But there are breasts that bleed with thee THINE eyes' blue tenderness, thy long fair In woe, that glory cannot quell; And shuddering hear of victory, Where one so dear, so dauntless, fell. Where shall they turn to mourn thee less? Alas! for them, though not for thee, They cannot choose but weep the more; Deep for the dead the grief must be, Who ne'er gave cause to mourn before. TO A LADY WEEPING. WEEP, daughter of a royal line, Could wash a father's fault away! Weep-for thy tears are Virtue's tears- FROM THE TURKISH. THE chain I gave was fair to view, The lute I added sweet in sound, The heart that offer'd both was true, And ill deserved the fate it found. These gifts were charm'd by secret spell That chain was firm in every link, But not to bear a stranger's touch ; That lute was sweet-till thou couldst think In other hands its notes were such. Let him, who from thy neck unbound The chain which shiver'd in his grasp, Who saw that lute refuse to sound, Restring the chords, renew the clasp. hair, from woe, And yet so lovely, that if mirth could flush Its rose of whiteness with the brightest blush, My heart would wish away that ruder glow: And dazzle not thy deep-blue eyes—but oh! While gazing on them sterner eyes will gush, And into mine my mother's weakness rush, Soft as the last drops round heaven's airy bow. For, through thy long dark lashes low. depending, The soul of melancholy Gentleness Gleams like a seraph from the sky descending, Above all pain, yet pitying all distress; ON THE MONUMENT OF A NEWFOUNDLAND-DOG. WHEN some proud son of man returns to earth, Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth, The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of woe, And storied urns record who rests below; When all is done, upon the tomb is seen, Not what he was, but what he should have been: But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend, The first to welcome, foremost to defend, Whose honest heart is still his master's own, Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone, Unhonour'd falls, unnoticed all his worth, Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth: While man, vain insect! hopes to be forgiven, And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven. Degraded mass of animated dust! Ye! who perchance behold this simple urn, I never knew but one, and here he lies. Newstead Abbey, Oct. 30, 1808. FAREWELL. FAREWELL! if ever fondest prayer But waft thy name beyond the sky. Are in that word-Farewell!- Farewell! These lips are mute, these eyes are dry; But in my breast, and in my brain, Awake the pangs that pass not by, The thought that ne'er shall sleep again. My soul nor deigns nor dares complain, Though grief and passion there rebel; I only know we loved in vain— I only feel-Farewell!-Farewell! BRIGHT be the place of thy soul! No lovelier spirit than thine E'er burst from its mortal control, In the orbs of the blessed to shine. On earth thou wert all but divine, As thy soul shall immortally be; And our sorrow may cease to repine, When we know that thy God is with thee. Light be the turf of thy tomb! May its verdure like emeralds be: There should not be the shadow of gloom, In aught that reminds us of thee. Young flowers and an evergreen tree May spring from the spot of thy rest: But nor cypress nor yew let us see; For why should we mourn for the blest? And the midnight moon is weaving Her bright chain o'er thee deep; Whose breast is gently heaving, As an infant's asleep: So the spirit bows before thee, STANZAS FOR MUSIC. O Lachrymarum fons, tenero sacros THERE'S not a joy the world can give like that it takes away, When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's dull decay; Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, which fades so fast, But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself be past. Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of happiness, Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt or ocean of excess : The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in vain The shore to which their shiver'd sail shall never stretch again. Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself comes down; It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its own; That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our tears, 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 wreathe, All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and gray beneath. Oh could I feel as I have felt,-or be what I have been, Or weep, as I could once have wept, o'er many a vanish'd scene: As springs, in deserts found, seem sweet— all brackish though they be,So, midst the wither'd waste of life, those tears would flow to me. FARE thee well! and if for ever, 'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel. Founded on another's woe- Still must mine, though bleeding, beat; Than the wail above the dead; Both shall live, but every morrow Wake us from a widow'd bed. And when thou wouldst solace gather, When our child's first accents flow, Wilt thou teach her to say "Father!" Though his care she must forego? When her little hands shall press thee, When her lip to thine is prest, Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee, Think of him thy love had bless'd! Should her lineaments resemble Those thou never more mayst see, Then thy heart will softly tremble With a pulse yet true to me. All my faults perchance thou knowest, All my madness none can know ; All my hopes, where'er thou goest, Wither-yet with thee they go. Every feeling hath been shaken; Pride, which not a world could bow, Bows to thee-by thee forsaken, Force their way without the will.- Torn from every nearer tie, ΤΟ WHEN all around grew drear and dark, In that deep midnight of the mind, When fortune changed-and love fled far, Which rose and set not to the last. Oh! blest be thine unbroken light! And when the cloud upon us came, Still may thy spirit dwell on mine, And these, when all was lost beside, Were found, and still are fixed, in thee— ODE. [FROM THE FRENCH.] "All wept, but particularly Savary, and a Polish officer who had been exalted from the ranks by Buonaparte. He clung to his master's knees: wrote a letter to Lord Keith, entreating permission to accompany him, even in the most menial capacity, which could not be admitted.' Must thou go, my glorious Chief, Sever'd from thy faithful few? With a soldier's faith, for thee? Idol of the soldier's soul! Thee alone no doom can bow. Death, and envied those who fell, Would that I were cold with those, And teach it what to brave or brookThere's more in one soft word of thine, Than in the world's defied rebuke. Thou stood'st, as stands a lovely tree, Still waves with fond fidelity Its boughs above a monument. Oh! although in dungeons pent, Would the sycophants of him Now so deaf to duty's prayer, In his native darkness share? All thou calmly dost resign, Hearts like those which still are thine? The winds might rend_the skies might pour, My chief, my king, my friend, adieu ! To shed thy weeping leaves o'er me. But thou and thine shall know no blight, Then let the ties of baffled love Be broken-thine will never break; Never did I droop before; Every peril he must brave, His fall, his exile, and his grave. [FROM THE FRENCH.] We do not curse thee, Waterloo! Though Freedom's blood thy plain bedew; There 'twas shed, but is not sunk- Never yet was heard such thunder Victory beaming from her breast?) O'er glories gone the invaders march, With her heart in her voice; As then shall shake the world with wonder-France hath twice too well been taught Never yet was seen such lightning, As o'er heaven shall then be bright'ning! Like the Wormwood-Star foretold By the sainted Seer of old, Showering down a fiery flood, The Chief has fallen, but not by you, Sway'd not o'er his fellow-men— And thon too of the snow-white plume! The "moral lesson" dearly bought— With CAPET or NAPOLEON! But in equal rights and laws, Hearts and hands in one great cause— With their breath, and from their birth, With a fierce and lavish hand But the heart and the mind, ON THE STAR OF THE LEGION OF [FROM THE FRENCH.] STAR of the brave!-whose beam hath shed Souls of slain heroes form'd thy rays; |