"Whom the gods love die young," was said of yore,* The death of friends, and that which slays even more- The gentle pressure, and the thrilling touch, Sweet playful phrases, which would seem absurd To those who have ceased to hear such, or ne'er heard : All these were theirs, for they were children still, A busy character in the dull scene, But like two beings born from out a rill, A nymph and her beloved, all unseen Moons changing had roll'd on, and changeless found By the mere senses; and that which destroys THE ASSASSINATION. THE other evening ('twas on Friday last)- I found the military commandant Stretch'd in the street, and able scarce to pant. * See Herodotus. The assassination alluded to took place on the 8th of December, 1820, in the streets o Ravenna, not a hundred paces trom the residence of the writer. The circumstance were as described. Poor fellow! for some reason, surely bad, They had slain him with five slugs; and left him there To perish on the pavement: so had Him borne into the house and up the stair, And stripp'd, and look'd to,-But why should I add The man was gone: in some Italian quarrel I gazed upon him, for I knew him well; And though I have seen many corpses, never Saw one, whom such an accident befell, So calm; though pierced through stomach, heart, and liver, He seem'd to sleep,-for you could scarcely tell (As he bled inwardly, no hideous river Of gore divulged the cause) that he was dead: "Can this be death? then what is life or death? Speak!" but he spoke not: "wake!" but still he slept :"But yesterday, and who had mightier breath? A thousand warriors by his word were kept In awe: he said, as the centurion saith, 'Go,' and he goeth; come,' and forth he stepp'd. The trump and bugle, till he spake, were dumb; And now, nought left him but the muffled drum." And they who waited once and worshipp'd-they AULD LANG SYNE, AND all our little feuds, at least all mine, To make such puppets of us things below), And when I use the phrase of "Auld Lang Syne !" With you, than aught (save Scott) in your proud city. A whole one, and my heart flies to my head, As "Auld Lang Syne" brings Scotland, one and all, The Dee, the Don, Balgounie's brig's black wall,* I care not-'tis a glimpse of "Auld Lang Syne.” And though, as you remember, in a fit Of wrath and rhyme, when juvenile and curly, Which must be own'd was sensitive and surly, They cannot quench young feelings fresh and early; THE DREAM. SHE dream'd of being alone on the sea-shore, Until she sobb'd for breath, and soon they were Anon-she was released, and then she stray'd O'er the sharp shingles with her bleeding feet, And something roll'd before her in a sheet, The brig of Don, near the "auld toun” of Aberdeen, with its one arch, and its black deep salmon stream below, is in my memory as yesterday. I still remember, thongh perhaps I may misquote, the awful proverb which made me pause to cross it, and yet lean over it with a childish delight, being an only son, at least by the mother's side. The saying as recollected by me was this, but I have never heard or seen it since I was nine Tears of age : "Brig of Balgounie, black's your wa', Wi' a wife's ae son, and a mear's ae foal, Which she must still pursue howe'er afraid : 'Twas white and indistinct, nor stopp'd to meet Her glance nor grasp, for still she gazed and grasp'd, And ran, but it escaped her as she clasp'd. The dream changed :-in a cave she stood, its walls Of ages on its water-fretted halls, Where waves might wash, and seals might breed and lurk ; Her hair was dripping, and the very balls Of her black eyes seem'd turn'd to tears, and mirk The sharp rocks look'd below each drop they caught, Which froze to marble as it fell,-she thought. And wet, and cold, and lifeless at her feet, Pale as the foam that froth'd on his dead brow, Of his quench'd heart; and the sea dirges low FAME. Or poets who come down, to us through distance "Tis as a snowball which derives assistance And so great names are nothing more than nominal, Too often in its fury overcoming all Who would as 'twere identify their dust From out the wide destruction, which, entombing all, Leaves nothing till "the coming of the just The very generations of the dead Are swept away, and tomb inherits tomb, Until the memory of an age is fled, And, buried, sinks beneath its offspring's doom: Where are the epitaphs our fathers read? Save a few glean'd from the sepulchral gloom Which once-named myriads nameless lie beneath, And lose their own in universal death. I canter by the spot each afternoon But which neglect is hastening to destroy, While weeds and ordure rankle round the base.* I pass each day where Dante's bones are laid: To the bard's tomb, and not the warrior's column: Yet there will still be bards: though fame is smoko, Song in the world, will seek what then they sought; Thus to their extreme verge the passions brought Or at least was so ere it grew a fashion. If in the course of such a life as was At once adventurous and contemplative, And in such colours that they seem to live; LOVE AND GLORY. O LOVE! O Glory! what are ye who fly There's not a meteor in the polar sky Of such transcendent and more fleeting flight. The pillar which records the battle of Ravenna is about two miles from the city, on the opposite side of the river to the road towards Forli. Gaston de Foix, who gained the battle, was killed in it: there fell on both sides twenty thousand men. The present state of the pillar and its site is described in the text. |