ON MY MOTHER'S BIRTHDAY.

CLAD in all their brightest green,
This day the verdant fields are seen;
The tuneful birds begin their lay,
To celebrate thy natal day.

The breeze is still, the sea is calm,
And the whole scene combines to charm;
The flowers revive, this charming May,
Because it is thy natal day.

The sky is blue, the day serene,
And only pleasure now is seen;
The rose, the pink, the tulip gay,
Combine to bless thy natal day.

PITY; AN ALLEGORY, VERSIFIED.

IN that blest age when never care annoyed,
Nor mortals' peace by Discord was destroyed,
A happy pair descended from above,
And gods and mortals named them Joy and Love.
Together had they seen each opening day,
Together shared each sportive infant play;
In riper years with glowing warmth they loved;
Jove saw their passion and his nod approved.
Long happy did they live, when cruel fate
From bliss to misery changed their envied state.
Mankind grew wicked, and the gods severe,
And Jove's dread anger shook the trembling sphere.
To Joy he sent his high behest to fly
On silken pinions to her native sky.
Reluctant she obeys, but Love remains,
By Hope his nurse led to Arcadia's plains:
When from his starry throne, the mighty Jove
In thunder spoke: "Let Sorrow wed to Love!"
The awful stern command Love trembling hears;
Sorrow was haggard, pale, and worn with tears,
Her hollow eyes and pallid cheeks confest,
That hapless misery "knows not where to rest."
Forced to submit, Love's efforts were in vain;
The Thunderer's word must ever firm remain.
No nymphs and swains to grace the nuptial day
Approach, no smiling Cupids round them play,
No festal dance was there, no husband's pride,
For Love in sadness met his joyless bride.
One child, one tender girl, to Love she bore,
Who all her father's pensive beauty wore;
So soft her aspect, the Arcadian swains
Had named her Pity—and her name remains.

A PRAYER.

O GOD, my father and my friend,
Ever thy blessings to me send;
Let me have virtue for my guide,
And wisdom always at my side;
Thus cheerfully through life I'll go,
Nor ever feel the sting of woe;
Contented with the humblest lot,
Happy, though in the meanest cot.

MORNING.

    NOW rosy morning, clad in light,
    Dispels the darkling clouds of night.
    The sun, in gold and purple drest,
    Illumines all adown the east;
    The skylark flies on soaring wings,
    And as he mounts to heaven, thus sings:
    "Arise, ye slothful mortals, rise!
    See me ascending to the skies:
    Ye never taste the joys of dawn,
    Ye never roam the dewy lawn,
    Ye see not Phœbus rising now,
    Tinging with gold the mountain's brow;
    Ye ne'er remark the smiling land,
    Nor see the early flowers expand,
    Then rise, ye slothful mortals, rise,
    See, I am mounting to the skies."

ON A ROSE.

How short, sweet flower, have all thy beauties been!
An hour they bloomed, and now no more are seen:
So human grandeur fades, so dies away;
Beauty and wealth remain but for a day.
But virtue lives for ever in the mind,
In her alone true happiness we find:
The perfume stays, although the rose be dead,
So virtue lives, when every grace is fled.

WRITTEN IN NORTH WALES.

OH! happy regions of delight and joy,
And much-loved scenes of bliss without alloy;
Hail! to your mountains, groves, and woodlands dear,
Hail! to your flowery lawns and streamlets clear;
Hail! to your lowly cots and stately parks,
And hail! your meadows green and soaring larks.
Observe yon verdant fields and shady bowers,
Wherein I've passed so many happy hours;
See, too, yon rugged hill, upon whose brow
Majestic trees and woods aspiring grow.
There to the right, the vale of Clwyd ends;
Here to the left, huge Penmaen Mawr extends:
Look to the south, the Cambrian mountains o'er;
Hark! to the north, the ocean's awful roar.
Remark those lowing herds and sportive sheep,
And watchful shepherds too, their flocks who keep.
Behold yon ships, now on the glassy main.
Which spread the sails, their destined port to gain.
These lovely prospects, how they cheer my soul,
With what delight and joy I view the whole!
Accept, Great GOD, thanks for these blessings giv'n,
And may my gratitude ascend to heaven.

TO HOPE.

FAIR enchantress, gaily kind,
    Sweet the dream inspired by thee;
Ever bless thy poet's mind
    With thy heavenly energy.
Thine, oh! Hope, the magic art,
To charm the sorrows of the heart;
To chase the fond, the plaintive sigh,
With visions of felicity!
Ah! when real joys are o'er,
And love and peace delight no more,
Then thy melting syren-voice
Bids the pensive mind rejoice.
Ah! thy dreams are too beguiling:
Ah! thy prospect is too smiling.

TO FANCY.

OH! thou visionary queen,
I love thy wild and fairy scene,
Bid for me thy landscape glow,
To thee my first effusions flow.
I court the dreams that banish care,
And hail thy palace of the air.
Oh! bless thy youthful poet's hours,
And let me cull thy sweetest flowers.
Ever can thy magic please,
And give a care to transient ease.
View the poor man toiling hard,
Of the joys of life debarred,
Thy power his lovely dream will bless,
In thy brightest rainbow dress;
With flattering pleasures round him smile,
In soft enchantment for awhile.
Thy dear illusions melt away;
Ye heavenly visions, why decay!
Oh! thou visionary maid,
Formed to brighten life's dark shade,
Let me soar with thee on high,
To realms of immortality!
Hope, thy sister, airy queen,
Forms with thee her lovely scene.
Oh! thou visionary maid,
Lend my soul thy magic aid,
To cheer with rainbows every shade.

THE LILY OF THE VALE.

SEE, bending to the gentle gale,
The modest lily of the vale;
Hid in its leaf of tender green,
Mark its soft and simple mien.
Thus sometimes Merit blooms retired,
By genius, taste, and fancy fired:
And thus 'tis oft the wanderer's lot,
To rove to Merit's peaceful cot,
As I have found the lily sweet,
That blossoms in this wild retreat.

YOUTH.

OH! halcyon Youth, delightful hours,
When not a cloud of sorrow lowers;
When every moment wings its flight,
To waft new joy and new delight.
Kind, unsuspecting, and sincere,
Youth knows no pang, no jealous fear;
And sprightly Health, with cherub face,
Enlivens ev'ry opening grace;
And laughing Pleasure hovers near,
And tranquil Peace to youth is dear.
If Sorrow heave the little breast,
There plaintive Sorrow cannot rest;
For swiftly flies the transient pain,
And Pleasure re-assumes her reign.
The tale the sons of woe impart,
Vibrates upon the youthful heart;
The soul is open to belief,
And Pity flies to soften grief.
Hope with sweet expressive eye,
Mirth and gay Felicity;
Fancy in her lively dress;
Pity who delights to bless;
Innocence, and candid Truth,
These and more attend on Youth.

WRITTEN ON THE SEA-SHORE.

HOW awful, how sublime this view,
Each day presenting something new!
Hark! now the seas majestic roar,
And now the birds their warblings pour!
Now yonder lark's sweet notes resound,
And now an awful stillness reigns around.

HYMN.

GREAT GOD! at whose "creative word,'
Arising Nature owned her Lord;
At whose behest, from gloomy night
The earth arose in order bright!
To whom the poet swells the song,
And cherub's loftier notes belong:

Say, all ye learned, all ye wise,
What towering pillars prop the skies?
What massy chain suspends the earth?
'Tis His high power who gave it birth.
'Tis He who sends the grateful shower;
'Tis He who paints the glowing flower,
Let the loud anthem raise the strain,
While echo murmurs it again.

And ye who wander o'er the sheaf-crowned fields,
Praise Him for all the plenty harvest yields;
Let harp and voice their swelling notes combine
To praise all Nature's God, the Architect divine.

LIBERTY.

WHERE the bold rock majestic towers on high,
                Projecting to the sky;
Where the impetuous torrent's rapid course
                Dashes with headlong force;
Where scenes less wild, less awful, meet the eye,
    And cultured vales and cottages appear;
Where softer tints the mellow landscape dye,
    More simply beautiful, more fondly dear;
        There sportive Liberty delights to rove,
                To rove unseen,
        In the dell or in the grove,
                'Midst woodlands green.

And when placid eve advancing,
    Faintly shadows all the ground;
Liberty, with Hebe advancing,
    Wanders through the meads around.

Fair wreaths of brightest flowers she loves to twine,
    Moss-rose, and bluebell wild;
The pink, the hyacinth with these combine,
    And azure violet, Nature's sweetest child!

When the moonbeam, silvery streaming,
    Pierces through the myrtle shade;
Then her eye with pleasure beaming,
    She trips along the sylvan glade.

        She loves to sing in accents soft,
        When the woodlark soars aloft;
        She loves to wake the sprightly horn,
And swell the joyful note to celebrate the morn!

        In the dell or in the grove,
        Liberty delights to rove;
        By the ruined moss-grown tower,
        By the woodland, or the bower;
        On the summit thence to view
        The landscape clad in varied hue;
        By the hedgerow on the lawn,
        Sporting with the playful fawn;
        Where the winding river flows,
        And the pensile osier grows,
        In the cool impervious grove,
        Liberty delights to rove.

MY BROTHER AND SISTER,
IN THE COUNTRY.

HAPPY soon we'll meet again,
Free from sorrow, care, and pain;
Soon again we'll rise with dawn,
To roam the verdant dewy lawn.
Soon the budding leaves we'll hail,
Or wander through the well-known vale;
Or weave the smiling wreath of flowers,
And sport away the light-winged hours.
Soon we'll run the agile race,
Soon, dear playmates, we'll embrace;
Through the wheat-field or the grove,
We'll hand in hand delighted rove,
Or, beneath some spreading oak,
Ponder the instructive book;
Or view the ships that swiftly glide,
Floating on the peaceful tide:
Or raise again the carolled lay;
Or join again in mirthful play;
Or listen to the humming bees,
As their murmurs swell the breeze;
Or seek the primrose where it springs;
Or chase the fly with painted wings:
Or talk amidst the arbour's shade;
Or mark the tender shooting blade;
Or stray beside the babbling stream,
When Luna sheds her placid beam;
Or gaze upon the glassy sea;
Happy, happy, shall we be.

ODE TO MIRTH.

THOU, O Mirth, with laughing eye,
    Spread thy empire o'er my soul;
No cares obtrude when thou art by,
    To crown the bright nectarious bowl.

    Leave the rich to pomp and splendour,
    Happiness they cannot render.
    Let the miser heap his hoard;
    Mirth shall bless the festive board,

Now the flute with mellow sound
    Invites thee to the feast;
The lively hautboy echoes round,
    We form the sprightly jest.

    O'er the mantling generous wine,
    Good humour and delight combine:
    Genial Pleasure for awhile,
    Bids her votaries gaily smile.
    Pleasure twines the rosy wreath,
    And bids inspiring music breathe,
    While we lead the circling dance;
Oh! Mirth, to join the airy maze, advance.

    Mirth has heard the festive measure,
    We devote the day to pleasure;
    Let the miser heap his hoard,
    Mirth shall crown the social board.

THE RUINED CASTLE.

OH! let me sigh to think this ruined pile
Was favoured once with fortune's radiant smile;
These moss-grown battlements, these ivied towers,
Have seen prosperity's uncertain hours;
Their heroes triumphed in the scenes of war,
While victory followed in her trophied car.
Here, where I muse in meditation's arms,
Perhaps the battle raged with loud alarms;
Here glory's crimson banner waving spread,
While laurel crowns entwined the victor's head;
And here, perhaps, with many a plaintive tear,
The mourner has bedewed the soldier's bier.
The scene of conquest pensive fancy draws,
Where thousands fell, enthusiasts in their cause.
Yon turret mouldered by the hand of time
Shaded by silver ash and spreading lime
Was once, perhaps, the hall of mirth and joy,
Where warriors sought no longer to destroy;
And where, perhaps, the hoary-headed sage,
Would lead them o'er the animating page;
Where history points to glorious ages fled,
And tells the noble actions of the dead.
Still fancy, with a magic power recalls
The time when trophies graced the lofty walls:
When with enchanting spells the minstrel's art
Could soften and inspire the melting heart;
Could raise the glowing elevated flame,
And bid the youthful soldier pant for fame;
While deeds of glory were the themes he sung,
The pleasant harp in wild accordance rung.
Ah! where is now the warrior's ardent fire?
Where now the tuneful spirit of the lyre?
The warrior sleeps; the minstrel's lay is still;
No songs of triumph echo from the hill.
Ah! yet the weeping muse shall love to sigh,
And trace again thy fallen majesty;
And still shall fancy linger on the theme,
While forms of heroes animate her dream.

THE APRIL MORN.

Now a smile, and now a frown;
Brightening now, and now cast down:
Now 'tis cheerful, now it lowers;
Yet sunshine in the midst of showers.

Now the sky is calm and clear;
Now the frowning clouds appear;
Evanescent soon they fly;
Calm and clear again the sky.

Such the face which April wears,
Now in smiles, and now in tears;
Like the life we lead below,
Full of joy, and full of woe.

Lovely prospects now arise;
Vanish now before our eyes:
Yet, amid the clouds of grief,
Still a sunbeam sheds relief.
Like the face which April wears,
Now in smiles, and now in tears.

SHAKSPEARE.

I LOVE to rove o'er history's page,
Recall the hero and the sage;
Revive the actions of the dead,
And memory of ages fled:
Yet it yields me greater pleasure,
To read the poet's pleasing measure.
Led by Shakspeare, bard inspired,
The bosom's energies are fired;
We learn to shed the generous tear,
O'er poor Ophelia's sacred bier;
To love the merry moonlight scene,
With fairy elves in valleys green;
Or borne on Fancy's heavenly wings,
To listen while sweet Ariel sings.
How sweet the "native wood-notes wild'
Of him, the Muse's favourite child;
Of him whose magic lays impart,
Each various feeling to the heart.

MELANCHOLY.

WHEN Autumn shadows tint the waving trees,
When fading foliage flies upon the breeze;
When evening mellows all the glowing scene,
    And the mild dew descends in drops of balm;
When the sweet landscape placid and serene,
    Inspires the bosom with a pensive calm;
Ah! then I love to linger in the vale,
And hear the bird of eve's romantic tale;
I love the rocky sea-beach to explore,
Where the clear wave flows murmuring to the shore;
To hear the shepherd's plaintive music sound,
While Echo answers from the woods around;
To watch the twilight spread a gentle vale
Of melting shadows o'er the grassy dale,
To view the smile of evening on the sea;
Ah! these are pleasures ever dear to me.
To wander with the melancholy muse,
Where waving trees their pensive shade diffuse.
Then by some secret charm the softened mind
Soars high in contemplation unconfined,
To melancholy and the muse resigned.

FAIRY SONG.

ALL my life is joy and pleasure,
Sportive as my tuneful measure;
In the rose's cup I dwell,
Balmy sweets perfume my cell:
My food the crimson luscious cherry
And the vine's luxurious berry;
The nectar of the dew is mine:
Nectar from the flowers divine.
And when I join the fairy band,
Lightly tripping hand in hand,
By the moonlight's quivering beam,
In concert with the dashing stream;
Then my music leads the dance,
When the gentle fays advance;
And oft my numbers on the green,
Lull to rest the fairy queen.
All my life is joy and pleasure,
Sportive as my airy measure.

TO A BUTTERFLY.

LITTLE fluttering beauteous fly,
With azure wing of softest dye,
Hither fairy wanton hie,
Nor fear to lose thy liberty:
For I would view, thou silly thing,
The colours of thy velvet wing.
Its lovely melting tints outvie
The glories of the summer sky.
Can pencil imitate the hue,
So soft, so delicate a blue?
Well I know thy life is short,
One transient hour of idle sport:
Enjoy that little halcyon hour.
And kiss each fair and fragrant flower;
No more I'll stay thy mazy flight,
For short thy moments of delight.

HYMN.

O GOD of mercy! let my lyre
Speak with energetic fire;
And teach my infant tongue to raise
The grateful animated lays.
While musing at thy hallowed shrine,
I listen to thy word divine;
I bless the page of genuine truth;
Oh! may its precepts guide my youth.
To Thee, thou Good Supreme! I bend,
Do thou the humble prayer attend.

THE MINSTREL TO HIS HARP.

WHEN youthful transport led the hours,
And all my way was bright with flowers,
Ah! then, my harp, thy dulcet note,
To songs of joy would lightly float;
To thee I sang in numbers wild,
Of hope and love who gaily smiled.

And now though young delight is o'er,
And golden visions charm no more.
Though now, my harp, thy mellow tone,
I wake to mournful strains alone;
Ah! yet the pleasing lays impart
A pensive rapture to my heart.

I sang to thee of early pleasures
In sweet and animated measures;
And I have wept o'er griefs and cares,
And still have loved thy magic airs:
To me thy sound recalls the hours,
When all my way was bright with flowers.

SONG.

SAY, does calm Contentment dwell,
In palace rich or lowly cell?

HOLIDAY HOURS.

DEAR boy, let us think of the pleasures in spring,
    When the season is welcomed with garlands of flowers;
How thy moments will fly with delight on the wing,
    How thy fancy will dwell on the holiday hours.
And sweet are those moments the young bosom knows,
    Preceding the social endearments of home;
Where maternal affection so tenderly glows,
    And invokes the gay holiday pleasures to come.
And oh! my sweet boy, when our years shall expand,
    When we wander no more through our favourite bowers;
Perhaps we may sigh for the pleasures so bland,
    The sportive delights of the holiday hours.

SONG OF ZEPHYRUS.

WHEN sportive hours lead on the rosy spring,
    Then in the frolic smiling train I come;
And wander with the bee on sylphid wing,
    To kiss each floweret in its tender bloom.
And at the fragrant time, the close of day,
    Or at the sweet and pensive moonlight hour,
Then in the summer air I love to play,
    And sport with Flora in the dewy bower.
Oft o'er the harp of winds with gentle sigh,
    I breathe a mellow note, a mournful lay;
And then enraptured with the melody,
    I list with pleasure till the sounds decay.

THE BEE.

MARK how the neat assiduous bee,
Pattern of frugal industry,
            Pursues her earnest toil;
All day the pleasing task she plies,
And to her cell at evening hies,
            Enriched with golden spoil.

She warns us to employ the hours,
In gathering stores from learning's flowers
            For these will ever last:
These mental charms will fill the place
Of every beauty, every grace,
            When smiling youth is past.

THE SONG OF A SERAPH.

        "Hark! they whisper! angels say,
            'Sister spirit! come away!'"

—POPE.

LO! the dream of life is o'er;
Pain the Christian's lot no more!
Kindred spirits! rise with me,
Thine the meed of victory.

Now the angel-songs I hear,
Dying softly on the ear;
Spirit, rise! to thee is given,
        The light ethereal wing of heaven.

Now no more shall virtue faint,
Happy spirit of the saint;
Thine the halo of the skies,
Thine the seraph's paradise.

INSCRIPTION FOR A HERMITAGE.

PILGRIM, view this mossy dell,
View the woodland hermit's cell;
And if thou love the rustic scene,
And love to court the muse serene;
If virtue to thy soul be dear,
And sometimes melancholy's tear;
Oh! thou wilt view the vale around,
As if 'twere consecrated ground.
The pious hermit here retired,
With love of solitude inspired;
He loved the scene of this retreat,
This smiling dell to him was sweet;
And here he sought for hallowed rest,
To calm the sorrows of his breast;
And resignation with a smile,
    His tear of grief would oft beguile;
Would soothe to peace his tranquil age
In this romantic hermitage.

THE PETITION OF THE RED-BREAST.

AH! why did thy rude hand molest
The sacred quiet of my nest?
No more I rise on rapture's wing,
The ditties of my love to sing.
Restore me to the peaceful vale,
To wander with the southern gale;

THE MINSTREL BARD.

WHERE awful summits rise around,
        With wild and straggling flowerets crowned;
'Tis there the poet loves to sigh,
And touch the harp of melody;
And wake the measure of delight,
Or melt in fairy visions bright:
And sometimes will his soul aspire,
And feel almost ethereal fire.
Ah! then the fond enthusiast dreams,
(Enraptured with celestial themes,)
That happy spirits round him play,
And animate the magic lay:
Their floating forms his fancy sees,
And hears their music in the breeze.
Then, while the airy numbers die,
He wakes his sweetest harmony
        To imitate the heavenly strain,
Which memory fondly calls again.
To Fancy then he pours his song,
To her his wildest notes belong.
Oh! spirit of the lyre divine,
I deck with flowers thy sacred shrine;
Thus let me ever melt with thee,
In the soft dreams of poesy.

GENIUS.

Now evening steals upon the glowing scene,
Her colours tremble on the wave serene;
The dews of balm on languid flowers descend,
The mellow tinges of the landscape blend;
Hail! placid eve, thy lingering smiles diffuse
A pensive pleasure to the lonely muse.

I love to wander by the ocean side,
And hear the soothing murmurs of the tide;
To muse upon the poet's fairy-tale,
In fancy wafted to the moonlight vale:
Sometimes I think that Ariel's playful bands
Are lightly hovering o'er "these yellow sands."

'Tis thus that Shakspeare, with inspiring song,
Can lead the visionary train along;
Then by his magic spell the scene around,
The "yellow sands" become enchanted ground.

But when the lingering smile of even dies,
And when the mild and silvery moonbeams rise,
Then sweeter is the favourite rustic seat,
Where pensile ash-trees form the green retreat,
And mingle with the richer foliage round,
To cast a trembling shadow on the ground;
'Tis there, retired, I pour the artless rhyme,
And court the muses at this tranquil time.

O Genius! lead me to Piërian bowers,
And let me cull a few neglected flowers;
By all the poets, fanciful and wild,
Whose tales my hours of infancy beguiled,
Oh! let thy spirit animate my lyre,
And all the numbers of my youth inspire.

Perhaps, where now I pour the simple lays,
Thy bards have waked the song of other days;
Some Cambrian Ossian may have wandered near,
While airy music murmured in his ear;
Perhaps, even here, beneath the moonlight beam,
He loved to ponder some entrancing theme;
And here, while heavenly visions filled his eye,
He raised the strain of plaintive melody;
This fond idea consecrates the hour,
And more endears the calm secluded bower.

Sweet was the Cambrian harp in ancient time,
When tuneful bards awaked the song sublime;
And minstrels carolled in the bannered hall,
Where warlike trophies graced the lofty wall;
They sang the legends and traditions old,
The deeds of chivalry, and heroes bold.

O Cambria! though thy sweetest bards are dead,
And fairies from thy lovely vales are fled;
Still in thy sons the musing mind may trace
The vestige of thy former simple race:
Some pious customs yet preserved with care,
Their humble village piety declare;
Ah! still they strew the fairest flowers and weep,
Where buried friends of sacred memory sleep,
The wandering harper, too, in plaintive lays,
Declares the glory of departed days;
And, Cambria still upon thy fertile plains,
The dower of hospitality remains.

Yet shall my muse the pleasing task resign,
Till riper judgment all her songs refine;
But let my sportive lyre resume again
The purposed theme, to hail another's strain.
Yes, heavenly Genius, I have heard thee raise
The note of truth, of gratitude, and praise.
'Twas thine with modest indigence to dwell,
And warble sweetly in the lowly cell;
To rove with Bloomfield through the woodland shade,
And hail the calm seclusion of the glade:
Beneath the greenwood canopy reclined,
'Twas thine to elevate his artless mind.
While in the lovely scene "to him so dear,"
He traced the varied beauties of the year;
And fondly loitered in the summer bower,
To hail the incense of the morning hour,
Or through the rich autumnal landscape roved,
And raised a grateful hymn for all he loved.

O Genius! ever with thy favoured band
May Piety be seen with aspect bland;
And conscious Honour with an eye serene,
And Independence with exalted mien.
Ah! mayst thou never to ambition bend,
Nor at the shrine of Luxury attend;
But rather consecrate some tranquil home,
And in the vale of peace and pleasure bloom.
There mayst thou wander from the world retired,
And court the dreams by poesy inspired;
And sometimes all thy pleasing spells employ,
To bid affliction own a transient joy:
For oft 'tis thine to chase the tear away
With soothing harp and melancholy lay;
And sorrow feels the magic for awhile,
And then, with sad expression, learns to smile.
Oh! teach me all the soft bewitching art,
The music that may cheer a wounded heart
For I would love to bid emotion cease,
With sweetest melodies that whisper peace;
And all the visions of delight restore,
The softened memory of hours no more.

Ah, Genius! when thy dulcet measures flow,
Then pleasure animates the cheek of woe;
And sheds a sad and transitory grace,
O'er the pale beauty of the languid face.

But when 'tis thine to feel the pang of grief,
Without one melting friend to bring relief;
Then, who thy pain shall soften and beguile,
What gentle spirit cheer thee with a smile;
And bid thy last departing hopes revive,
And all thy flattering dreams of rapture live?
Oh! turn to Him thy supplicating eye,
The God of peace and tenderest charity;
And He will bless thee with consoling power,
And elevate thy soul in Sorrow's hour.
Ah! then a pensive beam of joy shall play,
To cheer thee, weeping Genius, on thy way:
A lovely rainbow then for thee shall rise,
And shed a lustre o'er the cloudy skies.
Though all thy fairy prospects are no more,
And though the visions of thy youth are o'er;
Yet Sorrow shall assume a softer mien,
Like Melancholy, mournful yet serene:
The placid Muse to thee her flowers shall bring,
And Hope shall "wave her golden hair," and sing;
With magic power dispel the clouds on high,
And raise the veil of bright eternity.

SONG.

THE RETURN OF MAY.

HAIL! fairy queen, adorned with flowers,
Attended by the smiling hours,
'Tis thine to dress the rosy bowers
                In colours gay;
We love to wander in thy train,
To meet thee on the fertile plain,
To bless thy soft propitious reign,
                O lovely May!

'Tis thine to dress the vale anew,
In fairest verdure bright with dew;
And harebells of the mildest blue,
                Smile in thy way;
Then let us welcome pleasant spring,
And still the flowery tribute bring,
And still to thee our carol sing,
                O lovely May!

Now by the genial zephyr fanned,
The blossoms of the rose expand;
And reared by thee with gentle hand,
                Their charms display;

RURAL WALKS.

OH! may I ever pass my happy hours
In Cambrian valleys and romantic bowers;
For every spot in sylvan beauty drest,
And every landscape charms my youthful breast.
And much I love to hail the vernal morn,
When flowers of spring the mossy seat adorn;
And sometimes through the lonely wood I stray,
To cull the tender rosebuds in my way;
And seek in every wild secluded dell,
The weeping cowslip and the azure bell;
With all the blossoms, fairer in the dew,
To form the gay festoon of varied hue.
And oft I seek the cultivated green,
The fertile meadow, and the village scene;
Where rosy children sport around the cot,
Or gather woodbine from the garden spot.
And there I wander by the cheerful rill,
That murmurs near the osiers and the mill;
To view the smiling peasants turn the hay,
And listen to their pleasing festive lay.
I love to loiter in the spreading grove,
Or in the mountain scenery to rove;
Where summits rise in awful grace around,
With hoary moss and tufted verdure crowned;
Where cliffs in solemn majesty are piled,
"And frown upon the vale" with grandeur wild:
And there I view the mouldering tower sublime,
Arrayed in all the blending shades of time.

The airy upland and the woodland green,
The valley, and romantic mountain scene;
The lowly hermitage, or fair domain,
The dell retired, or willow-shaded lane;
"And every spot in sylvan beauty drest,
And every landscape charms my youthful breast."

CHRISTMAS.

THE sunbeams glitter on the mountain snow,
And o'er the summit cast a transient glow;
Now silver frost adorns the drooping bower,
My favourite seat in summer's happy hour.
'Twas there, when spring the mantling blossoms shed,
The sweet laburnum clustered o'er my head:
And there the robin formed a mossy nest,
And gaily carolled in retirement blest;
Still memory loves to paint the glowing scene,
When autumn tints enriched the foliage green.

Even yet the bower is lovely in decay,
Gilt by the "sunbeam of a winter's day;"
For now the frost befringes every thorn,
And sparkles to the radiant smile of morn:
The lucid ice has bound the mountain rill,
No more it murmurs by the cheerful mill.
I hear the village bells upon the gale;
And merry peasants wander through the vale;
In gay convivial bands they rove along,
With genuine pleasure and inspiring song;
I meet the rustic troop, and love to trace
The smile of health in every rosy face.

O Christmas! welcome to thy happy reign,
And all the social virtues in thy train;
The Cambrian harper hails thy festal time,
With sportive melody and artless rhyme:
Unlike the bards who sung in days of old,
And all the legends of tradition told;
In Gothic castles decked with banners gay,
At solemn festivals they poured the lay:
Their poor descendant wanders through the vales,
And gains a welcome by his artless tales;
He finds a seat in every humble cot,
And hospitality in every spot;
'Tis now he bids the sprightly harp resound,
To bless the hours with genial plenty crowned.
And now the gay domestic joys we prove,
The smiles of peace, festivity, and love.
O Christmas! welcome to thy hallowed reign,
And all the social virtues in thy train;
Compassion listening to the tale of grief,
Who seeks the child of sorrow with relief,
And every muse with animating glee,
Congenial mirth and cordial sympathy.

SEA PIECE BY MOONLIGHT.

HOW sweet to mark the softened ray
O'er the ocean lightly play;
Now no more the billows rave,
Clear and tranquil is the wave;
While I view the vessel glide
O'er the calm cerulean tide.

Now might fays and fairy bands,
Assemble on these "yellow sands;"
For this the hour, as poets tell,
That oft they leave the flowery cell,

The moonbeam sheds a lustre pale,
And trembles on the distant sail;
And now the silvery clouds arise,
To veil the radiance of the skies;
But soon I view the light serene,
Gild again the lovely scene.

HARVEST HYMN.

NOW Autumn strews on every plain
His mellow fruits and fertile grain;
And laughing Plenty crowned with sheaves,
With purple grapes, and spreading leaves,
In rich profusion pours around,
Her flowing treasures on the ground.
Oh! mark the great, the liberal hand,
That, scatters blessings o'er the land;
And to the GOD of Nature raise
The grateful song, the hymn of praise.

The infant corn in vernal hours,
He nurtured with his gentle showers,
And bade the summer clouds diffuse
Their balmy store of genial dews.
He marked the tender stem arise,
Till ripened by the glowing skies;
And now matured, his work behold,
The cheering harvest waves in gold.
To Nature's GOD with joy we raise
The grateful song, the hymn of praise.

The valleys echo to the strains
Of blooming maids and village swains;
To Him they tune the lay sincere,
Whose bounty crowns the smiling year.
The sounds from every woodland borne,
The sighing winds that bend the corn,
The yellow fields around proclaim
His mighty everlasting name.
To Nature's GOD united raise
The grateful song, the hymn of praise.

SONG OF A WOOD NYMPH.

IN peaceful dells and woodland glades,
    In sweet romantic scenes I stray;
And wander through the sylvan shades,
    Where Summer breezes lightly play:
        There at fervid noon I lave,
        In the calm pellucid wave.

And oft the fairest flowers I bring,
    To deck my grotto's mossy seat,
Culled from the margin of the spring,
    That flows amidst the green retreat;
        The violet and the primrose pale,
        That smile uncultured in the vale.

Reclined beneath some hoary tree,
    With tufted moss and ivy drest,
I listen to the humming bee,
    Whose plaintive tune invites to rest;
        While the fountain, calm and clear,
        Softly murmurs playing near.

And oft in solitude I rove
    To hear the bird of eve complain;
When seated in the hallowed grove,
    She pours her melancholy strain,
        In soothing tones that wake the tear,
        To sorrow and to fancy dear.

I love the placid moonlight hour,
    The lustre of the shadowy ray;
'Tis then I seek the dewy bower,
    And tune the wild expressive lay;
        While echo from the woods around,
        Prolongs the softly dying sound.

And oft, in some Arcadian vale,
    I touch my harp of mellow note;
Then sweetly rising on the gale,
    I hear celestial music float;
        And dulcet measures faintly close,
        Till all is silence and repose.

Then fays and fairy elves advance,
    To hear the magic of my song;
And mingle in the sportive dance,
    And trip with sylphid grace along;
        While the pensive ray serene,
        Trembles through the foliage green.

In peaceful dells and woodland shades,
    In wild romantic scenes I stray;
And wander through the sylvan glades,
    With airy footstep light and gay;
        Yet still my favourite lonely spot,
        The sweet retirement of the grot.

THE FAREWELL.

WHEN the sad parting word we hear,
    That seems of past delights to tell;
Who then, without a sacred tear,
                                Can say farewell?

And are we ever doomed to mourn,
    That e'en our joys may lead to pain?
Alas! the rose without a thorn
                                We seek in vain.

When friends endeared by absence meet,
    Their hours are crowned with every treasure;
Too soon the happy moments fleet
                                On wings of pleasure.

But when the parting hour is nigh,
    What feeling breast their woes can tell?
With many a prayer and tender sigh
                                They bid farewell.

Yet Hope may charm their grief away,
    And pour her sweet enchanting strain,
That friends beloved, some future day,
                                Shall meet again.

Her aid the fair deceiver lends,
    To dry the tears which sadly fell
And calm the sorrow which attends
                                The last farewell.

THE ALPINE SHEPHERD.

IN scenery sublime and rude,
In wild romantic solitude,
Where awful summits crowned with snow
In soft and varied colours glow;
There, in some grassy sheltered spot,
The Alpine shepherd forms his cot;
And there, beside his peaceful home,
The fairest mountain-flowerets bloom;
There oft his playful children climb
The rock fantastic and sublime,
And cull the mantling shrubs that creep
And sweetly blossom o'er the steep.
'Tis his to mark the morning ray
Upon the glittering scenery play;
To watch the purple evening shade
In sweet and mellow tinges fade;
And hail the sun's departing smile,
That beams upon the hills awhile:
And oft, at moonlight hour serene,
He wanders through the shadowy scene:
And then his pipe with plaintive sound
Awakes the mountain-echoes round.
How dear to him the sheltered spot,
The waving pines that shade his cot!
His pastoral music wild and gay,
May charm his simple cares away;
And never will he sigh to roam
Far from his native mountain-home.

ADDRESS TO MUSIC.

OH thou! whose soft, bewitching lyre
    Can lull the sting of pain to rest;
Oh thou! whose warbling notes inspire
    The pensive muse with visions blest:
Sweet music! let thy melting airs
Enhance my joys and soothe my cares!

Is there enchantment in thy voice,
    Thy dulcet harp, thy moving measure;
To bid the mournful mind rejoice,
    To raise the fairy form of pleasure?
Yes, heavenly maid! a charm is thine,
A magic art, a spell divine!

Sweet music! when thy notes we hear,
    Some dear remembrance oft they bring,
Of friends beloved, no longer near,
    And days that flew on rapture's wing;
Hours of delight that long are past,
And dreams of joy, too bright to last!

And oft 'tis thine the soul to fire,
    With glory's animating flame,
Bid valour's noble sons aspire
    To win th' immortal wreath of fame,
Thine, too, the soft, expressive tones,
    That pity, tender pity owns!

Oh harmony! celestial power,
    Thou syren of the melting soul!
In sorrow's reign, in pleasure's hour,
    My heart shall own thy blest control;
And ever let thy moving airs,
Enhance my joys and soothe my cares!

SONNET TO ITALY.

FOR thee, Ausonia! Nature's bounteous hand,
    Luxuriant spreads around her blooming stores;
Profusion laughs o'er all the glowing land,
    And softest breezes from thy myrtle shores.

Yet though for thee unclouded suns diffuse
    Their genial radiance o'er thy blushing plains;
Though in thy fragrant groves the sportive muse
    Delights to pour her wild, enchanted strains;

Though airs that breathe of paradise are thine,
    Sweet as the Indian or Arabian gales,
Though fruitful olive and empurpling vine,
    Enrich, fair Italy, thy Alpine vales;
Yet far from thee inspiring freedom flies,
To Albion's coast and ever-varying skies.

ADDRESS TO FANCY.

    OH, queen of dreams! 'tis now the hour,
        Thy fav'rite hour of silence and of sleep;
    Come, bring thy wand, whose magic power
Can wake the troubled spirits of the deep!

        And while around on every eye
        The "honey-dews of slumber" lie,

    Now every sound has died away,
        The winds and waves are lulled to rest;
    The sighing breeze forgets to play,
And moonbeams tremble o'er the ocean's breast—

    Come, Fancy! come, creative power!
        That lov'st the tranquil reign of night:
    Perhaps in such a silent hour,
Thy visions charmed the bard of Avon's sight;
    Oh, poet blest! thy guiding hand
    Led him through scenes of fairyland;
    To him, thy favoured child, alone,
    Thy bright, Elysian worlds were shown!

    Come Fancy! come; with loved control,
    Bewitch thy votary's pensive soul.
    Come, sportive charmer! lovely maid!
    In rainbow-coloured vest arrayed,
    Invoke thy visionary train,
    The subjects of thy gentle reign.

    If e'er ethereal spirits meet
    On earth, to pour their dirges sweet;
Now might they hover on the moonbeam pale,
And breathe celestial music on the gale.
        And hark! from yonder distant dell,
        I hear angelic numbers swell!
        Ah! sure some airy sylph is nigh,
        To wake such heavenly melody!
        Now soft the dulcet notes decay,
        Float on the breeze and melt away;
        Again they fall—again they rise,
        Ah, now the soft enchantment dies!
        The charm is o'er, the spell is past,
        The witching spell, too sweet to last!

Hail, Fancy, hail! around thy hallowed shrine,
    What sylphid bands, what radiant forms appear!
Ah! bless thy votary with thy dreams divine,
    Ah! wave thy wand, and call thy visions dear!

Bear me, oh! bear me, to thy realms unknown,
    Enchantress! waft me in thy car sublime!
To bend, entranced, before thy shadowy throne,
    To view the wonders of thy fairy clime!

SONG.

OH! bear me to the groves of palm,
Where perfumed airs diffuse their balm;
And when the noontide beams invade,
Then lay me in the embow'ring shade;
Where bananas o'er my head,
Mingling with the tam'rind, spread;
Where the long liannes combining,
Wild festoons of flowers entwining;
Fragrant cassia, softly blowing,
Lime and orange, ever glowing;
All their spicy breath exhale,
To scent the pleasure-fanning gale.

There her sweet ambrosial stores,
Nature in profusion pours;
The cocoa's nectar let me sip,
The citron's juice refresh my lip;
While round me hovering play
Birds, in radiant plumage gay;
And amidst the foliage, raise
Melodies, in varied lays.
There, in aromatic bowers,
Be mine to pass the summer hours;
Or by some clear cascade reclined;
Whose dashing sound may lull the mind,
Wake the lyre and tune the song,
Scenes of paradise among!

ADDRESS TO THOUGHT.

OH thou! the musing, wakeful power,
That lov'st the silent, midnight hour,
Thy lonely vigils then to keep,
And banish far the angel, sleep,
        With all his lovely train;
Come, pensive thought! with thee I'll rove
Through forest wild, sequestered grove,
        Or twilight plain.

The lone recluse, in hermit-cell,
With thee, oh, nymph! delights to dwell,
Forsakes the world, and all its charms,
Forsakes the syren Pleasure's arms,
        In peaceful shades to rest;
And oft with thee, entranced may hear,
Celestial voices warbling near,
        Of spirits blest.

When slow declines the rosy day,
And evening smiles with parting ray,
When twilight spreads her magic hues,
When moonbeams tremble on the dews,
        Be mine to rove retired;
By fairy bower, or dimpled stream,
To muse with thee some heavenly theme,
        Oh! maid inspired.

'Tis thine on eagle wings to soar,
Unknown, unfathomed realms explore;
Below the deeps, above the sky,
Beyond the starry orbs on high;
        (Can aught restrain thy flight?)

At midnight, to the guilty breast,
Thou com'st, a feared, appalling guest;
While lightnings flash and thunders roll,
Accusing conscience wakes the soul,
        And bids each fear increase;
And, while benignant slumber flies,
With awful voice, in whisper cries,
        Farewell to peace.

But oh, dread power, how sweet thy reign,
To Virtue's mild and hallowed train!
The storm around may wildly rave,
And winter swell the mountain wave,
        Yet soft their calm repose!
Their minds unruffled and serene,
And guardian-seraphs watch unseen,
        Their eyes to close.

TO MY YOUNGER BROTHER,
ON HIS RETURN FROM SPAIN, AFTER THE FATAL RETREAT UNDER SIR JOHN MOORE, AND THE BATTLE OF CORUNNA.

THOUGH dark are the prospects and heavy the hours,
    Though life is a desert, and cheerless the way;
Yet still shall affection adorn it with flowers,
    Whose fragrance shall never decay.

And lo! to embrace thee, my brother! she flies,
    With artless delight, that no words can bespeak;
With a sunbeam of transport illuming her eyes,
    With a smile and a glow on her cheek.

From the trophies of war, from the spear and the shield,
    From the scenes of destruction, from perils unblest;
Oh! welcome again to the grove and the field,
    To the vale of retirement and rest.

Then warble, sweet muse! with the lyre and the voice,
    Oh! gay be the measure and sportive the strain;
For light is my heart, and my spirits rejoice,
    To meet thee, my brother, again.

When the heroes of Albion, still valiant and true,
    Were bleeding, were falling, with victory crowned;
How often would Fancy present to my view,
    The horrors that waited thee round.

How constant, how fervent, how pure was my prayer,
    That Heaven would protect thee from danger and harm;
That angels of mercy would shield thee with care
    In the heat of the combat's alarm.

How sad and how often descended the tear,
    (Ah! long shall remembrance the image retain!)
How mournful the sigh, when I trembled with fear
    I might never behold thee again.

But the prayer was accepted, the sorrow is o'er,
    And the tear-drop is fled, like the dew on the rose;
Thy dangers, our fears, have endeared thee the more,
    And my bosom with tenderness glows.

And, oh! when the dreams, the enchantments of youth,
    Bright and transient, have fled, like the rainbow, away,
My affection for thee, still unfading in truth,
    Shall never, oh! never, decay.

No time can impair it, no change can destroy,
    Whate'er be the lot I am destined to share;
It will smile in the sunshine of hope and of joy,
    And beam through the cloud of despair!

TO MY MOTHER.

IF e'er for human bliss or woe
I feel the sympathetic glow;
If e'er my heart has learned to know
            The generous wish or prayer;
Who sowed the germ, with tender hand?
Who marked its infant leaves expand?
            My mother's fostering care.

And if one flower of charms refined
May grace the garden of my mind;
            'Twas she who nursed it there;
    She loved to cherish and adorn
        Each blossom of the soil;
    To banish every weed and thorn,
        That oft opposed her toil.

And, oh! if e'er I've sighed to claim
The palm, the living palm of fame,
            The glowing wreath of praise;
If e'er I've wished the glitt'ring stores,
That fortune on her favourite pours;
'Twas but that wealth and fame, if mine,
Round thee, with streaming rays might shine,
            And gild thy sun-bright days.

Yet not that splendour, pomp, and power,
Might then irradiate ev'ry hour;
For these, my mother, well I know,
On thee no raptures could bestow;
But could thy bounty, warm and kind,
Be, like thy wishes, unconfined,
And fall, as manna from the skies,
And bid a train of blessings rise,
            Diffusing joy and peace;
The tear-drop, grateful, pure and bright,
For thee would beam with softer light,
Than all the diamond's crystal rays,
Than all the emerald's lucid blaze;
And joys of heaven would thrill thy heart,
To bid one bosom-grief depart,
            One tear, one sorrow cease!

Then, oh! may Heaven, that loves to bless,
Bestow the power to cheer distress;
Make thee its minister below,
To light the cloudy path of woe;
To visit the deserted cell,
Where indigence is doomed to dwell;
To raise, when drooping to the earth,
The blossoms of neglected worth;
And round, with liberal hand, dispense
The sunshine of beneficence.

But ah, if fate should still deny
Delights like these, too rich and high;
If grief and pain thy steps assail,
In life's remote and wintry vale;
Then; as the wild Eolian lyre,
    Complains with soft, entrancing number,
When the loud storm awakes the wire,
    And bids enchantment cease to slumber;
So filial love, with soothing voice,
E'en then shall teach thee to rejoice:
E'en then, shall sweeter, milder sound,
When sorrow's tempest raves around;
While dark misfortune's gales destroy
The frail mimosa-buds of hope and joy!

WAR SONG OF THE SPANISH PATRIOTS.

YE who burn with glory's flame,
Ye who love the Patriot's fame;
Ye who scorn oppressive might,
Rise, in freedom's cause unite;
                Castilians rise.
Hark! Iberia calls, ye brave,
Haste! your bleeding country save:
Be the palm of bright renown,
Be th' unfading laurel-crown,
                The hero's prize.

High the crimson banner wave,
Ours be conquest or the grave;
Spirits of our noble sires,
Lo! your sons with kindred fires,
                Unconquered glow.
See them once again advance,
Crush the pride of hostile France;
See their hearts, with ardour warm,
See them, with triumphant arm,
                Repel the foe.

By the Cid's immortal name,
By Gonsalvo's deathless fame,
By the chiefs of former time,
By the valiant deeds sublime,
                Of ancient days;
Brave Castilians, grasp the spear,
Gallant Andalusians, hear;
Glory calls you to the plain,
Future bards, in lofty strain,
                Shall sing your praise.

Shades of mighty warriors dead,
Ye who nobly fought and bled;
Ye whose valour could withstand
The savage Moor's invading band,
                Untaught to yield;
Bade victorious Charlemagne
Own the patriot-arms of Spain;
Ye, in later times renowned,
Ye who fell with laurels crowned,
                On Pavia's field.

Teach our hearts like yours to burn;
Lawless power like you to spurn;
Teach us but like you to wield
Freedom's lance and Freedom's shield,
                With daring might:
Tyrant! soon thy reign is o'er,
Thou shalt waste mankind no more;
Boast no more thy thousands slain,
Jena's or Marengo's plain;
Lo! the sun that gilds thy day,
Soon will veil its parting ray,
                In endless night.

SEA PIECE.

SUBLIME is thy prospect, thou proud rolling Ocean,
    And Fancy surveys thee with solemn delight;
When thy mountainous billows are wild in commotion,
    And the tempest is roused by the spirits of night.

When the moonbeams through winter-clouds faintly appearing,
    At intervals gleam on the dark-swelling wave;

But now, when thine anger has long been subsiding,
    And the tempest has folded the might of its wing;
How clear is thy surface, in loveliness gliding,
    For April has opened the portals of spring.

Now soft on thy bosom the orient is beaming,
    And tremulous breezes are waving thy breast;
On thy mirror the clouds and the shadows are streaming,
    And morning and glory the picture have drest.

No gale but the balmy Favonian is blowing,
    In coral caves resting, the winds are asleep;
And, rich in the sunbeam, yon pendants are glowing,
    That tinge with their colours the silvery deep.

Yet smile or be dreadful, thou still-changing Ocean,
    Tremendous or lovely, resistless or still;
I view thee adoring, with hallowed emotion,
    The Power that can hush or arouse thee at will.

TO RESIGNATION.

MAID of the placid smile and heavenly mien,
With beaming eye, though tearful, yet serene;
Teach me, like thee, in sorrow's lingering hour,
To bless devotion's all-consoling power;
Teach me, like thee, when storms around me rise,
And spreading glooms obscure the azure skies,
On one unclouded light to fix my view,
For ever brilliant and for ever true;
The star of faith! whose mild, celestial ray
With steady lustre shall direct my way:
Thy seraph-hand shall raise my drooping head.
Angel of peace! thy wings around me spread;
With hallowed spells my fainting spirit cheer,
Hush the sad murmur, dry the starting tear.
Thus when the halcyon broods upon the tides,
The winds are lulled, the mountain-wave subsides;
Soft rainbow hues, reflected, tinge the deep,
And balmy zephyrs on its bosom sleep—
Maid of the placid smile! my troubled soul,
Would own thy gentle reign, thy mild control;
Though the pale cypress twine thy sainted brow,
Eternal palms for thee in heaven shall blow.

LINES

OH thou, whose pure, exalted mind
    Lives in this record, fair and bright;
Oh thou, whose blameless life combined
Soft female charms and grace refined
                With science and with light.
    Celestial maid! whose spirit soared
        Beyond this vale of tears;
    Whose clear, enlightened eye explored
        The lore of years!

Daughter of heaven! if here, e'en here,
    The wing of towering thought was thine;
If, on this dim and mundane sphere,
    Fair truth illumed thy bright career
                With morning star divine;
How must thy blest, ethereal soul,
     Now kindle in her noon-tide ray;
And hail, unfettered by control,
    The fount of day.

E'en now, perhaps, thy seraph-eyes.
    Undimmed by doubt, nor veiled by fear,
Behold a chain of wonders rise,
Gaze on the noonbeam of the skies,
                Transcendent, pure, and clear.
E'en now the fair, the good, the true,
    From mortal sight concealed,
Bless in one blaze thy raptured view,
    In light revealed!

If here, the lore of distant time,
    And learning's flowers were all thine own;
How must thy mind ascend, sublime,
Matured in heaven's empyreal clime,
                To light's unclouded throne.
Perhaps, e'en now, thy kindling glance
    Each orb of living fire explores;
Darts o'er creation's wide expanse,
                Admires—adores.

Oh! if that lightning-eye surveys
    This dark and sublunary plain;
How must the wreath of human praise,
Fade, whither, vanish, in thy gaze,
                So dim, so pale, so vain.

How like a faint and shadowy dream.
    Must quiver learning's brightest ray;
While on thy eyes, with lucid stream,
The sun of glory pours his beam
                Perfection's day.

THE SILVER LOCKS.

THOUGH youth may boast the curls that flow,
In sunny waves of auburn glow;
As graceful on thy hoary head,
Has time the robe of honour spread,
And there, oh! softly, softly, shed,
            His wreath of snow.

As frost-work on the trees displayed,
When weeping Flora leaves the shade,
E'en more than Flora, charms the sight;
E'en so thy locks, of purest white,
Survive, in age's frost-work bright,
            Youth's vernal rose decayed.

To grace the nymph, whose tresses play
Light on the sportive breeze of May,
Let other bards the garland twine,
Where sweets of every hue combine;
Those locks revered, that silvery shine,
            Invite my lay.

Less white the summer-cloud sublime,
Less white the winter's fringing rime;
Nor do Belinda's lovelier seem,
(A poet's blest, immortal theme,)
Than thine, which wear the moonlight beam,
            Of reverend time!

Long may the graceful honours smile,
Like moss on some declining pile;
Oh, much revered! may filial care,
Around thee, duteous, long repair,
Thy joys with tender bliss to share,
            Thy pains beguile!

Long, long, ye snowy ringlets, wave,
Long, long, your much-loved beauty save;
May bliss your latest evening crown,
Disarm life's winter of its frown,
And soft, ye hoary hairs, go down,
            In gladness to the grave.

And as the parting beams of day,
On mountain-snows reflected play;
And tints of roseate lustre shed;
Thus, on the snow that crowns thy head,
May joy, with evening planet, shed
            His mildest ray!

THE BARDS.

    VALIANT sons of freedom's land,
    Ardent, firm, devoted band,
    Rise, at honour's thrilling call:
    Warriors, arm! shall Britain fall?
            Rush, battle-steed.
            Bleed, soldiers, bleed!
For Britain's throne, for glory's meed.

    Heroes! to the combat fly,
    Proud to struggle, blest to die;
    Go! should death your efforts crown,
    Mount the pinions of renown;
            Go! tell our sires,
            Their daring fires,
Glow in our lofty souls, till life expires.

    Tell them, ne'er shall Britain yield
    Whilst a hand the sword can wield
    Tell them, we the strife maintain,
    Tell them, we defy the chain!
            In heart the same,
            In patriot-flame
We emulate their brightest fame.

    Shades of sainted chiefs! be near,
    Smile on Albion's lifted spear,
    Point the falchion, guide the car,
    Flaming through the ranks of war,
            Rise on the field,
            With sword and shield,
To British eyes in forms of light revealed.

    Spark of freedom, blaze on high,
    Wilt thou quiver? shalt thou die?
    Never, never, holy fire!
    Mount, irradiate! beam, aspire!
            Our foes consume,
            Our swords illume,
And chase the dark horizon's gloom.

    Shall the Roman arms invade
    Mona's dark and hallowed shade?
    By the dread, mysterious wand,
    Waving in the Druid's hand;
            By every rite,
            Of Mona's night,
Arm, warriors! arm; in sacred cause unite.

    Honour! while thy bands disdain
    Slavery's dark, debasing chain;
    Britain! while thy sons are free,
    Dauntless, faithful, firm for thee,
    Mona! while at thy command,
    Ardent bold, sublime, they stand;
            Proud foes in vain,
            Prepare the chain,
For Albion unsubdued shall reign.

    Lo! we see a flame divine
    Blaze o'er Mona's awful shrine!
    Lo! we hear a voice proclaim
    "Albion, thine, immortal fame;"
            Arise, ye brave,
            To bleed, to save,
Though proud in pomp, yon Roman eagles wave.

    Cæsar, come! in tenfold mail,
    Will thine arms like ours avail?
    Cæsar! let thy falchions blaze.
    Will they dim fair Freedom's rays?
    Cæsar! boast thy wide control,
    Canst thou chain th' aspiring soul?
            What steel can bind,
            The soaring mind,
Free as the light, the wave, the wind!

THE ANGEL OF THE SUN.

WHILE bending o'er my golden lyre,
While waving light my wing of fire;
Creation's regions to explore,
To gaze, to wonder, to adore:
While faithful to th' external will,
My task of glory I fulfil;
To rule the comet's dread career,
To guide the planets on their sphere:
While from this pure empyreal sky,
I dart my truth-enlightened eye!
What mists involve yon changeful scene,
How dark thy views, thou orb terrene!
E'en now compassion clouds awhile
Bright ecstacy's immortal smile;
I see the flames of war consume
Fair scenes that smiled in glowing bloom
O'er ev'ry nation, ev'ry land,
I see destruction wave his hand;
How dark thy billows, ocean-flood;
Lo, man has dyed thy waves in blood!
Nature, how changed thy vivid grace!
Vengeance and war thy charms deface.
Oh, scene of doubt, of care, of anguish;
Oh, scene, where virtue's doomed to languish;
Oh, scene, where death triumphant rides,
The spear, the sword, the javelin guides!
And canst thou be that earth, declare,
That earth so pure, so good, so fair,
O'er which, a new-created globe,
Thy Father spread perfection's robe?

Oh, Heaven how changed, how pale, how dim!
Since first arose the choral hymn,
That hailed, at thy auspicious birth.
A dawning paradise on earth;
On that sublime, creative morn,
That saw the infant-planet born,
How swelled the harp, the lyre, the voice,
To bless, to triumph, to rejoice.
How kneeling rapture led the song,
How glowed the exulting cherub throng,
When the fair orb, arising bright,
Sprang into glory, life and light.

Oh, Heaven, how changed a thorny waste,
With shadows dimmed, with clouds o'ercast,
See passions desolate the ball.
See kingdoms, thrones, and empires fall!
See mad Ambition's whirlwinds sweep,
Resistless as the wintry deep;
See, waving through the troubled sky,
His crimson banner glare on high:
Blush, Anger, blush, and hide thy sword;
Weep, Conquest, weep! imperious lord!
And mourn, to view thy sullied name
Inscribed in blood—emblazed in flame!
And are those cries, which rend the air,
Of death, of torture, of despair,
Hymns that should mount on wings above,
To him, the GOD OF PEACE AND LOVE!
And is yon flame of ruthless war,
That spreads destruction's reign afar,
The incense taught by man to blaze,
For him who dwells in mercy's rays?
Mortals! if angels grief might know,
From angels if a tear might flow,
For you celestial woes might rise,
And pity dim a seraph's eyes;
Yet, mortals! oft, through mists and tears,
Your bright original appears,
Gleams through the veil with radiant smile,
A sunbeam on a ruined pile!
Exulting, oft the forms I trace,
Of moral grandeur, beauty, grace;
That speak your powers for glory given,
That still reveal the heir of heav'n!
Not yet extinct your heavenly fire,
For cherubs oft its beams admire!

I see fair virtue nobly rise,
Child, favourite, darling, of the skies;
Smile on the pangs that round her wait,
And brave, and bear the storms of fate.
I see her lift th' adoring eye,
Forbid the tear, suppress the sigh;
Still on her high career proceeding,
Sublime! august!—though suffering—bleeding;
The thorn, though sharp—the blast, though rude,
Shake not her lofty fortitude!

Oh, graceful dignity serene,
Faith, glory, triumph on thy mien!
Still, virtue! still the strife maintain,
The smile, the frown of fate, disdain;
Think on that hour, when freed from clay,
Thy soul shall rise to life and day;
Still mount to heaven on sorrow's car;
There shine a fixed unclouded star,
Like me to range, like me to soar.
Suns, planets, worlds of light explore;
Then angel-forms around shall throng,
And greet thee in triumphal song:

Oh, favoured mortals; best beloved,
Ye in stern perils fiercely proved;
When faith and truth, with pure control,
Refine, inspire, exalt your soul;
When firm in brightest, noblest aims,
Your bosoms glow with hallowed flames;
When still the narrow path you tread,
Nor scorn, nor grief, nor dangers dread:
Though fate with every dart assail,
To pierce your heart's heaven tempered mail;
Nor shrink, though death his javelin hurled,
Scorned yet untainted by the world;
Then think, ye brave, ye constant few,
To faith, to hope, to virtue true,
Then think, that seraphs from above,
Behold your deeds, admire, and love:
And those who Heaven's commands perform,
Who still the wave, who ride the storm;
Who point the lightning's fiery wing,
Or shed the genial dews of spring;
Who fill with balm the zephyr's breath,
Or taint th' avenging winds with death;
That those who guide the planet's course,
Who bend at light's transcendent source;
Oh, think that those your toil survey,
Your struggling mind, your rugged way!
Oh, think that those, e'en now prepare
A bower of bliss, for you to share;
E'en now, th' immortal wreath entwine,
Around your sainted brows to shine;
E'en now, their golden harps attune,
To greet you in the blaze of noon!
Soon shall your captive souls be free,
To bless, to hymn, to soar, like me!
The fair, the perfect, and the bright,
Shall beam unclouded on your sight;
Soon shall the silver lutes be strung,
Soon shall the pæan lays be sung;
Hail, sister, hail! thy task is done:
Rise, cherub, rise! thy palm is won!

TO MR. EDWARDS,
THE HARPER OF CONWAY.

MINSTREL! whose gifted hand can bring,
Life, rapture, soul, from every string;
And wake, like bards of former time,
The spirit of the harp sublime;—
Oh! still prolong the varying strain!
Oh! touch th' enchanted chords again!

    Thine is the charm, suspending care,
The heavenly swell, the dying close,
The cadence melting into air,
That lulls each passion to repose.
While transport, lost in silence near,
Breathes all her language in a tear.

    Exult, O Cambria!—now no more
With sighs thy slaughtered bards deplore:
What though Plinlimmon's misty brow,
And Mona's woods be silent now,
Yet can thy Conway boast a strain
Unrivalled in thy proudest reign.

    For Genius, with divine control,
Wakes the bold chord neglected long,
And pours Expression's glowing soul
O'er the wild Harp, renowned in song.
And Inspiration, hovering round,
Swells the full energies of sound.

    Now Grandeur, pealing in the tone,
Could rouse the warrior's kindling fire,
And now, 'tis like the breeze's moan,
That murmurs o'er th' Æolian lyre:
As if some sylph, with viewless wing,
Were sighing o'er the magic string.

    Long, long, fair Conway! boast the skill,
That soothes, inspires, commands, at will!
And oh! while rapture hails the lay,
Far distant be the closing day,
When Genius, Taste, again shall weep,
And Cambria's Harp lie hushed in sleep.

THE RUIN AND ITS FLOWERS.

SWEETS of the wild! that breathe and bloom
    On this lone tower, this ivied wall;
Lend to the gale a rich perfume,
    And grace the ruin in its fall;
Though doomed, remote from careless eye,
To smile, to flourish, and to die
        In solitude sublime,
Oh! ever may the Spring renew,
Your balmy scent and glowing hue,
        To deck the robe of time!

Breathe, fragrance! breathe, enrich the air,
    Though wasted on its wing unknown!
Blow, flow'rets! blow, though vainly fair,
    Neglected, and alone!
These towers that long withstood the blast,
These mossy towers, are mouldering fast,
    While Flora's children stay;
To mantle o'er the lonely pile,
To gild destruction with a smile,
    And beautify decay!

Sweets of the wild! uncultured blowing,
Neglected in luxuriance glowing;
From the dark ruins frowning near,
Your charms in brighter tints appear,
        And richer blush assume;
You smile with softer beauty crowned,
Whilst all is desolate around,
        Like sunshine on a tomb!

Thou hoary pile! majestic still,
    Memento of departed fame!
While roving o'er the moss-clad hill,
    I ponder on thine ancient name!

Here grandeur, beauty, valour sleep,
    That here, so oft have shone supreme;
While glory, honour, fancy weep,
    That vanished is the golden dream!

Where are the banners, waving proud,
    To kiss the summer-gale of even?
All purple as the morning-cloud,
    All streaming to the winds of heaven!

Where is the harp, by rapture strung,
    To melting song, or martial story?
Where are the lays the minstrel sung,
    To loveliness, or glory?

Lorn echo of these mouldering walls,
To thee no festal measure calls;
No music through the desert-halls,
    Awakes thee to rejoice!
How still thy sleep! as death profound,
As if, within this lonely round,
A step—a note—a whispered sound,
    Had ne'er aroused thy voice!

Thou hear'st the zephyr murmuring, dying,
Thou hear'st the foliage, waving, sighing;
But ne'er again shall harp or song,
These dark, deserted courts along,
        Disturb thy calm repose;
The harp is broke, the song is fled,
The voice is hushed, the bard is dead;
And never shall thy tones repeat,
Or lofty strain, or carol sweet,
        With plaintive close!

Proud castle! though the days are flown,
When once thy towers in glory shone;
When music through thy turrets rung,
When banners o'er thy ramparts hung,
Though 'midst thine arches, frowning lone,
Stern desolation rear his throne;
And silence, deep and awful, reign
Where echoed once the choral strain;
Yet oft, dark ruin! lingering here,
The muse will hail thee with a tear;
Here when the moonlight, quivering, beams,
And through the fringing ivy streams,
And softens every shade sublime,
And mellows every tint of time—
Oh! here shall contemplation love,
Unseen and undisturbed, to rove;
And bending o'er some mossy tomb,
Where valour sleeps or beauty's bloom,
Shall weep for glory's transient day,
And grandeur's evanescent ray!
And listening to the swelling blast,
Shall wake the spirit of the past—
Call up the forms of ages fled,
Of warriors and of minstrels dead;
Who sought the field, who struck the lyre,
With all ambition's kindling fire!

Nor wilt thou, Spring! refuse to breathe,
    Soft odours on this desert-air;
Refuse to twine thine earliest wreath,
    And fringe these towers with garlands fair!

Sweets of the wild, oh! ever bloom
    Unheeded on this ivied wall!
Lend to the gale a rich perfume,
    And grace the ruin in its fall!

    Thus round Misfortune's holy head,
    Would Pity wreaths of honour spread;
Like you, thus blooming on this lonely pile,
She seeks despair, with heart-reviving smile!

CHRISTMAS CAROL.

FAIR Gratitude! in strain sublime,
    Swell high to heaven thy tuneful zeal;
And, hailing this auspicious time,
    Kneel, Adoration! kneel!

TO A DYING EXOTIC.

AH! lovely faded plant, the blight I mourn
    That withered all thy blossoms fair and gay;
    I saw thee blushing to the genial May,
And now thy leaves are drooping and forlorn.
I marked thy early beauty with a smile,
    And saw with pride the crimson buds expand;
They opened to the sunbeam for awhile,
    By all the flattering gales of summer fanned.
Ah! faded plant, I raise thy languid head,
    And moisten every leaf with balmy dew;
But now thy rich luxuriant bloom is fled,
    Thy foliage wears a pale autumnal hue;
Too soon thy glowing colours have decayed!
Like thee the flowers of pleasure smile and fade.

TO THE MUSE OF PITY.

OH! mistress of the melancholy song,
    I love to bend before thy sacred shrine;
To thee my fondest early vows belong,
    For pity's melting tenderness is thine.
Thine is the harp of wild expressive tone,
    'Tis thine to touch it with entrancing art;
    Till all thy numbers vibrate on the heart,
And sympathy delights thy power to own.
Oh! sweetest muse of pity and of love,
    In artless song thy plaintive lyre I hail;
    Be mine to weep with thee o'er sorrow's tale,
And oft thy pleasing visions may I prove.
"Thou mistress of the melancholy song,
To thee my fondest early vows belong."

SONNET.

AH! now farewell thou sweet and gentle maid,
    Beside thy simple grave we oft shall mourn;
And plant a willow where thy form is laid,
    And then with flowers the weeping tree adorn.
Oft shall we sing thy melancholy tale,
    When all the shades of evening steal around;
And oft assemble by the moonlight pale,
    To linger near the consecrated ground.
And oh! if spirits e'er on earth descend,
    To hover o'er some chosen hallowed spot;
Around thy tomb shall airy bands attend,
    And humble villagers shall weep thy lot.
Ah! fair departed maid, thy placid mind
Was calm in sorrow, and to Heaven resigned.

TO MY MOTHER.

TO thee, maternal guardian of my youth,
    I pour the genuine numbers, free from art;
The lays inspired by gratitude and truth,
    For thou wilt prize th' effusion of the heart.
Oh! be it mine, with sweet and pious care,
    To calm thy bosom in the hour of grief;
With soothing tenderness to chase the tear,
    With fond endearments to impart relief.
Be mine thy warm affection to repay
    With duteous love in thy declining hours;
    My filial hand shall strew unfading flowers,
Perennial roses to adorn thy way:
Still may thy grateful children round thee smile,
Their pleasing care affliction shall beguile.

SONNET.

'TIS sweet to think the spirits of the blest
    May hover round the virtuous man's repose;
And oft in visions animate his breast,

TO AGNES.

AH! could my Agnes rove these favourite shades,
    With mirth and friendship in the Cambrian vale,
In mossy dells, or wild romantic glades,
    Where flowers uncultured scent the sportive gale;
And could she wander at the morning hour,
    To hail with me the blest return of May;
Or linger sweetly in the woodbine bower,
    When early dews begem the weeping spray;
Ah! soon her cheek the lovely mantling bloom
    Of sprightly youth and pleasure would disclose,
Her lip the smile of Hebe would resume,
    And wear the blushes of the vernal rose;
And soon would cherub health with lively grace,
Beam in her eye and animate her face.

SONNET.

I LOVE to hail the mild, the balmy hour,
    When evening spreads around her twilight veil;
When dews descend on every languid flower,
    And sweet and tranquil is the summer gale.
Then let me wander by the peaceful tide,
    While o'er the wave the breezes lightly play;
To hear the waters murmur as they glide,
    To mark the fading smile of closing day.
There let me linger, blest in visions dear,
    Till the soft moonbeams tremble on the seas;
While melting sounds decay on fancy's ear,
    Of airy music floating on the breeze.
For still when evening sheds the genial dews,
That pensive hour is sacred to the muse.

SONNET.

WHERE nature's grand romantic charms invite
    The glowing rapture of the soul refined;
    In scenes like these the young poetic mind
May court the dreams of fancy with delight;
And dear to those by every muse inspired,
    The rural landscape and the prospect fair;
They love, in mountain solitudes retired,
    To own illusions that may banish care.
These gentle visions ever shall remain,
    To soothe the poet in his pensive hours;
    For him shall Fancy cull Piërian flowers,
And strew her garlands o'er the path of pain;
For him shall Memory shed her pensive ray,
O'er the soft hours of life's enchanting May.

I.

    OH! who hath trod thy consecrated clime,
    Fair land of Phidias! theme of lofty strains!
    And traced each scene, that, 'midst the wracks of time,
    The print of Glory's parting step retains;
    Nor for awhile, in high-wrought dreams, forgot,
    Musing on years gone by in brightness there,
    The hopes, the fears, the sorrows of his lot,
    The hues his fate hath worn, or yet may wear;
    As when, from mountain-heights, his ardent eye
Of sea and heaven hath tracked the blue infinity?

II.

    Is there who views with cold unaltered mien,
    His frozen heart with proud indifference fraught,
    Each sacred haunt, each unforgotten scene,
    Where Freedom triumphed, or where Wisdom taught?
    Souls that too deeply feel! oh, envy not
    The sullen calm your fate hath never known:
    Through the dull twilight of that wintry lot
    Genius ne'er pierced, nor Fancy's sunbeam shone,
    Nor those high thoughts that, hailing Glory's trace,
Glow with the generous flames of every age and race.

III.

    But blest the wanderer, whose enthusiast mind
    Each muse of ancient days hath deep imbued
    With lofty lore; and all his thoughts refined
    In the calm school of silent solitude;
    Poured on his ear, 'midst groves and glens retired,
    The mighty strains of each illustrious clime,
    All that hath lived, while empires have expired,
    To float for ever on the winds of Time;
    And on his soul indelibly portrayed
Fair visionary forms, to fill each classic shade.

IV.

    Is not his mind, to meaner thoughts unknown,
    A sanctuary of beauty and of light?
    There he may dwell, in regions all his own,
    A world of dreams, where all is pure and bright.
    For him the scenes of old renown possess
    Romantic charms, all veiled from other eyes;
    There every form of nature's loveliness
    Wakes in his breast a thousand sympathies;
    As music's voice, in some lone mountain-dell,
From rocks and caves around calls forth each echo's swell.

V.

    For him Italia's brilliant skies illume
    The bard's lone haunts, the warrior's combat-plains,
    And the wild-rose yet lives to breathe and bloom
    Round Doric Paestum's solitary fanes.
    But most, fair Greece! on thy majestic shore
    He feels the fervours of his spirit rise;
    Thou birth-place of the Muse! whose voice, of yore,
    Breathed in thy groves immortal harmonies;
    And lingers still around the well-known coast,
Murmuring a wild farewell to fame and freedom lost.

VI.

    By seas, that flow in brightness as they lave
    Thy rocks, th' enthusiast, rapt in thought, may stray,
    While roves his eye o'er that deserted wave,
    Once the proud scene of battle's dread array.
    —O ye blue waters! ye of old that bore
    The free, the conquering, hymned by choral strains,
    How sleep ye now around the silent shore,
    The lonely realm of ruins and of chains!
    How are the mighty vanished in their pride!
E'en as their barks have left no traces on your tide.

VII.

    Hushed are the pæans whose exulting tone
    Swelled o'er that tide—the sons of battle sleep—
    The wind's wild sigh, the halcyon's voice, alone
    Blend with the plaintive murmur of the deep.
    Yet when those waves have caught the splendid hues
    Of morn's rich firmament, serenely bright,
    Or setting suns the lovely shore suffuse
    With all their purple mellowness of light,
    Oh! who could view the scene, so calmly fair,
Nor dream that peace, and joy, and liberty were there?

VIII.

    Where soft the sunbeams play, the zephyrs blow,
    'Tis hard to deem that misery can be nigh;
    Where the clear heavens in blue transparence glow,
    Life should be calm and cloudless as the sky;
    —Yet, o'er the low, dark dwellings of the dead,
    Verdure and flowers in summer-bloom may smile,
    And ivy-boughs their graceful drapery spread
    In green luxuriance o'er the ruined pile;
    And mantling woodbine veil the withered tree;
And thus it is, fair land, forsaken Greece! with thee.

IX.

    For all the loveliness, and light, and bloom
    That yet are thine, surviving many a storm,
    Are but as heaven's warm radiance on the tomb,
    The rose's blush that masks the canker-worm:—
    And thou art desolate—thy morn hath passed
    So dazzling in the splendour of its way,
    That the dark shades the night hath o'er thee cast
    Throw tenfold gloom around thy deep decay.
    Once proud in freedom, still in ruin fair,
Thy fate hath been unmatched—in glory and despair.

X.

    For thee, lost land! the hero's blood hath flowed,
    The high in soul have brightly lived and died;
    For thee the light of soaring genius glowed
    O'er the fair arts it formed and glorified.
    Thine were the minds whose energies sublime
    So distanced ages in their lightning-race,
    The task they left the sons of later time
    Was but to follow their illumined trace.
    —Now, bowed to earth, thy children, to be free,
Must break each link that binds their filial hearts to thee.

XI.

    Lo! to the scenes of fiction's wildest tales,
    Her own bright East, thy son, Morea! flies,
    To seek repose 'midst rich, romantic vales,
    Whose incense mounts to Asia's vivid skies.
    There shall he rest?—Alas! his hopes in vain
    Guide to the sun-clad regions of the palm,
    Peace dwells not now on oriental plain,
    Though earth is fruitfulness, and air is balm;
    And the sad wanderer finds but lawless foes,
Where patriarchs reigned of old, in pastoral repose.

XII.

    Where Syria's mountains rise, or Yemen's groves,
    Or Tigris rolls his genii-haunted wave,
    Life to his eye, as wearily it roves,
    Wears but two forms—the tyrant and the slave!
    There the fierce Arab leads his daring horde,
    Where sweeps the sandstorm o'er the burning wild;
    There stern Oppression waves the wasting sword,
    O'er plains that smile, as ancient Eden smiled;
    And the vale's bosom, and the desert's gloom,
Yield to the injured there no shelter save the tomb.

XIII.

    But thou, fair world! whose fresh unsullied charms
    Welcomed Columbus from the western wave,
    Wilt thou receive the wanderer to thine arms,
    The lost descendant of the immortal brave?
    Amidst the wild magnificence of shades
    That o'er thy floods their twilight-grandeur east,
    In the green depth of thine untrodden glades,
    Shall he not rear his bower of peace at last?
    Yes! thou hast many a lone, majestic scene,
Shrined in primæval woods, where despot ne'er hath been

XIV.

    There by some lake, whose blue expansive breast
    Bright from afar, an inland-ocean, gleams,
    Girt with vast solitudes, profusely drest
    In tints like those that float o'er poet's dreams;
    Or where some flood from pine-clad mountain pours
    Its might of waters, glittering in their foam,
    'Midst the rich verdure of its wooded shores,
    The exiled Greek hath fixed his sylvan home:
    So deeply lone, that round the wild retreat
Scarce have the paths been trod by Indian huntsman's feet.

XV.

    The forests are around him in their pride,
    The green savannas, and the mighty waves;
    And isles of flowers, bright-floating o'er the tide,
    That images the fairy worlds it laves,
    And stillness and luxuriance—o'er his head
    The ancient cedars wave their peopled bowers,
    On high the palms their graceful foliage spread,
    Cinctured with roses the magnolia towers,
    And from those green arcades a thousand tones
Wake with each breeze, whose voice through Nature's temple moans.

XVI.

    And there, no traces left by brighter days,
    For glory lost may wake a sigh of grief,
    Some grassy mound perchance may meet his gaze,
    The lone memorial of an Indian chief.
    There man not yet hath marked the boundless plain
    With marble records of his fame and power;
    The forest is his everlasting fane,
    The palm his monument, the rock his tower:
    Th' eternal torrent and the giant tree
Remind him but that they, like him, are wildly free.

XVII.

    But doth the exile's heart serenely there
    In sunshine dwell?—Ah! when was exile blest?
    When did bright scenes, clear heavens, or summer air,
    Chase from his soul the fever of unrest?
    —There is a heart-sick weariness of mood,
    That like slow poison wastes the vital glow,
    And shrines itself in mental solitude,
    An uncomplaining and a nameless woe,
    That coldly smiles 'midst pleasure's brightest ray,
As the chill glacier's peak reflects the flush of day.

XVIII.

    Such grief is theirs, who, fixed on foreign shore,
    Sigh for the spirit of their native gales,
    As pines the seaman, 'midst the ocean's roar,
    For the green earth, with all its woods and vales.
    Thus feels thy child, whose memory dwells with thee,
    Loved Greece! all sunk and blighted as thou art;
    Though thought and step in western wilds be free,
    Yet thine are still the day-dreams of his heart
    The deserts spread between, the billows foam,
Thou, distant and in chains, art yet his spirit's home.

XIX.

    In vain for him the gay liannes entwine,
    Or the green firefly sparkles through the brakes,
    Or summer winds waft odours from the pine,
    As eve's last blush is dying on the lakes.
    Through thy fair vales his fancy roves the while,
    Or breathes the freshness of Cithæron's height,
    Or dreams how softly Athens' towers would smile,
    Or Sunium's ruins, in the fading light;
    On Corinth's cliff what sunset hues may sleep,
Or, at that placid hour, how calm th' Ægean deep!

XX.

    What scenes, what sunbeams, are to him like thine?
    (The all of thine no tyrant could destroy!)
    E'en to the stranger's roving eye they shine,
    Soft as a vision of remembered joy.
    And he who comes, the pilgrim of a day,
    A passing wanderer o'er each Attic hill,
    Sighs as his footsteps turn from thy decay,
    To laughing climes, where all is splendour still;
    And views with fond regret thy lessening shore,
As he would watch a star that sets to rise no more

XXI.

    Realm of sad beauty! thou art as a shrine
    That Fancy visits with Devotion's zeal,
    To catch high thoughts and impulses divine,
    And all the glow of soul enthusiasts feel
    Amidst the tombs of heroes—for the brave
    Whose dust, so many an age, hath been thy soil,
    Foremost in honour's phalanx, died to save
    The land redeemed and hallowed by their toil;
    And there is language in thy lightest gale,
That o'er the plains they won, seems murmuring yet their tale.

XXII.

    And he whose heart is weary of the strife
    Of meaner spirits, and whose mental gaze
    Would shun the dull cold littleness of life,
    Awhile to dwell amidst sublimer days,
    Must turn to thee, whose every valley teems
    With proud remembrances that cannot die.
    Thy glens are peopled with inspiring dreams,
    Thy winds, the voice of oracles gone by;
    And 'midst thy laurel shades the wanderer hears
The sound of mighty names, the hymns of vanished years.

XXIII.

    Through that deep solitude be his to stray,
    By Faun and Oread loved in ages past,
    Where clear Peneus winds his rapid way
    Through the cleft heights, in antique grandeur vast.
    Romantic Tempe! thou art yet the same—
    Wild, as when sung by bards of elder time:
    Years, that have changed thy river's classic name,*
    Have left thee still in savage pomp sublime;
    And from thine Alpine clefts and marble caves,
In living lustre still break forth the fountain-waves.

XXIV.

    Beneath thy mountain battlements and towers,
    Where the rich arbute's coral berries glow,
    Or midst th' exuberance of thy forest bowers,
    Casting deep shadows o'er the current's flow,
    Oft shall the pilgrim pause, in lone recess,
    As rock and stream some glancing light have caught,
    And gaze, till Nature's mighty forms impress
    His soul with deep sublimity of thought;
    And linger oft, recalling many a tale,
That breeze, and wave, and wood, seem whispering through thy dale.

XXV.

    He, thought-entranced, may wander where of old
    From Delphi's chasm the mystic vapour rose,
    And trembling nations heard their doom foretold
    By the dread spirit throned 'midst rocks and snows.
    Though its rich fanes be blended with the dust,
    And silence now the hallowed haunt possess,
    Still is the scene of ancient rites august.
    Magnificent in mountain loneliness;
    Still Inspiration hovers o'er the ground,
Where Greece her councils held, her Pythian victors crowned.

XXVI.

    Or let his steps the rude grey cliffs explore
    Of that wild pass, once dyed with Spartan blood,
    When by the waves that break on Œta's shore,
    The few, the fearless, the devoted stood!
    Or rove where, shadowing Mantinea's plain,
    Bloom the wild laurels o'er the war-like dead,
    Or lone Platæa's ruins yet remain
    To mark the battle-field of ages fled:
    Still o'er such scenes presides a sacred power,
Though Fiction's gods have fled from fountain, grot, and bower.

XXVII.

    Oh! still unblamed may fancy fondly deem
    That, lingering yet, benignant genii dwell,
    Where mortal worth has hallowed grove or stream,
    To sway the heart with some ennobling spell;
    For mightiest minds have felt their blest control,
    In the wood's murmur, in the zephyr's sigh,
    And these are dreams that lend a voice and soul,
    And a high power, to Nature's majesty!

[Note *:]

The Peneus is now called Salympria.

    And who can rove o'er Grecian shores, nor feel,
Soft o'er his inmost heart, their secret magic steal?

XXVIII.

    Yet many a sad reality is there,
    That Fancy's bright illusions cannot veil.
    Pure laughs the light, and balmy breathes the air,
    But Slavery's mien will tell its bitter tale;
    And there not Peace, but Desolation, throws
    Delusive quiet o'er full many a scene,
    Deep as the brooding torpor of repose
    That follows where the earthquake's track hath been;
    Or solemn calm, on Ocean's breast that lies,
When sinks the storm, and death has hushed the seaman's cries.

XXIX.

    Hast thou beheld some sovereign spirit, hurled
    By Fate's rude tempest from its radiant sphere,
    Doomed to resign the homage of a world,
    For Pity's deepest sigh, and saddest tear?
    Oh! hast thou watched the awful wreck of mind,
    That weareth still a glory in decay?
    Seen all that dazzles and delights mankind—
    Thought, science, genius, to the storm a prey,
    And o'er the blasted tree, the withered ground,
Despair's wild nightshade spread, and darkly flourish round?

XXX.

    So mayst thou gaze, in sad and awestruck thought,
    On the deep fall of that yet lovely clime:
    Such there the ruin Time and Fate have wrought,
    So changed the bright, the splendid, the sublime.
    There the proud monuments of Valour's name,
    The mighty works Ambition piled on high,
    The rich remains by Art bequeathed to Fame—
    Grace, beauty, grandeur, strength, and symmetry,
    Blend in decay; while all that yet is fair
Seems only spared to tell how much hath perished there!

XXXI.

    There, while around lie mingling in the dust
    The column's graceful shaft, with weeds o'ergrown,
    The mouldering torso, the forgotten bust,
    The warrior's urn, the altar's mossy stone;
    Amidst the loneliness of shattered fanes,
    Still matchless monuments of other years,
    O'er cypress groves, or solitary plains,
    Its eastern form the minaret proudly rears:
    As on some captive city's mined wall
The victor's banner waves, exulting o'er its fall.

XXXII.

    Still, where that column of the mosque aspires,
    Landmark of slavery, towering o'er the waste,
    There Science droops, the Muses hush their lyres
    And o'er the blooms of fancy and of taste
    Spreads the chill blight,—as in that orient isle,
    Where the dark upas taints the gale around,
    Within its precincts not a flower may smile,
    Nor dew nor sunshine fertilize the ground;
    Nor wild birds' music float on zephyr's breath,
But all is silence round, and solitude, and death.

XXXIII.

    Far other influence poured the Crescent's light
    O'er conquered realms, in ages passed away;
    Full and alone it beamed, intensely bright,
    While distant climes in midnight darkness lay.
    Then rose th' Alhambra, with its founts and shades,
    Fair marble halls, alcoves, and orange bowers:
    Its sculptured lions, richly wrought arcades,
    Aerial pillars, and enchanted towers;
    Light, splendid, wild, as some Arabian
Would picture fairy domes, that fleet before the gale.

XXXIV.

    Then fostered genius lent each Caliph's throne
    Lustre barbaric pomp could ne'er attain;
    And stars unnumbered o'er the orient shone,
    Bright as that Pleïad, sphered in Mecca's fane.*
    From Bagdat's palaces the choral strains
    Rose and re-echoed to the desert's bound,

[Note *:]

The works of the seven most famous Arabian poets are hung round the mosque at Mecca, and are called the Arabian Pleïades.

    And Science, wooed-on Egypt's burning plains,
    Reared her majestic head with glory crowned;
    And the wild Muses breathed romantic lore
From Syria's palmy groves to Andalusia's shore.

XXXV.

    Those years have passed in radiance—they have past
    As sinks the day-star in the tropic main;
    His parting beams no soft reflection cast,
    They burn—are quenched—and deepest shadows reign.
    And Fame and Science have not left a trace,
    In the vast regions of the Moslem's power,—
    Regions, to intellect a desert space,
    A wild without a fountain or a flower,
    Where towers oppression 'midst the deepening glooms,
As dark and lone ascends the cypress 'midst the tombs.

XXXVI.

    Alas for thee, fair Greece! when Asia poured
    Her, fierce fanatics to Byzantium's wall;
    When Europe sheathed, in apathy, her sword,
    And heard unmoved the fated city's call.
    No bold crusaders ranged their serried line
    Of spears and banners round a falling throne;
    And thou, O last and noblest Constantine!
    Didst meet the storm unshrinking and alone.
    Oh! blest to die in freedom, though in vain,
Thine empire's proud exchange the grave, and not the chain!

XXXVII.

    Hushed is Byzantium—'tis the dead of night—
    The closing night of that imperial race!
    And all is vigil—but the eye of light
    Shall soon unfold, a wilder scene to trace!
    There is a murmuring stillness on the train
    Thronging the midnight streets, at morn to die;
    And to the cross, in fair Sophia's fane,
    For the last time is raised Devotion's eye;
    And, in his heart while faith's bright visions rise,
There kneels the high-sealed prince, the summoned of the skies.

XXXVIII.

    Day breaks in light and glory—'tis the hour
    Of conflict and of fate—the war-note calls—
    Despair hath lent a stern, delirious power
    To the brave few that guard the rampart walls.
    Far over Marmora's waves th' artillery's peal
    Proclaims an empire's doom in every note;
    Tambour and trumpet swell the clash of steel,
    Round spire and dome the clouds of battle float;
    From camp and wave rush on the Crescent's host,
And the Seven Towers are scaled, and all is won and lost.

XXXIX.

    Then, Greece! the tempest rose, that burst on thee,
    Land of the bard, the warrior, and the sage!
    Oh! where were then thy sons, the great, the free,
    Whose deeds are guiding-stars from age to age?
    Though firm thy battlements of crags and snows,
    And bright the memory of thy days of pride,
    In mountain might though Corinth's fortress rose,
    On, unresisted, rolled th' invading tide!
    Oh! vain the rock, the rampart, and the tower,
If Freedom guard them not with Mind's unconquered power.

XL.

    Where were th' avengers then, whose viewless might
    Preserved inviolate their awful fane,
    When through the steep defiles to Delphi's height,
    In martial splendour poured the Persian's train?
    Then did those mighty and mysterious Powers,
    Armed with the elements, to vengeance wake,
    Call the dread storms to darken round their towers,
    Hurl down the rocks, and bid the thunders break;
    Till far around, with deep and fearful clang,
Sounds of unearthly war through wild Parnassus rang.

XLI.

    Where was the spirit of the victor-throng
    Whose tombs axe glorious by Scamander's tide,
    Whose names are bright in everlasting song,
    The lords of war, the praised, the deified?

XLII.

    Ye slept, O heroes! chief ones of the earth!
    High demi-gods of ancient days! ye slept.
    There lived no spark of your ascendent worth,
    When o'er your land the victor Moslem swept;
    No patriot then the sons of freedom led,
    In mountain-pass devotedly to die;
    The martyr-spirit of resolve was fled,
    And the high soul's unconquered buoyancy;
    And by your graves, and on your battle-plains,
Warriors! your children knelt, to wear the stranger's chains.

XLIII.

    Now have your trophies vanished, and your homes
    Are mouldered from the earth, while scarce remain
    E'en the faint traces of the ancient tombs
    That mark where sleep the slayers or the slain.
    Your deeds are with the days of glory flown,
    The lyres are hushed that swelled your fame afar,
    The halls that echoed to their sounds are gone,
    Perished the conquering weapons of your war;
    And if a mossy stone your names retain,
'Tis but to tell your sons, for them ye died in vain.

XLIV.

    Yet, where some lone sepulchral relic stands,
    That with those names tradition hallows yet,
    Oft shall the wandering son of other lands
    Linger in solemn thought and hushed regret.
    And still have legends marked the lonely spot
    Where low the dust of Agamemnon lies;
    And shades of kings and leaders unforgot,
    Hovering around, to Fancy's visions rise
    Souls of the heroes! seek your rest again,
Nor mark how changed the realms that saw your glory's reign.

XLV.

    Lo, where th' Albanian spreads his despot sway
    O'er Thessaly's rich vales and glowing plains,
    Whose sons in sullen abjectness obey,
    Nor lift the hand indignant at its chains:
    Oh! doth the land that gave Achilles birth,
    And many a chief of old illustrious line.
    Yield not one spirit of unconquered worth,
    To kindle those that now in bondage pine?
    No! on its mountain-air is slavery's breath,
And terror chills the hearts whose uttered plaints were death.

XLVI.

    Yet if thy light, fair Freedom, rested there,
    How rich in charms were that romantic clime,
    With streams, and woods, and pastoral valleys fair,
    And walled with mountains, haughtily sublime!
    Heights that might well be deemed the Muses' reign,
    Since claiming proud alliance with the skies,
    They lose in loftier spheres their wild domain.
    Meet home for those retired divinities
    That love, where nought of earth may e'er intrude,
Brightly to dwell on high, in lonely sanctitude.

XLVII.

    There in rude grandeur daringly ascends
    Stern Pindus, rearing many a pine-clad height;
    He with the clouds his bleak dominion blends,
    Frowning o'er vales in woodland verdure bright.
    Wild and august in consecrated pride,
    There through the deep-blue heaven Olympus towers,
    Girdled with mists, light-floating as to hide
    The reck-built palace of immortal powers;
    Where far on high the sunbeam finds repose,
Amidst th' eternal pomp of forests and of snows.

XLVIII.

    Those savage cliffs and solitudes might seem
    The chosen haunts where Freedom's foot would ream;
    She loves to dwell by glen and torrent-stream,
    And make the rocky fastnesses her home.

XLIX.

    But from those hills the radiance of her smile
    Hath vanished long, her step hath fled afar
    O'er Suli's frowning rocks she paused awhile,
    Kindling the watch-fires of the mountain-war.
    And brightly glowed her ardent spirit there,
    Still brightest 'midst privation: o'er distress
    It cast romantic splendour, and despair
    But fanned that beacon of the wilderness;
    And rude ravine, and precipice, and dell,
Sent their deep echoes forth, her rallying voice to swell.

L.

    Dark children of the hills! 'twas then ye wrought
    Deeds of fierce daring, rudely, stormy grand;
    As 'midst your craggy citadels ye fought,
    And women mingled with your warrior-band.
    Then on the cliff the frantic mother stood
    High o'er the river's darkly-rolling wave,
    And hurled, in dread delirium, to the flood,
    Her free-born infant, ne'er to be a slave.
    For all was lost—all, save the power to die
The wild indignant death of savage liberty.

LI.

    Now is that strife a tale of vanished days,
    With mightier things forgotten soon to lie;
    Yet oft hath minstrel sung, in lofty lays,
    Deeds less adventurous, energies less high.
    And the dread struggle's fearful memory still
    O'er each wild rock a wilder aspect throws;
    Sheds darker shadows o'er the frowning hill,
    More solemn quiet o'er the glen's repose;
    Lends to the rustling pines a deeper moan,
And the hoarse river's voice a murmur not its own.

LII.

    For stillness now—the stillness of the dead,
    Hath wrapt that conflict's lone and awful scene,
    And man's forsaken homes, in ruin spread,
    Tell where the storming of the cliffs hath been.
    And there, o'er wastes magnificently rude,
    What race may rove, unconscious of the chain?
    Those realms have now no desert unsubdued,
    Where Freedom's banner may be reared again:
    Sunk are the ancient dwellings of her fame,
The children of her sons inherit but their name.

LIII.

    Go, seek proud Sparta's monuments and fanes!
    In scattered fragments o'er the vale they lie;
    Of all they were not e'en enough remains
    To lend their fall a mournful majesty.
    Birth-place of those whose names we first revered
    In song and story—temple of the free!
    O thou, the stern, the haughty, and the feared,
    Are such thy relics, and can this be thee?
    Thou shouldst have left a giant wreck behind,
And e'en in ruin claimed the wonder of mankind.

LIV.

    For thine were spirits cast in other mould
    Than all beside—and proved by ruder test;
    They stood alone—the proud, the firm, the bold,
    With the same seal indelibly imprest.
    Theirs were no bright varieties of mind;
    One image stamped the rough, colossal race,
    In rugged grandeur frowning o'er mankind,
    Stern, and disdainful of each milder grace;
    As to the sky some mighty rock may tower,
Whose front can brave the storm, but will not rear the flower.

LV.

Such were thy sons—their life a battle-day!
Their youth one lesson how for thee to die!
Closed is that task and they have passed away
Like softer beings trained to aims less high.

LVI.

    Hadst thou but perished with the free, nor known
    A second race, when Glory's noon went by,
    Then had thy name in single brightness shone
    A watch-word on the helm of liberty!
    Thou shouldst have passed, with all thy light of fame,
    And proudly sunk in ruins, not in chains.
    But slowly set thy star midst clouds of shame,
    And tyrants rose amidst thy falling fanes;
    And thou, surrounded by thy warriors' graves,
Hast drained the bitter cup once mingled for thy slaves.

LVII.

    Now all is o'er—for thee alike are flown
    Freedom's bright noon, and Slavery's twilight cloud;
    And in thy fall, as in thy pride, alone,
    Deep solitude is round thee, as a shroud.
    Home of Leonidas! thy halls are low,
    From their cold altars have thy Lares fled,
    O'er thee unmarked the sunbeams fade or glow,
    And wild-flowers wave, unbent by human tread;
    And midst thy silence, as the grave's profound,
A voice, a step, would seem as some unearthly sound.

LVIII.

    Taygetus still lifts his awful brow,
    High o'er the mouldering city of the dead,
    Sternly sublime; while o'er his robe of snow
    Heaven's floating tints their warm suffusions spread.
    And yet his rippling wave Eurotas leads
    By tombs and ruins o'er the silent plain,
    While, whispering there, his own wild graceful reeds
    Rise as of old, when hailed by classic strain;
    There the rose-laurels still in beauty wave,
And a frail shrub survives to bloom o'er Sparta's grave.

LIX.

    Oh, thus it is with man—a tree, a flower,
    While nations perish, still renews its race,
    And o'er the fallen records of his power
    Spreads in wild pomp, or smiles in fairy grace.
    The laurel shoots when those have past away,
    Once rivals for its crown, the brave, the free;
    The rose is flourishing o'er beauty's clay,
    The myrtle blows when love hath ceased to be;
    Green waves the bay when song and bard are fled,
And all that round us blooms, is blooming o'er the dead.

LX.

    And still the olive spreads its foliage round
    Morea's fallen sanctuaries and towers.
    Once its green boughs Minerva's votaries crowned,
    Deemed a meet offering for celestial powers.
    The suppliant's hand its holy branches bore;
    They waved around th' Olympic victor's head;
    And, sanctified by many a rife of yore,
    Its leaves the Spartan's honoured bier o'erspread.
    Those rites have vanished—but o'er vale and hill
Its fruitful groves arise, revered and hallowed still.

LXI.

    Where now thy shrines, Eleusis! where thy fane
    Of fearful visions, mysteries wild and high?
    The pomp of rites, the sacrifical train,
    The long procession's awful pageantry?
    Quenched is the torch of Ceres* —all around
    Decay hath spread the stillness of her reign;
    There never more shall choral hymns resound
    O'er the hushed earth and solitary main,
    Whose wave from Salamis deserted flows,
To bathe a silent shore of desolate repose.

[Note *:]

It was customary at Eleusis, on the fifth day of the festival, for men and women to run about with torches in their hands, and also to dedicate torches to Ceres, and to contend who should present the largest. This was done in memory of the journey of Ceres in search of Proserpine, during which she was lighted by a torch kindled in the flames of Etna.—PORTER'S Antiquities of Greece.

LXII.

    And oh! ye secret and terrific powers,
    Dark oracles! in depth of groves that dwelt,
    How are they sunk, the altars of your bowers,
    Where superstition trembled as she knelt!
    Ye, the unknown, the viewless ones! that made
    The elements your voice, the wind and wave;
    Spirits! whose influence darkened many a shade,
    Mysterious visitants of fount and cave!
    How long your power the awe-struck nations swayed,
How long earth dreamt of you, and shudderingly obeyed!

LXIII.

    And say, what marvel, in those early days,
    While yet the light of heaven-born truth was not;
    If man around him cast a fearful gaze,
    Peopling with shadowy powers each dell and grot?
    Awful is nature in her savage forms,
    Her solemn voice commanding in its might,
    And mystery then was in the rush of storms:
    The gloom of woods, the majesty of night;
    And mortals heard fate's language in the blast,
And reared your forest-shrines, ye phantoms of the past!

LXIV.

    Then through the foliage not a breeze might sigh
    But with prophetic sound—a waving tree,
    A meteor flashing o'er the summer sky,
    A bird's wild flight, revealed the things to be.
    All spoke of unseen natures, and conveyed
    Their inspiration; still they hovered round,
    Hallowed the temple, whispered through the shade,
    Pervaded loneliness, gave soul to sound;
    Of them the fount, the forest, murmured still,
Their voice was in the stream, their footstep on the hill.

LXV.

    Now is the train of superstition flown,
    Unearthly beings walk on earth no more;
    The deep wind swells with no portentous tone,
    The rustling wood breathes no fatidic lore.
    Fled are the phantoms of Livadia's cave,
    There dwell no shadows, but of crag and steep;
    Fount of Oblivion! in thy gushing wave,
    That murmurs nigh, those powers of terror sleep.
    Oh! that such dreams alone had fled that clime,
But Greece is changed in all that could be changed by time!

LXVI.

    Her skies are those whence many a mighty bard
    Caught inspiration, glorious as their beams;
    Her hills the same that heroes died to guard,
    Her vales, that fostered Art's divinest dreams!
    But that bright spirit o'er the land that shone,
    And all around pervading influence poured,
    That lent the harp of Æschylus its tone,
    And proudly hallowed Lacedæmon's sword,
    And guided Phidias o'er the yielding stone,
With them its ardours lived—with them its light is flown.

LXVII.

    Thebes, Corinth, Argos!—ye, renowned of old,
    Where are your chiefs of high romantic name?
    How soon the tale of ages may be told!
    A page, a verse, records the fall of fame,
    The work of centuries—we gaze on you,
    Oh, cities! once the glorious and the free,
    The lofty tales that charmed our youth renew,
    And wondering ask, if these their scenes could be?
    Search for the classic fane, the regal tomb,
And find the mosque alone—a record of their doom!

LXVIII.

    How oft hath war his host of spoilers poured,
    Fair Elis! o'er thy consecrated vales?
    There have the sunbeams glanced on spear and sword,
    And banners floated on the balmy gales.
    Once didst thou smile, secure in sanctitude,
    As some enchanted isle mid stormy seas;
    On thee no hostile footstep might intrude,
    And pastoral sounds alone were on thy breeze.

LXIX.

    And through Arcadia's wild and lone retreats
    Far other sounds have echoed than the strain
    Of faun and dryad, from their woodland seats,
    Or ancient reed of peaceful mountain-swain!
    There, though at times Alpheus yet surveys,
    On his green banks renewed, the classic dance,
    And nymph-like forms, and wild melodious lays,
    Revive the sylvan scenes of old romance
    Yet brooding fear and dark suspicion dwell,
'Midst Pan's deserted haunts, by fountain, cave, and dell.

LXX.

    But thou, fair Attica! whose rocky bound
    All art and nature's richest gifts enshrined,
    Thou little sphere, whose soul-illumined round
    Concentrated each sunbeam of the mind
    Who, as the summit of some Alpine height
    Glows earliest, latest with the blush of day,
    Didst first imbibe the splendours of the light,
    And smile the longest in its lingering ray;
    Oh! let us gaze on thee, and fondly deem
The past awhile restored, the present but a dream.

LXXI.

    Let Fancy's vivid hues awhile prevail—
    Wake at her call—be all thou wert once more!
    Hark, hymns of triumph swell on every gale!
    Lo, bright processions move along thy shore!
    Again thy temples, 'midst the olive-shade,
    Lovely in chaste simplicity arise;
    And graceful monuments, in grove and glade,
    Catch the warm tints of thy resplendent skies;
    And sculptured forms, of high and heavenly mien,
In their calm beauty smile, around the sun-bright scene.

LXXII.

    Again renewed by thought's creative spells,
    In all her pomp thy city, Theseus! towers:
    Within, around, the light of glory dwells
    On art's fair fabrics, wisdom's holy bowers.
    There marble fanes in finished grace ascend,
    The pencil's world of life and beauty glows;
    Shrines, pillars, porticoes, in grandeur blend,
    Rich with the trophies of barbaric foes;
    And groves of platane wave in verdant pride,
The sage's blest retreats, by calm Ilissus tide.

LXXIII.

    Bright as that fairy vision of the wave,
    Raised by the magic of Morgana's wand,
    On summer seas that undulating lave
    Romantic Sicily's Arcadian strand;
    That pictured scene of airy colonnades,
    Light palaces, in shadowy glory drest,
    Enchanted groves, and temples, and arcades,
    Gleaming and floating on the ocean's breast;
    Athens! thus fair the dream of thee appears,
As Fancy's eye pervades the veiling cloud of years.

LXXIV.

    Still be that cloud withdrawn—oh! mark on high,
    Crowning yon hill, with temples richly graced,
    That lane, august in perfect symmetry,
    The purest model of Athenian taste.
    Fair Parthenon! thy Doric pillars rise
    In simple dignity, thy marble's hue
    Unsullied shines, relieved by brilliant skies,
    That round thee spread their deep ethereal blue;
    And art o'er all thy light proportions throws
The harmony of grace, the beauty of repose.

LXXV.

    And lovely o'er thee sleeps the sunny glow,
    When morn and eve in tranquil splendour reign,
    And on thy sculptures, as they smile, bestow
    Hues that the pencil emulates in vain.
    Then the fair forms by Phidias wrought, unfold
    Each latent grace, developing in light;
    Catch from soft clouds of purple and of gold,
    Each tint that passes, tremulously bright;
    And seem indeed whate'er devotion deems,
While so suffused with heaven, so mingling with its beams.

LXXVI.

    But oh! what words the vision may portray,
    The form of sanctitude that guards thy shrine?
    There stands thy goddess, robed in war's array,
    Supremely glorious, awfully divine.
    With spear and helm she stands, and flowing vest,
    And sculptured ægis, to perfection wrought,
    And on each heavenly lineament imprest,
    Calmly sublime, the majesty of thought;
    The pure intelligence, the chaste repose,
All that a poets dream around Minerva throws.

LXXVII.

    Bright age of Pericles! let fancy still.
    Through time's deep shadows all thy splendour trace,
    And in each work of art's consummate skill
    Hail the free spirit of thy lofty race.
    That spirit, roused by every proud reward
    That hope could picture, glory could bestow,
    Fostered by all the sculptor and the bard
    Could give of immortality below.
    Thus were thy heroes formed, and o'er their name,
Thus did thy genius shed imperishable fame.

LXXVIII.

    Mark in the thronged Ceramicus, the train
    Of mourners weeping o'er the martyred brave:
    Proud be the tears devoted to the slain,
    Holy the amaranth strewed upon their grave!
    And hark—unrivalled eloquence proclaims
    Their deeds, their trophies with triumphant voice!
    Hark—Pericles records their honoured names!
    Sons of the fallen in their lot rejoice:
    What hath life brighter than so bright a doom?
What power hath fate to soil the garlands of the tomb?

LXXIX.

    Praise to the valiant dead! for them doth art
    Exhaust her skill, their triumphs bodying forth;
    Theirs are enshrined names, and every heart.
    Shall bear the blazoned impress of their worth
    Bright on the dreams of youth their fame shall rise,
    Their fields of fight shall epic song record;
    And, when the voice of battle rends the skies,
    Their name shall be their country's rallying word!
    While face and column rise august to tell
How Athens honours those for her who proudly fell.

LXXX.

    City of Theseus! bursting on the mind,
    Thus dost thou rise, in all thy glory fled!
    Thus guarded by the mighty of mankind,
    Thus hallowed by the memory of the dead:
    Alone in beauty and renown—a scene
    Whose tints are drawn from freedom's loveliest ray.
    'Tis but a vision now—yet thou hast been
    More than the brightest vision might portray;
    And every stone, with but a vestige fraught
Of thee, hath latent power to wake some lofty thought.

LXXXI.

    Fallen are thy fabrics, that so oft have rung
    To choral melodies, and tragic lore;
    Now is the lyre of Sophocles unstrung,
    The song that hailed Harmodius peals no more.
    Thy proud Piræus is a desert strand,
    Thy stately shrines are mouldering on their hill,
    Closed are the triumphs of the sculptor's hand,
    The magic voice of eloquence is still;
    Minerva's veil is rent—her image gone,
Silent the sage's bower—the warrior's tomb o'erthrown.

LXXXII.

    Yet in decay thine exquisite remains
    Wondering we view, and silently revere,
    As traces left on earth's forsaken plains
    By vanished beings of a nobler sphere?
    Not all the old magnificence of Rome,
    All that dominion there hath left to time,
    Proud Coliseum, or commanding dome,
    Triumphal arch, or obelisk sublime,
    Can bid such reverence o'er the spirit steal,
As aught by thee imprest with beauty's plastic seal.

LXXXIII.

    Though still the empress of the sunburnt waste,
    Palmyra rises, desolately grand—

LXXXIV.

    Thou led'st the way to that illumined sphere
    Where sovereign beauty dwells; and thence didst bear,
    Oh, still triumphant in that high career
    Bright archetypes of all the grand and fair.
    And still to thee th' enlightened mind hath flown
    As to her country,—thou hast been to earth
    A cynosure,—and, e'en from victory's throne,
    Imperial Rome gave homage to thy worth;
    And nations, rising to their fame afar,
Still to thy model turn, as seamen to their star.

LXXXV.

    Glory to those whose relics thus arrest
    The gaze of ages! Glory to the free!
    For they, they only, could have thus imprest
    Their mighty image on the years to be!
    Empires and cities in oblivion lie,
    Grandeur may vanish, conquest be forgot,—
    To leave on earth renown that cannot die,
    Of high-souled genius is th' unrivalled lot.
    Honour to thee, O Athens! thou hast shown
What mortals may attain, and seized the palm alone.

LXXXVI.

    Oh! live there those who view with scornful eyes
    All that attests the brightness of thy prime?
    Yes; they who dwell beneath thy lovely skies,
    And breathe th' inspiring ether of thy clime!
    Their path is o'er the mightiest of the dead,
    Their homes are 'midst the works of noblest arts;
    Yet all around their gaze, beneath their tread.
    Not one proud thrill of loftier thought imparts.
    Such are the conquerors of Minerva's land,
Where Genius first revealed the triumphs of his hand!

LXXXVII.

    For them in vain the glowing light may smile
    O'er the pale marble, colouring's warmth to shed,
    And in chaste beauty many a sculptured pile
    Still o'er the dust of heroes lift its head.
    No patriot feeling binds them to the soil,
    Whose tombs and shrines their fathers have not reared;
    Their glance is cold indifference, and their toil
    But to destroy what ages have revered,
    As if exulting sternly to erase
Whate'er might prove that land had nursed a nobler race.

LXXXVIII.

    And who may grieve that, rescued from their hands,
    Spoilers of excellence and foes to art,
    Thy relics, Athens! borne to other lands,
    Claim homage still to thee from every heart?
    Though now no more th' exploring stranger's sight,
    Fixed in deep reverence on Minerva's fane,
    Shall hail, beneath their native heaven of light,
    All that remained of forms adored in vain;
    A few short years—and, vanished from the scene,
To blend with classic dust their proudest lot had been.

LXXXIX.

    Fair Parthenon! yet still must Fancy weep
    For thee, thou work of nobler spirits flown.
    Bright, as of old, the sunbeams o'er thee sleep
    In all their beauty, still—and thine is gone!
    Empires have sunk since thou wert first revered,
    And varying rites have sanctified thy shrine.
    The dust is round thee of the race that reared
    Thy walls; and thou—their fate must soon be thine!
    But when shall earth again exult to see
Visions divine like theirs renewed in aught like thee?

XC.

    Lone are thy pillars now—each passing gale
    Sighs o'er them as a spirit's voice, which moaned
    That loneliness, and told the plaintive tale
    Of the bright synod once above them throned.
    Mourn, graceful ruin! on thy sacred hill,
    Thy gods, thy rites, a kindred fate have shared:
    Yet art thou honoured in each fragment still
    That wasting years and barbarous hands had spared;
    Each hallowed stone, from rapine's fury borne,
Shall wake bright dreams of thee in ages yet unborn.

XCI.

    Yes! in those fragments, though by time defaced,
    And rude insensate conquerors, yet remains
    All that may charm th' enlightened eye of taste,
    On shores where still inspiring freedom reigns.
    As vital fragrance breathes from every part
    Of the crashed myrtle, or the bruised rose,
    E'en thus th' essential energy of art
    There in each wreck imperishably glows!
    The soul of Athens lives in every line,
Pervading brightly still the ruins of her shrine.

XCII.

    Mark—on the storied frieze the graceful train,
    The holy festival's triumphal throng,
    In fair procession, to Minerva's fane,
    With many a sacred symbol, move along.
    There every shade of bright existence trace,
    The fire of youth, the dignity of age;
    The matron's calm austerity of grace,
    The ardent warrior, the benignant sage;
    The nymph's light symmetry, the chief's proud mien—
Each ray of beauty caught and mingled in the scene.

XCIII.

    Art unobtrusive there ennobles form,
    Each pure chaste outline exquisitely flows;
    There e'en the steed, with bold expression warm,
    Is clothed with majesty, with being glows.
    One mighty mind hath harmonized the whole;
    Those varied groups the same bright impress bear;
    One beam and essence of exalting soul
    Lives in the grand, the delicate, the fair;
    And well that pageant of the glorious dead
Blends us with nobler days, and loftier spirits fled.

XCIV.

    O conquering Genius! that couldst thus detain
    The subtle graces, fading as they rise,
    Eternalize expression's fleeting reign,
    Arrest warm life in all its energies,
    And fix them on the stone—thy glorious lot
    Might wake ambition's envy, and create
    Powers half divine: while nations are forgot,
    A thought, a dream of thine hath vanquished fate!
    And when thy hand first gave its wonders birth,
The realms that hail them now scarce claimed a name on earth.

XCV.

    Wert thou some spirit of a purer sphere
    But once beheld, and never to return?
    No—we may hail again thy bright career,
    Again on earth a kindred fire shall burn!
    Though thy least relics, e'en in ruin, bear
    A stamp of Heaven, that ne'er hath been renewed—
    A light inherent—let not man despair:
    Still be hope ardent, patience unsubdued:
    For still is nature fair, and thought divine.
And art hath won a world in models pure as thine.

XCVI.

    Gaze on you forms, corroded and defaced—
    Yet there the germ of future glory lies!
    Their virtual grandeur could not be erased;
    It clothes them still, though veiled from common eyes.
    They once were gods and heroes—and beheld
    As the blest guardians of their native scene;
    And hearts of warriors, sages, bards, have swelled
    With awe that owned their sovereignty of mien.
    —Ages have vanished since those hearts were cold,
And still those shattered forms retain their godlike mould.

XCVII.

    'Midst their bright kindred, from their marble throne
    They have looked down on thousand storms of time;
    Surviving power, and fame, and freedom flown,
    They still remained, still tranquilly sublime!
    Till mortal hands the heavenly conclave marred.
    Th' Olympian groups have sunk, and are forgot;

XCVIII.

    Phidias! supreme in thought! what hand but thine,
    In human works thus blending earth and heaven,
    O'er nature's truth hath shed that grace divine,
    To mortal form immortal grandeur given?
    What soul but thine, infusing all its power,
    In these last monuments of matchless days,
    Could, from their ruins, bid young Genius tower,
    And Hope aspire to more exalted praise?
    And guide deep Thought to that secluded height,
Where Excellence is throned, in purity of light?

XCIX.

    And who can tell how pure, how bright a flame,
    Caught from these models, may illume the west?
    What British Angelo may rise to fame,
    On the free isle what beams of art may rest?
    Deem not, O England! that by climes confined,
    Genius and taste diffuse a partial ray;
    Deem not th' eternal energies of mind
    Swayed by that sun whose doom is but decay!
    Shall thought be fostered but by skies serene?
No! thou hast power to be what Athens e'er hath been.

C.

    But thine are treasures oft unprized, unknown.
    And cold neglect hath blighted many a mind,
    O'er whose young ardours, had thy smile but shone,
    Their soaring flight had left a world behind!
    And many a gifted hand that might have wrought
    To Grecian excellence the breathing stone,
    Or each pure grace of Raphael's pencil caught,
    Leaving no record of its power, is gone!
    While thou hast fondly sought, on distant coast,
Gems far less rich than those, thus precious, and thus lost.

CI.

    Yet rise, O Land, in all but art alone,
    Bid the sole wreath that is not thine be won!
    Fame dwells around thee—Genius is thine own;
    Call his rich blooms to life—be Thou their Sun!
    So, should dark ages o'er thy glory sweep,
    Should thine e'er be as now are Grecian plains,
    Nations unborn shall track thine own blue deep,
    To hail thy shore, to worship thy remains;
    Thy mighty monuments with reverence trace,
And cry, "This ancient soil hath nursed a glorious race!"

1819.
THE ABENCERRAGE.

[The events with which the following tale is interwoven are related in the Historia de las Guerras Civiles de Granada. They occurred in the reign, of Abo Abdeli, or Abdali, the last Moorish king of that city, called by the Spaniards El Rey Chico. The conquest of Granada, by Ferdinand and Isabella, is said by some historians to have been greatly facilitated by the Abencerrages, whose defection was the result of the repeated injuries they had received from the king, at the instigation of the Zegris. One of the most beautiful halls of the Alhambra is pointed out as the scene where so many of the former celebrated tribe were massacred; and it still retains their name, being called the "Sala de los Abencerrages." Many of the most interesting old Spanish ballads relate to the events of this chivalrous and romantic period.]