Of living valour, rolling on the foe And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low.

Last noon heheld them full of lusty life,
Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay,
The midnight brought the signal-sound of
strife,

The morn the marshalling in arms, the day
Battle's magnificently-stern array!
The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when

rent

The earth is cover'd thick with other clay, Which her own clay shall cover, heap'd and pent,

Rider and horse,--friend, foe,-in one red burial blent!

Their praise is hymn'd by loftier harps than mine;

Yet one I would select from that proud throng,

Partly because they blend me with his line, And partly that I did his sire some wrong, And partly that bright names will hallow song;

And his was of the bravest, and when shower'd The death-bolts deadliest the thinn'd files along,

Even where the thickest of war's tempest lower'd,

They reach'd no nobler breast than thine, young, gallant Howard!

There have been tears and breaking hearts for thee,

And mine were nothing, had I such to give; But when I stood beneath the fresh green tree,

Which living waves where thou didst cease to live,

And saw around me the wide field revive With fruits and fertile promise, and the

Spring

Come forth her work of gladness to contrive, With all her reckless birds upon the wing, I turn'd from all she brought to those she could not bring.

I turn'd to thee, to thousands, of whom each
And one as all a ghastly gap did make
In his own kind and kindred, whom to teach
Forgetfulness were mercy for their sake;
The Archangel's trump, not Glory's, must
awake

Those whom they thirst for; though the sound of Fame

May for a moment soothe, it cannot slake The fever of vain longing, and the name So honour'd but assumes a stronger, bitterer

claim.

The tree will wither long before it fall; The hull drives on, though mast and sail be torn;

The roof-tree sinks, but moulders on the hall In massy hoariness; the ruin'd wall Stands when its wind-worn battlements are gone;

The bars survive the captive they enthral; The day drags through though storms keep out the sun;

And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on:

Even as a broken mirror, which the glass
In every fragment multiplies; and makes
A thousand images of one that was,
The same, and still the more, the more it
breaks;

And thus the heart will do which not forsakes,
Living in shatter'd guise, and still, and cold,
And bloodles, with its sleepless sorrow aches,
Yet withers on till all without is old,
Shewing no visible sign, for such things are
untold.

There is a very life in our despair,
Vitality of poison,-a quick root
Which feeds these deadly branches; for it

were

As nothing did we die; but Life will suit Itself to Sorrow's most detested fruit, Like to the apples on the Dead Sea's shore, All ashes to the taste: Did man compute Existence by enjoyment, and count o'er Such hours 'gainst years of life,-—say, would he name three-score?

The Psalmist number'd out the years of man: They are enough; and if thy tale be true, Thou, who didst grudge him even that fleeting span,

More than enough, thou fatal Waterloo! Millions of tongues record thee, and anew Their children's lips shall echo them, and say

"Here, where the sword united nations drew, "Our countrymen were warring on that day!" And this is much, and all which will not pass away.

There sunk the greatest, nor the worst of men,
Whose spirit antithetically mixt
One moment of the mightiest, and again
On little objects with like firmness fixt,
Extreme in all things! hadst thou been be-
twixt ;

Thy throne had still been thine, or never been;

For daring made thy rise as fall: thou seek'st Even now to re-assume the imperial mien, And shake again the world, the Thunderer of the scene!

smiling, mourn :

now

That thou art nothing, save the jest of Fame, Who woo'd thee once, thy vassal, and became The flatterer of thy fierceness, till thou

wert

A god unto thyself; nor less the same
To the astounded kingdoms all inert,
Who deem'd thee for a time whate'er thou
didst assert.

Oh, more or less than man—in high or low, Battling with nations, flying from the field; Now making monarchs' necks thy footstool,

now

More than thy meanest soldier taught to
yield;
An empire thou couldst crush, command,
rebuild,

But govern not thy pettiest passion, nor,
However deeply in men's spirits skill'd,

of war,

And there hath been thy bane; there is a fire
And motion of the soul which will not dwell
In its own narrow being, but aspire
Beyond the fitting medium of desire;
And, but once kindled, quenchless evermore,
Preys upon high adventure, nor can tire
Of aught but rest; a fever at the core,
Fatal to him who bears, to all who ever
bore.

This makes the madmen who have made men mad

By their contagion; Conquerors and Kings, Founders of sects and systems, to whom add Sophists, Bards, Statesmen, all unquiet things

Which stir too strongly the soul's secret

springs, And are themselves the fools to those they fool;

Nor learn that tempted Fate will leave the loftiest star.

Yet well thy soul hath brook'd the turning tide

With that untaught innate philosophy, Which, be it wisdom, coldness, or deep pride, ls gall and wormwood to an enemy. When the whole host of hatred stood hard by, To watch and mock thee shrinking, thou hast smiled

With a sedate and all-enduring eye;When Fortune fled her spoil'd and favourite child,

He stood unbow'd beneath the ills upon him piled.

Sager than in thy fortunes; for in them Ambition steel'd thee on too far to show That just habitual scorn which could

contemn

Men and their thoughts; 'twas wise to feel,

not so

To wear it ever on thy lip and brow, And spurn the instruments thou wert to use Till they were turn'd unto thine overthrow : "Tis but a worthless world to win or lose ; So hath it proved to thee, and all such lot who choose.

If, like a tower upon a headlong rock, Thou hadst been made to stand or fall alone, Such scorn of man had help'd to brave the shock;

But men's thoughts were the steps which paved thy throne,

Their admiration thy best weapon shone; The part of Philip's son was thine, not then (Unless aside thy purple had been thrown) Like stern Diogenes to mock at men; For sceptred cynics earth were far too wide a den.

Their breath is agitation, and their life A storm whereon they ride, to sink at last, And yet so nursed and bigoted to strife, That should their days, surviving perils past, Melt to calm twilight, they feel overcast | With sorrow and supineness, and so die; Even as a flame unfed, which runs to waste With its own flickering, or a sword laid by Whicheats into itself, and rusts ingloriously.

He who ascends to mountain-tops, shall find The loftiest peaks most wrapt in clouds and snow;

He who surpasses or subdues mankind,
Must look down on the hate of those below.
Though high above the sun of glory glow,
And far beneath the earth and ocean spread,
Round him are icy rocks, and loudly blow
Contending tempests on his naked head,
And thus reward the toils which to those
summits led.

Away with these! true wisdom's world will be
Within its own creation, or in thine,
Maternal Nature! for who teems like thee,
Thus on the banks of thy majestic Rhine?
There Harold gazes on a work divine,
A blending of all beauties; streams and
dells,

Fruit, foliage, crag, wood, corn-field, mountain, vine,

And chiefless castles breathing stern farewells

From gray but leafy walls, where Ruin greenly dwells.

And there they stand, as stands a lofty mind, Worn, but unstooping to the baser crowd,

Banners on high, and battles pass'd below; But they who fought are in a bloody shroud, And those which waved are shredless dust

ere now,

And the bleak battlements shall bear no future blow.

Beneath these battlements, within those walls,

Power dwelt amidst her passions; in proud

state

Each robber-chief upheld his armed halls,
Doing his evil will, nor less elate
Than mightier heroes of a longer date.
What want these outlaws conquerors should
have?

But History's purchased page to call them great?

A wider space, an ornamented grave? Their hopes were not less warm, their souls were full as brave.

In their baronial feuds and single fields, What deeds of prowess unrecorded died! And Love, which lent a blazon to their shields,

With emblems well devised by amorous pride,

Through all the mail of iron-hearts would glide;

But still their flame was fierceness, and drew on

Keen contest and destruction near allied, And many a tower for some fair mischief won, Saw the discolour'd Rhine beneath its ruin

as they seem.

Thus Harold inly said, and pass'd along,
Yet not insensibly to all which here
Awoke the jocund birds to early song
In glens which might have made even exile
dear:
Though on his brow were graven lines au-
stere,
And tranquil sternness which had ta'en the
place

Of feelings fierier far but less severe,
Joy was not always absent from his face,
But o'er it in such scenes would steal with
transient trace.

Nor was all love shut from him, though his days

Of passion had consumed themselves to dust. It is in vain that we would coldly gaze On such as smile upon us; the heart must Leap kindly back to kindness, though disgust Hath wean'd it from all worldlings: thus he felt,

For there was soft remembrance, and sweet trust

In one fond breast, to which his own would melt, And in its tenderer hour on that his bosom dwelt.

And he had learn'd to love,-I know not why, For this in such as him seems strange of mood,

The helpless looks of blooming infancy, Even in its earliest nurture; what subdued, To change like this, a mind so far imbued With scorn of man, it little boots to know; But thus it was; and though in solitude Small power the nipp'd affections have to grow, 1

In him this glow'd when all beside had ceased to glow.

And there was one soft breast, as hath been said,

Which unto his was bound by stronger ties Than the church links withal; and, though unwed,

That love was pure, and, far above disguise,
Had stood the test of mortal enmities
Still undivided, and cemented more
By peril, dreaded most in female eyes;
But this was firm, and from a foreign shore
Well to that heart might his these absent
greetings pour!

The castled crag of Drachenfels
Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine,
Whose breast of waters broadly swells
Between the banks which bear the vine;

And hills all rich with blossom'd trees,
And fields which promise corn and wine,
And scatter'd cities crowning these,
Whose far white walls along them shine,
Have strew'd a scene, which I should see
With double joy wert thou with me!

And peasant girls, with deep blue eyes,
And hands which offer early flowers,
Walk smiling o'er this paradise;
Above, the frequent feudal towers
Through green leaves lift their walls of gray,
And many a rock which steeply lours,
And noble arch in proud decay,
Look o'er this vale of vintage-bowers;
But one thing want these banks of Rhine,—
Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine!

I send the lilies given to me;
Though long before thy hand they touch,
I know that they must wither'd be,
But yet reject them not as such;
For I have cherish'd them as dear,
Because they yet may meet thine eye,
And guide thy soul to mine even here,
When thou behold'st them drooping nigh,
And know'st them gather'd by the Rhine,
And offer'd from my heart to thine!

| Here Ehrenbreitstein, with her shatter'd wall Black with the miner's blast,upon her height Yet shows of what she was, when shell and ball

Rebounding idly on her strength did light; A tower of victory! from whence the flight Of baffled foes was watch'd along the plain : But Peace destroy'd what War could never blight,

And laid those proud roofs bare to Summer's rainOn which the iron-shower for years had pour'd in vain.

Adieu to thee, fair Rhine! How long delighted

The stranger fain would linger on his way! Thine is a scene alike where souls united Or lonely Contemplation thus might stray; And could the ceaseless vultures cease to prey

On self-condemning bosoms, it were here, Where Nature, nor too sombre nor too gay, Wild but not rude, awful yet not austere, Is to the mellow Earth as Autumn to the year.

Adieu to thee again! a vain adieu!
There can be no farewell to scene like thine;
The mind is colour'd by thy every hue;
And if reluctantly the eyes resign
Their cherish'd gaze upon thee, lovelyRhine!
Tis with the thankful glance of parting-
praise;
More mighty spots may rise-more glaring
shine,

But none unite in one attaching maze
The brilliant, fair, and soft,-the glories
of old days,

The negligently grand, the fruitful bloom Of coming ripeness, the white city's sheen, The rolling stream, the precipice's gloom, The forest's growth, and Gothic walls between,

The wild rocks shaped as they had turrets been

In mockery of man's art; and these withal
A race of faces happy as the scene,
Whose fertile bounties here extend to all,
Still springing o'er thy banks, though Em-
pires near them fall.

But these recede. Above me are the Alps,
The palaces of Nature, whose vast walls
Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps,
And throned Eternity in icy halls
Of cold sublimity, where forms and falls
The avalanche-the thunderbolt of snow!
All that expands the spirit, yet appals,
Gather around these summits, as to show
How Earth may pierce to Heaven, yet leave

vain man below.

But ere these matchless heights I dare to scan. There is a spot should not be pass'd in vain,—