In which the warm current of love never freezes, II. Or where the stern warrior, his country defending, III. For I found the pure gem when the daybeam returning IV. But still 'twas some Spirit of kindness, descending V. And did I then say for the altar of Glory That the earliest, the loveliest, of flowers I'd entwine, Though with millions of blood-reeking victims 'twas gory, Though the tears of the widow polluted its shrine, Though around it the orphans, the fatherless, pine? O Fame! all thy glories I'd yield for a tear To shed on the grave of a heart so sincere. January 1811. LOVE. WHY is it said thou canst not live Canst bloom for ever there Since withering pain no power possessed, And oh when on the blessed, reviving, Each energy of soulsurviving More vivid soars above, Hast thou ne'er felt a rapturous thrill, Like June's warm breath athwart thee fly, When other passions die?— Felt it in some wild noonday dream, And not a murmur from the plain, And not an echo from the fell, Disputes her silent reign. April 1811. BIGOTRY'S VICTIM. I. DARES the llama, most fleet of the sons of the wind, No! abandoned he sinks in a trance of despair: On the sand flows his life-blood away, Whilst India's rocks to his death-yells reply, II. Yet the fowl of the desert, when danger encroaches, And demands, like mankind, his brother for food:- Must perish. Revenge does not howl o'er the dead, III. Though weak as the llama that bounds on the mountains, Though more dreadful than death it scatters despair, Spreads the influence of soul-chilling terror around, IV. They came to the fountain, to draw from its stream Then perished—and perished like me. Are slaves to his hated control. He pursues me-he blasts me! 'Tis in vain that I fly! What remains but to curse him-to curse him, and die? 28 April, 1811. TO THE MOONBEAM. MOONBEAM, leave the shadowy vale, Where humble wildflowers grow? Is it to mimic me? But that can never be, For thine orb is bright, And the clouds are light That at intervals show the star-studded night. Now all is deathy still on earth, And, ere the golden morning's birth Its radiant hues discloses, Flies forth its balmy breath. But mine is the midnight of death; And Nature's morn To my bosom forlorn Brings but a gloomier night, implants a deadlier thorn! Wretch suppress the glare of madness Struggling in thine haggard eye! Pale despair's most sickening sigh, And this must ever be When the twilight of care And the night of despair Seem in my breast but joys, to the pangs that wake there! May 1811. ON A FÊTE AT CARLTON HOUSE. (FRAGMENT). By the mossy brink, With me the Prince shall sit and think'; Shall muse in visioned Regency, Rapt in bright dreams of dawning Royalty. 1811. ΤΟ Ο THOU Whose dear love gleamed upon the gloomy path 1811. But swiftly leading to those awful limits And heaven is earth? 1811. TO A STAR. SWEET star which, gleaming o'er the darksome scene, Which shrouds the daybeam from the waveless lake, Sighs in the ear of Stillness-art thou aught but With that mild pitying gaze?—Oh! I would look LOVE'S ROSE. HOPES that swell in youthful breasts, Where its honours blow. Youth says: "The purple flowers are mine" Which die the while they glow. |