ELEGIAC STANZAS ON THE DEATH OF SIR PETER THERE is a tear for all that die, A mourner o'er the humblest grave; cry, And Triumph weeps above the brave. For them is Sorrow's purest sigh O'er Ocean's heaving bosom sent: All earth becomes their monument ! A tomb is theirs on every page, The present hours, the future age, For them the voice of festal mirth Grows hush'd, their name the only sound; A theme to crowds that knew them not, Who would not share their glorious lot? And, gallant Parker! thus enshrined Thy life, thy fall, thy fame shall be; And early valour, glowing, find A model in thy memory. 9 [This gallant officer fell in August, 1814, in his twenty-ninth year, whilst animating on shore a party from his ship at the storming of the American camp near Baltimore. He was Lord Byron's first cousin; but they had never met since boyhood.] But there are breasts that bleed with thee In woe, that glory cannot quell; Where one so dear, so dauntless, fell. Where shall they turn to mourn thee less? While Grief's full heart is fed by Fame. Alas! for them, though not for thee, October, 1814. STANZAS FOR MUSIC.1 "O Lachrymarum fons, tenero sacros GRAY'S Poemata. THERE's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away, Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of happiness The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in vain 1 [These verses were given to Moore by Lord Byron for Mr. Power of the Strand, who published them, with beautiful music by Sir John Stevenson.-"I feel merry enough," Lord Byron wrote, "to send you a sad song. An event, the death of poor Dorset, and the recollection of what I once felt, and ought to have felt now, but could not-set me pondering, and finally into the train of thought which you have in your hands." In another letter to Moore he says, "I pique myself on these lines as being the truest though the most melancholy I ever wrote." (March, 1816.)] Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself comes down; And though the eye may sparkle still, 'tis where the ice appears. Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth distract the breast, Through midnight hours that yield no more their former hope of rest; 'Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruin'd turret wreath, All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and grey beneath. Oh, could I feel as I have felt,-or be what I have been, March, 1815. STANZAS FOR MUSIC. THERE be none of Beauty's daughters With a magic like thee; And like music on the waters Is thy sweet voice to me: When, as if its sound were causing And the lull'd winds seem dreaming: And the midnight moon is weaving With a full but soft emotion, Like the swell of Summer's ocean. ON NAPOLEON'S ESCAPE FROM ELBA. ONCE fairly set out on his party of pleasure, Making balls for the ladies, and bows to his foes. March 27, 1815. ODE FROM THE FRENCH. I. WE do not curse thee, Waterloo ! Though Freedom's blood thy plain bedew ; Rising from each gory trunk, As then shall shake the world with wonder- As o'er heaven shall then be bright'ning! By the sainted Seer of old, 2 See Rev. chap. viii. v. 7, &c. "The first angel sounded, and there followed hail and fire mingled with blood," &c. v. 8. "And the second angel sounded, and as it were a great mountain burning with fire was cast into the sea; and the third part of the sea became blood," &c. v. 10. "And the third angel sounded, and there fell a great star from heaven, burning as it were a lamp and it fell upon the third part of the rivers, and upon the fountains of waters." v. 11. "And the name of the star is called Wormwood: and the third part of the waters became wormwood; and many men died of the waters because they were made bitter." II. The Chief has fallen, but not by you, Sway'd not o'er his fellow-men- With that youthful chief competed ? Till lone Tyranny commanded? III. And thou, too, of the snow-white plume! Than sold thyself to death and shame On thy war-horse through the ranks, Once-as the Moon sways o'er the tide, It roll'd in air, the warrior's guide; 3 Murat's remains are said to have been torn from the grave and burnt. ["Poor dear Murat, what an end! His white plume used to be a rallying point in battle, like Henry the Fourth's. He refused a confessor and a bandage; so would neither suffer his soul nor body to be bandaged."-B. Letters.] |