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THE CORSAIRS' SONG
"O'er the glad waters of the dark-blue sea,
Our thoughts as boundless, and our souls as free,
Far as the breeze can bear, the billows foam.
Survey our empire, and behold our home!
These are our realms, no limits to their sway,—
Our flag the sceptre all who meet obey.
Ours the wild life in tumult still to range
From toil to rest, and joy in every change.
Oh, who can tell? not thou, luxurious slave!
Whose soul would sicken o'er the heaving wave:
Not thou, vain lord of wantonness and ease!
Whom slumber soothes not—pleasure cannot please—
Oh, who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried,
And danced in triumph o'er the waters wide,
The exulting sense—the pulse's maddening play,
That thrills the wanderer of that trackless way?
That for itself can woo the approaching fight,
And turn what some deem danger to delight;
That seeks what cravens shun with more than zeal,
And where the feebler faint can only feel—
Feel—to the rising bosom's inmost core,
Its hope awaken and its spirit soar?
No dread of death—if with us die our foes—
Save that it seems even duller than repose:
Come when it will—we snatch the life of life—
When lost—what recks it by disease or strife?
Let him who crawls enamour'd of decay,
Cling to his couch, and sicken years away;
Heave his thick breath, and shake his palsied head;
Ours—the fresh turf, and not the feverish bed.
While gasp by gasp he falters forth his soul,
Ours with one pang—one bound—escapes control.
His corse may boast its urn and narrow cave,
And they who loathed his life may gild his grave;
Ours are the tears, though few, sincerely shed,
Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race be run,
On such an eve his palest beam he cast,
But sad his light to agonizing eyes,
But lo! from high Hymettus to the plain,
Again the ^Egean, heard no more afar,
She walks in beauty, like the night
And all that's best of dark and bright
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Which waves in every raven tress,
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
If that high world, which lies beyond \
Our own, surviving Love endears; If there the cherish'd heart be fond,
The eye the same, except in tears— How welcome those untrodden spheres!
How sweet this very hour to die! To soar from earth, and find all fears
Lost in thy light—Eternity!
It must be so: 'tis not for self
And striving to o'erleap the gulf,
SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY
IF THAT HIGH WORLD
Oh! in that future let us think
With them the immortal waters drink,
O! SNATCH'D AWAY IN BEAUTY'S BLOOM
O! SNATCH'D away in beauty's bloom,
And oft by yon blue gushing stream
Away! we know that tears are vain, That Death nor heeds nor hears distress;Will this unteach us to complain!Or make one mourner weep the less!And thou—who tell'st me to forget, Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet.
WHEN COLDNESS WRAPS THIS SUFFERING CLAY
When coldness wraps this suffering clay.
Ah! whither strays the immortal mind?
But leaves its darken'd dust behind.
By steps each planet's heavenly way?
A thing of eyes, that all survey?