-- ’Twill lead him from grief, to those bliss-beaming days, When each step was on roses,--for Lyra was there!

Yet, ah, can my lips e’er those hated words tell, “For ever, my Lyra, for ever farewell!”

It cannot be _ever_!--or else with the thought, (With feelings, with throes of such agony fraught,) 50 This heart would be burst in its innermost core;-- Could it beat, and each throb of its beating not be Thine only!--Oh, no, every pulse must be o’er, Ere it once is forgetful of love and of thee. If on earth our fond hopings of passion are riv’n, Yet yonder, oh, gaze!--(where so often before We have pour’d our full sighs) on yon balm-breathing heav’n, There bliss will receive us--there grief be no more; Love will pour round our heads his bright halo divine, Sublim’d to a loftier, mellower glow, 60 All celestial, all warm, like the Magi’s pure shrine, Such as Seraphs can feel--such as heav’n can bestow.

THE CASKET;

ADDRESSED TO A LADY.

_Written at Fourteen._

As Cupid was roving one morning, he found A Casket emblazon’d in diamond and gold; The gems of the ocean embrac’d it around, And the handmaids of Venus had sculptured its mould.

“How transcendent must be the interior store “Of so bright an exterior,” the mirth-lover cries, As he hastens, in rapture, its depths to explore, With joy in his dimples, and hope in his eyes.

But, I would ye had seen how he alter’d his air, How he rag’d!--how to earth the gay bauble he cast, 10 When the richness of splendour that promis’d so fair, Was empty of aught--save the æther that past.

Thus the beaming of beauty may dazzle the glance, Though void of the stores that beneath them should be; But when the gay casket is open’d--the trance Of hopefulness fades like the foam of the sea.

But, in thee, Queen of Loveliness, wond’ring we find, Not merely the time-searing bloom of the skin, But the grace of the form, and the wealth of the mind, The Casket of Beauty, the treasure within. 20

THE

BATTLE OF WATERLOO;

A POEM,

In Two Cantos.

_Written between Fourteen and Fifteen._