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In which the warm current of love never freezes,
Or where the ster n warrior, his country defending,
Or o'er the fell corpse of a dread tyrant bending,
With victory's cry, with the shout of the free,
Let it fly, taintless Spirit, to mingle with thee!
For I found the pure gem when the daybeam returning
When to others the wished-for arrival of morning
And why should we grieve that a Spirit so fair
Seeks heaven to mix with its own kindred there?
But still 'twas some Spirit of kindness, descending
To share in the load of mortality's woe, Who over thy lowly-built sepulchre bending,
Bade sympathy's tenderest tear-drop to flow.
Not for Ate soft compassion celestials did know: But, if angels can weep, sure man may repine— May weep in mute grief o'er thy low-laid shrine.
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 i8n.
Why is it said thou canst not live
Since thou eternal life canst give—
Since withering pain no power possessed,
Nor Time's dread victor, Death, confessed,
Still thou retain'st unchanging bloom,
Fixed, tranquil, even in the tomb.
And oh ! when on the blessed, reviving,
The day-star dawns of Love,
More vivid soars above,
Like June's warm breath athwart thee fly,
When other passions die ?—
And not a murmur from the plain,
Disputes her silent reign.
Dares the llama, most fleet of the sons of the wind,
When the tiger approaches, can the fast-fleeting hind
No! abandoned he sinks in a trance of despair:
Whilst India's rocks to his death-yells reply,
Protracting the horrible harmony.
Yet the fowl of the desert, when danger encroaches,
Dares fearless to perish, defending her brood,
Thirsting—ay, thirsting—for blood,
Yet more lenient, more gentle, than they,—
For hunger, not glory, the prey
Though weak as the llama that bounds on the mountains,
And endued not with fast-fleeting footsteps of air,
Though a fiercer than tiger is there;
Though its shadow eclipses the day,
And the darkness of deepest dismay
They came to the fountain, to draw from its stream
Then perished—and perished like me.
The most tenderly loved of my soul
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, 18it.
TO THE MOONBEAM.
Moonbeam, leave the shadowy vale,
To bathe this burning brow!
Is it to mimic me?
But that can never be,—
For thine orb is bright,
And the clouds are light
Now all is dcathy still on earth,
Nature's tired frame reposes; 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 mora To my bosom forlorn Brings but a gloomier night, implants a deadlier thorn!
Wretch! suppress the glare of madness
Struggling in thine haggard eye!
When the twilight of care
ON A FETE AT CARLTON HOUSE.
By the mossy brink,
Whose dear love gleamed upon the gloomy path
But swiftly leading to those awful limits
TO A STAR.
Sweet star which, gleaming o'er the darksome scene,
Through fleecy clouds of silvery radiance fliest!
Spanglet of light on evening's shadowy veil
Which shrouds the daybeam from the waveless lake,
Lighting the hour of sacred love, more sweet
Than the expiring morn-star's paly fires!
Sweet star! when wearied nature sinks to sleep,
And all is hushed—all save the voice of love,
Whose broken murmurings swell the balmy blast
Of soft Favonius, which at intervals
Sighs in the ear of Stillness—art thou aught but
Lulling the slaves of interest to repose,
With that mild pitying gaze?—Oh! I would look
In thy dear beam till every bond of sense
HOPES that swell in youthful breasts,