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The triumphs of her chosen son,

The slaughters of his sword! The deeds he did, the fields he won, The freedom he restored!

Though thou art fall'n, while we are free
Thou shalt not taste of death!

The generous blood that flow'd from thee
Disdain'd to sink beneath:
Within our veins its currents be,

Thy spirit on our breath!

Thy name, our charging hosts along, Shall be the battle-word!

Thy fall, the theme of choral song

From virgin voices pour'd!

To weep would do thy glory wrong! Thou shalt not be deplored.

SONG OF SAUL BEFORE HIS LAST BATTLE
WARRIORS and chiefs! should the shaft or the sword
Pierce me in leading the host of the Lord,
Heed not the corse, though a king's, in your path:
Bury your steel in the bosoms of Gath!

Thou who art bearing my buckler and bow,
Should the soldiers of Saul look away from the for,
Stretch me that moment in blood at thy feet!
Mine be the doom which they dared not to meet.

Farewell to others, but never we part,
Heir to my royalty, son of my heart!
Bright is the diadem, boundless the sway,
Or kingly the death, which awaits us to-day!

SAUL.

THOU whose spell can raise the dead,

Bid the prophet's form appear.

<«< Samuel, raise thy buried head! King, behold the phantom seer!» Earth yawn'd; he stood the centre of a cloud: Light changed its hue, retiring from his shroud: Death stood all glassy in his fixed eye; His hand was wither'd and his veins were dry; His foot, in bony whiteness, glitter'd there, Shrunken and sinewless, and ghastly bare: From lips that moved not and unbreathing frame, Like cavern'd winds, the hollow accents came. Saul saw, and fell to earth, as falls the oak, At once, and blasted by the thunder-stroke.

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Oh! who in such a night will dare

To tempt the wilderness?

And who 'mid thunder-peals can hear

Our signal of distress?

And who that heard our shouts would rise To try the dubious road?

Nor rather deem from nightly cries

That outlaws were abroad.

Clouds burst, skies flash, oh, dreadful hour! More fiercely pours the storm!

Yet here one thought has still the power

To keep my bosom warm.

While wandering through each broken path,

O'er brake and craggy brow:

While elements exhaust their wrath,

Sweet Florence, where art thou?

Not on the sea, not on the sea,

Thy bark hath long been gone:
Oh, may the storm that pours on me,
Bow down my head alone!

Full swiftly blew the swift Siroc,

When last I press'd thy lip;
And long ere now, with foaming shock,
Impell'd thy gallant ship.

Now thou art safe; nay, long ere now
Hast trod the shore of Spain:
T were hard if ought so fair as thou
Should linger on the main.

And since I now remember thee
In darkness and in dread,
As in those hours of revelry

Which mirth and music sped;

Do thou amidst the fair white walls,
If Cadiz yet be free,

At times from out her latticed halls.
Look o'er the dark blue sea;

Then think upon Calypso's isles,
Endear'd by days gone by ;
To others give a thousand smiles,
To me a single sigh.

And when the admiring circle mark

The paleness of thy face,

A half form'd tear, a transient spark
Of melancholy grace,

Again thou 'It smile, and blushing shun

Some coxcomb's raillery;

Nor own for once thou thought'st of one,
Who ever thinks on thee.
Though smile and sigh alike are vain,

When sever'd hearts repine,
My spirit flies o'er mount and main,
And mourns in search of thine.

TO ***

On Lady! when I left the shore,
The distant shore which gave me birth,

I hardly thought to grieve once more,
To quit another spot on earth:

Yet here, amidst this barren isle,
Where panting nature droops the head,
Where only thou art seen to smile,

I view my parting hour with dread.
Though far from Albin's craggy shore,
Divided by the dark blue main;
A few, brief, rolling seasons o'er,
Perchance I view her cliffs again:
But wheresoe'er I now may roam,
Through scorching clime and varied sea,
Though time restore me to my home,

I ne'er shall bend mine eyes on thee:
On thee, in whom at once conspire

All charms which heedless hearts can move, Whom but to see is to admire,

And, oh! forgive the word-to love. Forgive the word, in one who ne'er

With such a word can more offend; And since thy heart I cannot share, Believe me, what I am, thy friend. And who so cold as look on thee,

Thou lovely wanderer, and be less? Nor be, what man should ever be,

The friend of Beauty in distress? Ah! who would think that form had past Through Danger's most destructive path, Had braved the death-wing'd tempest's blast, And 'scaped a tyrant's fiercer wrath? Lady! when I shall view the walls

Where free Byzantium once arose;
And Stamboul's Oriental halls

The Turkish tyrants now enclose;
Though mightiest in the lists of fame,
That glorious city still shall be;
On me 't will hold a dearer claim,

As spot of thy nativity:

And though I bid thee now farewell,
When I behold that wondrous scene,
Since where thou art I may not dwell,
'T will soothe to be where thou hast been.
September, 1809.

WRITTEN AT ATHENS,
JANUARY 16, 1810.

THE spell is broke, the charm is flown!
Thus is it with life's fitful fever:
We madly smile when we should groan;
Delirium is our best deceiver.

Each lucid interval of thought

Recals the woes of Nature's charter, And he that acts as wise men ought, But lives, as saints have died, a martyr.

WRITTEN BENEATH A PICTURE.
DEAR object of defeated care!
Though now of love and thee bereft,
To reconcile me with despair
Thine image and my tears are left.

'Tis said with sorrow time can cope;
But this I feel can ne'er be true:
For by the death-blow of my hope
My memory immortal grew.

That show'st the darkness thou canst not dispel,
How like art thou to joy remember'd well!
So gleams the past, the light of other days,
Which shines, but warms not with its powerless rays;
A night-beam sorrow watcheth to behold,
Distinct, but distant-clear-but, oh how cold!

On many an eve, the high spot whence I gazed
Had reflected the last beam of day as it blazed;
While I stood on the height, and beheld the decline
Of the rays from the mountain that shone on thy shrine.
And now on that mountain I stood on that day,
But I mark'd not the twilight beam melting away;
Oh! would that the lightning had glared in its stead,

WERE MY BOSOM AS FALSE AS THOU DEEM'ST And the thunderbolt burst on the conqueror's head!

IT TO BE.

WERE my bosom as false as thou deem'st it to be,
I need not have wander'd from far Galilee;
It was but abjuring my creed to efface

The curse which, thou say'st, is the crime of my race.

If the bad never triumph, then God is with thee!
If the slave only sin, thou art spotless and free!
If the exile on earth is an outcast on high,
Live on in thy faith, but in mine I will die.

I have lost for that faith more than thou canst bestow,
As the God who permits thee to prosper doth know;
In his hand is my heart and my hope-and in thine
The land and the life which for him I resign.

HEROD'S LAMENT FOR MARIAMNE. Оn, Mariamne! now for thee

The heart for which thou bled'st is bleeding; Revenge is lost in agony,

And wild remorse to rage succeeding.
Oh, Mariamne! where art thou?

Thou canst not hear my bitter pleading:
Ah, couldst thou-thou wouldst pardon now,
Though Heaven were to my prayer unheeding.

And is she dead?—and did they dare

Obey my phrenzy's jealous raving? My wrath but doom'd my own despair:

The sword that smote her's o'er me waving.But thou art cold, my murder'd love!

And this dark heart is vainly craving For her who soars alone above,

And leaves my soul unworthy saving.

diadem!
She's gone, who shared my
She sunk, with her my joys entombing;
I swept that flower from Judah's stem
Whose leaves for me alone were blooming.
And mine's the guilt, and mine the hell,
This bosom's desolation dooming;
And I have earn'd those tortures well,
Which unconsumed are still consuming!

ON THE DAY OF THE DESTRUCTION OF
JERUSALEM BY TITUS.

FROM the last hill that looks on thy once holy dome
I beheld thee, oh Sion! when render'd to Rome:

"I was thy last sun went down, and the flames of thy

fall

Flash'd back on the last glance I gave to thy wall.

I look'd for thy temple, I look'd for my home,

And forgot for a moment my bondage to come;

I beheld but the death-fire that fed on thy fane,

But the gods of the Pagan shall never profane
The shrine where Jehovah disdain'd not to reign;
And scatter'd and scorn'd as thy people may be,
Our worship, oh Father! is only for thee.

BY THE RIVERS OF BABYLON WE SAT DOWN :
AND WEPT.

We sat dawn and wept by the waters
Of Babel, and thought of the day
When our foe, in the hue of his slaughters,
Made Salem's high places his prey;
And ye, oh her desolate daughters!
Were scatter'd all weeping away.

While sadly we gazed on the river

Which roll'd on in freedom below,
They demanded the song; but, oh never

That triumph the stranger shall know!
May this right hand be wither'd for ever,
Ere it string our high harp for the foe!
On the willow that harp is suspended,

Oh Salem! its sound should be free;
"And the hour when thy glories were ended,
But left me that token of thee:
And ne'er shall its soft tones be blended
With the voice of the spoiler by me!

THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIE.
THE Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green,
That host with their banners at sunset were seen:
Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blowe,
That host on the morrow lay wither'd and strown.
For the angel of death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass'd;
And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew stid'
And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
But through it there roll'd not the breath of his pride
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.
And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail,
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,

And the fast-fetter'd hands that made vengeance in vain. Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!

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