The Dream, and Other Poems : electronic version.

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Davis British Women Romantic Poets Series 122 Managing Editor Charlotte Payne Founding Editor Nancy Kushigian The dream, : and other poems Conyngham, Elizabeth Emmet Lenox. by Mrs. George Lenox-Conyngham. Edward Moxon London 1833

This text was scanned from its original in the Shields Library Kohler Collection, University of California, Davis, Kohler I:728. Another copy available on microfilm as Kohler I:728mf.

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German Italian Classical Greek Latin October 3, 2007 Charlotte Payne ed. Proofed and entered final corrections.

[Title Page]

THE DREAM, ANDOTHER POEMS. BY MRS. GEORGE LENOX-CONYNGHAM. LONDON: EDWARD MOXON, DOVER STREET, 1833. PRINTED BYJ. HARRISON AND SON, ORCHARD STREET, WESTMINSTER. TOROBERT HOLMES, ESQ.THESE POEMS ARE INSCRIBEDBYHIS AFFECTIONATE DAUGHTER.

CONTENTS. THE DREAM 1 Greek War Song 65 Immortality 69 To Hope∗ 73 "The Righteous Perisheth" 75 "Grief is my Nature now" 77 Woman's Truth 80 The Admonition of Socrates 82 To the Memory of T. A. E. 88 "Though Friends we warmly loved fall off" 89 Chorus of Virgins at the tomb of Julia Alpinula 90 Lamberto 95 Where is our Country? 99 Conradino 102 The Memory of the Dead 107 The Exile to his Country∗ 110 Greece, past and present 114 The Family Sepulchre 126 Departure of Boabdil from Granada 130 "And is not Man a Stranger here?" 133 To Friendship∗ 137 Such wert Thou 140 To Oblivion∗ 143 Weep not for the Dead 147 Italian Sonnets. Muzio Scevola 151 Coriolano 152 Regolo 153 Sonnet by Filicaja 154 Translation 155 Sonnet by De Coureil 156 Translation 157 Translations from the German of F. Von Matthisson. The Death Bed 158 A Summer Evening 160 To Love 162 The Tombstone 163 Faith 165

The Poems whose names are marked with an asterisk were not composed by me. They were found amongst the Papers of my Mother, who has been long dead; and they were written, I believe, between the years 1797 and 1804. I have made some alterations in them.

E. E. L-C. THE DREAM. "A man without a smile,—without a tear." I. THERE is a land where precipice and flood Contrast their horrors; lawn, and stream, and wood, Their beauties blend; where Nature reigns alone, And hath in wantonness together thrown Incongruous parts, to form a whole so fair That distant Memory flies to revel there; And to unfettered Fancy's eager eye, No softer landscape with those scenes may vie. II. It chanced, a wanderer there, at close of day, With thoughts like these beguiled his lonely way: "Who ever saw the sun's departing glow "Thrown on these rugged mountain-tops of snow, "Casting its glory o'er each rocky form "Whose brow it crowns with light, but cannot warm, "And felt not,—thus Truth's holy sunshine sheds "Its heavenly radiance upon human heads, "Nor toucheth human hearts; but, day by day, "Beams on the ice it cannot melt away, "And leaves the sinner's darkened soul as chill, "As if eternal winter were God's awful will? "Who ever marked the swollen torrent's path, "When, rushing in its sudden stream of wrath, "It poured its fury on the smiling plain, "Destroyed Spring's hope, and made her promise vain, "And thought not,—thus the overwhelming tide "Of human, passions, and of earthly pride, "Too often tears up virtue by the root, "Scatters its blossoms, spoils its ripening fruit?— "He whom I loved, have worldly care and strife "Destroyed the promise of his early life, "And o'er his mind their baneful influence spread? "Lives he in grief, or hath he long been dead?" III. So mused the wanderer in that foreign land, As, while he looked around, he felt expand The idea, fondly nurtured still, of one Whose image from his sight had long been gone, But never from his heart;—one who had been His first companion in each boyish scene; The youthful sharer of his smiles and tears, His sports and studies in those happy years When life is love; and, like the clinging vine, Round something, any thing, the heart will twine. And when their dawn had brightened into day, And showed the prospect that before them lay, The warmest wish that in their bosoms glowed, Was, hand in hand, to tread life's future road. But Fortune bids youth's purest visions fly, And rudely severs many a sacred tie; Unclasps affections that have closely clung, And untunes souls that were in concert strung. Fortune their destinies asunder tore; She led one forth, but brought him back no more. He whom she doomed in distant climes to roam, Had been the favourite of a happy home; And when, obedient to Ambition's call, He crossed the threshold of the ancient hall That long had echoed with his tones, bereft Of hope and joy seemed those the soldier left. IV. It was of him the lonely traveller thought; And, while industrious, pensive Memory wrought A picture of old times, he did not mark The fall of night, tempestuous and dark. At length his eye in search of shelter ran; But, far from beaten track, or haunt of man, Vainly at first it wandered; then just caught A distant glimmer. Eagerly he sought To fix the point it shone from. On a height, Whose steepness terrified the straining sight, A savage, solitary hut arose: "At least 'twill yield me shelter and repose," He thought, and hurried on: no prompt or warm Consent there bade him enter from the storm; But a deep voice, whose slow, reluctant tones Seemed fitted to convey not words but groans, Fell heavy on the suppliant stranger's ear: "Enter," it said, "and prove a wretch's cheer." V. In a long pause of doubting, wild amaze The intruder fixed his earnest, anxious gaze Upon the inmate of that rude abode. He stood and gasped; then breathlessly he strode Forward, and searched into the haggard face For some familiar look, some lingering trace Of the expression wont, of old, to dwell On features he had known and loved so well. Yes! it was he:—but what a fearful change Had made those lineaments almost as strange As though they ne'er had met his eyes before! The heart,—was it what it had been of yore? The sufferings which had marred his outward frame, Could they have left the inward man the same? VI. I do not say the Hermit was not glad To see his young heart's brother: and yet, sad Most often,—solemn always, in good truth, It is to meet one whom we loved in youth, And have not seen for years. A lengthy train Of dear remembrances,—but dear in vain,— Return with him who in them hath a part, And crowd in mournfulness upon the wakened heart. The dead,—the changed,—the valued but resigned Seem to come back with him: he brings to mind Joys which we thought realities, and found Delusive as the landscapes that surround The pining mariner, whose fancy fills Ocean's dark realms with fields, and groves, and hills. He brings associations that recall, A moment, what is lost for ever; all Which was most fair and transient; and that force Our memory on the long forsaken course Of life's first starting, when some proud career Seemed to lie straight before us—open—clear: No cloud in Heaven; on Earth a glorious goal, The ambition-point of a bold, sanguine soul. VII. But few there are who, with unshrinking gaze, Can backward look upon their childish days Calmly; can dwell on every hallowed spot, Beloved when love was what it now is not; And conjure up, with spirits still serene, The vanished actors in each early scene; Nor feel in disappointment's agony, That to have been is better than to be. Few of Earth's highest, happiest, do not deem That youth's least joyous, tamest, dullest dream Was brighter far than any actual bliss Which gives its light to such a world as this; And that the bitterest tears in childhood shed O'er withered flowers, or fondled favourite dead, Had less of bitter in them than the smiles Which gild deceitful, heartless manhood's wiles. VIII. If there be blessed, unrepining men Who need not wish that they were boys again, The Hermit was not one of them. His guest To hear the story of his absence pressed With friendly urgency;—but long in vain. It seemed as if some almost dormant pain Awakening, wildly then throughout him ran, And shook convulsively the altered man. Yielding at length, in thoughtfulness, a space, Between his trembling hands he held his face, As if he strove the workings there to hide Of that roused feeling,—grief, or shame, or pride. When he looked up, his face was calm and stern; But in its lines the observer might discern The lightning-seared and never-fading mark Of passions, such as through the spirit's dark And stormy season flashing, leave behind Their brand of ruin on the brow and mind Of him who was their victim. When he broke The pause, his tones were firm,—and thus he spoke: Well!—since thou wilt,—my secret share: I loved a maid,—no matter where;— I won her love,—no matter how;— And we exchanged a mutual vow Of truth, and constancy, and faith, Unalterable but by death. Alas! when love and hope are young Within the care-defying breast, It little costs the thoughtless tongue To grant its fiat to be blest; Blest for a season,—curst through years Of dark remembrance,—unexhausted tears. 'Twas so at least with me and mine; Our bliss was shortlived extacy,— A stream that flowed from source divine, But onward rolled engulphed to be In boundless floods of misery. And yet, oh! let me murmur not! In passing through our dreary doom, It brought fresh, fragrant flowers to bloom, Whose beauty might have cheered our lot, Had they not withered on a tomb. Where was I? ah! I just had said I loved,—I meant adored a maid. How can I now describe her face? How can I dwell upon the grace That marked each careless look and tone, And gesture, her's,—and her's alone? It was not that her radiant eyes Were like the stars of Eastern skies; It was not that her brow was fair,— That Nature's softest touch was there; It was not that the hand of Love The texture of her cheek had wove: It was the spirit's harmony,— The mind's unbroken melody,— Breathing its sweetness through the whole; It was the glance that spoke a soul All fearless in its purity; It was the sunny smile that drew, Where'er it fell on this world's tears, Bright colours out, whose rainbow hue Gave promise of less troubled years:— This, this it was that made the charm Which would have shielded her from harm, Had she been doomed to wander forth In any savage spot on Earth. To think of her was as to hear The strains to early memory dear; To reach a happy, long left home, And fancy we no more should roam: For she was like a dream of youth, When all around us looked like truth; When all was innocence within, And nothing near us spoke of sin. Such was she: no! far lovelier! But more I will not picture her; I will not count my blessings past, All that on Earth away I've cast, And must not seek in Heaven. Say not my crimes may be forgiven; Say not that mercy is in store For penitents who sin no more. I've heard all this; and would that I, In child-like confidence, could cry, "Father! thy creature's guilt efface! "Pour on him thy absolving grace, "And let some Seraph's healing wing "Unmerited salvation bring!" Would that I thus could pray, and think God might withhold me from the brink Of that dark, fathomless abyss, Which yawns, impassable, between The realms of torment and of bliss, Dividing spirits that had been Mingled on Earth; nor may be crossed By token to, or from, the lost! IX. She,—ask me not to tell her name, I've vowed to speak it ne'er again; It was my glory, is my shame, Memorial of my guilt and pain;— She was a widowed father's child; The joy that all his griefs beguiled; The single drop of blessing left To sweeten life's embittered draught, Until 'twere to the bottom quaffed: And he was lonely and bereft Of all affection prizes, save Her presence, and the trust that she Would gently tend his bed of death, Would fondly watch his parting breath, And mourn at last upon his grave. And so it might have been, had he Believed the truth, nor outraged me. Heaven! what a treasure of rich good Within that father's grasp then stood! But he was blind to this, and thought My love was common love; a thing By common woman cheaply bought, To flutter on ephemeral wing; To bask in sunshine, pass away, And die within a summer day. He did not feel, he could not see What mine to her, what her's to me, Upon life's pilgrimage had been: A desert bird, with plumage green Betokening hope; whose untired wings Had hovered o'er the sacred springs That, unsuspected, lay concealed Within the bosom of the waste; And founts of blessedness revealed, Unknown to vulgar sight and taste. He knew it not,—and I was spurned; Yea! while my very vitals yearned With tenderness for him and his. Ghastly the recollection is Of feelings once so cherished! It comes too oft, and close behind It follow, to distract my mind, Spectres of virtues early dead, Phantoms of pleasures long since fled: They flit before me, fade, are gone, Dispersed by forms of hellish mien; Pride, hatred, vengeance, then are seen, And murder in that group is one. X. I wander! why did he deny The suit of love so true? ay! why? Had not the current of my blood Flowed long, and pure, through veins as good As e'er the stream of life conveyed From hearts to hands, whose prowess made The honour of his ancient name? Was not mine echoed too by fame? Yes! high indeed that maid must be, Who would have stooped in wedding me. Was I unworthy of the prize To which my wishes dared to rise? Had worth alone been doomed to gain That which I panted to obtain, Earth's sons had longed for it in vain. Let the gorged vulture worthy prove To mate with the unsullied dove; Let the earth-loving, dust-soiled snake His flight with soaring eagles take; And bid me, then, the claim confess Of him who, by his worthiness, To win that precious prize had sought: The man exists not,—even in thought. At least I knew her value well; And life's last pulse had ceased to swell, Ere I had slighted or betrayed His trust,—had he the trial made. But there were evil tongues at work, And jealous spirits that did lurk, In friendship's specious garb, around, Whose treachery, too late, I found. XI. Words, human words, have not a power To speak the anguish of that hour Of galling disappointment, when He sternly bade me ne'er again, Across the threshold of his halls, Within the precincts of his walls, Return. I did not sue or whine; I swore his daughter should be mine; And from his presence I retired, By passion's burning breath inspired. May'st thou ne'er feel as then I felt! Strange thoughts within my bosom dwelt, And, pressing wildly round my heart, Impelled it to a desperate part. XII. It was a beauteous summer even When, from her childhood's native home, My love came forth with me to roam: In sight of an unclouded Heaven I bore her thence, in guilty gladness Whose triumph bordered upon madness. She fancied she should soon return To bid her sire no longer mourn; To cheer the remnant of his life,— A pardoned daughter, happy wife. She deemed that sire, still candid, kind,— Though for one darkened moment blind,— Would see his error; and, ere long, Repent that he had judged me wrong: His generous nature then, she thought, would plead, And win forgiveness for her first rash deed. XIII. Distant some leagues, there dwelt a priest To whom I once had proved a friend; His gratitude had not yet ceased: On him I knew I could depend To bind, in secretness, the bands Which, like our hearts, should join our hands. I had resolved to claim his aid; And, when she solemnly was made,— Enrapturing thought! my own for ever, By ties no earthly power could sever, To a sequestered spot to guide My fugitive, undoubting bride. XIV. Swiftly did my charger track, Obedient to the spur, his path; We stopped not, spoke not, looked not back, For miles; but suddenly the wrath Of angry Heaven upon us burst: Thenceforward it hath done its worst. Hoarse whispers borne upon the wind! The noise of hurrying hoofs behind! Yes! yes! the glory of that night Had beamed too brightly on our flight. Closer and closer came the sound Of trampling steeds; till, gathering round, Their riders strove to intercept Our passage: in a trance she slept, And my left arm sustained her weight; But my right arm was desperate, And wielded furiously my blade: Here,—there,—my bleeding foes were laid, And through the slain a road I made. Fiercely I urged my panting steed, And soon had we outstripped the band Of our pursuers,—all, save one Who still, with never slackening speed, Held the pursuit, infuriate, on. His heel pressed hard his courser's side; With scornful mien he shook his hand, As if, impatient of my flight, By sign insulting, he defied A coward to a mortal fight. But for the burthen which I bore, My flight that instant had been o'er; Nor lived there, then, the man whose scorn, Except for her, I would have borne; But I had stooped the world's to bear, Rather than risk a single hair Of that beloved and drooping head: So,—fleetly, for her sake, I fled. He gained upon me in the chase; And when I could discern his face,— Heaven! where was then thy pitying grace! I saw the man whose widowed state My hand had made more desolate. Near, near, he sped, and still more near; His voice was thrilling in my ear: He reached us on a river's bank: "Dastard," he cried, and drew his sword, And rushed upon me;—at that word, In torrents through my veins the blood, Wild as a tempest-driven flood, Impetuous rolled: madly we fought; Exhausted, down the old man sank: I flung myself to earth: I thought How shortly, surely, might be bought All I had striven for so long; And I was weak, and Satan strong. I plunged my dagger in his breast; The heart's blood spouted o'er his vest: Some minutes over him I hung, And watched the stream more feebly gushing; And marked the indignant spirit rushing More faintly forth, by hatred wrung That struggled vainly for a tongue: He looked a bitter curse in death, And strove to speak it, but he had not breath. Upward, at length, convulsed he sprung; 'Twas the last throe; into the water He fell a corpse: just then his daughter Awakened from the death-like swoon In which, unconscious: of our fray, Placed near us on the ground, she lay; Alas! she wakened but too soon. She saw the body sink below, But knew it not; nor did she know That the fierce horsemen, lately seen, Had aught but common bandits been. XV. I told her danger now was past, And yon disabled foe the last. I felt her shudder as I said That blood so near her had been shed: Had she known whose!—but on we rode, And every rapid step we took Seemed to make way for one who strode Closely behind, with threatening look. Oh! who to joy through blood would wade, To be for ever thus pursued By a dead victim's awful shade? He knows not what he wills, who would. In agony, to thee I swear That, since that fatal night, where'er My scorched and aching eyes I turn,— Those eyes that oft forget to sleep, And are too seared by grief to weep, Dried up by fires that inly burn,— That murdered man is there. Now, frowning with revengeful air, He shakes his withered arm on high; His hoary locks with gore are stained; His starting veins with passion strained; And his distended eyeballs glare With rage's wild intensity. Again, his mournful gestures say, Too suddenly I sent him hence; Brought on his final reckoning day, Ere his account was closed; nor gave His frail, long tempted spirit time, Absolved from every secret crime, Pardon to earn by penitence: Pardon, and a blest passage through the grave, Beyond whose bounds repentance cannot save. Perhaps these are but phantasies, Engendered, nurtured, by remorse; But Hell and its realities, Come when they may, will not be worse. XVI. But onward, onward still I pressed, Until we reached our journey's goal: The pause that gave my body rest, Brought not a respite to my soul. I saw a phantom by the side Of the unconscious orphan bride; I heard, resounding in my ear, Voices the living should not hear; I felt a chill in every vein, Such as the living should not feel: But if the guilty dead retain The presensation of their doom, Then, surely, I, within my tomb, Shall hear and feel the like again. Yet was I resolute to steel My heart; and I had power to kneel Down at God's altar, and to dare Pronounce a vow before him there:— I have not uttered, since, a prayer. XVII. Full of that soft, rich loveliness In which men's world-sick fancies dress A refuge for life's tranquil close, We found the scene of our retreat. There nature brightened in repose; And looked, and breathed, and sounded sweet. There might a saint have laid his head, And deemed his couch by angels spread: Still I remained absorbed in gloom. More easily the tree may bloom, Fanned by a pitying zephyr's wing, Although its core be withering, Than the crime-cankered soul, beneath The vivifying influence Of outward nature's balmy breath Expanding, may assume the right Of Heaven-foretasting innocence, In God's fair, sinless works to find delight. XVIII. But I was calm with her; and tried, What I so ill endured, to hide. Alas! too well she must have seen I was not that which I had been. Hour after hour, within my breast Stirred thoughts I could not lull to rest. I feared, confiding as she was, She might divine my sorrow's cause: A love like her's is never blind To the most fleeting shades that sweep O'er what it rests on; and the deep, Keen glances of an anxious mind May search out buried things that lie Unreached by the corporeal eye. I guarded every look and tone, That not a symptom might make known The blight o'er my existence thrown. I breathed the stillness of despair,— Repelling her who pined to share That deadly atmosphere;—the child Of him whose blood my hands and heart defiled. XIX. The most revolting punishment Man's cruelty has dared invent, Is when a living wretch is tied To one, less wretched, who hath died; And, lingering, watches, day by day, The creeping progress of decay Upon that mouldering human clay: And coldly sickens as he sees The traces of mortality, By just perceptible degrees, Sink deep and deeper; while he knows What he contemplates but foreshows The thing himself is doomed to be. But, if the mass which shares his chain, And makes, unconsciously, his pain, Be all that yet remains of one As dear in life as loathsome now,— With whom, in happy days long gone, He interchanged young friendship's vow,— How must the helpless victim shrink; How must his shocked heart writhe to think Disgusted nature soon will hate What she delighted in of late; And bow before the power of death To vanquish love and loosen faith! And yet, the union that subsists Between the living and the dead,— The extinct and him who still exists,— Less monstrous is than that which binds, With force indissoluble, minds Whose confidence is numbed or fled. The body cannot feel a pang, Howe'er intense, that is not faint To what the spirit must endure, Whose duty-bound affections hang, Still animate, and warm, and pure, With unacknowledged truth, around A being, on whose soul the taint Of falsehood, or distrust, is found. And who the misery may paint Of watching o'er the torpor deep, That seems extinction, of a love We once too fondly thought to keep, For ever, living and awake? And then to feel, at every move, A chain we know we cannot break; Whose heavy links, unyielding, cold, Compel us, shuddering, to behold The unremitting havoc wrought By the Destroyer, Guilty thought! Such was her trial;—but she bore, Without a murmur, this and more. XX. At length I struck the blow, and said, Her father, I had learned, was dead. I did not tell her how he died; I did not say his life's red tide My weapon to the hilt had stained. Time had been, I would have disdained Deceit that might a world have gained: That time had passed away;—and now, I lied with an unaltered brow. I saw the burthen of her sorrow Was almost more than she could bear: She strove a look composed to borrow, And every rising groan suppressed That struggled in her heaving breast. The certainty that I must share Whatever self reproach she made, The expression of her anguish stayed. But well I read it in her eye, Although its glazed ball was dry; I saw it on her flushing cheek, And quivering lip that tried to speak. I left her;—for I could not brook Upon her wretchedness to look. If I had ventured to confess, Even to her, my guiltiness, My inward torments had been less. XXI. Who hides the consciousness of sin, Carries a varying plague within: Now, burning like a fever spot Which human medicine cooleth not, It spreadeth, in perpetual flame, Throughout his withered, wasting frame: And now, condensed, congealing, chill, It freezeth hard and harder still, And presseth on the very core Of the changed heart, which yields no more To outward feeling's passing touch; But seems, to those who do not know The single, silent grief below, Insensible to weal or woe: Alas! it only feels too much. And there, as by a spell, That secret grief will swell Until the labouring heart it burst, Which might have braved out Fortune's worst, But cannot bear remorse. They say a water-drop hath force, Freezing, to cleave the rock That had withstood an earthquake's shock. XXII. I dared not think;—I could not rest;— And forth I wandered listlessly: I carried that within my breast Which made all place alike to me. There was a little lonely bower Where she spent many a mournful hour: I thought not of that then;—but there, The victim of my crime I found, Unconscious of what passed around; With every sense absorbed in prayer, And earnestly imploring Heaven That she and I might be forgiven. She did not see that I was near:— Each word that fell upon my ear, Fixed in my memory remains, Unsullied midst a thousand stains: "Teach me to bow submissive to the rod, "And feel that it is wielded by my God: "Thou, who the searcher of the spirit art, "Try, even by suffering try, and cleanse my heart. "Lord! I have disobeyed thy sacred will; "But art Thou not thy creature's Father still? "A froward wanderer though that creature be, "May not thy love recall her unto Thee? "Though weary be the road which bringeth back "Repentant sinners to a heavenward track, "Yet let me, while my mortal nature bleeds, "Remember whither that rough pathway leads; "Lay this world's fears and feebleness aside, "And journey onward with thy grace my guide. "I have despised and broken thy command:— "Shall I rebel against thy chastening hand? "No! let thy wrath deserved, all-mighty, dread, "Crush with its weight my humbled heart and head; "Bow, bruise my present being to the earth; "But let my spirit, in another birth, "Soar from its dust, with heaven-directed flight, "Sinless to dwell, for ever, in thy sight. "And, gracious Father! not to me alone, "Be the bright pillar of thy mercy shown; "Oh! let it point salvation's road to him "Whose inward light, each day, becomes more dim! "Hear me, my God! with favour, hear me pray, "Fervently, urgently, as suppliant may, "That Thou his mind wilt strengthen to endure "What human ministry is vain to cure. "A secret poison in his bosom lurks, "And wears the energies through which it works: "I know not,—ask not,—what its fountain is; "I only see that it is grief,—and his. "The waters of affliction, gathering, roll "Their heavy tide upon his sinking soul; "But, touched by Thee, the troubled waves shall give "A virtue forth, to make the mourner live. "His sorrows, Lord! and mine, on Thee I cast: "Mercy! my God! forgiveness for the past! "And for the future—" But I heard no more,— I rushed away; and if before, I had sustained what well might tame A Stoick's pride, or quench the flame That warms a Christian Martyr's breast, And makes the rack a bed of rest, Those sufferings were slight, All former tortures light, Compared with those that came, Companioning each word Which, there concealed, I heard. XXIII. Angels in Heaven, they say, For earthly sinners pray; And sainted spirits intercede For them whose human bonds impede Their would-be righteous course: The glorious hosts that dwell Nearest the throne of God, Mourn for the race that fell,— That fell, and might have trod Upright, eternally, and pure, In seraph-guardianship secure, The flower-enamelled sod Of Paradise: and, from the source Of Eden's rivers, might have drank Draughts of unfailing life; but sank, O'ercome by the Arch-tempter, Pride; And, slighting God, on Hell relied. It may be so: it is not much For beings far above the touch Of human sinfulness and fear, To watch o'er them who wander still, Among the stumbling-blocks that fill The pilgrim's passage here; The less if those they watch were dear. Nor care I to dispute That angels wept upon the fruit Which taught mankind to know Good, and to practise ill; To feel that they had power to will, And that such power was woe. But will they tell me man e'er prayed For the false fiend that had betrayed, With words of holiness and love, And tempted from its home above, His spotless soul;—had given birth To its first passion of this Earth;— Had wrapped it round with silvery wiles, And lured it, with affection's smiles, Almost beyond the saving light Of heavenly hope;—had thrown a blight Upon its sense of wrong and right, And made it happiness to err? I,—I was that false fiend to her! XXIV. It was a dream which did at length That which to do I had not strength: By Heaven! it was a dream, Or ghost, or vision,—what you will;— Nay! hear me on with calmness still, Although I see you deem I rave. I know that there are men Who think the dead come not again, To view the scenes they loved, and scare The living who succeed them there; To warn against impending ill,— Temptation, sorrow, sickness, strife,— The objects of their earthly care; And, even after death, fulfil The dearest duty of their life: To bring back memories, long since gone; To tell of deeds in secret done, And felt by many,—known to few; To shame the false, and save the true. Perhaps no other dead men come To clear the mysteries of their home;— I know the murdered do. And, as for dreams,—who dares to say, The God that made the soul, Holds not a full controul Over its wandering thoughts; nor may Fill with a knowledge, certain, deep, The mind whose body lies in sleep, And leaveth it awake and fresh,— Freed from the bondage of the flesh,— To roam, unshackled and alone, Through regions to itself unknown; Through realms of pure intelligence, Beyond the scope of Earth's gross sense? Presumptuous,—impious, he who saith, The God of life, the God of death,— Of mind and matter,—may not mould These as He willeth, and unfold The awful mysteries of those: And if it please Him to disclose Such mysteries, by what we call Means strange and supernatural, Shall He who is all nature's cause, Infringe not, if He will, all nature's laws? XXV. It was a dream! Her father came And stood beside his daughter's bed: She saw him there,—the very same As she had seen him last, she said; Save that his face was deadly pale,— His vestment bloody red. He did not speak, he did not wail; But, with a piteous look, He stretched out his cold hand, and took Her unresisting hand, and led Her to a river's side; And then the spectre cried: "Behold thy murdered father's grave! "Seek out the hand by which he died." It plunged into the wave; And she was left alone, While moon and stars above her shone, As cloudless and as bright As on the evening of our flight: And, looking round, she knew again A scene which we had traversed then. When morning came, she told me this, And shook in waking agony: The form, the voice, she said, were his; Who might the murderer be? What could I do but desperate kneel, Trembling, before her, and reveal All I had laboured to conceal? The words had scarcely passed my lips, When o'er her pallid features came The darkness of the mind's eclipse, And cold and rigid grew her frame: The frame relaxed,—but never more Shone forth the mind;—its light was o'er. XXVI. I watched her sufferings, day by day,— Sufferings! no, she had none: 'Twas mine that penalty to pay! Her reason, feeling, all were gone, By horror scared away. And there she sat, a senseless thing, Without a word or glance to bring A hope that still she thought and felt: On vacancy her blank gaze dwelt; Or if it ever turned on me, 'Twas with the stare of idiocy. XXVII. It is a fearful thing to look On one we ne'er have loved or known, Whose intellectual powers are shook, And totter feebly; or, o'erthrown In utter weakness, lie destroyed; To see man's outward form,—that shrine Of God's own workmanship,—devoid Of all that made the fane divine; To study madness, and to mark How wildly drives the human bark Which human reason doth not steer: Then look at home, and think how near Our doom may be; how frail the root Of that which makes man not a brute. All this is fearful;—but to see What we have worshipped most on Earth,— Our standard of all perfect worth,— Degraded sink in nature's scale, Lower than helpless infancy, And know, undoubtingly, that we Have crushed it down,—well, well may quail The heart whose tongue can tell such tale! XXVIII. She died at last,—and I was glad. Her death had once been death to me; But long protracted misery My heart to grief accustomed had. It felt, too, that no single blow Could deal to it so much of woe As daily gnawed it, when I raised My eyes to her vague eyes, and gazed, Without a fear of giving pain, In hopelessness, upon that fair, Unvarying, stupor-stricken face; And saw it would not change again; And knew that I should never trace The lingerings of affection there. Oft had I wished, in my despair, That all was over; that stern Death Would calmly come, and take his own Just spoil, and leave to me, alone The closely clinging memory, From which not even He shall free My tortured spirit; that the breath,— That sole remaining evidence Of life, but not of the proud sense Of moral, mental being, whence Life claims its gloriousness,—would cease; Insuring her unbroken peace. XXIX. She died:—I did not shed a tear, Or heave a sigh, upon her bier: I did not linger near her grave, To tend her body's lowly bed: The love that hath not power to save The living,—can it serve the dead? I did not deck her humble tomb With fading flowers, whose short-lived bloom Had been meet emblem of her doom. I did not groan upon the sod That pillowed her unconscious head; Or think how often she had trod Upon that very spot, and shed The blessing of her presence round, Until it grew a hallowed ground. Let purer-hearted mourners pay The tribute of a pious sorrow Unto the dead they did not slay; And from all-bounteous nature borrow Her fair and fragrant charms, to grace Man's long, last home, the resting place Of her tired children: but the grief Which ventureth to seek relief By tender token, outward sign, Less deeply seated is than mine. XXX. When she was gone I had no stay,— No tie of kindness to restrain My will or steps: I came away, And fixed my lonely dwelling here; Far distant from the fatal scene Where so much bitterness had been. These eyes shall never see again The grave of her I held so dear. What is her senseless dust to me? It was her spirit that I loved; And that hath been long, long removed To worlds where I shall never be. XXXI. Weep not for me, my early friend! Alas! I ill deserve thy tears; For with my anguish scarce may blend A thought of our young, happy years: And selfish woe my mind hath worn, Until it hath not strength to mourn, Or joy, for aught that is not mine;— No! though the pain or bliss be thine. And try not, soothingly, to tell Of those my buoyant youthful heart, In its light fondness, loved so well;— It taketh in them now no part: It long hath had another course, In which hath flowed its every power; And roused remembrance cannot force Its feelings backward to their source. When thou shalt see the withered flower, Whose life the sun hath parched away, Revive beneath the moon's soft ray, Then bid the heart consumed by love, The gentle warmth of friendship prove. XXXII. "Return," thou say'st, "to busy life; "Forget amidst its varying broils,— ''The senate's councils, soldier's strife, "The patriot's zeal, the statesman's toils,— "Those private sorrows which depress "A soul not formed for idleness." And deem'st thou then I have not learned How futile that for which I burned, In those vain days when glory's boast,— So dearly bought, so quickly lost,— Was all I strove to win? Years of remorse for joyless sin, Worn intellects, a wasted frame, But ill would fit me to pursue That shade of shades, the phantom Fame, As such as I was once may do. No! leave me to my wretched rest, For I have known life's worst and best; And all it now could give would bring To memory a deeper sting. And would'st thou have me wander forth, To find a sad and sickly dearth Of all which fired my ardent youth? Talk not to me of this world's worth! What treasure can it now contain Of love, or loveliness, or truth, Like that which vanished from the Earth With her I may not view again? Or, if aught like her still remain, Yet why should I go out and seek For forms whose beauty would but speak Of her, whose beauty I consigned, In life's bright morn, a gradual prey, To the blunt fangs of dull decay? Why should I look abroad to find Minds kindred to that one pure mind, Whose light I lived in, and destroyed? No! no! her place must still be void Within my heart:—I could not dare To set another idol there. But thou return; and, on life's path, If some distracted wretch thou meet, By earthly sorrows, heavenly wrath, Bent to the very dust,—then greet That sinful, hopeless man for me; And tell him, with a mocking smile, That patience may his pangs beguile; And bid him think of others' woe To soothe his own; and let him know There liveth one more cursed than he. XXXIII. I grant, as freely as thou wilt, That I was meant for nobler things: And does that palliate my guilt? The infatuated wretch who flings His unused treasure out, with scorn, Better had been a beggar born! There is a duty given to all: The insects as they fly, The reptiles as they crawl, That duty well fulfil; They live and die, They know not why, But they perform their Maker's will, In universal harmony. The atoms, too minute to scan, Throughout Creation, have a part Assigned them, in God's glorious plan Of pure and perfect unity. Man's office is to keep his heart, For ever, straight in virtue's ways, And he who that high trust betrays, Becomes a blot amongst the fair, Clear characters of nature's book:— Say, how may nature's Author brook To see the blemish there? XXXIV. "My joyous childhood!"—worse than vain It were to summon back again My childhood's joyousness in thought! Such visions with despair are fraught! Their semblance is but as the show Whose name is, "gladness turned to woe;" The unstable, gorgeous pageantry Which glides o'er the Sicilian bay; The pomp of objects, far away, Depicted on the air or sea; Which scarcely bursts upon the eyes Ere its deceitful radiance dies. The scenes thou would'st retrace to me, In vivid colouring, were fair And bright as the Morgana:—where Is now their substance?—Oh! the space Between my present being and my past! Speak not to exiles of their native place! Paint not his distant home to one outcast! XXXV. For those who what I used to be Still love,—nor know what I am now,— I would not that my misery Their faithful, kindly hearts should bow: I would not that my father's brow For me a furrow more should take; Or that my gentle mother's hair Should turn yet whiter for my sake: I would not have the breath of care For one so fallen, taint the rose That blooms upon a sister's face; Or the chill sense of my disgrace Cleave to the brothers of my race,— Smothering the generous pride that glows Within their gallant bosoms:—no! That must not be;—I will not throw The shadow of my wretchedness Where nature meant that I should bless:— And, therefore, do I bind thee here, By all that thou dost most revere; By all that thou didst ever love Alive or dead, on Earth, above;— Never, while hope of Heaven is dear To thee or thine, by sign, or word, To hint at what thou now hast heard. XXXVI. Let them, as heretofore, believe That I am mouldering in my grave; Let them still dream that, with the brave, Upon a foreign shore I sleep: And when in tenderness they grieve For me, and send across the deep, A vainly wandering wish or sigh, Do thou in constancy stand by, Consoling them; and tell them not, That happier had been the lot Than now it is, of him they mourn, If hungry wolves had piecemeal torn His quivering limbs; or tigers stood To lap his heart's warm, gushing blood. Yes! let them deem that I am dead;— He whom they loved hath long been so;— And if it mitigate their woe, To fancy that my blood was shed In what the world calls Honour's cause,— Why! let them fondly trust it was. To my own conscience, thee, and God, alone, Be my ill deeds and bitter penance known. GREEK WAR SONG. upon the Persian Invasion. "Ω παιδες Ελληνων, ιτε, ελευθερουτε πατριδ', ελευθερουτε δε παιδας, γυναικας, θεων τε πατρωιων εδη, θηκας τε προγονων νυν υπερ παντων αγων." Persæ. Sons of the Greeks! advance! Defend your liberty! This day's departing glance Must leave you fallen, or free. The Stranger is at hand; His fleet is on the sea; Ere night, your native land That Stranger's slave may be. Think, think of the children ye cherish so dearly! And think of the mothers who bore them! Then look at the Persian approaching so nearly, And say,—shall he tyrannize o'er them? With his myriads of troops, He would sweep us away; Like the eagle that swoops From the clouds on his prey, Yonder Despot now deems He shall crush us to day: Let him trust Fancy's dreams,— We are truer than they. In his pomp and his power let the Tyrant confide; In the minions that crouch at his nod; In the ministering reptiles that pamper his pride: Our defence is the patriot's God. Look round, as brave men dare, Upon your fathers' graves: They left you free as air; Unshackled as the waves: Their blood must never flow Within the veins of slaves: He who beats back the foe, His father's glory saves. Look round on each altar, each shrine, and each fane; Remember the vows ye have spoken; And let not the Gods of high Heaven complain That the oaths which they witnessed are broken. Ye have sworn to preserve These fair temples unstained, While in vigour a nerve Of your life-strength remained; These pure altars to guard Till your heart's blood was drained: The Barbarians press hard;— Shall they now be profaned? On! sons of the Greeks! advance to the strife! Your country, your Gods are at stake,— Every treasure which heroes hold dearer than life:— To the contest! come on for their sake! IMMORTALITY. "κρεισσον γαρ εισαπαξ θανειν η τας απασας ημερας πασχειν κακως." Prometheus. Oh! how I wish that I might die,— Might lay me down in peace, Where Earth-worn pilgrims calmly lie, And all life's sorrows cease! Yes! it were better far to sleep The dreamless sleep of death, That endeth not, than watch and weep, And sigh with every breath. I am not fit to die, you say: And am I fit to live? My measure long hath flowed away Of all that joy could give. And must I linger on, to drain That other bitter draught Of mingled penitence and pain? Would that the dregs were quaffed! Come Death! I'll bow me to thy stroke, Gladly as martyrs do: When once the thread of hope is broke, Life's should be severed too. Let patient fools go suffering on, Daily, they know not why: The flowers that decked my lot are gone, And I, like them, will die. "Will die:"—and can'st thou if thou will? What makes thy life and thee? In blood,—that every chance may spill,— Dwells thy identity? In flesh,—that is but crumbling clay? In bones,—that are but dust? Blood, flesh, and bones, may all decay; But live the Spirit must. What is the spirit then, and where? Thus much, alone, we know: It cannot die,—and it may bear Eternity of woe. In atoms wert thou shivered, less Than fancy can divine, God could give each a consciousness Of pain,—and make it thine. Then, meekly, God's appointed time, Thy burthen still sustain; Nor, by irreparable crime, Extinction seek, in vain. It is not folly to endure, Firmly, Earth's transient worst: Man's immortality is sure;— He makes it blest, or curst. TO HOPE. While low, at fickle Fortune's shrine, Unwearying thousands bend, her smiles To win, with varied arts and wiles, I woo her not: nor wealth be mine, Nor glittering pomp: unmoved I see Pleasure's gay, laughing troop appear: They raise no wish; one only wish I frame; Freely, for it, I Fortune's gifts disclaim: I ask,—delusive Goddess hear!— One brightening smile, enchanting Hope! from thee. One brightening smile, to gild the gloom Of destiny. While grief, too deep For utterance, does not dare to weep, Oh! shed thy light upon my doom, And save a victim from despair! For thou, when all the joys are flown That in life's morning played around the heart, Can'st still unbarb affliction's venomed dart; Thy cheering voice hath power alone, To chase the phantoms conjured up by Care. Thou, only thou, the veil may'st raise Which Sorrow casts upon the mind; And soothe the wretch to be resigned, With whispers soft of tranquil days, When Earth's tumultuous thoughts shall cease, And the worn heart no more shall beat; When the tired spirit, heavily opprest By life's long sufferings, lulled by thee, shall rest In death;—until it wake to meet Hope's promised sunshine of eternal peace. THE RIGHTEOUS PERISHETH. "The righteous perisheth, and no man layeth it to heart: and merciful men are taken away, none considering that the righteous is taken away from the evil to come." Isaiah, c. 57, v. 1. The righteous perisheth; and o'er his tomb, Warm tears are wept,—deep sighs bewail the doom Of that good man, whose virtues had not power To stay the progress of life's parting hour. This for a season;—but the sigh, the tear, Soon cease,—brief tribute to the dead and dear: New loves and fresher interests efface Past, pious sorrow's faintly lingering trace. The righteous perisheth;—his fleeting breath Is borne away upon the blast of death: Of all who watch that fleeting breath depart, How many lay the solemn scene to heart? None. No! not one: the merciful, the just, Is laid to mingle with his parent dust: Men meet to mourn above the senseless sod, And they forget his spirit is with God. Not one considereth that from the day Of coming evil he was snatched away; Not one reflecteth that in saving love, His Maker called that righteous man above. GRIEF IS MY NATURE NOW. "Gram ist Gewohnheit geworden." Johannes Müller. Go bid the winds of winter sleep; Go hush the stormy wave; But do not tell me not to weep O'er joy's untimely grave: And do not try to smile away The grief that clouds my brow: I would not, if I could, be gay; Grief is my nature now. I have not always wept; for friends Once filled my trusting ear, With every vow that Friendship sends To those she holds most dear: But Fortune changed, and Friendship's words Grew rarer and less warm: My friends were only summer birds; They shunned the coming storm. I have not always wept; for Love Once made my heart his own; And hope's rich branches waved above His gay and glittering throne: But injured Love, indignant, fled; And hope was blighted then: Its fragile blossoms soon were shed; It never bloomed again. Then do not tell me not to mourn; Oh! mock not my distress! My heart has been so long forlorn, It loves its loneliness. Away shall I capricious fling What I can ne'er forget? Grief is the only constant thing I ever cherished yet. WOMAN'S TRUTH. "Nell' onde solca, e nell' arene semina, E'l vago vento spera in rete accogliere, Chi sue speranze fonda in cor di femmina." Sanazzaro. "Upon the ocean's breast he ploughs,— He sows upon the barren sand, Who trusts a woman's fleeting vows, Or clasps in faith a woman's hand: He chases the unstable wind, And thinks, ere yet the breeze depart, Within a net its wings to bind,— Who founds his hope on woman's heart." Thus mused, beneath a tree, a youth; And o'er a harp his fingers flung: "We'll wake the chords to woman's truth!" A withered wreath unnoticed hung Above his head: it dropped upon A grave, ere well the words were spoken,— A woman's grave; the grave of one, Whose heart his faithlessness had broken. THE ADMONITION OF SOCRATES. "Τι τουτο; η αρτι δακρυετε; ου γαρ παλαι ιστε, οτι, εξ οτου περ εγενομην, κατεψηφισμενος ην μου υπο της φυσεως ο θανατος." Xenophontis defensio Socratica. "Weep ye to think a mortal friend must die, And thus fulfil his human destiny? And know ye not, that all the things of Earth,— Imperfect, fragile, fleeting,—at their birth Receive the stamp of premature decay; Bloom but to wither;—live to die away? That all the joys within life's widest scope, Are but the breathings of an infant's hope? Ere childhood ends, the half-formed hope is fled; Ere youth is past, life's sickly joys are dead. The throbbing pulses of the hero's breast Bound for a moment,—pause, and are at rest; The lover's passion, and the conqueror's pride, Alike are human, and alike subside; The statesman's policy; the patriot's zeal,— His deep devotion to his country's weal; The poet's realm of brightly fancied forms, Where, high above the reach of earthly storms, He reigns entranced, untroubled, and alone, Forgetful of all worlds except his own; The sage's reasoning upon nature's laws,— His vague conjectures upon nature's cause;— All these must pass, and scarcely leave behind A trace or token of the extinguished mind. Wit, wisdom, genius, honour, glory, power,— Each, each is but a frail and fruitless flower, That soon must spend its faint, unfelt perfume In transient fragrance o'er its owner's tomb. "Know ye not this, my friends? then murmur not That I, a mortal, prove a mortal's lot: That I, a thing of earthly hopes and fears, Of human joys and sorrows,—smiles and tears,— Inherit, jointly with the wise and brave, Earth's choicest sons, existence and a grave. "Or weep ye that I fall in reason's prime, With powers unwithered by the touch of time; A mind still vigorous in the search of truth; Affections fresh as in the spring of youth? Weep not for this, ye faithful ones! but think How ye had doubly wept to see me sink Beneath the weight of years; by dull degrees Resigning life's ennobling energies: The kindly feelings that were wont to shed Their warmth upon my heart, worn out and dead; The intellectual brightness that had shone, In glory, round my spirit, quenched and gone. Think, my beloved! how ye then had mourned To see a gloomy void, where once had burned The genius of your Socrates;—each spark Of mind extinct,—its dwelling cold and dark; And bless the merciful decree that gives To death my body, while my soul still lives: Yes! bless that harsh, that undeserved decree,— Its author's bane, but merciful to me. "My life must shortly terminate; but long Shall live my story in the poet's song; Throughout the world, shall each succeeding age Inscribe my wrongs upon the historian's page; And many a passing century shall find, In Greece's memory my name enshrined; While Athens, drooping Athens still shall mourn, With love maternal, o'er my mouldering urn." Calm, imperturbed, the undaunted Heathen died, Strong in his virtue's self-depending pride; Armed with the hope of an enduring name, And soothed by dreams of philosophick fame. Or was it that a vision, which before Had glanced upon him oft and vanished, o'er That hour a light more full and radiant spread, And beamed conviction round his dying head? Was it that that bright, faithful vision gave An insight into worlds beyond the grave; A shadowy outline of some better state, Where good men live in love, and bad men's hate Pursueth not its victims; where the soul Forms with its Author one immortal whole? Was this what calmed the Sage's parting breath, And raised his mind above the power of Death? Oh! had the certainty of saving grace, Of full redemption for a guilty race, Of everlasting bliss, to him been given, How had that Heathen's spirit longed for Heaven! How had it rested on the hope divine Of endless life!—Christian! that hope is thine. TO THE MEMORY of T. A. E. "οι πατριδα την αρετην ηγεσαμενοι, . . . ." Lysias. Died he an exile from his country?—No! For virtue was his country: and Earth's power Had all been vain, to make that man forego His virtue, though in secret, for an hour. It was his fate, through many a land to roam; To pass in prison many a tedious year; But his unshaken spirit had a home Too strong for grief,—impregnable by fear. Yes! virtue was the country of his soul, Whence it could not depart. Change nature's course,— Arrest the planets God ordained to roll; Then from their virtue souls like E——t's force. STANZAS. Though friends we warmly loved fall off, And hopes we fondly nursed have faded, Till present misery learns to scoff At joys by time and grief o'ershaded; One cherished hope may flourish still, One star of love may yet be bright, And with its rays a spirit fill, Which beams not but with borrowed light. But when that last, best loved is gone;— For truest hearts turn faithless here;— When that dear orb which longest shone, Is quenched,—or lights some other sphere; What then remains to cheer a breast, By friendship spurned,—by passion riven? This world was never meant for rest, But fix thy love and hope in Heaven. CHORUS OF VIRGINS at the Tomb of Julia Alpinula. The father of the unfortunate young priestess, Julia Alpinula, of Aventicum, was condemned to death by Aulus Cæcina. In vain did she endeavour to overcome, by tears and lamentations, the stern determination of that tyrannical governour. She sank beneath her sorrow for the fate of her beloved father, and followed him to the grave in the bloom of life. Recollections of F. Von Matthisson. Hither, ye Virgins, come! for here are laid The relics of the broken-hearted maid Who strove, in vain, a father's life to save; And hastened then to share that father's grave. Bring fresh flowers, and let us fling The fairest blossoms of the spring, To die, in youth, upon her tomb; For she, too, died in life's young bloom. Bring early lilies;—their clear white Is not more stainless, or more bright, Than were the soul and beauteous brow Of her whose charms are mouldering now. Bring the wild buds that love to hide In clefts upon the mountain's side; For she was wont to wander there,— Herself as pure as mountain air,— At rosy morn, at dewy even, Holding communion with high Heaven. But, most of all, bring, bring that faithful flower Which joys not in the sun's meridian hour; But gives its beauty, only, to the light, And sheds its fragrance o'er the gloom of night: For so her sweetness cheered the darkened years Of him whose life she could not buy with tears. Oh! the stern soul of that unyielding chief, Whose vengeance melted not beneath such grief! Cold, unrelenting, from her prayers he turned; The priestess scorned,—the suppliant daughter spurned. But, sisters! do not vainly mourn O'er this cold, unconscious urn, As though our Julia slept beneath, Locked in the rigid grasp of Death. To some world of freedom, some region of love, Where vultures destroy not the hope of the dove; To some holier, happier, sunnier sphere, Where the griefs cannot enter that haunted us here; Where hearts do not break, and where tears are not shed; Thither, oh! thither the maiden is fled. Hast thou found thy father there? Has his spirit welcomed thine? Ye who parted in despair, Have ye met in bliss divine? Has the old man fondly smiled, With a pure, unearthly pride, Greeting to the pious child Who for his loved sake had died; Who had lived for him alone, And could not live when he was gone? Thou wert his only one,—his all on earth; And this his loneliness,—his widowed dearth Of other ties, but bound thee still more fast To his crushed heart,—its dearest and its last. Yes! he was as a sere and aged tree, Without a leaf or bud of hope but thee: And twined around him, in unfading youth, Clung the fond tendrils of thy love and truth; Nor to the world's unfeeling glance betrayed The havoc grief, and care, and time, had made. Thy life was wreathed round his; and that same blow Which levelled him, laid thee, too, prostrate, low, To waste and wither,—the untimely prey Of the fierce hand that felled thy parent stay. Thou wert his all on Earth; and in that world Where full-grown Joy's bright pinions are unfurled, His spirit's lot were desolate and chill, Unless thy gentle spirit shared it still. Farewell, sweet sister! in those realms of peace Where human passions,—earthly troubles cease; Where tyrant's scowl, where blasting sorrow's storm Shall never scare thy soul, or bow thy form; Where child to parent,—faithful heart to heart, Are joined immortally, no more to part: In those blest realms where happy spirits dwell, Julia! sweet sainted sister! fare thou well! LAMBERTO. Lamberto had not been long in possession of the Kingdom of Lombardy, when he was murdered in the forest of Marengo by a young Nobleman whom he had loaded with honours, in the hope of inducing him to forgive the execution of his father, (Count Manfred) whom Lamberto had ungenerously put to death, in revenge for his gallant defence of Milan, in the service of Arnolf. Denina, Rivoluzioni d'ltalia. Deep in a forest's solitude, A wounded monarch bled; And, close beside, a courtier stood, With heel upon his head: Full fiercely did the murderer vaunt O'er his expiring prey; And thus, with scoff and bitter taunt, He sped his soul away: "Nay! do not clothe that royal brow "With such a withering frown;— "I do not fear thy glances now: "Tyrant and traitor! down! "Talk not of pardon,—penitence; "I mock the empty sound: "Manfred, my father, calls thee hence; "Thy voice in his is drowned. "Go! cruel, coward spirit, go! "Yet, ere thou dost depart, "That I have wreaked a vengeance, know, "Long cherished in my heart. "Confiding fool! and didst thou deem "That injuries like mine, "Might be dissolved into a dream, "By favour such as thine? "That thou in safety might'st exult "O'er thy foul work of shame; "And with thy loathed gifts insult "The heir to Manfred's fame? "Know that the bounty, whose base weight "Was meant to force my faith, "Served but to keep awake my hate, "To hunt thee to the death. "I've hated thee 'mid many wiles, "Through days that seemed like years: "I've hated thee 'mid outward smiles, "And secret, scalding tears: "And if beyond the grave we meet, "In punishment and pain, "Detested King! it will be sweet "To hate thee, there, again. "But go! and when thou shalt appear "In the high court of Heaven, "Tell how thy crimes and perjuries here "Were cancelled and forgiven: "Count o'er thy deeds of treachery done; "And, in thy hour of need, "Say, 'twas a murdered father's son "Who sent thee there to plead." WHERE IS OUR COUNTRY. "Unser Vaterland nicht ist wo wir geboren sind, sondern wo wir frei sind." Johannes Müller "Our country is not where our infant sight "Imbibed its earliest draught of heavenly light; "Our home is not that single spot of earth, "The scene, unconscious, of our body's birth;— "The home,—the country, of our soul should be, "Not where the babe was born, but where the man is free." It is not so:—a firm, unyielding band Of love will bind us to our parent land, Though blushes may not hide, or tears efface The foul pollution of that land's disgrace:— Yea! though the pressure of her galling chain Sink to the inmost fibre of our heart and brain. The stifled sob, the struggling sighs that swell The baffled patriot exile's last farewell; The gaze he fixes on the lessening shore, Whose degradation he shall share no more; The rushing tears his straining eyes that fill;— All say,—that land of slavery is his country still. Yes! and though Freedom's breath may fill the sail That bears him thence; though Freedom's smile may hail Him on another shore; though there his fate May render him not free alone, but great; Still will that exile's fondest thoughts return To his lost land; still for his native country yearn. New ties, fresh loves may gather at his heart, But may not touch one seared, yet sacred part; The best and brightest joys of life may bloom, In mingled loveliness, around his doom;— But still shall watchful Memory repeat: "The paler buds we culled at home were far more sweet." And if his life shall reach the waning hour, When Nature's twilight overclouds the power Of earthly splendours, then that exiled man Will pine to end his days where they began; And wish to sleep amongst his father's graves, Though they, he knows, are sleeping in a land of slaves. CONRADINO. The particulars of Conradino's expedition for the recovery of his dominions, which had been usurped by Charles of Anjou, are generally known. [See Sismondi's History of the Italian Republics; or Raumer's Geschichte der Hohenstaufen, which contains a still more detailed and interesting account of this young hero's adventures and death.] In a saloon, a princely boy Stood by his mother Queen: Through years of grief, her single joy That only child had been. Deep was the fountain of her love; Its purpose high and strong: Not soon to see him reign, she strove, But worthily and long. "Forbear, my son! thou art too young; "A season still forbear; "The signal note hath not yet rung "Which calleth thee to dare: "Childhood still laughs upon thy cheek, "And in thy bosom plays; "In troth, thou art too young and weak "A soldier's lance to raise." "A war-cry bursts upon my ears;— ''My place is in the van; "For if I'm but a child in years, "In heart I am a man. "My people pine in slavery, "Yet look they to the North: "They shall not look in vain for me: "Sweet mother! speed me forth!" She saw the flashing of his eyes,— The glow upon his brow,— And knew his hour of enterprize Was coming o'er him now: "Upon thy generous hope, the blight "Of doubt I will not throw; "Then, trusting in the God of right, "Go forth, beloved! go." She watched the noble boy depart, To win a realm or death: There was a chill upon her heart, A gasping in her breath. No tear the mother's anguish showed, While he was near to see; But onward as he proudly rode, She wept full bitterly. The die is thrown,—the stake is lost: One day's disastrous strife A nation's rising hope hath cost,— A monarch's opening life. Died he upon the battle plain, In glory's last embrace; Surrounded by the faithful slain,— The loyal to his race? The scaffold is a dying bed The laws for guilt prepare: Oh! that a young and gallant head Should ever be laid there! That hearts whose every pulse beat high With some heroic aim, Should heave their last indignant sigh Upon a place of shame! He died upon the scaffold,—died As only felons should! His mother's and his people's pride,— The young, the brave, the good. With his own hand he loosed his vest, Without the headsman's aid; And with a pure and fearless breast, He knelt to God, and prayed. He rose, and cried,—" My mother dear! "A bitter grief 'twill be, "The mournful news of me to hear, "They soon shall bear to thee." He looked upon the weeping crowd; He threw his gauntlet down: Then to the block that head he bowed Which should have worn a crown. THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD. "αξιον γαρ πασιν ανθσωποις κακεινων μεμνησθαι, υμνουντας μεν εν ταις ωδαις, λεγοντας δ' εν ταις των αγαθων μνημαις, τιμων- τας δ' εν τοις καιροις τοις τοιουτοις, παιδευοντας δ' εν τοις των τεθνεωτων εργοις τους ζωντας." Lysias. When shall we think upon the dead, Whose blood for us and ours was shed,— The glorious dead who died, In the flush of battle pride, And left their country free? When shall we dwell upon their memory? When ye shall sing thanksgiving songs Of triumph for avenged wrongs, Then shall their names resound; Their memory shall be found Amid your victory's glow: Worthy were they to be remembered so. When, gathering around a grave, Ye mourn the newly buried brave; Or weep, in gratitude, For the departed good,— Remember them again: Worthy were they to be remembered then. In the proud records of your land, Unblotted, let their actions stand; Let future ages read, And ponder every deed Of that heroic throng: Worthy were they to be remembered long. When ye would cheer the drooping old, The glories of the dead unfold; When ye would teach the young, Their names be on your tongue: Worthy those names to be Fame's signal words to all posterity. THE EXILE TO HIS COUNTRY. Air. "GRAMACHREE! MOLLY ASTHORE!" Ah! where is now my peaceful cot? And where my happy home? Far distant from that cherished spot, In banishment, I roam. From thee, my country! I am driven; A wanderer forced from thee; But yet my constant prayer to Heaven Shall be to make thee free. How blissful once my lot appeared! How brightly Fortune smiled! My daily toil by hope was cheered, By happiness beguiled. My blooming children played around; Their mother blessed each hour; Till tyrants on our prospects frowned, And crushed us with their power. They burned our humble dwelling then Our little all destroyed; And left us, the hard-hearted men! Of every hope devoid. And thus, my country! I was driven, A wanderer far from thee; But yet my ceaseless prayer to Heaven Has been to make thee free. My helpless children sobbed aloud Upon the parting day; My Mary's head with grief was bowed; Oh! how I wished to stay! With anguish o'er the spot we mourned, Where long our cottage stood; And, as we went, we often turned To view the neighbouring wood. And when our vessel put to sea, As dimmer grew the shore, My bosom panted heavily, To think that, never more, My eyes upon that land should gaze, Where all my youth was spent; And where I thought to end my days, In virtue and content. Can virtue make content secure, While tyrants may destroy The simple blessings of the poor, And blast their rising joy? My loved, lost Country! ruined, driven, An exile far from thee,— My last and fondest prayer to Heaven Shall be to make thee free. GREECE, PAST AND PRESENT. When, according to custom, the Athenians gave publick burial to the remains of those who had first fallen in the Peloponessian war, Pericles was chosen to pronounce the funeral oration; which, upon such occasions, was always spoken by that man whom his fellow-citizens esteemed the most worthy, and the most capable of justly panegyrizing the valour and patriotism of the dead. His audience was composed of the mass of his countrymen: and the female kindred of the slain paused in their lamentations, to listen to his eloquent praises of their sons, their husbands, and their fathers. Thucydides, Lib. 2. They come! the mourners come! behold That vast and various multitude Of mingled elements! The old,— The young,—the evil and the good,— The feeble and the strong,— Who dread, and who would dare, to die,— Impelled by common sympathy, In anxious myriads throng To breathe a heart-felt sigh,—to shed a tear, Pious as if 'twere on their Country's bier. See with how bold, how bright a glance, Yon youthful warriors advance, With looks that seem to say, "We mourn the dead to day, "Who died in honour's sacred cause: "But when again our Athens draws "Her vengeance-dealing sword, "And gives the battle-word,— ''Then shall she find she still has sons as brave "As these to whom her bosom is a grave." There stands an aged father; stern His rigid brow,—his front unmoved: He trusteth not himself to yearn Upon the loss of what he loved,— The comfort of his years. Calmly he wipes his moistening eye That vainly struggles to be dry: "What mean an old man's tears? "They soon must cease. My boy hath nobly died; "In death, as he had been in life, my pride." Young, loving, and bereaved wives The extinguished glory of their lives Bewail; but proudly raise Their children up, to gaze Where rest the hallowed, cold remains Of men whose memory hath no stains. Caressing them they tell How their lost fathers fell, For the dear sake of that unconquered land, They, too, must serve with faithful heart and hand. And mothers for the gallant dead, The pillars of their widowed home, With whom their age's hope is fled, Are weeping freely, as they come To look upon the shroud, Beneath whose veil lie mouldering those Whom Nature meant their graves to close: Yet, 'mid the thoughts that crowd On their lone hearts, they feel how blest is she Whose sons have died to keep their Country free. The tones of sorrow pause; for now, With eagle eye, and glowing brow, And patriotick heart, and tongue Whose eloquence hath often rung Into their very souls, and bound, As by a spell, the minds around,— He rises;—he, the chosen chief, Whose lips must speak a nation's grief For her own loss: whose stirring voice Must bid that nation still rejoice; And feel, exultingly, that she Has thousands who would gladly be Laid in yon publick sepulchre, To gain one triumph more for her. "Triumph!" and o'er a foreign foe,— A Barbarous invader? No! Each victory now so fiercely sought, O'er Greeks, with Grecian blood is bought. Those days are past; thy honours are gone by; In dust and shame thy crumbled trophies lie: The shattered relicks of those arts divine, Owned by the world a legacy of thine, But serve,—oh Greece! to mark each altered spot Where Science reigned, and Knowledge enters not: Where sang the poet, and where taught the sage Whose memory lives upon the eternal page Of History's records; wakes the Muse's lyre, And lights in stranger souls a kindred fire. Ah! vainly, now, Philosophy might raise Her voice amongst the haunts of former days; Or long-hushed Poetry resume her theme Of deeds remembered like a vanished dream! Beyond thy threshold these, with Freedom, sleep; While yielding Hope still watcheth but to weep. Was it some fiend beneath whose blighting spell Thy genius withered, and thy glory fell? The fiend was Discord; and the spell Distrust— Diffused through minds too jealous to be just: The selfish pride of every separate State; The mean ambition to be singly great; The restless dread of mutual controul; The counterplots that undermined the whole; The pretexts in whose foldings treachery lurked;— These were the means by which thy ruin worked. If parted souls with human feelings thrill,— If, after death, we own life's passions still,— How must those heroes with disdain have fired, Who, having lived for Greece, for Greece expired, When, at the altars of their ancient zeal, They saw Barbarian, bigot tyrants kneel! When, as their spirits hovered round each shrine, By their own deeds and words made more divine, They there beheld a despicable race That, crouching, trembled over every trace Which Liberty had left upon the soil Where once she found her most congenial toil! How must those patriot souls have cursed the slaves, Whose fetters clanked above their own free graves! How must their memory, with indignant pain, Have writhed o'er all themselves had done,—in vain; And almost deemed it was not well to save A land unworthy of the life they gave; A land whose senseless beauty still could smile, With charms unchanged, upon a race so vile; And, having nurtured them, submit to be The nurse of their disgraced posterity; Nor shrink, with horror, from the touch and tread Of such successors to her mighty dead! A change is come!—and, far and wide, A voice for liberty hath cried: Abroad hath been a spirit pure To tell the wrongs that slaves endure: To touch a deeply sounding chord In many hearts;—to speak a word Whose echo, left too long at rest, Had yet a home in every breast Which e'er had throbbed for science,—fame: That word, what was it? Greece! thy name. Throughout the Earth, thy champions woke, And swore to free thee from the yoke; And vowed the trampled rights to lift Of men who could not prize the gift. The world's proud poet, Byron,—he Whose wreath of immortality Wanted one deathless laurel more; Whose genius, hanging round thy shore, Indignantly saw Slavery's taint Pollute the scenes it loved to paint;— Shook off the languor of repose, And, for thy sake, a warrior rose. And, in his fame's bright plenitude, Thy advocate unwearied stood, In England's Senate,—one∗ whose mind Wrought for the freedom of mankind; But, with a reverential love, To win for thee the blessing strove: For then it felt as if it gave Its force a mother's cause to save,

Mr. Canning.

And every struggle that it made Seemed but an early debt repaid;— Since from thy lore it first was fed With emulation of the dead, Whose glorious memory stands sublime, Defying Slavery and Time. A change is come to thee! and hath it brought Completion of the hopes, wherewith were fraught Those generous bosoms for thy good? No! strife Hath been the portion of thy patriots; life Bordering on death; a sense not quite awake Of degradation; but no strength to break The accustomed bonds; no dauntless energy,— Living to dare, or dying to be free. And if the Nations flatter thee, and call Thy present being, "Independence," all Which gives existence, such as thine, a claim To that high title, is but deepened shame. The man whose life, for years, its course hath run Within a dungeon, hidden from the sun; Whose only effort, desperate and vain, Through all those years, hath been to stretch his chain;— That man, though every wasted limb be cramped, And every mental faculty be damped, May feel, at times, a movement of the soul Which God ne'er meant that tyrants should controul; And deem that liberty would still repair The wrongs his mind and frame have suffered there. But send the captive forth in freedom's pride, Without a hand to check him, or to guide, And mark the eyes that strained in search of light, Dazzled and shrinking from the use of sight; Behold the arm he longed to try of late, Hang idle at his side, a nerveless weight; Observe him tottering on the feet, whose speed, He felt, could rival boyhood's,—were they freed; But, chiefly, note the waverings of the mind Whose prison thoughts for independence pined;— It faints beneath the attainment of its hope,— And, long unused to measure its own scope, Miscalculates exertions and effects,— Aims at an object, but the means neglects. It wants a practised Reason's harmony, Throughout its workings.—Greece! 'tis so with thee. THE FAMILY SEPULCHRE. "Magnum est enim, eadem habere monumenta majorum, iisdem uti sacris, sepulchra habere communia." Cicero. Close by a grave three mourners prayed, When day was almost done; And on a tombstone, newly laid, Beamed the departing sun. One wore a recent widow's dress; Her face was pale and fair, And very sad;—but there was less Of grief than patience there. Two youths were kneeling at her side, In early boyhood's flush; And through their veins, in life's first pride, The pure blood seemed to rush. His arms were reverently crost Upon each stripling's breast: The father they had lately lost, Was in that place of rest. Their prayer was ended:—as they rose, The widow joined their hands: "My sons!" she said, "let this world's woes "Draw closer friendship's bands. "We three have prayed upon the grave "For us and our's designed; "It holdeth one so true and brave, "His like is not behind. "I feel I have not long to stay, "Before I, too, shall be "Reposing here;—then come and pray, "My children! over me." Years passed away, and in that time, The brothers were estranged; And mutual doubt and conscious crime Each clouded spirit changed. Two old men, in a burying place, Knelt by a moss-clad stone; One in his hands concealed his face, And thought himself alone: But wistfully the other gazed;— Hoped,—dreaded,—hoped again: The downcast eyes at length were raised; They knew each other then. Those aged men had both returned From countries far away, Because their softened souls had yearned, Upon that grave to pray. They prayed,—and thought of her who slept The sepulchre within; And, heart to heart, the brothers wept O'er years of pride and sin. Together in that tomb they lie, And mingle dust with dust: They lived too long in enmity;— They died in love and trust. THE DEPARTURE OF BOABDIL FROMGRANADA. "A crowd of his former subjects witnessed his embarkation. "Farewell, Boabdil! Allah preserve thee, El Zogoybi!" burst from their lips. The unlucky appellation sank into the heart of the expatriated Monarch; and tears dimmed his eyes, as the snowy summits of the mountains of Granada gradually faded from his view." Conquest of Granada, by Washington Irving. He sat in mockery of state, And gazed, with heavy brow, On that fair land,—his own of late; The conquering Spaniard's now. He thought of the Alhambra's towers, Whose glories were grown dim: Its marble fountains,—myrtle bowers,— Oh! what were they to him? His people crowded on the shore, To watch their Monarch go: They knew they should not see him more; They raised a voice of woe. "He leaves us, and the breezes swell "His parting sails! afar "From us, his own, he goes! farewell! "Thou of the evil star!" The words struck sadly on his ear,— They sank into his heart, And made full many a bitter tear Within his eyelids start. What! did the dastard dare to weep, As faded from his view The land he had not dared to keep? And was his sorrow true? Yes! for there is a sacred mine In every human breast, Whose golden treasure may not shine 'Mid luxury and rest. But if in banishment we roam, However long concealed, The deeply buried love of home Will be, at last, revealed. IS NOT MAN A STRANGER UPON THEEARTH? And is not man a stranger upon the Earth? He passeth away, and what doth he leave behind? A withered garland, and the tearful eye of a mother, or an orphan, which weeps while it contemplates that garland. Aug. La Fontaine. And is not man a stranger here? An alien from his proper home, Created for some other sphere, And sent on Earth a while to roam? And what are all the griefs and fears That work within his troubled breast? A few tumultuous, fleeting years, And they and he shall be at rest. His bosom swells with hate and pride; Conflicting passions mar his bliss; How soon shall that tempestuous tide Repose in an unknown abyss! The joys that fill his buoyant heart,— The hopes that o'er his fancy gleam,— The joys, the hopes, shall both depart, Like phantoms in a feverish dream. The affections round his soul that cling, Must they, too, droop and fall away? Behold the blighted buds of spring,— For earthly loves are frail as they. And shall he pass, and leave no mark Of all that was so much to him? Shall Memory tend no lingering spark Of Friendship's light,—no wcold and dim? A garland hangs above his tomb:— A mother's fond and feeble eye May watch that garland's wasting bloom, And feel that she, like it, must die. A pious orphan's daily prayer May rise to Heaven from that spot: A widow's tears may nourish there, The sorrow that forgetteth not. The widow hath not long to weep; The orphan's prayer will shortly cease: Nature ordains that they shall sleep, With him they loved, in perfect peace. And is the spirit quenched by Death? Or, lost amidst infinity, Floats it upon Creation's breath, Without a goal, eternally? Death touches not the spirit: Earth Retains it not: nor is it driven, At random, out; for, at its birth, God destined it a home in Heaven. TO FRIENDSHIP. Best soother of the human heart, In mercy sent to pour the balm Of peace, where Sorrow's venomed dart Hath entered!—thou hast charms to calm The breast by maddening conflicts torn: Thy smiles a ray of comfort throw Upon the mind by anguish worn: Friendship! thy power they do not know Who have not felt that power in woe. Thy gentle hand the wound can close Of silent grief that inly bleeds: For passion thou cans't win repose; And while, with tone persuasive, pleads Thy seraph voice, the long dried eye Of still Despair a tear will shed;— The labouring bosom heave a sigh Upon the grave,—the dark, chill bed Of loves and hopes for ever dead. Oh sacred Friendship! seldom found Where Guilt, or Vice, or Folly dwells; Where Pleasure rolls her varying round, Or Fashion casts her airy spells! Their votaries thy presence spurn,— Their selfish cares thy faith would blight; Thy footsteps to the shade return; Thy soft joys wing their trembling flight Far from the garish scenes of light. Then come, oh Friendship! come to me! For I the sorrow long have known Which makes the spirit cling to thee: Let me not bear it still alone! And if thou hast no balm to heal The wounds by Memory made so deep, Yet, let thy touch my tears unseal: Soothe lighter griefs than mine to sleep; Alas! I only ask to weep. SUCH WERT THOU. A young village schoolmaster, in Hanover, raised over the untimely grave of his beautiful bride a simple monument of sandstone, upon which he rudely sculptured a rose, and engraved under the flower these words: "So War sie." Recollections of F. Von Matthisson. Such wert thou. Yes! a fitting type Is summer's earliest rose of thee, When its young, glowing charms are ripe; All sweetness, bloom, and purity. The rose's fragrance cannot save Its loveliness from swift decay: Within the cold and darksome grave, Thy beauty mouldered soon away. Such wert thou in thy native bower, When first that beauty met my sight; A bud just bursting into flower, And opening to the glorious light. And such thou wert, my bosom's pride! Upon that day of hope and bliss, When, as I hailed my blooming bride, I thought not of a day like this. Such wert thou, my heart's cherished wife! My flower of love! the single rose That graced the desert of my life, Unwithered 'mid a thousand woes. Such wert thou in the hour of death, Smiling, my sinking soul to cheer;— All sweetness still thy parting breath, That spoke of peace and comfort near. Such art thou in that world above, Where death's chill blightings are unknown; A flower of heavenly grace and love, Before God's everlasting throne. TO OBLIVION. Oblivion! come and try thy power To heal the sickness of the soul: Thy lulling charms around me shower, And let me drain thy opiate bowl. Banish Remembrance from her seat!— Her busy toils distract my brain; I cannot bear her to repeat The anguish of those hours again, When Hope, alternately with Fear, Led anxious Fancy's shadowy throng: The threatening evils still appear,— But faithless Hope hath vanished long. Oblivion come! no votary blest May bend before thy leaden shrine: A heart which only pants for rest, Implores to be for ever thine. Oblivion! shall I court thy power? And shall I bend me at thy shrine? Devote to thee the lengthening hour, And love for apathy resign? The scenes of social joy forget? The faces with affection glad?— While yearning Nature owneth yet The claims of Memory, fond though sad, Oblivion! thou would'st seek in vain, To drown my cares or lull my pain. For Guilt's pale slave thy chalice fill, Who cannot hope and dares not think; And while thy spells his senses chill, Beneath their influence let him sink, Invoking thee, his only good: Deaden remorse's rankling sting; Blot out the deep-dyed stain of blood; And o'er Despair thy shadows fling: Let sullen stupor bring relief To him whose conscience is his grief. O'er me thy torpor shall not creep; On me thy gifts thou shalt not shed: Oh! rather let me feel and weep For every hope and blessing fled, Than banish from my aching heart The loves by sorrow made more dear,— Than bid the tender thoughts depart, Which soothe a mind they cannot cheer,— Than let thy soul-benumbing sway Palsy my life's best powers away. No! Memory, hail! to thee I bend; To thee I form the votive prayer; Propitious to my vow attend! Grant me thy joys,—thy woes,—to share; Give me thy varying book to read, Nor thence one character efface; And while the vivid scenes succeed, And while past pleasures I retrace, The tears that fall on every line, Shall be an offering at thy shrine. WEEP NOT FOR THE DEAD. "Weep ye not for the dead, neither bemoan him: but weep sore for him that goeth away: for he shall return no more, nor see his native country. But he shall die in the place whither they have led him captive, and shall see this land no more." Jeremiah, chap. 22. ver. 10 & 12. Not for the dead—not for the unconscious—weep, Whose country's ruin troubleth not their sleep: There is a mockery in the tears ye shed For them who from the wrath to come have fled: No! weep not for the dead. Your grief afflicts not them: they do not hear The tones whose lightest sound was once so dear: Would ye awake them, if ye could, to know What we they loved and left must undergo? Wake not the dead to woe. Weep ye not for the dead: a blessed doom Hath closed on them the portals of the tomb; Their quiet memory dreams not of the past; Their anchor, through eternity, is fast; Their changeless fate is cast. Weep ye not for the dead:—but weep, weep sore For them who go—and shall return no more: Weep for the vanquished, captive, exile bands, Condemned to waste away in foreign lands, With nerveless hearts and hands. Weep for the weary, way-worn, aged men Who deemed they ne'er should leave their home again: They go, they go from that beloved home,— They go in distant dreariness to roam, And back they shall not come. Weep for the delicately nurtured young, Whose childish accents must renounce the tongue In which their mothers taught them to lisp forth Praise to their God,—goodwill to all on Earth; The tongue that hailed their birth. Weep for the widowed bride, on whom the blight Of desolation resteth; whose life's light Is quenched within the tomb of one that lies In the fallen land she learned from him to prize,— Fallen, never to arise. Weep for the brave,—the banished, baffled brave, Bereaved of all they vainly bled to save;— The brave who still would gladly die to free The native country they shall never see,— Dear, even in slavery. Weep, weep for these; but let no senseless tear Flow for the dead. Exempt from grief and fear, The land that bore them pilloweth their head; Their graves among their fathers' graves are spread;— Then weep not for the dead. MUZIO SCEVOLA. Le ostili schiere, generoso e solo, Non temè Muzio, e la ingannata mano Nel fuoco ei consumò. L'Etrusco stuolo Osservò il fatto, e lo credette insano. "Vedi, O Re!" disse, "quanto poco il duolo "Del fragil corpo importa ad un Romano: "Mi fia grato il morir pel natio suolo, "Poichè il disegno mio stato è sì vano. "Meco trecento pur fecero voto "Di compir contro te ben alta impresa, "Spinti come il sono io, da nobil moto. "La città, quindi, a te non fia mai resa." Porsenna ad atto tal rimase immoto; Cangiò pensiero, e lasciò Roma illesa. CORIOLANO. Di sdegno pien comparve Coriolano Innanzi la Città, pria tanto amata, E giurò, nell' alzar l'ultrice mano, Far crudo scempio della patria ingrata. Mai fino allor dei suoi nemici, invano, La ruina o la morte avea giurata: Roma, che il sa, paventa, e verso il piano, Invia di donne schiera sconsolata. Gli domanda pietà l'afflitto stuolo; Ma desso fero altrove volge il ciglio, E i preghi non ascolta e sprezza il duolo. Quindi parlò Veturia. Allor consiglio Mutò: "A te," disse, "O Madre! io cedo solo: "Salvasti Roma, ma perdesti il figlio. REGOLO. Quando Roma rivide prigioniero Regolo, benchè vinto, ancor glorioso, Mesta accolse l'amato suo guerriero, Che visto avea sì spesso vittorioso. Gli era commesso dal nemico altiero, D'indur la patria a patto vergognoso: Se nol potesse, sotto il giogo fiero Tornar dovea del popolo orgoglioso. Ogni proposta ai Senatori piace, Per sottrarre l'eroe da cruda sorte; Ma dopo tutti ei sorge, e ogni altro tace. "Guerra conviene a Roma:" grido il forte, "Non si farà per me, giuro, la pace." Stupì il Senato, ed ei fù preda a morte. SONNET by FILICAJA. Italia! Italia! o tu, cui feo la sorte Dono infelice di bellezza, ond'hai Funesta dote d'infiniti guai, Che scritti in fronte per gran doglia porte: Deh! fossi tu men bella, o almen più forte, Sì che più assai ti paventasse, o assai T'amasse men, chi del tuo bello ai rai Par che si strugga, e pur ti sfida a morte. Ch'or giù dall'Alpi non vedrei torrenti Scender d'armati, nè di sangue tinta Bever l'onda del Po Gallici armenti: Nè ti vedrei del non tuo ferro cinta, Pugnar col braccio di straniere genti, Per servir sempre, o vincitrice o vinta. TRANSLATION. Italia! Italia!—thou whose loveliness, A fatal dowry, serveth but to bow Thy spirit down, and on thy fair, sad brow The stamp indelible of grief impress: Oh! that thy strength were more, thy beauty less! To awe,—at least to tempt not them who now, False, fervent suitors, even while they vow Eternal faith, blight what they seem to bless. Then, rushing down thy Alps, I should not see Armed men; or Gallic beasts drink from the wave, Of thy polluted, blood-stained Po; or thee, Girt with a foreign sword, by proxy brave, Fight with a stranger nation's arm to be, Vanquished or victor, ever but a slave. SONNET by DE COUREIL. "T'appressa all'ara, e se valor guerriero "Ti ferve in sen, se figlio mio tu sei, "All'odiata rival del nostro impero "Eterna nimistà giurar tu dei." Delle Puniche squadre il condottiero Al giovine Annibal sì disse, ed ei, Stesa la mano in atto atroce e fiero, Vindici ai voti suoi chiamò gli Dei. Sorrise Giove al giuramento insano, Chè dei Fati al gran libro era segnato: "Di Roma ai danni ogni disegno è vano." Ma poichè, l'Alpi e l'Apennin varcato, Scender lo vide ruinoso al piano, Tremò per Roma, e dubitò del Fato. TRANSLATION. "Approach the altar, and if martial fire "Burn in thy bosom,—if my son thou be, "Pronounce the awful oath I here require: "Swear unremitting, quenchless enmity "Against our country's rival." Thus his sire Adjured the youthful Hannibal; and he, With hand outstretched in gesture fiercely dire, Called on the Gods his deep resolve to see. Jove smiled to hear the childish vow insane; For in Fate's book was written: "To abate "The power of Rome all enterprize is vain." But when o'er Alps, and Appenines, elate, He saw him rush impetuous to the plain, Jove trembled for his Rome, and doubted Fate. TRANSLATIONS FROM THE GERMAN of F. VON MATTHISSON. THE DEATH BED. "Heil! diess ist die letzte Jähre." Rejoice! that is the last sad tear That shall bedew thy weary eye! Behold unveiled yon glorious sphere, The home of thy eternity! Like Spring's thin mists before the wind, The feverish dream of life hath fled; And seraph hands a garland bind Of heavenly blossoms for thy head. Away with all thy phantom show Of hopes and joys, thou frail, false Earth! The hopes of Heaven now round her glow,— She bursts the trammels of her birth! The dawn of a new day appears: Towards her its beams of promise tend From that blest world, where griefs, and fears, And parting pangs no bosom rend. Hark! through yon grove of holy palms, Where flows a stream which cannot fail, Angels are singing in their psalms, "Redeemed sister spirit, hail!" That spirit on its eagle wing, Hath gained the source of light and life. Death! where is now thy blunted sting? Hell! thou art vanquished in the strife! THE SUMMER EVENING.

"Beglänzt vom rothen Schein des himmels bebt."

On the young stalk, the tint the red Heaven throws Plays o'er the trembling dew: The vernal landscape's quivering image glows Through waves of clearest blue. The mountain rill, the brightly-blossomed hedge, Woods bathed in sunlight streams, The evening star, that on the purple edge Of yonder soft cloud beams, The meadow green, the shrubby valley cool, The hill with verdure clad, The alder-shadowed brook, the lilied pool,— All, all are fair and glad. Oh! how encircleth Everlasting Love Creation with its band! The glow-worm's light, the fiery orbs above, Are kindled by one hand. Almighty! at thy signal, from its place Is dropped a leaflet here: There, at thy signal, through unbounded space, Is hurled a wandering sphere. TO LOVE. "Wenn deine Göttermacht, o Liebe." Did not thy power, O Love! shine forth to cheer, With heavenly influence, on its path below, The spirit exiled from its native sphere, Who could endure the weight of earthly woe? Through the unmeasured realms of life and light,— Far as Creation's harmony resounds,— Thou guidest the redeemed soul's first flight, While, from its shackles freed, it upward bounds. And when, before the fiery deluge driven, This world is swept into the grave of Time, Thou, like a Phoenix, from the flames, towards Heaven Shalt soar imperishable, pure, sublime. THE TOMB STONE. "Bemooster Stein, im heiligen Gefilde." Moss-covered stone! in this mysterious ground I greet thee,—sacred to God's hallowed dead,— While Evening's peaceful glories, streaming round, On thee are shed. Beside thee hath not sounded, for long years, The mourning voice of friends,—now mouldering too: O'er thee, no longer, maids, with pious tears, Spring's first flowers strew. Who shall thy slumbering tenant now make known? A sculptured scull remains, his tomb to grace: Worn is his epitaph;—by weeds o'ergrown The name's faint trace. To thee I fly from life's tumultuous noise, When Evening o'er the woods her splendour flings: Altar of hope! where hover heavenly joys On seraph wings. FAITH. "Es mag der Trennung Arm im Vollgenuss der Freuden." The touch of Fate our holiest joys may blight; May quench the glowing torch of Friendship's light; May sever hearts that, through successive years, Had clung unchanged, 'mid varying hopes and fears: Yet droop not, lone one! though thy fate recall Thy long loved treasure, thy soul's cherished all; But raise thy trembling eyes:—lo! from afar, Faith in the darkened future shows a star. Youth's pleasures,—manhood's joys,—dispersed may fly, While, on life's path, the roses fade and die; Love's last enchantment may dissolve away, And Fancy's gilded idols may decay; But still shall Faith, with never-wearied hand, Beside the couch of patient Suffering stand,— Disarming Memory of her poignant sting, And smoothing heavenly Hope's expanding wing.∗ No drop of time is spent,—no hour departs But leaves some heart to mourn for kindred hearts; No star comes forth, no morning zephyr breathes, But pious Love some early grave enwreathes:— The spirit pinioned by triumphant Faith, Soaring aloft, o'er Time, and Grief, and Death, Exulting joins the angel choir on high, In hallowed strains of endless harmony.

These four last lines are so different from the original, that they cannot be considered as even a free translation.