Imágenes de páginas

xv. Yes, the despair which bids a father groan,

And cry—my children are no longer mineThe blood within those veins may be mine own, But — Tyrant — their polluted souls are


I curse thee—though I hate thee not— slave!
If thou couldst quench the earth-consuming

Of which thou art a dæmon, on thy grave

This curse should be a blessing. Fare thee

well !


The billows on the beach are leaping around it,

The bark is weak and frail, The sea looks black, and the clouds that bound it

Darkly strew the gale. Come with me, thou delightful child, Come with me, though the wave is wild, And the winds are loose, we must not stay, Or the slaves of the law may rend thee away.

II. They have taken thy brother and sister dear,

They have made them unfit for thee; They have withered the smile and dried the tear

Which should have been sacred to me. To a blighting faith and a cause of crime They have bound them slaves in youthly prime, And they will curse my name and thee Because we are fearless and free.


Come thou, beloved as thou art;

Another sleepeth still
Near thy sweet mother's anxious heart,

Which thou with joy shalt fill,
With fairest smiles of wonder thrown
On that which is indeed our own,
And which in distant lands will be
The dearest playmate unto thee.

Fear not the tyrants will rule for ever,

Or the priests of the evil faith;
They stand on the brink of that raging river,

Whose waves they have tainted with death. It is fed from the depth of a thousand dells, Around them it foams and rages and swells; And their swords and their sceptres I floating see, Like wrecks on the surge of eternity.


Rest, rest, and shriek not, thou gentle child ! · The rocking of the boat thou fearest, And the cold spray and the clamour wild ?

There sit between us two, thou dearest-
Me and thy mother-well we know
The storm at which thou tremblest so,
With all its dark and hungry graves,
Less cruel than the savage slaves
Who hunt us o'er these sheltering waves.


This hour will in thy memory

Be a dream of days forgotten long; We soon shall dwell by the azure sea

i Compare with Rosalind and Helen, lines 894 to 901 (vol. ii, pages 265-6). —ED.

Of serene and golden Italy,
Or Greece, the Mother of the free ;

And I will teach thine infant tongue
To call upon those heroes old
In their own language, and will mould
Thy growing spirit in the flame
Of Grecian lore, that by such name
A patriot's birthright thou mayst claim !



The world is now our dwelling-place;
Where'er the earth one fading trace

Of what was great and free does keep,
That is our home! . . .
Mild thoughts of man's ungentle race

Shall our contented exile reap;
For who that in some happy place
His own free thoughts can freely chase
By woods and waves can clothe his face

In cynic smiles ? Child! we shall weep.


This lament,
The memory of thy grievous wrong
Will fade ...
But genius is Omnipotent
To hallow ...


HER voice did quiver as we parted,
Yet knew I not that heart was broken

1 See vol. i, page xxxix.—ED.

From which it came, and I departed
Heeding not the words then spoken.
Misery—0 Misery,
This world is all too wide for thee.


That time is dead for ever, child,
Drowned, frozen, dead for ever!

We look on the past

And stare aghast
At the spectres wailing, pale and ghast,
Of hopes which thou and I beguiled

To death on life's dark river.

The stream we gazed on then rolled by;
Its waves are unreturning;

But we yet stand

In a lone land,
Like tombs to mark the memory
Of hopes and fears, which fade and flee
In the light of life's dim morning.



THEY die—the dead return not-Misery

Sits near an open grave and calls them over, A Youth with hoary hair and haggard eyeThey are the names of kindred, friend and

lover, Which he so feebly calls—they all are gone !

Fond wretch, all dead, those vacant names

This most familiar scene, my pain-
These tombs alone remain.


Misery, my sweetest friend--oh! weep no

more! Thou wilt not be consoled. I wonder not! For I have seen thee from thy dwelling's door Watch the calm sunset with them, and this

spot Was even as bright and calm, but transitory, And now thy hopes are gone, thy hair is hoary;

This most familiar scene, my pain-
These tombs alone remain.


Thou wert not, Cassius, and thou couldst not


Last of the Romans, though thy memory

claim From Brutus his own glory—and on thee

Rests the full splendour of his sacred fame; Nor he who dared make the foul tyrant quail

Amid his cowering senate with thy name, Though thou and he were great-it will avail To thine own fame that Otho's should not fail.

II. 'Twill wrong thee not-thou wouldst, if thou

couldst feel, Abjure such envious fame-great Otho died

« AnteriorContinuar »