Camilla de Florian.

]> Camilla de Florian.Fraser, Susan.Leigh Rios,creation of electronic text.Electronic edition112KbBritish Women Romantic Poets ProjectShields Library, University of California, Davis, California 956162003FrasSCamil

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Davis British Women Romantic Poets Series125Nancy Kushigian,General EditorCharlotte Payne,Managing EditorCamilla de Florian, and other poemsFraser, Susan Printed for the Author and sold by J. DickLondon, 1809[This text was scanned from its original in the Shields Library Kohler Collection, University of California, Davis. Kohler ID no. I:433. Another copy available on microfilm as Kohler I:433mf.]

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[Four leaves of subscriber's names bound at end may have been intended as pages [1] - [8]. Ed.]Camilla de Florian.&c. &c.ENTERED AT STATIONERS' HALL.E. Blackader, Printer, Took's Court, Chancery Lane.CAMILLA DE FLORIAN,ANDOTHER POEMS.BY AN OFFICER'S WIFE.LONDON:PRINTED FOR THE AUTHOR;AND SOLD BY J. DICK, 55, CHISWELL STREET,FINSBURY SQUARE.1809.TOHER ROYAL HIGHNESSThe Duchess of York,

THESE POEMSARE RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED,AS AN HUMBLE TRIBUTE OF GRATITUDEFOR HER CONDESCENSION,ANDADMIRATION OF THE HUMANITY OF HER CHARACTER,

BY HER ROYAL HIGHNESS'SDEVOTED SERVANT,SUSAN FRASER.CONTENTS.Preface to the Reviewers19Versification from the Poems of Ossian23A Morning Walk to the Levant Steps, Gibraltar51Poems in Imitation of the Spanish67Patriotic Songs of Spain87Poems from the German97Miscellaneous119Camilla De Florian135ERRATA.Page 24, line 7, for start'ling read starting.␣␣␣34,␣␣␣14, for land read strand. ␣␣␣59,␣␣␣1, for unshelter'd read and shelter'd.POEMS,&c. &c.TO THE REVIEWERS.AH say, who blames the wintry bird,When storms have chill'd its frozen trembling wing,If then its notes are feebler heard,Than those in gilded palaces who sing?E'en Taste will urge, as gen'rous bounty pours,That sweeter notes may rise in happier hours:So, mid the winter of my days,My humble lays Affection bids me try;Not now to meet soft Friendship's praise,But the stern glance of Judgment's keener eye.E'en in the hour when Fate her dart has thrown,To wound a heart far dearer than my own,No vain presumption hither brings,No conscious merit does a hope impart;I seek to bear to healing springsThe faded wounded Husband of my heart.O, spare the verse, my trembling hand unveils!Respect the motive, tho' the effort fails.From Ossian.THE BARD'S SONG OF NIGHT,FROM THE NOTES OF OSSIAN,OH, wand'rer, seek the blazing hearth;Dark storms o'erspread the thick'ning sky:Oh, fly, and seek the voice of mirth,Here visions scare, here spirits fly.FIRST BARD.Now bursts the storm, the rain descends,The old trees grown beneath the blast,O'er his heath fire the hunter bends,And shivers as the gale blows past.His wet dogs howl, the torrent pours,On threat'ning clouds the spirits ride;The river, swoln, portentous roars;The shepherd leaves the mountain's side.Dark is the west, no star appears;The whist'ling wind more dreary sounds,The startl'ling deer its murmur hears,And from the wood affrighted bounds.No meteor glimmers on the way;The night is dark, the cold severe!No moon‐beam lends a transient ray;Receive me, Friends, the night is drear!SECOND BARD.THE CHANGE OF NIGHT.THE night is fair, red stars appear;The clouds dark sink beneath the hill;The winds are hush'd, the waters clear;The hunter nods beside the rill.On yon moss rock the moon‐beams rest,They glisten on the settled lake;What form is that, with snowy breast,Bursts from the mountain's dark'ned brake?Oh, Love of Heros, cheer our view!Bright in thy beauty, Maid arise:'Tis she who fell, her grave is new;Folded in mist, the vision flies.The night is settled blue and clear,No angry tempest breaks the rest;The clouds are gone, the stars appear;Bright is the prospect in the west.THE CHIEF, TO THE BARDS.LET torrents pour, let rains descend,The Spirit shriek, or meteors rise;Beneath the blast the old trees bend,Since from the Morn the vision flies.The day shall wake, again return,O'er our green hills its light shall pour;Cease, then my friends, for night to mourn;'Tis man, alas! returns no more.Where are our kings, our chiefs of old?Scarce now their mossy tombs remain:The beam shines there, but they are cold,The chace awakes to them in vain.Soon shall these halls in ruin lie;As snow, each trace shall quickly melt;Our sons shall ask of age, and sigh,Where, in this space, their fathers dwelt?Raise then the song, send round the shell,Suspend a thousand tapers high;Let harps in distance sweetly swell,But let some aged Bard be nigh;That when the youths shall join the dance,And songs of joy their voices raise,He, wrapt in visionary trance,May sing to me of other days.Thus pass the night, till in our hallsThe early beams of morn appear;Youths of the chase, then hear my call,Ascend the hill, and wake the deer.BRAGELA'S SONG,FOR THE HARP.DARK sets the night on Erin's hill;No moon‐beam rests on Conna's streams,The pines sigh low, the night is still,Chuchullin haste to cheer my dreams.Dark forms are seen on Cromla's height,O'er angry clouds the Spirit leans;Return, return, thou beam of light,Chuchullin haste to cheer my dreams.Low sounds are heard on Lena's heath;Ah me! what light uncertain gleams?That sight is sad, it tells of death;Chuchullin haste to cheer my dreams.TO THE EVENING STAR.STAR of descending night,From clouds thou lift'st thy unshorn head;Behold, on hills thy stately tread!Fair is thy western light.The stormy winds allay;The murmur of the torrent comes;The fly of evening feebly hums,The brighten'd waters play.What see'st thou, Light so fair?Why dost thou smile but to depart?With joy the waves thy tresses part,And lave thy lovely hair.Change now, my Harp, thy theme:Oh, Light of OSSIAN'S soul, arise!Across the heath the night wind sighs;Farewell, thou silent beam!ADDRESS TO THE SUN.OH Thou that roll'st above, dispelling night,Round as my shield, in awful beauty drest,Whence are thy beams, thy everlasting light?The Stars behold thee, and retire to rest.The Moon, ere thou thy dazzling glories lave,Sinks cold and pale beneath the western wave.Thou mov'st alone with undiminish'd force;Who ere was yet companion of thy course?The falling forest thunders to the main;The lofty mountains feel a quick decay;The ocean shrinks, yet comes again,And rivers learn their devious course to stay.The Moon herself is hid in clouds by Heaven;To thee the same unerring path is given:Thro' lengthen'd years, thy course remains the same,Rejoicing in the brightness of thy fame.When thunder rolls, and darting light'ning flies,And tempests dark the frighted world deform,Thou look'st in awful beauty from the skies,And bursting from the clouds, derides the storm.On OSSIAN'S eye, no more the light shall pour,He ne'er shall see thy radiant beauty more,On eastern clouds thy yellow tresses rest,Or view thee trembling in the golden west.Yet thou, as I, ere long to age may bend,Time may roll o'er, and thou no more rejoice,Thy dazzling glories yet may have an end,And thou may'st sleep, nor heed the Morning's voice.Exult, then, Sun, pursue thy youthful race,Rouse thou the heroes to the early chace;Shed on their mossy tombs thy parting light;Soon thou may'st sink to everlasting night.Comala.[Cast list in two columns in original printed edition. Ed.]FINGAL,HIDALLAN,COMALA, MELILCOMA, (DAUGHTERS OF MORNI)[This and the following name are connected by a large brace in the original printed edition. Ed.]DERSAGRENA,BARDS. DERSAGRENA.BEHOLD, the weary mountain's chase is o'er;No noise on Ardven, but the torrent's roar:Daughter of MORNI, lay aside thy bow,And to the night let songs and music flow:Resume thy harp, fair Hope, thy mind elate;On Ardven let the festive joy be great.MELILCOMA.Night comes apace, thou fairest blue‐ey'd maid,And darkness on the plain in mist is laid.I saw a deer at Crona's shady streams;Through the thick gloom a mossy bank he seems.But soon he swiftly bounded from my sight;Round his high horns a meteor shew'd its light.I saw, from Crona's lofty cloud of storms,Of other times, at intervals, the forms.DERSAGRENA.These are the fatal signs of death and woe;FINGAL, the king of sounding shields, is low.His mighty arm of strength in battle fails,And CARACUL amid the fight prevails.From off the rock, in tears, COMALA rise;Daughter of SARNO, heave thy breast with sighs:Low, low, the youth of thy young love is lain;His ghost comes flitting on the dark'ned plain.MELILCOMA.Forlorn she sits, beneath the blasted trees;Her two grey dogs inhale the mountain breeze;Her red cheek rests upon her arm so fair;The night wind lifts the tresses of her hair:She turns her azure eyes towards the fields;Where art thou, FINGAL, breaker of the shields?Here was thy promise;—here thou art not found:The shadows of the night are gathering round.COMALA.O, Carun, why ensanguin'd is thy flood?Why do I view thy waters roll in blood?Has war been heard beside thy rocky steep;And does the mighty King of Morven sleep?Rise, Moon, thou lovely daughter of the sky;From thy bright face let dark'ning shadows fly,That I may view the gleaming of his steel:Rise, Moon, and to my sight the chief reveal.Or, rather, let the meteor's waving light,Guide of our fathers through the shadowy night,Raise its red beam, to light me on the way,Where FINGAL rests, unconscious of his stay.Who will defend, when griefs COMALA move?Who, from HIDALLAN'S fierce and gloomy love?Long shall COMALA look, ere she beholdHis warlike host the mighty king infold;Bright as the glittering morning's early power,When clouds surround, and tell the gentle shower.HIDALLAN.Dwell, mist of gloomy Crona, round the king;To these sad eyes no more his footsteps bring.His bands of battle scatter'd ruin feel;No crowding tread is round his sounding steel.O, Carun! now encrimson'd be thy flow;The mighty King is slain, the Chief is low.COMALA.Who fell on Carun's sounding banks in fight?Reveal, O gloomy son of cloudy Night.Was he as fair as Ardven's floating snow,Or blooming as, in Heaven, the show'ry bow;Soft as the mist of hills his curling hair,When the bright sun appears, and all is fair?In battle, as the thunder of the heaven;Fleet as the roe, by mountain hunters driven?HIDALLAN.Oh! that I might behold his beam of love,As, sadly leading from the rock above,Her lovely cheek, half hid by locks, appears,Her azure eye, now dim'd by falling tears:Blow, gentle breeze, O lift her flowing hair! [This and the following two lines are connected by a large brace in the right margin of the original printed edition.]Let me behold her dazzling arm so fair,COMALA'S faded cheek of wan despair.COMALA.And can the mighty son of COMHAL fail!And has he fall'n, chief o' the mournful tale?Dark rolling thunder mountain echoes tire;And lightning flies on wings of radiant fire;In vain the aweful sound, the fiery glow;They fright COMALA not; —her FINGAL'S low!Yet say, again;—view: he no more these fields?Fell, then, the mighty breaker of the shields!HIDALLAN.The scatter'd nations on their hills appear;But FINGAL'S sounding voice no more they hear.COMALA.Ruin o'ertake thee, thou King o' the world;Be at thy flying hosts confusion hurl'd;Few be thy steps unto the fun'ral urn,And thy short stay one tender virgin mourn;Faithful as COMALA, in love and truth;As tearful in her day of early youth.Why hast thou told me that the hero fell?I yet might hear his voice on breezes swell;Start at the rock, appearing thro' the storm,And thought a tree the semblance of his form;Fancied that FINGAL'S horn in chase was near,When but the mountain's wind had struck mine ear.O, that I could the banks of Carun seek!My falling tears would warm his clay cold cheek.HIDALLAN.He lies not by the banks of Carun's gloom;On Ardven heroes lift the mossy tomb.Look out, O Moon, from thy dark cloud of rest;Shine bright thy beam upon the warrior's breast;Reveal the hero to COMALA'S sight;Let her behold him, in his armour's light.COMALA.Stop, sons of the grave, till I behold my love;He left me on the heathy hill above,Then bent his sounding steps of steel afar;COMALA knew not that he went to war.Did he not say he would return with night?He has return'd—how dim his wonted light!O, fearful dweller of the lonely rock,Thine eye beheld the distant battle's shock;Yet, trembler, would'st thou not COMALA tell,That, in his blood of youth her hero fell!MELILCOMA.What mighty sound is heard on Ardven's gale?What form is glist'ning brightly in the vale?Who comes, like rivers in the strength of noon,Or crowded waters rolling to the Moon?COMALA.Who, but the son of fallen MORVEN'S foe?O, Ghost of FINGAL, guide COMALA'S bow!As the swift bounding hart in chase is slain,So let me strike him on thy native plain.——'Tis FINGAL! Home in mists the spirits roll;Why dost thou fright, yet please, my troubled soul?FINGAL.Raise now, ye Bards, the song; be arms the theme;Sound loud the wars of Carun's rolling stream:CARACUL fled along his field of pride;He sets far distant, by the ocean's side;As the dark meteor, spirit of the night,When stormy winds disperse its flying light.Was that the breeze of Morven's lofty hill,Or Ardven's huntress, by her native rill?Look from thy lofty rock, my Love, rejoice;Let FINGAL hear his lov'd COMALA'S voice.COMALA.Fair lovely son of death, high beats my breast;O, take me to thy gloomy cave of rest!FINGAL.Come to my cave of rest, the storm is laid;Come to my cave of rest, white‐handed maid.COMALA.He has return'd with fame, in sounding steel;The right hand of his glorious wars I feel:Yet let me rest:—slow I return from fear; [This and the following two lines are connected by a large brace in the right margin of the original printed edition.]Daughters of MORNI, let the harp be near,And Morven's King the song of conquest hear.DERSAGRENA.Three deer on Ardven has COMALA slain; [This and the following two lines are connected by a large brace in the right margin of the original printed edition.]The rising flame the rocks of Morven stain:Come to COMALA'S feast, O King, again.FINGAL.Raise, Sons of Song, the streamy Carun's war;Let, to the harp, the song resound afar;That my white‐handed maid may hear the voice,And at COMALA'S feast your King rejoice.BARDS.Roll brightly, streamy Carun, roll with joy;Behold your king the sons of war destroy:The steed no more our heathy field commands;The wings of pride are spread in other lands.The radiant sun will now in peace ascend;With joy the shadows of the eve descend:The hunter now to early chase will call;The shield of war adorn the stately hall;And Ocean's strife alone the king delight;His hands shall redden in pale Lochlin's fight.Roll brightly, streamy Carun, roll with joy;Behold your king the sons of war destroy.MELILCOMA.Ye lighter mists, from off the mountain roll;Decend, ye glimmering moon‐beams, lift her soul:Pale, at the lofty rock, the huntress lies;COMALA is no more, her spirit flies.FINGAL.Is then the Maid of Love, COMALA, dead?Has SARNO'S daughter to her fathers fled?Meet me, COMALA, on the wild heath beam;When FINGAL sits alone, and marks the stream.HIDALLAN.Is then the voice of Ardven's huntress laid!Why did I trouble thee, thou white‐arm'd Maid?When shall I see with joy COMALA'S face,Pursue the dark brown hind, and lead the chase!FINGAL.Youth of the gloomy brow, my halls no moreShall on thy soul the feast of gladness pour;No more with me awake the chase at dawn,Or on my foes the sword of war be drawn.O, lead me to the place of Beauty's rest,Where lies COMALA, of the snowy breast.Pale, on the rock, the huntress lies reclin'd;Her flowing locks are lifted by the wind;Her bow‐string sounded by the gale's rude breath;Her arrow broken by the fall of death.To SARNO'S daughter now your voices raise;Lift, winds of heaven, the fair COMALA'S praise.BARDS.Around the Maid see fiery meteors gleam;Her soul is lifted by the Moon's pale beam:Round from their airy clouds, bend awful forms;'Tis SARNO, with the gloomy brow of storms;FIDALLAN, with his red and rolling eyes:When shall COMALA'S hand of snow arise?When, on our rocks, her voice in chase ascend?The maids their footsteps o'er the heath shall bend,And find no more the traces of their friend:Yet in the dark'ned visions of the night,To sooth their souls, COMALA'S spirit, bright,Will come—The Maids with joy shall hear her voice,And in the dreams of shadowy night rejoice.Around the Maid, see fiery meteors roll:The vision flies;—ye moon‐beams lift her soul!AMORNING WALKTOTHE LEVANT STEPS,GIBRALTAR.A MORNING WALKTO THE LEVANT STEPS, GIBRALTAR.THE sultry night is past; the west winds blow;And the wild rocks beneath the morning glow:O, let me leave the couch of pain awhile,To breathe the hour, and share in Nature's smile.Well may she smile;—how bright the scene display'd!How rich the gay varieties of shade!Below, fair Rosia shews her warlike charms;Her rocks infolded by the Ocean's arms;In front, Iberia spreads her gayer wiles,And Andalusia on her conqueror smiles.High tow'r her hills, by spreading vineyards drest;Bright glow the towns that deck her verdant breast.The Forted Isle, and every sacred spire,Glow with the tinges of the solar fire.My pensive steps the winding path pursue,Where Afric's wilder scenes attract the view.Soon as the pacing sentinel I leave,And through the lofty pass my windings weave,The boldest feature of the distant scene,Wrapt in its purple robe, is tow'ring seen:High Atlas rises, subject but to God;No mortal step its summit ever trod;Ceuta, below, in armour seems to land,To guard the entrance of the savage land.A softer scene of beauty next appears;The lofty Grenadines in distance rears:Shade after shade, their purpling tints displayThe bright'ning touches of the rising day;The radiant pencil gives the dazzling snowsThe hues of morn, the colours of the rose.My eye returns, to view the path I tread;Beneath my steps the fragrant thyme is spread;A savage Flora reigns o'er all the scene,[This and the following two lines are connected by a large brace in the right margin of the original printed edition.]In every fissure of the rock is seenWild aromatic plants, and foliage green.Far down the rocks, her em'rald robe is thrown,With lilac, crocus, and convolv'lus strewn;To where the Mediterranean waveThe iron sandals of the goddess lave.Nor is her reign disturb'd;—I hear, alone,The eagle soaring, or the billows moan.Sure on this spot, to holy silence given.The Moorish spirits, from Iberia driven;(Who, whilst they liv'd, her coast with ardour view'd,And in their dreams their former state renew'd;And to their sons, in their expiring hours,Bequeath'd the sacred Key of Spanish bowers,)Come, on their native winds, to strew with sighs,On Memory's shrine, a fragrant sacrifice;Waft from their coast each plant, each flow'ring stem,And plant in Spanish soil the Afric gem:Then glide along each vestige of their reign;And, sighing, join the vapours of the main.Now the arch'd rock presents a darken'd way;Down its damp sides a thousand dew‐drops stray;And varied moss, in many a tufted star,Forms a rich border to the glitt'ring spar.From thence—emerging into radiant light,An Alpine vision bursts upon the sight.Here, the high rock disdains its flow'ry bed;A fire‐smote turret crowns its rugged head:By the red light'nings flash the pile is riven;So tow'ring giants felt the arm of Heaven.Below the fall'n Palmeto's line the steep,And shew in distance far the silent deep.Onward, a velvet path my steps invites,To trace its windings o'er the enamel'd heights.Here, lov'd ROUSSEAU, thy azure‐tinctur'd flowerSpreads o'er the way, and decks each rocky bower:Round variegated spar its tendrils twines,And graceful o'er the precipice reclines:So have I thought the flowers of fiction spring;And Sentiment conceals the adder's sting;Hides the hard heart by Fascination's wreaths,And on the sense intoxication breathes;O'er deadly precipices brightly glow,And strew with sweets the paths of vice and woe:So have I mus'd, when mental cloud and storm,Would Nature's sacred character deform;But when a happier, brighter hour arose,I here have joy'd to seek a lone repose;On the fall'n marble musingly would lean,And draw this softer moral from the scene:As every sweet untended here I find,So genius from the the rude uncultur'd mind,With sweeter charms will please the eager view,Than the exotics Education grew.We hail the rugged breast, to which is givenThe bud expanded by the hand of Heav'n;Gem'd by its dews, unshelter'd by its care,Alike from Sorrow's tears, from Pride's fierce glare,To shed its fragrance on the feeling heart,And simply shame the gaudy tints of art.Alas! e'en here, dejected memory turns,To mark, on Calpe's rock, the name of BURN'S!A warlike platform crosses now the way;O'er which I lean, to view the shelter'd bay;Whose simple roofs, whose vine‐deck'd gardens, green,Are, far below, in vivid contrast, seen,To sterile heights, and hills of yielding sand,Whose burning bosom, by Levanters fan'd,Urge the faint step to Cat'lan's vin'd retreat,Where spring‐cool'd branches shadow from the heat.Oft, mid'st the shelter of the leafy bower,Friendship will pass the happy social hour;On beauty's lip the rising smile be seen,And Pride be banish'd from the tranquil scene.Some choose along the cavern'd shore to glide,And catch the floating treasures of the tide;Some dive thro' crystal, with the pointed reed,And draw to land the various colour'd weed:Thus guided but by Fancy's waving pow'r,The friendly groups amuse the passing hour;Till near the fountain's brink, 'midst branching shadeThe board, in rude simplicity is laid;Round which the friends, without distinction, sit;And Talent gives her aid to chasten'd Wit:E'en Rank can here forget its studied part,And feel the simple pleasures of the heart;Can deign to join the care‐dispelling wile,And, for the hour, on its interiors smile.Cat'lan farewell! thy prospects I resign;Bright em'rald glitt'ring in thy sandy mine,To climb rough steps, with mosses overgrown,And seek the seat compos'd of arching stone;Where, plac'd amidst the vegitation rude,I view a wilder scene of solitude.On either side, high marble bounds the sight,And guides my vision to the sparkling lightOf Ocean's breast, as lull'd by calms it sleeps,Unmov'd, but as the passing vessel sweeps.Fair element, sad emblem of our life!I oft have view'd thy wild conflicting strife;Seen thy high waves the bark destructive whirl,Then to the dark abyss the trembler hurl:Yet art thou now as smilingly serene,As storms had never in thy bosom been;And o'er thy tempting surface vessels glide,As ne'er the vent'rous mariner had died:So Life;—who has not felt its stormy hour,Its treach'rous calms, and its delusive power?Felt, midst its smiles, each flatt'ring hope depart;The wreck of peace, the rending of the heart?And Providence alike its star has given;The soul is guided by the light of Heav'n.How high the Osprey spreads its pinion wide,And perches on the chasm's lofty side!Lightly its buoyant wings in ether soar,Or sudden dropping on the rocky shore,Long on each shelve my weary steps remain;At length, the rock's high summit I attain;Where ev'ry ray of prospect blends in one,Bright with the lustre of a rising Sun.As down the rock's steep side I bend my way,Far other scenes the rugged paths display,Than late I trac'd;—there, kind Nature smil'd,And bade her flowers arise amid the wild;Here, she refuses to the sterile soil All, save the fruits of Industry and Toil;Nor bids her plants and stems spontaneous rise;But from the face of war affrighted flies.Here spread those noble works of warlike fame,That add a lustre to BRITANNIA'S name;Pillars of strength, from which her foes have fled,When the bright Hero, number'd with the dead,Stood on these bastions, to direct the fire,And wrought the deeds that e'en his foes admire;Here, as he stood, when to the brave, distress'd,He op'd the treasures of his gen'rous breastIn Conquest's hour his word was giv'n to save,And snatch'd the suff'rers from a wat'ry grave.Tho' o'er his honor'd dust, bright years have roll'd,And each a British victory enroll'd;Tho' many a hero's ashes fill her urns,On many breasts the star of honour burns,And thy brave form is, ELLIOT, slumb'ring laidBeneath no lofty abbey's solemn shade;Yet filial love has trac'd upon thy dust,Words energetic, elegant, and just.Here rests thy monument; in vain the waves,That buoy'd thy foes, its base indignant laves;In vain the treach'rous wind, that fill'd their sails,Frowns o'er the summit, and its strength assails;Succeeding times shall view it here remain,An everlasting monument of fame;Nor valour points alone to ELLIOT'S grave;Yet brighter was the record Virtue gave,Of hours that gave to luxury no part,Of deeds of Charity, that grac'd the heart.Oft has the soldier met his stern command,Nor guess'd the saving pity‐moving hand,That o'er his falling fortunes secret came,To save his vet'ran breast from woe and shame.Oblivion never on these deeds can steal,While Honour burns or virtuous hearts can feel.Now more intense the burning heat is grown,And all the soft refreshing breezes flown;My quick'ned steps regain the lattic'd gate,Where cherub smiles my wish'd return await.Child of my heart! thy twining arms I meet;O come, and with thy winning converse sweet,Join in my cares, to chase the sense of pain:I come, most dear, to watch thy couch again.ImitationsOFTHE SPANISH.ImitationsOFTHE SPANISH.SERENADE.HOW sweet the night‐breeze sighs!Its scent is swept from orange bowers;Star of ALPHONSO'S soul, arise;Taste Love's delicious hours.Ocean has still'd each murm'ring wave,That CYNTHIA'S silvery form may rest;All feel the soothing power—save,That fair, that unrelenting breast.Dost thou in pray'r the hour employ?Before no shrine a suppliant lie:Turn first the tear of love to joy,The sigh of woe to extacy.How sweet the night‐breeze sighs!Its scent is swept from orange bow'rs:Star of ALPHONSO'S soul arise;Taste Love's delicious hours.SERENADE.THE jessamine grove exhales its odours round;No rash intruder comes, no whisp'ring sound;Fair LAURA, now the curtain'd lattice part:Alone are heard the beatings of my heart.Sound now, my lute, thy cadence sweet;My fair's approach with rapture greet;Sing to the night of Spanish love,Till thou the stock‐dove's slumbers move.SONG.OH! sigh with me, enchanting fair!Love's hours are short, the moments fly:My heart's emotions, LAURA, share:Oh, breathe with me the raptur'd sigh!List to the song, enchanting fair;I sing the lustre of thine eyes,The jetty wavings of thy hair,The fragrance of thy balmy sighs.Thy trembling melody of voice,Thy heart, where sacred virtues dwell;Oh, object of my early choice!So pure a love might share the cell.Then sigh with me, enchanting fair;Love's hours are short, the moments fly;My heart's emotions, LAURA, share;Oh, breathe with me the raptur'd sigh!Hush'd be the strain—the flutt'ring songsters fly;They hail with hymns the bright illumin'd sky.My fair, retire—all sacred be thy hour;The eye of light has pierc'd the secret bower:See, to the morn, the soft reflection giv'n;'Tis Beauty's blush, that tints the face of Heav'n.SIESTA.WHEN, through the veil's transparent fold,Thy sable diamonds sparkling roll'd,Say, CLARA, didst thou mark the dayTheir glances stole my soul away?The hour thy snowy breast retain,Another slave had felt thy chain?Ah, no!—thy frolic heart still flies;Thou sleep'st, amidst thy captives' sighs.Still, still, my CLARA, slumb'ring lie;Close still in sleep thy charming eye:So shall a thousand maids, less fair,Love's favours, for an hour, wear;Snatch from his wreath a fleeting prize,And conquer till my Love arise:Conceal, conceal the heart ye stole,E're yet the sable diamonds roll.When their effulgent blaze I meet,I vanquish'd lie at CLARA'S feet;Nor, till their fringed caskets close,Find words to breathe my impassion'd woes.E'en, in her dreams, my Love beguiles,In visions spreads her conqu'ring wiles;She wakes again, resumes her reign:The sable diamonds roll again.THE GRAVE LOVER.SWEET INES, give me back my heart;I gave it thee demurely praying;Nor thought 'twas but a feigned partThat thou, deceiver, wert then playing.My heart is fond, but melancholy;Ah, what has it to do with folly!Yet would I rather, INES, thine,Should penance do within my breast:Come, flutt'rer, gayer cells resign;Contented, in my bosom, rest.Sweet, be thou fond, but melancholy;O, have no more to do with folly!STORM,IN THE SIERRA MORENA.O SLEEP, if in an hour so drear,Thy downy pinion can expand,Shed all thy sweeter visions here;Let sorrow rest at thy command:And far the hopes, the fears, be flown,That my disast'rous Love has known.Life of my soul, would thou could'st rest,While winter holds his iron reign;Nor view the mountain's rugged breast,Nor fear the lightning's flash again.Hush, Love! 'tis but the thunder's roar;Man cannot harm thee, AGNES, more.No poniard flashes on the gloom;'Tis Love! the brighter arm of Heav'n:No mortal voice proclaims our doom;That solemn sound a GOD has giv'n;And innocence survives the hourWhen rocking empires feel its power.The high SIERRA trembling bends,As prest by burning steps of light,When Heaven o'er its summit sendsThe fiery messengers of night:Their aweful voices come through air,Rise, AGNES! join in fervent pray'r.PRAYER.TREMENDOUS Power, whom worlds obey;Source of both love and fear,Guard those who unprotected stray,Midst hours so wild and drear;Protect the infant from their rage,The trembling steps of helpless age.When to the city ruin flies,And rends the bowers of joy,Then look with mercy‐beaming eyes;O, wound, but not destroy!The guilty sinner Heaven spare,For hours of penitence and prayer.And, if a sinful nature e'erA boon can ask of thee,Guard, here, a wretched youthful pair,Who love, midst misery:Who, to the desarts rudely driven,Implore the shelt'ring smile of Heav'n.HYMN TO THE VIRGIN.DIVINE MADONA, intercessor bright,Hear our voices, midst the storm;O, plead for us, this wild tempestuous night;Show thy radiant holy form.Hark! the Sierra's height is riven:Plead for us, O Light of Heaven!Nor gems, nor gold, our altar here displays;Yet, MADONA, deign to hear;We sing, 'mid lofty solitudes thy praise,Wild and broken tones of fear:MADONA, intercessor bright,O, plead for us, this awful night!Glory, glory, Holy Virgin!Now thy voice Creation hears;From the clouds of night emerging,Milder morning's light appears;On the heights the Sun is verging;Glory, glory, Holy Virgin!BOLERO.WHEN, my Love, supinely laying,All thy graces dormant are,I, around the taper playing,Think another form as fair:Soon I view thy graceful motion,And recal the false emotion.Gay, round thy circling polish'd arms,The clust'ring CUPIDS twine;Exult, as every movement charms,Revel in the glance divine:Some the locks of beauty holding,Some the veil of love unfolding.Some thy feet, from fringes showing,Spread of love the rustling wing;Some upon thy cheek are glowing,Or, with thee, elastic spring:Beauty shines in every feature;Graceful, fascinating creature.Now, the languid pause succeeding,Snowy arms are rais'd above;Half the faultless form receding,Bent, the sparkling eyes of love:The castanets now waving sound;Again you tread th' enamour'd ground.Taper fingers, conquests noting,Spread the circle of your arms;Light thy sylph‐like form is floating;Now my beauteous statue warms.Enough! enough! I feel thy chain;The wand'ring heart returns again.Patriotic SongsOFSPAIN.Patriotic SongsOFSPAIN.SERENADE OF THE PATRIOTS,ON LEAVING SEVILLE.SPANISH Beauties, graceful bending,O'er Verandas, twin'd with flowers;Hear the Patriots, Seville sending,Swear to guard your native bowers.Wish to their swords, ere morning sun,As many hearts as ye have won.Many morns shall rise, ere sounding,Sweet guitars shall plaintive ring;Or chaste hearts those sparklers wounding,To list'ning beauty love‐notes sing:O wish their swords, ere morning sun,As many hearts as ye have won.Let not terror, here assailing,Oppress fair hearts with boding fears;Or sad Love, in secret wailing,Gem her veil with sorrowing tears;But wish their swords, ere morning sun,As many hearts as ye have won.Think on good, the cause attaining;Rejoice, the altars bright remain;Virtue still her veil retaining,Guarded by the flower of SpainWish to their swords, ere morning sun,As many hearts as ye have won.See the morning, bright advancing,Gilds our native tow'rs with light;Heav'n, a bright approval glancing,Leads SEVILLE'S bands to meet the fight.O, wish their swords, each rising sun,As many hearts as ye have won!TO ELVIRA.SHOULD this heart, that beats for thee,Be still'd amid the battle's rage,Let the thought of victoryELVIRA'S widow'd woe assuage:For that hour, in holy Heaven,The Patriot crown to me is giv'n.Hush the sigh, repel the tear!O, never, never mourn my fate!Sprinkle flowers on my bier,As cold I enter Seville's gate:With smiling joy ALPHONSO own,Whose patriot soul to Heav'n is flown.Shew my sons the wounds that flow;Then give their infant hands the spear:Let them then the contest know,That robs e'en infant hearts of fear:Send them, unmov'd, to bear their part;And give your Country all your heart.SONG OF SEVILLE.FAM'D, for ever, be the story,Graven be the record bright;How SEVILLIE'S eye of gloryMet the fire of Freedom's light:How firm she smil'd amidst the rays,When Roman Eagles fled the blaze.When IBERIA, sadly sighing,Felt the pow'r of GALLIA'S chain,SEVILLE, to her succour flying,Burst the hated bond in twain:She sprung, the falling Cross to save;To Innocence a shelter gave.Nor does the fight, alone, displaySEVILLE'S fire, SEVILLE'S pow'rs;Midst mental night, how bright the raySEVILLE'S kindling council pours:The scatter'd armies turn'd again,And twin'd the mingling arms of SPAIN.Long, o'er the ashes of thy fire,Th' historic page shall dwell;And all thy energies admire,All thy ardent struggles tell:How SEVILLE smil'd at Freedom's rays,When Roman eagles fled the blaze!SONG OF SARAGOSSA.BRAVE SARAGOSSA, round thy gate,Thy valiant sons the war await:Thrice there the foe have met their fate.Viva! Viva!Each deed to SEVILLE joy imparts;Her wreath of glory honour parts:Thy ramparts were but Spanish hearts.Viva! Viva!Thy modest beauties lose their fear,And midst the battle's rage appear:To bind the wounds their veils they tear.Viva! Viva!And infant voices join the cry;They crowd in Honour's cause to die,And shout to see the Frenchmen fly,Viva! Viva!E'en holy hands have seiz'd the sword:Sovereign Lady, here ador'd,Religion's spear thy foes have gor'd.Viva! Viva!Vict'ry to victory succeeds;Again the guilty bosom bleeds:And PALAFOX to conquest leads.Viva! Viva!From the German.THE SPIRIT OF A LOVER.RECLIN'D, at Evening's parting ray,Beneath the foliage of a sacred grove;Should a bright form then glide along the way,With waving hand, and look of love;Believe my Spirit that you see;—It brings content and peace to thee.Feel'st thou, when lost in fairy landOf former days—a soft aërial sprite,Like passing zephyr, kiss thy lip and hand,And tremble o'er the taper's light?Ah! do not doubt,—believe 'tis me;I whisper peace and love to thee.As, by the moon‐beam's glimm'ring light,Fancy her dreams of love now fondly weaves;Or, thro' the trees melodious sighs the Night,And presage sad thy bosom heaves;My spirit hovers round thee still,That breast with peace and love to fill.Hear'st, thou, by star‐light's silver gleam,The soft Eolian harp's enchanting swell?Then, tho' in secret solitude it seemTo breathe the name thou lov'st so well,Then slumber sweet; still, still 'tis me:I bring repose and peace to thee.THE TWO NUNS.THE Danube's stain'd waters have rush'd wildly by,As banners of battle wav'd over the scene:In Hohenstein's towers the wild ravens cry;To fields of destruction their dark wings have been.And Nature has join'd in the sigh of that night;Has wept at the prayer to Providence giv'n:The face of Devotion the red flashes light;The thunders of war are answer'd by Heav'n.Yet wilder is heard the sad accents of fear,As closer approach the mandates of fate:See GALLIA'S swift horsemen to Hohenstein near;Young HERMAN alights at the monast'ry's gate.The portal flies open; he waves back his band,And enters alone the wide mansion of care;The sword, dropping crimson, unsheath'd in his hand,And gleaming its light on the eyes of despair.Then, HERMAN, forgot is thy Father's last word;Thy Mother's soft tear is not felt on thy cheek;"My son, in the battle let mercy be heard;"My HERMAN, O spare the defenceless and weak!"That Father now sleeps, near his high native hills;His accents of honour are lost to thine ear:The throbs of a mother her monument stills;The kiss of a wanton has swept off her tear.O, Stern Unrelenting, say could'st thou not feel,The weak hand of age gave the treasures of Heav'n?Why bend thy dark eye on the form of CECILE?Such are not the dreams to thy slumbers are giv'n:For thine is a Goddess of flower‐wreath'd smiles,That, pityless, sports mid'st the battle's wild cry;That, flush'd by the bowl, spreads in midnight her wiles;A stranger to Love, or Compassion's soft sigh.Far other, CECILE, was thy form on that night:The angel that watch'd thee, foresaw 'twas the last;And ting'd was thy veil with his smile of delight,As he read on thy heart the hours that were past.Once, HERMAN, that innocent look could disarm,That sacred habit a rev'rence impart;But now his wild looks fill the breast with alarm;For GALLIA her serpents has twin'd round his heart."Lead on to your altars!" he fiercely exclaim'd;"And you, foolish Trembler, alone bear the light!"The Sisters retire, as fair CECILE is nam'd;So fall back the clouds from the beauty of night.With tears they invoke every pow'r from above,As she wav'd an adieu, and bore the faint lamp;And less'ning in distance, they saw the light move,Thro' high‐arching cloisters, wild, dreary, and damp.Rich blazes the altar; the tapers here lentTheir rays to illumine the 'treasures it bore:To each holy saint HERMAN'S infancy bent;Their pow'r is now felt on his bosom no more."But whence are these mock'ries?" he sternly cried;As holy and meek the Nun bent to the shrine:"Those priest‐witching follies I ever deride;—"The next hour be Heaven's—but this shall be mine!"Ah, sainted CECILE! the high altars ye drest,As the ray of the morn had pierc'd thro' the shade,Behold now, dishonour'd and sullied the breast,Whence vows of devotion were wont to be paid.And murder approaches; so link'd is the chainThat vices have bound round the dark brooding heart:Long pleading for life does lost CECILE remain;But pity her accents have ceas'd to impart.Poor Nature! can Misery shrink from the tomb?The approaches of death can wretchedness moan?Why, ruin'd CECILE! dost thou bend from thy doom?Why plead for the casket,—the jewel is flown!The arm that has clasp'd thee, in passion's wild fold,Now strikes to thy heart the red weapon of death:—The form, once so lovely, is livid and cold;And incense has mix'd with the saints's dying breath.Long HERMAN wild gaz'd on the ruin he made;Then Nature broke forth, with a heart‐rending sigh:"My vices have caus'd thee, fair flow'r, to fade;"The blight of my passions have doom'd thee to die!"O, never from me shall this deed be effac'd!" 'Tis written in blood on my sorrowing heart:"Dark, dark, is the path that my manhood has trac'd!"Cold bride of my bosom, we never shall part."True, true, were the words:—'tis in vain thy commands;Tho' Hohenstien's towers are raz'd to the earth:Before thee in battle the pale victim stands,And rises to join in the gay hour of mirth.The bowl seems of blood, to his terror‐struck eye;On beauty's white bosom he points to a wound:The vot'ries of pleasure from HERMAN now fly;And buried in forests alone he is found.Stern War, for a while near the Danube you cease,To spread the dread empire of woe and of pain;Dear Switzerland, soon, in the mild hour of peace,HERMAN flies to retrace your mountains again.Not blooming he comes, as, in days that are past,He felt, 'midst your bowers, the spring of his youth;When Hope had foretold the fair blossoms would last,Of honour, of virtue, of mercy, and truth But faded his form, the pale victim of Fear;Who, conscience‐struck, loves to the night‐winds to rave:Ah, start not ye friends, as the visions appear!He trembles, yet doats on a form of the grave.His crime is reveal'd, still affection remain'd;They thought on his parents, and pardon'd the son:Embrac'd is the form that murder has stain'd,And prest is the hand that the dark deed has done.Now o'er the clear lake brightly summer has glow'd:The dark fringing woods are iIlum'd by its rays;The eyes of the mourner with tears overflow'd,As voices of friendship the scenery praise;For never, O never, has Nature e'er smil'dOn the guilt that her ties have broken in twain,The murderer's heart of its horror beguil'd,Or borne, on her breezes, a balm to his pain.'Tis vain that Affection sad HERMAN has led,Where FLORA has deck'd the sweet breathing bower,Has pull'd, for his bosom, the flow'rs of her bed,Or waken'd the echoes to Harmony's power.On the lake is impress'd the vision of death;The dark frowning forests seem beck'ning to wave:Pale HERMAN consumes;—hot and quick is his breath;His forehead is mark'd by the touch of the grave.Thus Friendship, who sorrowing, saw the decay,And sought, in delusion, a cure for his mind:—"In sacred vestments some fair stranger array,"With bosom red stain'd, and veil loose to the wind;"The form, till the height of the banquet, conceal;"The Ghost and the Bowl be reserv'd for the last;"That horror‐struck HERMAN his weakness may feel;"And laugh at this dream, and the dreams that are past."Thus the care‐stricken mind its tone shall regain,"And burst thro' the fetters that shackle his breast;"The blush of confusion his pale cheek shall stain,"When the phantom he fears shall prove but a jest."The banquet is spread—on the lake Summer play'd,Her soft breath perfum'd by the scent of the rose;From the portico's shade sad HERMAN survey'dThe hills, that in distance majestic'ly rose.Friends press to the feast—he reluctant complies;But languid and cold to their joy does appear;In the pause of each strain is heard his deep sighs;The efforts of mirth are repaid by a tear."Why, HERMAN, they urge, dost thou waste thy bright bloom?"Long penitence heard is, in pitying Heaven:"O, make not the hall of thy father a tomb!"To the dawn of thy peace this banquet is giv'n."Sudden HERMAN wild starts; his eyes fix on space:—They motion the form that's conceal'd, with their hands;And, veil'd, she advances, with CECILE'S soft grace;And points to her bosom, as solemn she stands.On HERMAN is turn'd the fix'd gaze of each friend;They watch the wild frenzy that shoots from his eye:Amazement and fear seem to equally blend:—They speak—O how awfully wild his reply!"Does the Nun still appear, in bright hours of joy?"O, let not thy mind this sad weakness disarm:"Now, now, is the hour,—the illusion destroy:—"But grasp at the phantom, 'twill break the dread charm.""There are Two!"—the heav'n struck HERMAN replied;As death and its damps o'er his pale features steal:"There are Two!—a stranger is clad as my bride;"But there glides too truely the form of CECILE!"Do not Hohenstein's ruins rise on thy breast?"Around thee the pile of devotion was fir'd:"Is it HERMAN, CECILE, that hinders thy rest?"O, take my sad life!"—he said, and expir'd.The banquet is left;—each in secret prays;Nor doubts that the forms of the murder'd return:Yet, to HERMAN'S remembrance, they fondly raise,Near the lake's placid bosom, a spotless urn.No record of crimes do the pure waters lave;No dark tale of murder the tablets impart:They tell of the promise his infancy gave,Ere GALLIA her serpents had twin'd round his heart.Miscellaneous.Miscellaneous.AN OFFERING OF GRATITUDE;WRITTEN ON THE BIRTH DAY OF HIS ROYALHIGHNESS THE DUKE OF YORK.1808.THIS day a thousand fragrant wreaths shall dressThe Muse's shrine, to FREDRICK'S royal name:A thousand cups the willing lip shall press,And "Health to FRED'RICK!" be the general theme.Trembling, my Muse, presents her humble lays;Fain, on this day, would bear a grateful part;But, ah! the blight of Sorrow's wintry days,Leaves to her wreath but blossoms of the heart:These fall to strew her Prince's sacred way;A lowly tribute, on his natal day.Tho' softer lyres attune the attractive lay,And gayer flow'ring wreaths this day be giv'n;Throw not, my Prince, this faded leaf away;The humblest prayers ascend to Heaven.What tho' her hated crest fell Envy rears,To turn thy gen'rous breast from peace and joy;The Libel blotted is by grateful tears,And infant hands her deadly snakes destroy;No more the soldier, summon'd to the fight,Feels the soft ties of nature interpose;Or awful visions rise, to blast his sight,Of famish'd infants, or of widow's woes.'Twas thine his gen'rous breast that pang to spare,And FREDERICK mingles with his dying prayer.Bright, on the field of blood, the domes arise,Where cherub orphans feel thy royal care.Sweet hope!—it checks the anxious Father's sighs;It calms the wand'ring Mother's wild despair.Thee, the worn vet'ran seeks from distant shores;Compassion, Justice, Sympathy to meet:On thy attentive ear his sufferings pours,And lays his wants and sorrows at thy feet.Tho' mocking crowds his thread‐bare garb deride,Thy door is open to his trembling hands:How swells his scar‐worn breast with honest pride!Attention fix'd his martial tale commands.E'en to denial thou can'st grace impart;And raise to consequence his humbled heart:His arm forgets its age, its with'ring pain;And burns to fight for BRUNSWICK'S race again.O, in the hour, when Venom's scroll display'd,Shall urge thy mind the black'ned tide to stem;And Treason's arm, fictitiously array'd,Shall mar the lustre of the diadem;May Memory from thy breast the poison wave,And trace alone the blessings of the brave.AGE AND BEAUTY.THE IDEA FROM PETARCH.COULD I behold those roses fade to snow,Those golden tresses fall, or silvery grow;Thy graceful motions still'd at Time's command;Thy chord of music broken by his hand;Then might I less thy charms adore,But surely, surely, love them more.In vain I hope:—thy roses brighter glow;From lips of rubies sweeter accents flow;And laughing CUPIDS tighter bowstrings weave,With tresses that thy polish'd temples leave:No trace of age thy beauty knows;The Sun sets brighter than it rose.WRITTEN ON THE RETURN OF THE FORTYSECOND REGIMENT FROM EGYPT.*1802.O, WELCOME to Glens, where blushes the wild rose;To hills, where the heather‐bell sheds its perfume;To Tay's lucid stream, that winds as it flows,And chides, as 'tis kiss'd by the long yellow broom!For scenes so enchanting, sad have I panted,When fated by arms in wild desarts to roam:Yet the soft vision to slumber was granted;And dreams have drawn sweetly the traits of my home.But morning arose—withdrew the illusion,And shot its fierce beams over hillocks of sand;Fled were the flow'rets, and fled the seclusion;The vallies of green, by the soft breezes fan'd.Yet Hope oft would whisper, "Why, Soldier, repine?"Tho' no rural pleasures these desarts allow,"The laureat of victory yet shall be thine,"And thine the proud honours of BONAPARTE'S brow."Ere the morrow's first dawn, O, Hope! thou said'st true;The laurel was SCOTIA'S, and her's the renown:—Her sons' former victories blossom'd a‐new;And twin'd by their hands was the wreath round the crown.Shades of the brave, tho' the battle is over,And cold, and insensate, ye lie on the plain;On conquest's full cup your mem'ry shall hover,Whilst ought of this day in remembrance remain.Tho' buried and cold, how soothes the reflection,That Honour bestow'd on her vot'ries a grave;Embalm'd by the tears of brothers' affection;And wrapt in the soil they expir'd to save!O welcome ye vallies, no longer illusion;I stray through your windings; calm is your pleasures:Nature rejoices, and spreads, with profusion,Her fresh budding, charms, her roseate treasures.*The above, with some little variation, was published in a Magazine in 1803.ON THE PARTING OF TWO LOVERS.THE KISS.A KISS I stole from ELLEN'S cheek,That sweetly blush'd a brighter hue:Beloved maid, thy eyes so meek,With radiance mild, reprove me too.But, think that Kiss shall guard my heart,Shall close to pleasures touch my breast;Thy virtue, Fair One, shall impart,In all thy pleasing graces drest.Farewell! thy Kiss, angelic maid,Shall, virgin'd, on my lip remain;*Nor shall, belov'd, thy memory fade,'Till I that Kiss return again.*The idea from Shakespear.TO LOVE.OH, Love, how chang'd thou art;Since first my young elastic heartReceiv'd thy flower‐entwined dart:Oh, Love, how chang'd thou art!Thou smil'st no more, sweet boy;For care and want thy reign annoy;No more my bosom opes to joy.Thou smil'st, no more, sweet boy.Still, Love, with thee I'm blest;Thou hast not sought a happier breast,Nor fled, in gayer domes to rest;Still, Love, with thee, I'm blest.Tho' all thy flow'rs are dead,And all thy soft enchantments fled,I'm still thy willing captive led;Tho' all thy flow'rs are dead.Still to my bosom cling,And, with thy soft and downy wing,The ice from off that bosom bring:Still to my bosom cling.Oh, Love, how chang'd thou art;Since first my young elastic heart,Receiv'd thy flow'r‐entwined dart:Oh, Love, how chang'd thou art!AN ALLEGORY,ADDRESSED TO MRS. A—— T——.BEAUTEOUS, and foster'd by the tenderest care,Its union courted by each neighbouring tree,An Eglantine once flourish'd, sweet and fair;Its leaves unsullied, yet its motions free.Long on its strength the tender plant relies,Nor sought the offer'd shelter of the grove;Tho' o'er its fragile form the wild wind sighs,Once cherish'd by the tender band of love.At length the bitter world's uncertain blast,Presaging woe at ev'ry heart‐felt stroke,Induc'd the tender Eglantine, at last,To twine its waving tendrils round an Oak;Long fondly grac'd its venerable form,And seem'd securely to defy the storm:Alas! by Fate, the with'ring stroke was giv'n,That tore the Eglantine from ev'ry stay;The Oak, from its embraces rudely driv'n,Sunk, blasted, to the earth, and felt decay.Then bent an Elm its lofty branches low,To sweep each reptile from the widow'd plant;And fain its help benignly would bestow,And support to its injur'd branches grant:Yet scarce reviv'd, beholds the plant recoil;And, drooping, quits it for another soil.Still Heaven protects the beauteous Eglantine;Unspotted still, its branches brightly shine,Uninjur'd by the canker‐worm of time:Cheer'd by the influence of a Sun divine,It rises from the world's unfeeling tread,And lifts to Heaven the honours of its head.TO THE MUSE.No more the Muses' flowery path I tread,My fancy slumb'ring, and my genius fled;No more the myrtle and the rose entwine,As in the days when Love and Joy were mine:The flowers of verse, like scatter'd blossoms, lie;I fain would twine, but blight them with a sigh.Say, Power, that o'er the pensive mind presides,Whose sombre influence through my bosom glides,Why on Misfortune's brow no chaplets rest;No roses bloom upon the sorrowing breast?Beneath Love's sun with radiance sweet they shine;Yet never, never, cheer the gloom of mine.Say, have I, Muse, thy numbers idly flungAt Folly's feet, or dissipation sung;With chaster lillies gaudier flowers entwin'd,Or with thy favours worthless names enshrin'd?No!—to thy bright'ning smiles restore my right;When they are fled, my day becomes as night.Camilla de Florian.Camilla de Florian.BRIGHT o'er ST. ELMO'S walls, VALETTÈ'S tow'rs,The rising day a flood of glory pours;From FLORIAN'S palace fair CAMILLA cameAnd sought, with pensive steps, the sacred fane;The faultless image of her GOD ador'd,And, for a falling country, aid implor'd.Religion's flame from Heaven seem'd to dart,To touch the altar of a spotless heart.High o'er her bending form arose the dome,Whence rays of morning pierce the sacred gloom,On Valour's ashes shed a tribute warm,And give a glory to the SAVIOUR'S form;Silver the relics of each holy shrine,And touch the Virgin's face with hues divine.O'er porphyry steps the prostrate fair one bends;Her floating vestments to the slab extends,Where Victory her brightest record trac'd,In vivid colours, Time has ne'er effac'd:With printless step, she comes where Valour lies,And spares the marble's polish and its dyes.O valiant Host! in that last awful day,When grandeur fades, and crumbling worlds decay;And blood‐stain'd hands for saving mercy plead,But bring no shadow for the murd'rous deed;Save, that a Despot's triumphs then were swell'd;Save that IBERIA'S noble flames were quell'd;VALETTÈ'S sons shall conquer as they rise,And banners of the Cross illume the skies:High Heav'n shall hail, rejoicing angels laud,The Knights of CHRIST, the soldiers of their GOD.Long wrapt in pray'r the fair CAMILLA lay;Nor heeds the glories of the rising day,Nor views the graceful form that o'er her bends,The sigh of friendship that ANSELEM sends.His voice, at length, the sacred stillness broke;And thus the Knight the fair CAMILLA spoke:—"Can, then, Misfortune reach thy splendid height?"Are, then, CAMILLA'S youthful hours less bright,"Than late, when virtue, fortune, birth, conspir'd"To render blest the form that all admir'd?"O, noble Lady! sacred vows divide;"Our hearts by Friendship's bonds alone allied:"Yet view the Cross that on my bosom glows,"And choose ANSELEM'S sword to right thy woes.""Is't no misfortune, then," the mourner said,"That hostile bands our happy isle invade?"A Despot brings dishonour to our gate;"And MALTA'S Knights, unarm'd, his mandates wait."Where are the race, that, in VALETTÈ'S days,"Won, from a wond'ring world the meed of praise?"None, now, to save the falling state aspire:"We tread the ashes of that sacred fire."To FLORIAN'S house, no gallant son survives:"No Sire dishonour from this hour derives:"Last of her race, a daughter comes, to shed"The tears of sorrow o'er her kindred dead?"But say, ANSELEM, sat the Council late!"Perhaps their ardour yet averts our fate."A crimson blush ANSELEM'S features dy'd:Ah, no, CAMILLA!" then the Knight reply'd:"Ere noon the tide of guilt and ruin pours;"And GALLIA'S banners wave from MALTA'S tow'rs."Can, then, thy hand the guilty bond have sign'd,"The honours of the sacred Cross resign'd?""Avert the thought!—thy blood more nobly flows;"A brighter vision in that bosom glows."O, in this hour, CAMILLA may impart"The cherish'd secret of her virgin heart;"Avow thy image to her soul most dear;"Yet bid thee die—to merit burial here!""I go, bright Excellence!" exclaim'd the Knight;"There yet may live some spark of Freedom's light:"My ardent aid shall fan the rising flame;"CAMILLA glory in ANSELEM'S name:"Yet, mid'st the thought, a heart‐felt pang prevails;"My brow is damp, my sinking spirit fails:"Ah! who, in Peril's hour will shelter you?""Think not on me;" CAMILLA, cried:—"Adieu!""Take from my brow the sable veil I wear;"In Danger's hour the sacred fillet bear;"For thee are pour'd the wishes of my heart:"O, linger not in Glory's cause:—Depart!"He fled:—The pensive fair heeds not the rays[This and the following two lines are connected by a large brace in the right margin of the original printed edition.]That, on her unveil'd beauty, scorching plays,Till blushes wake, at Admiration's gaze:She o'er her blooming face her tresses drew;And, sighing, slowly to her home withdrew.The splendid Hall her graceful footsteps prest,Rose in the pride of Architecture drest:Oval the form; whilst, from the light above,A chain, suspended by a silver dove,Bore a bright vase, containing rich perfume,That shed its odours round the lofty dome:The pavement, richly in Mosaic wrought,New beauties to the painter's pencil taught.How vivid were the colours Nature dy'd!And Art had mimick'd all the garden's pride.Round, Grecian models seem with life to start;Each bore a lamp, within a silver heart.The court with variegated beauty glows;The richest marbles each a square compose:The quarry's gems beneath the feet are spread,And, rising, form the stately polish'd bed;O'er which the Naiad spreads her silvery hair,And dashing waters cool the sultry air:The beauteous doves the liquid crystal drink;Or bathe their wings, or flutter on the brink;Or wildly round the court, in sportive play,Home to the golden lattice wing their way.Now opes the garden all its varied bloom;Twelve pillars part it from the gay saloon:A green silk curtain, hung with airy grace,Veils or discloses FLORA'S blooming face.Round the white pillars' base the jasmine twines;How sweet its fragrance, in these sultry climes!To Northern suns, the pale consumptive flow'r,Half open'd, sheds its aromatic power;Here with expanded bosom, sweetly glows,And rivals, in its scent, the gayer rose.A silver rail the sacred altar shrines;Alike the Cross, the beauty of the mines;The Holy form of purest ivory made;Cornelian was the slab on which it laid:Around, the beauties of the painter's artCatch the quick feeling, and arrest the heart.The mild Madona mourns with holy grace;And rays of Heaven illume her sacred face:Here, the stretch'd canvas shows St. Elmo's tow'rs:The foes advance—the storm of battle lours;And first appears the brave intrepid Knight,Who sought the horrors of the dang'rous fight;Who gave himself, in that eventful day,A willing victim to the Cross's sway:VALETTÈ views him with enraptur'd eyes;And blesses, ere 'tis slain, the sacrifice.From polish'd steps the gardens wide display;And orange blossoms strew the scented way;The rich pomegranate waves its scarlet flow'rs,And clust'ring vines enwreath the shelt'ring bowersThe gay geranium blooms, the myrtles smile;Their falling leaves the golden fish beguile;They, at the floating treasures eager bound,Then dive, as frighted at the fountain's sound.High‐arching rocks the scene superbly close,Down which the spark'ling stream, divided, flows;Hurrying, it bounds along the mossy path,And, murmuring, hastens to the secret bath.Long o'er her native scenes CAMILLA dwells,A sound of tumult on the stillness swells:The cannon's roar, the acclamations near,Fill her attendant maids with trembling fear;Round her fair form they cling, with streaming eyes,And call protection from the pitying skies.CAMILLA, more collected, seeks the shrines,And holy treasures to their care consigns:Then bids the torches blaze, and leads the way,Where subterraneous paths in darkness lay;Long thro' their arching windings, damp and drear,The cautious group repeat the steps of fear;Prophetic echoes come in warning sighs,And frighted reptiles from the hollows rise;Close stifling vapours damp the torches' breath,That dimly light the silent caves of death:At length a ray of streaming light appears,And fragrant odours sinking Nature cheers;The eager hands close branches draw aside,And shew St. ROSA'S gardens op'ning wide.CAMILLA views with joy the foliage wave;'Twas FLORIAN'S house, the fair Superior gave.Mark'd by the hand of age, the convent rose;Around its base the sweets of summer blows,Alone, CAMILLA trod the hallow'd way,Where once her infant footsteps lov'd to stray.Dear was the scene to fair CAMILLA'S view;Near the known porch the light Acacias grew.Again she prest—with ivory inlaid,The sombre couch of shining ebon made,And mark'd the curtain'd shrine retir'd from view;Inhaled the perfume which the incense threw;And mellow'd light, from stained casements fall,With smiles of Heav'n, upon the sacred wall.The painter there each form of death pourtray'd,From brightest Hope to Horror's awful shade:Dimly was seen the sinner's parting strife;The pallid struggles of reluctant life:And shewn in brighter tints the Holy Maid,On whom an angel's warning hand was laid;Her mortal with celestial nature blends,And wrapt in extacy, the saint ascends.CAMILLA'S thoughts a sounding step withdrew,And soon LUCILLA'S kindred form she knew:The sacred Maid the kneeling fair one blest,And words of welcome soothe her troubled breast:—"CAMILLA, peace! whate'er the secret cause"Thy wand'ring footsteps to St. ROSA draws;"Whether from paths of war you trembling bend,"Or public woe with private sorrow blend,"Dear to my heart, within my bosom live:"The Gallic armies here protection give.""I seek, alone," (she cry'd, as bending low)"To place your sacred fillet on my brow:"No year I ask to fix a wav'ring mind;"O let this hour the holy compact bind!"Ere night, St. ROSA'S sisters strew'd with flow'rsCAMILLA'S path, and rais'd their choral pow'rs:Solemn and sweet their tuneful voices swell'd,As o'er her spotless form the pall they held:It drops:—enchantments, melodies expire;The tapers sink with gleams of dying fire;The Sisters lead CAMILLA to her cell;She bids ANSELEM and the world farewell!Meantime the Knight, in humble garb array'd,Thro' the known haunts of Citta Vecchia stray'd:The victor yet the sacred altars spar'd,Nor yet the ancient usages impair'd.In vain CAMILLA'S fate her Knight deplores,And o'er her untrac'd flight his sorrow pours;Yet oft his pensive eye unconscious fallsOn high St. ROSA'S venerable walls;Oft, in the evening hour, inclines his ear,To list' the rising tones, so soft, so clear;Nor dreamt the cherish'd treasure of his heartBore in the vesper hymn the sweetest part.Once, when the Moon her brightest beam had shed,Some loyal spirits, by ANSELEM led,Commun'd in secret near the convent's gate,And, whisp'ring, told of Malta's future fate:Sudden, a rustling hollow sound is heard,As secret footsteps near ANSELEM stirr'd;He bids the startled group in haste depart,[This and the following two lines are connected by a large brace in the right margin of the original printed edition.]And marks alone, with palpitating heart,Across his way a shrouded figure dart:It drops a written scroll, and points to whereA sacred taper sheds a feeble glare.ANSELEM reads:—"If, Knight, thy life is dear,"Tread Rosa's solitudes, unmov'd by fear;"There friendly councils thy approach await,"And secrets precious to the fallen state:"Let not thy wary steps refuse to tread"The holy aisles, in guiding safety led."ANSELEM from the paper lifts his eyes,And yet again the shadowy form decries;He firmly bids it lead the secret way,And soon their steps thro' echoing cloisters stray:Onward they go, where cypress walks extend,And distant tapers with the foliage blend.A temple there its polish'd beauty rears;The guiding stranger points, and disappears.'Twas there LUCILLA meditating lay;Her sparkling eyes attentive seem'd to strayO'er the grave Homilies' severest page;But worldly thoughts her wand'ring mind engage:To meet ANSELEM'S bend she graceful rose;Her finish'd beauty to remembrance glows:He meets CAMILLA'S eyes, her lofty form,But not the chast'ned smile her looks adorn:Alike, the polish'd forehead's showy height;But fled the rosy blush of modest light.With specious words LUCILLA pleads the causeOf Knights, who revel in their broken laws;And bids ANSELEM'S gallant spirit joinA path injurious to his glorious line;Then all her guilty heart reveals to view,And bids the Myrtle rise where Cypress grew.ANSELEM hears, with stern unbending brow,LUCILLA'S voice unhallow'd Love avow;Then, with uplifted eyes, indignant said;—"O MALTA, how thy glories darkly fade!"The Knights of CHRIST deny his sacred name,"And holy Maidens seek the paths of shame:"Say, thou Apostate, had my youth no charm,"When guilty brethren vow'd ANSELEM'S arm"The princely heiress of thy house should twine,"Would he this sacred badge of truth resign?"Ah, fair CAMILLA! if yon planet, bright,"Contain thy disembodied spirit's light;"Clouds rise to veil the chaste and heav'nly flame,"And hide from angel eyes the bow'rs of shame."Mark me, LUCILLA! ere my steps depart,"This sword had pierc'd the blackness of thy heart;"Thy veins this polish'd steel with crimson dy'd,"Did not CAMILLA'S blood within them glide:"For me avow no flame of early youth,"But tremble at the awful words of truth:—"Oft, when the dark'ned night my form conceal'd,"St. Rosa's vices were to me reveal'd."O'er her pale face the lawn LUCILLA drew,And hid her livid features from his view:With quiv'ring voice of dark revenge, she said—"Depart—an expiation will be made!"Quick from the convent's guilty shade he flew;Nor paus'd till near the hallow'd haunts he drew,Where holy PAUL the clinging viper castTo flames;—still there the dark impressions last;Devotion holy adoration pours,Where first th' Apostle blest Mileta's shores.At length the Morn arose to light the main,In which her sons VALETTÈ'S tow'rs regain;Soon as the blush of dawn ANSELEM came,To tread ere noon the glorious path of Fame.Thro' Citta Vecchia thronging crouds appear;'Tis not the tones of triumph meet his ear:A low, confused, melancholy sound,Of supplicating prayer is heard around."Why to St. Rosa do your footsteps bend?"Why do your torches with the morning blend?""A nun," they cry, "has broke her Vow to Heav'n;"To view the sinner's breathless form is giv'n!"ANSELEM shudders, quick respires his breath;He seeks the awful festival of death:There lofty pillars blooming flow'rs enwreath,And silver censors fragrant incense breathe;Near to the altar's base a form is laid;Long o'er the breathless clay LUCILLA pray'd;Then points to where the pavement, op'ning wide,Shews the sad vault where struggling sorrow died."Behold," she cry'd, "the death our laws ordain,"For those whose vices holy mansions stain;"A Knight has trod St. Rosa's sacred shade:"I vow'd an expiation should be made!""Bear witness, to appease the wrath of Heav'n,"The dearest of the sacred sisters giv'n;"Behold, I have not spar'd my kindred ties;"For breathless at my feet CAMILLA lies!"Swift to the altar's base ANSELEM flew:Tho' chang'd by dreadful Death, the maid he knew.—"Angel of Light! rests here thy hallow'd head?"He gaz'd awhile, his madd'ned senses fled!Prone, at LUCILLA'S feet, he fainting falls:Unmov'd, she bade convey him from the walls.Long near a fountain's brink ANSELEM lay; [This and the following two lines are connected by a large brace in the right margin of the original printed edition.]But Death resign'd to Victory her sway,And gave the hero for a brilliant day.'Twas then that GALLIA'S sons revenge inspir'd;Her impious soldiers holy shrines had fir'd:ANSELEM hears loud voices rend the air,And gathers strength from visions of despair:He views CAMILLA'S veil o'er FLORIAN wave;Then seeks her spirit in the silent grave.THE END.E. 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