Chapter VI: Prologue: To the Poor Gentleman, (3)

There blooms a plant, whose gaze from hour to hour
Still to the sun with fond devotion turns,
Wakes when Creation hails his dawning power,
And most expands when most her idol burns:
But when he seeks the bosom of the deep,
His faithful plant’s reflected charms decay;
Then fade her flowers, her leaves discolour’d weep,
Still fondly pining for the vanish’d ray.
Thou whom I love, the day-star of my sight!
When thy dear presence wakes me to delight,
Joy in my soul unfolds her fairest flower:
But in thy heaven of smiles alone it blooms,
And, of their light deprived, in grief consumes,
Born but to live within thine eye-beam’s power.

“Polomeu apartamento.”

Amidst the bitter tears that fell
In anguish at my last farewell,
Oh! who would dream that joy could dwell,
To make that moment bright?
Yet be my judge, each heart! and say,
Which then could most my bosom sway,
Affliction or delight?

It was when Hope, oppress’d with woes,
Seem’d her dim eyes in death to close,
That rapture’s brightest beam arose
In sorrow’s darkest night.
Thus, if my soul survive that hour,
’Tis that my fate o’ercame the power
Of anguish with delight.

For oh! her love, so long unknown,
She _then_ confess’d was all my own,
And in that parting hour alone
Reveal’d it to my sight.
And now what pangs will rend my soul,
Should fortune still, with stern control,
Forbid me this delight!

I know not if my bliss were vain,
For all the force of parting pain
Forbade suspicious doubts to reign,
When exiled from her sight:
Yet now what double woe for me,
Just at the close of eve, to see
The dayspring of delight!

SONNET 205.

“Quem diz que Amor he falso, o enganoso.”

He who proclaims that Love is light and vain,
Capricious, cruel, false in all his ways,
Ah! sure too well hath merited his pain,
Too justly finds him all he thus portrays:
For Love is pitying, Love is soft and kind.
Believe not him who dares the tale oppose;
Oh! deem him one whom stormy passions blind,
One to whom earth and heaven may well be foes.
If Love bring evils, view them all in me!
Here let the world his utmost rigour see,
His utmost power exerted to annoy:
But all his ire is still the ire of love;
And such delight in all his woes I prove,
I would not change their pangs for aught of other joy.

SONNET 133.

“Doces e claras aguas do Mondego.”

Waves of Mondego! brilliant and serene,
Haunts of my thought, where memory fondly strays,
Where hope allured me with perfidious mien,
Witching my soul, in long-departed days;
Yes, I forsake your banks! but still my heart
Shall bid remembrance all your charms restore,
And, suffering not one image to depart,
Find lengthening distance but endear you more.
Let Fortune’s will, through many a future day,
To distant realms this mortal frame convey,
Sport of each wind, and tost on every wave;
Yet my fond soul, to pensive memory true,
On thought’s light pinion still shall fly to you,
And still, bright waters! in your current lave.

SONNET 181.

“Onde acharei lugar taō apartado.”

Where shall I find some desert-scene so rude,
Where loneliness so undisturb’d may reign,
That not a step shall ever there intrude
Of roving man, or nature’s savage train--
Some tangled thicket, desolate and drear,
Or deep wild forest, silent as the tomb,
Boasting no verdure bright, no fountain clear,
But darkly suited to my spirit’s gloom?
That there, midst frowning rocks, alone with grief
Entomb’d in life, and hopeless of relief,
In lonely freedom I may breathe my woes.
For oh! since nought my sorrows can allay,
There shall my sadness cloud no festal day,
And days of gloom shall soothe me to repose.

SONNET 278.

“Eu vivia de lagrimas isento.”

Exempt from every grief,’twas mine to live
In dreams so sweet, enchantments so divine,
A thousand joys propitious Love can give
Were scarcely worth one rapturous pain of mine
Bound by soft spells, in dear illusions blest,
I breathed no sigh for fortune or for power;
No care intruding to disturb my breast,
I dwelt entranced in Love’s Elysian bower:
But Fate, such transports eager to destroy,
Soon rudely woke me from the dream of joy,
And bade the phantoms of delight begone:
Bade hope and happiness at once depart,
And left but memory to distract my heart,
Retracing every hour of bliss for ever flown.

“Mi nueve y dulce querella.”

No searching eye can pierce the veil
That o’er my secret love is thrown;
No outward signs reveal its tale,
But to my bosom known.
Thus, like the spark whose vivid light
In the dark flint is hid from sight,
It dwells within, alone.

METASTASIO.

“Dunque si sfoga in pianto.”

In tears, the heart oppress’d with grief
Gives language to its woes;
In tears, its fulness finds relief,
When rapture’s tide o’erflows!
Who, then, unclouded bliss would seek
On this terrestrial sphere;
When e’en Delight can only speak,
Like Sorrow--in a tear?

“Al furor d’avversa Sorte.”

He shall not dread Misfortune’s angry mien,
Nor feebly sink beneath her tempest rude,
Whose soul hath learn’d, through many a trying scene,
To smile at fate, and suffer unsubdued.

In the rough school of billows, clouds, and storms,
Nursed and matured, the pilot learns his art:
Thus Fate’s dread ire, by many a conflict, forms
The lofty spirit and enduring heart!

“Quella onda che ruina.”

The torrent wave, that breaks with force
Impetuous down the Alpine height,
Complains and struggles in its course,
But sparkles, as the diamond bright.

The stream in shadowy valley deep
May slumber in its narrow bed;
But silent, in unbroken sleep,
Its lustre and its life are fled.

“Leggiadra rosa, le cui pure foglie.”

Sweet rose! whose tender foliage to expand
Her fostering dews the Morning lightly shed,
Whilst gales of balmy breath thy blossoms fann’d,
And o’er thy leaves the soft suffusion spread:
That hand, whose care withdrew thee from the ground,
To brighter worlds thy favour’d charms hath borne;
Thy fairest buds, with grace perennial crown’d,
There breathe and bloom, released from every thorn.
Thus, far removed, and now transplanted flower!
Exposed no more to blast or tempest rude,
Shelter’d with tenderest care from frost or shower,
And each rough season’s chill vicissitude,
Now may thy form in bowers of peace assume
Immortal fragrance, and unwithering bloom.

“Che speri, instabil Dea, di sassi e spine.”

Fortune! why thus, where’er my footsteps tread,
Obstruct each path with rocks and thorns like these?
Think’st thou that _I_ thy threatening mien shall dread,
Or toil and pant thy waving locks to seize?
Reserve the frown severe, the menace rude,
For vassal-spirits that confess thy sway!
_My_ constant soul should triumph unsubdued,
Were the wide universe destruction’s prey.
Am I to conflicts new, in toils untried?
No! I have long thine utmost power defied,
And drawn fresh energies from every fight.
Thus from rude strokes of hammers and the wheel,
With each successive shock the temper’d steel
More keenly piercing proves, more dazzling bright.

“Parlagli d’un periglio.”

Wouldst thou to Love of danger speak?--
Veil’d are his eyes, to perils blind!
Wouldst thou from Love a reason seek?--
He is a child of wayward mind!

But with a doubt, a jealous fear,
Inspire him once--the task is o’er;
His mind is keen, his sight is clear,
No more an infant, blind no more.

“Sprezza il furor del vento.”

Unbending midst the wintry skies,
Rears the firm oak his vigorous form,
And stem in rugged strength, defies
The rushing of the storm.

Then sever’d from his native shore,
O’er ocean-worlds the sail to bear,
Still with those winds he braved before,
He proudly struggles there.

“Sol può dir che sia contento.”

Oh! those alone whose sever’d hearts
Have mourn’d through lingering years in vain,
Can tell what bliss fond Love imparts,
When Fate unites them once again.
Sweet is the sigh, and blest the tear,
Whose language hails that moment bright,
When past afflictions but endear
The presence of delight!

“Ah! frenate le piante imbelle!”

Ah! cease--those fruitless tears restrain!
I go misfortune to defy,
To smile at fate with proud disdain,
To triumph--not to die!

I with fresh laurels go to crown
My closing days at last,
Securing all the bright renown
Acquired in dangers past.

VINCENZO DA FILICAJA.

“Italia! Italia! O tu cui diè la sorte.”

Italia! O Italia! thou, so graced
With ill-starr’d beauty, which to thee hath been
A dower whose fatal splendour may be traced
In the deep-graven sorrows of thy mien;
Oh that more strength, or fewer charms were thine!
That those might fear thee more, or love thee less,
Who seem to worship at thy radiant shrine,
Then pierce thee with the death-pang’s bitterness!
Not _then_ would foreign hosts have drain’d the tide
Of that Eridanus thy blood hath dyed:
Nor from the Alps would legions, still renew’d,
Pour down; nor wouldst thou wield an alien brand,
And fight thy battles with the stranger’s hand,
Still, still a slave, victorious or subdued!

PASTORINI.

“Genova mia! se con asciutto ciglio.”

If thus thy fallen grandeur I behold,
My native Genoa! with a tearless eye,
Think not thy son’s ungrateful heart is cold;
But know--I deem rebellious every sigh!
Thy glorious ruins proudly I survey,
Trophies of firm resolve, of patriot might!
And in each trace of devastation’s way,
Thy worth, thy courage, meet my wandering sight.
Triumphs far less than suffering virtue shine!
And on the spoilers high revenge is thine,
While thy strong spirit unsubdued remains.
And lo! fair Liberty rejoicing flies
To kiss each noble relic, while she cries,
“_Hail! though in ruins, thou wert ne’er in chains!_”

LOPE DE VEGA.

“Estese el cortesano.”

Let the vain courtier waste his days,
Lured by the charms that wealth displays,
The couch of down, the board of costly fare;
Be his to kiss th’ ungrateful hand
That waves the sceptre of command,
And rear full many a palace in the air;
Whilst I enjoy, all unconfined,
The glowing sun, the genial wind,
And tranquil hours, to rustic toil assign’d;
And prize far more, in peace and health,
Contented indigence than joyless wealth.

Not mine in Fortune’s fane to bend,
At Grandeur’s altar to attend,
Reflect his smile, and tremble at his frown;
Nor mine a fond aspiring thought,
A wish, a sigh, a vision, fraught
With Fame’s bright phantom, Glory’s deathless crown!
Nectareous draughts and viands pure
Luxuriant nature will insure;
These the clear fount and fertile field
Still to the wearied shepherd yield;
And when repose and visions reign,
Then we are equals all, the monarch and the swain.

FRANCISCO MANUEL.

ON ASCENDING A HILL LEADING TO A CONVENT.

“No baxes temeroso, o peregrino!”

Pause not with lingering foot, O pilgrim! here,
Pierce the deep shadows of the mountain-side;
Firm be thy step, thy heart unknown to fear--
To brighter worlds this thorny path will guide.
Soon shall thy feet approach the calm abode,
So near the mansions of supreme delight;
Pause not, but tread this consecrated road--
’Tis the dark basis of the heavenly height.
Behold, to cheer thee on the toilsome way,
How many a fountain glitters down the hill!
Pure gales, inviting, softly round thee play,
Bright sunshine guides--and wilt thou linger still?
Oh! enter there, where, freed from human strife,
Hope is reality, and time is life.

DELLA CASA.

VENICE.

“Quest! palazzi, e queste logge or colte.”

These marble domes, by wealth and genius graced,
With sculptured forms, bright hues, and Parian stone,
Were once rude cabins midst a lonely waste,
Wild shores of solitude, and isles unknown.
Pure from each vice, ’twas here a venturous train
Fearless in fragile barks explored the sea;
Not theirs a wish to conquer or to reign,
They sought these island precincts--to be free.
Ne’er in their souls ambition’s flame arose,
No dream of avarice broke their calm repose;
Fraud, more than death, abhorr’d each artless breast:
Oh! now, since fortune gilds their brightening day,
Let not those virtues languish and decay,
O’erwhelm’d by luxury, and by wealth opprest!

IL MARCHESE CORNELIO BENTIVOGLIO.

“L’anima bella, che dal vero Eliso.”

The sainted spirit which, from bliss on high,
Descends like dayspring to my favour’d sight,
Shines in such noontide radiance of the sky,
Scarce do I know that form, intensely bright!
But with the sweetness of her well-known smile,
That smile of peace! she bids my doubts depart,
And takes my hand, and softly speaks the while,
And heaven’s full glory pictures to my heart.
Beams of that heaven in _her_ my eyes behold,
And now, e’en now, in thought my wings unfold,
To soar with her, and mingle with the blest!
But ah! so swift her buoyant pinion flies,
That I, in vain aspiring to the skies,
Fall to my native sphere, by earthly bonds deprest.

QUEVEDO.

ROME BURIED IN HER OWN RUINS.

“Buscas en Roma á Roma, o peregrino!”

Amidst these scenes, O pilgrim! seek’st thou Rome?
Vain is thy search--the pomp of Rome is fled;
Her silent Aventine is glory’s tomb;
Her walls, her shrines, but relics of the dead.
That hill, where Cæsars dwelt in other days,
Forsaken mourns, where once it tower’d sublime;
Each mouldering medal now far less displays
The triumphs won by Latium than by Time.
Tiber alone survives--the passing wave
That bathed her towers now murmurs by her grave,
Wailing with plaintive sound her fallen fanes.
Rome! of thine ancient grandeur all is past,
That seem’d for years eternal framed to last:
Nought but the wave--a fugitive, remains.

EL CONDE JUAN DE TARSIS.

“Tu, que la dulce vida en tiernas anos.”

Thou, who hast fled from life’s enchanted bowers,
In youth’s gay spring, in beauty’s glowing morn,
Leaving thy bright array, thy path of flowers,
For the rude convent-garb and couch of thorn;
Thou that, escaping from a world of cares,
Hast found thy haven in devotion’s fane,
As to the port the fearful bark repairs
To shim the midnight perils of the main--
Now the glad hymn, the strain of rapture pour,
While on thy soul the beams of glory rise!
For if the pilot hail the welcome shore
With shouts of triumph swelling to the skies,
Oh! how shouldst _thou_ the exulting pæan raise,
Now heaven’s bright harbour opens on thy gaze!

TORQUATO TASSO.

“Negli anni acerbi tuoi, purpurea rosa.”

Thou in thy morn wert like a glowing rose
To the mild sunshine only half display’d,
That shunn’d its bashful graces to disclose,
And in its veil of verdure sought a shade:
Or like Aurora did thy charms appear,
(Since mortal form ne’er vied with aught so bright,)
Aurora, smiling from her tranquil sphere,
O’er vale and mountain shedding dew and light.
Now riper years have doom’d no grace to fade;
Nor youthful charms, in all their pride array’d,
Excel, or equal, thy neglected form.
Thus, full expanded, lovelier is the flower,
And the bright day-star, in its noontide hour,
More brilliant shines, in genial radiance warm.

BERNARDO TASSO.

“Quest’ ombra che giammai non vide il sole.”

This green recess, where through the bowery gloom
Ne’er, e’en at noontide hours, the sunbeam play’d,
Where violet-beds in soft luxuriance bloom
Midst the cool freshness of the myrtle shade;
Where through the grass a sparkling fountain steals,
Whose murmuring wave, transparent as it flows,
No more its bed of yellow sand conceals
Than the pure crystal hides the glowing rose;
This bower of peace, thou soother of our care,
God of soft slumbers and of visions fair!
A lowly shepherd consecrates to thee!
Then breathe around some spell of deep repose,
And charm his eyes in balmy dew to close,
Those eyes, fatigued with grief, from tear-drops never free.

PETRARCH.

“Chi vuol veder quantunque può natura.”

Thou that wouldst mark, in form of human birth,
All heaven and nature’s perfect skill combined,
Come gaze on her, the day-star of the earth,
Dazzling, not me alone, but all mankind:
And haste! for Death, who spares the guilty long,
First calls the brightest and the best away;
And to her home, amidst the cherub throng,
The angelic mortal flies, and will not stay!
Haste! and each outward charm, each mental grace,
In one consummate form thine eye shall trace,
Model of loveliness, for earth too fair!
Then thou shalt own how faint my votive lays,
My spirit dazzled by perfection’s blaze:
But if thou still delay, for long regret prepare.

“Se lamentar augelli, o verdi fronde.”

If to the sighing breeze of summer hours
Bend the green leaves; if mourns a plaintive bird;
Or from some fount’s cool margin, fringed with flowers,
The soothing murmur of the wave is heard;
Her whom the heavens reveal, the earth denies,
I see and hear: though dwelling far above,
Her spirit, still responsive to my sighs,
Visits the lone retreat of pensive love.
“Why thus in grief consume each fruitless day,”
(Her gentle accents thus benignly say,)
“While from thine eyes the tear unceasing flows?
Weep not for me, who, hastening on my flight,
Died, to be deathless; and on heavenly light
Whose eyes but open’d, when they seem’d to close!”

VERSI SPAGNUOLI DI PIETRO BEMBO.

“O Muerte! que sueles ser.”

Thou, the stem monarch of dismay,
Whom nature trembles to survey,
O Death! to me, the child of grief,
Thy welcome power would bring relief,
Changing to peaceful slumber many a care.
And though thy stroke may thrill with pain
Each throbbing pulse, each quivering vein;
The pangs that bid existence close,
Ah! sure are far less keen than those
Which cloud its lingering moments with despair.

FRANCESCO LORENZINI.

“O Zefiretto, che movendo vai.”

Sylph of the breeze! whose dewy pinions light
Wave gently round the tree I planted here,
Sacred to her whose soul hath wing’d its flight
To the pure ether of her lofty sphere;
Be it thy care, soft spirit of the gale!
To fan its leaves in summer’s noontide hour;
Be it thy care that wintry tempests fail
To rend its honours from the sylvan bower.
Then shall it spread, and rear th’ aspiring form.
Pride of the wood, secure from every storm,
Graced with her name, a consecrated tree!
So may thy Lord, thy monarch of the wind,
Ne’er with rude chains thy tender pinions bind,
But grant thee still to rove, a wanderer wild and free!

GESNER.

MORNING SONG.

“Willkommen, fruhe morgensonn.”

Hail! morning sun, thus early bright;
Welcome, sweet dawn! thou younger day!
Through the dark woods that fringe the height,
Beams forth, e’en now, thy ray.

Bright on the dew it sparkles clear,
Bright on the water’s glittering fall,
And life, and joy, and health appear,
Sweet Morning! at thy call.

Now thy fresh breezes lightly spring
From beds of fragrance, where they lay,
And roving wild on dewy wing,
Drive slumber far away.

Fantastic dreams, in swift retreat,
Now from each mind withdraw their spell;
While the young loves delighted meet,
On Rosa’s cheek to dwell.

Speed, zephyr! kiss each opening flower,
Its fragrant spirit make thine own;
Then wing thy way to Rosa’s bower,
Ere her light sleep is flown.

There, o’er her downy pillow fly,
Wake the sweet maid to life and day;
Breathe on her balmy lip a sigh,
And o’er her bosom play;

And whisper, when her eyes unveil,
That I, since morning’s earliest call,
Have sigh’d her name to ev’ry gale
By the lone waterfall.

GERMAN SONG.

“Mädchen, lernet Amor kennen.”

Listen, fair maid! my song shall tell
How Love may still be known full well--
His looks the traitor prove.
Dost thou not see that absent smile,
That fiery glance replete with guile?
Oh! doubt not then--’tis Love.

When varying still the sly disguise,
Child of caprice, he laughs and cries,
Or with complaint would move;
To-day is bold, to-morrow shy,
Changing each hour, he knows not why.
Oh! doubt not then--’tis Love.

There’s magic in his every wile,
His lips, well practised to beguile,
Breathe roses when they move;
See! now with sudden rage he burns,
Disdains, implores, commands, by turns.
Oh! doubt not then--’tis Love.

He comes, without the bow and dart,
That spare not e’en the purest heart;
His looks the traitor prove;
That glance is fire, that mien is guile,
Deceit is lurking in that smile--
Oh! trust him not--’tis Love!

CHAULIEU.

“Grotte, d’où sort ce clair ruisseau.”

Thou grot, whence flows this limpid spring,
Its margin fringed with moss and flowers,
Still bid its voice of murmurs bring
Peace to my musing hours.

Sweet Fontenay! where first for me
The dayspring of existence rose,
Soon shall my dust return to thee,
And midst my sires repose.

Muses! that watch’d my childhood’s morn,
Midst these wild haunts, with guardian eye--
Fair trees! that here beheld me born,
Soon shall ye see me die.

GARCILASO DE VEGA.

“Coyed de vuestra alegre primavera.”

Enjoy the sweets of life’s luxuriant May
Ere envious Age is hastening on his way
With snowy wreaths to crown the beauteous brow;
The rose will fade when storms assail the year,
And Time, who changeth not his swift career,
Constant in this, will change all else below!

LORENZO DE MEDICI.

VIOLETS.

“Non di verdi giardin ornati e colti.”

We come not, fair one! to thy hand of snow
From the soft scenes by Culture’s hand array’d;
Not rear’d in bowers where gales of fragrance blow,
But in dark glens, and depths of forest shade!
There once, as Venus wander’d, lost in woe,
To seek Adonis through th’ entangled wood,
Piercing her foot, a thorn that lurk’d below
With print relentless drew celestial blood!
Then our light stems, with snowy blossoms fraught,
Bending to earth, each precious drop we caught,
Imbibing thence our bright purpureal dyes;
We were not foster’d in our shadowy vales
By guided rivulets or summer gales--
Our dew and air have been Love’s balmy tears and sighs!

PINDEMONTE.

ON THE HEBE OF CANOVA.

“Dove per te, celeste ancilla, or vassi?”

Whither, celestial maid, so fast away?
What lures thee from the banquet of the skies?
How canst thou leave thy native realms of day
For this low sphere, this vale of clouds and sighs?
O thou, Canova! soaring high above
Italian art--with Grecian magic vying!
We knew thy marble glow’d with life and love,
But who had seen thee image footsteps flying?
Here to each eye the wind seems gently playing
With the light vest, its wavy folds arraying
In many a line of undulating grace;
While Nature, ne’er her mighty laws suspending,
Stands, before marble thus with motion blending,
One moment lost in thought, its hidden cause to trace.

[A volume of translations published in 1818, might have been called by anticipation, “Lays of many Lands.” At the time now alluded to, her inspirations were chiefly derived from classical subjects. The “graceful superstitions” of Greece, and the sublime patriotism of Rome, held an influence over her thoughts which is evinced by many of the works of this period--such as “The Restoration of the Works of Art to Italy,” “Modern Greece,” and several of the poems which formed the volume entitled “Tales and Historic Scenes.”

“Apart from all intercourse,” says Delta, “with literary society, and acquainted only by name and occasional correspondence with any of the distinguished authors of whom England has to boast, Mrs Hemans, during the progress of her poetical career, had to contend with more and greater obstacles than usually stand in the path of female authorship. To her praise be it spoken, therefore, that it was to her own merit alone, wholly independent of adventitious circumstances, that she was indebted for the extensive share of popularity which her compositions ultimately obtained. From this studious seclusion were given forth the two poems which first permanently elevated her among the writers of her age,--the ‘Restoration of the Works of Art to Italy,’ and ‘Modern Greece.’ In these the maturity of her intellect appears; and she makes us feel, that she has marked out a path for herself through the regions of song. The versification is high-toned and musical, in accordance with the sentiment and subject; and in every page we have evidence, not only of taste and genius, but of careful elaboration and research. These efforts were favourably noticed by Lord Byron; and attracted the admiration of Shelley. Bishop Heber and other judicious and intelligent counsellors cheered her on by their approbation: the reputation which, through years of silent study and exertion, she had, no doubt, sometimes with brightened and sometimes with doubtful hopes, looked forward to as a sufficient great reward, was at length unequivocally and unreluctantly accorded her by the world; and, probably, this was the happiest period of her life. The Translations from Camoens; the prize poem of Wallace, as also that of Dartmoor, the Tales and Historic Scenes, and the Sceptic, may all be referred to this epoch of her literary career.”--_Biographical Sketch, prefixed, to Poetical Remains_, 1836.

In reference to the same period of Mrs Hemans’ career, the late acute and accomplished Miss Jewsbury (afterwards Mrs Fletcher) has the following judicious observations:--

“At this stage of transition, her poetry was correct, classical, and highly polished; but it wanted warmth: it partook more of the nature of statuary than of painting. She fettered her mind with facts and authorities, and drew upon her memory when she might have relied upon her imagination. She was diffident of herself, and, to quote her own admission, ‘loved to repose under the shadow of mighty names.’”--_Athenæum_, Feb. 1831.]

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

LINES

WRITTEN IN A HERMITAGE ON THE SEA-SHORE.

O wanderer! would thy heart forget
Each earthly passion and regret,
And would thy wearied spirit rise
To commune with its native skies;
Pause for a while, and deem it sweet
To linger in this calm retreat;
And give thy cares, thy griefs, a short suspense,
Amidst wild scenes of lone magnificence.

Unmix’d with aught of meaner tone,
Here Nature’s voice is heard alone:
When the loud storm, in wrathful hour,
Is rushing on its wing of power,
And spirits of the deep awake,
And surges foam, and billows break,
And rocks and ocean-caves around
Reverberate each awful sound--
That mighty voice, with all its dread control,
To loftiest thought shall wake thy thrilling soul.

But when no more the sea-winds rave,
When peace is brooding on the wave,
And from earth, air, and ocean rise
No sounds but plaintive melodies;
Soothed by their softly mingling swell,
As daylight bids the world farewell,
The rustling wood, the dying breeze,
The faint low rippling of the seas,
A tender calm shall steal upon thy breast,
A gleam reflected from the realms of rest.

Is thine a heart the world hath stung,
Friends have deceived, neglect hath wrung?
Hast thou some grief that none may know,
Some lonely, secret, silent woe?
Or have thy fond affections fled
From earth, to slumber with the dead?--
Oh! pause awhile--the world disown,
And dwell with Nature’s self alone!
And though no more she bids arise
Thy soul’s departed energies,
And though thy joy of life is o’er,
Beyond her magic to restore;
Yet shall her spells o’er every passion steal,
And soothe the wounded heart they cannot heal.

DIRGE OF A CHILD.

No bitter tears for thee be shed,
Blossom of being! seen and gone!
With flowers alone we strew thy bed,
O blest departed One!
Whose all of life, a rosy ray,
Blush’d into dawn and pass’d away.

Yes! thou art fled, ere guilt had power
To stain thy cherub-soul and form,
Closed is the soft ephemeral flower
That never felt a storm!
The sunbeam’s smile, the zephyr’s breath,
All that it knew from birth to death.

Thou wert so like a form of light,
That heaven benignly call’d thee hence,
Ere yet the world could breathe one blight
O’er thy sweet innocence:
And thou, that brighter home to bless,
Art pass’d, with all thy loveliness!

Oh I hadst thou still on earth remain’d,
Vision of beauty! fair, as brief!
How soon thy brightness had been stain’d
With passion or with grief!
Now not a sullying breath can rise
To dim thy glory in the skies.

We rear no marble o’er thy tomb--
No sculptured image there shall mourn;
Ah! fitter far the vernal bloom
Such dwelling to adorn.
Fragrance, and flowers, and dews, must be
The only emblems meet for thee.

Thy grave shall be a blessed shrine,
Adorn’d with Nature’s brightest wreath;
Each glowing season shall combine
Its incense there to breathe;
And oft, upon the midnight air,
Shall viewless harps be murmuring there.

And oh! sometimes in visions blest,
Sweet spirit! visit our repose;
And bear, from thine own world of rest,
Some balm for human woes!
What form more lovely could be given
Than thine to messenger of heaven?[57]

INVOCATION.

Hush’d is the world in night and sleep--
Earth, sea, and air are still as death;
Too rude to break a calm so deep
Were music’s faintest breath.
Descend, bright visions! from aërial bowers,
Descend to gild your own soft silent hours.

In hope or fear, in toil or pain,
The weary day have mortals pass’d;
Now, dreams of bliss! be yours to reign,
And all your spells around them cast;
Steal from their hearts the pang, their eyes the tear,
And lift the veil that hides a brighter sphere.

Oh, bear your softest balm to those
Who fondly, vainly, mourn the dead!
To them that world of peace disclose
Where the bright soul is fled:
Whore Love, immortal in his native clime,
Shall fear no pang from fate, no blight from time.

Or to his loved, his distant land
On your light wings the exile bear,
To feel once more his heart expand
In his own genial mountain-air;
Hear the wild echoes well-known strains repeat,
And bless each note, as heaven’s own music sweet.

But oh! with fancy’s brightest ray,
Blest dreams! the bard’s repose illume;
Bid forms of heaven around him play,
And bowers of Eden bloom!
And waft _his_ spirit to its native skies
Who finds no charm in life’s realities.

No voice is on the air of night,
Through folded leaves no murmurs creep,
Nor star nor moonbeam’s trembling light
Falls on the placid brow of sleep.
Descend, bright visions! from your airy bower:
Dark, silent, solemn is your favourite hour.

[57] Vide Annotation from _Quarterly Review_, p. 62.

TO THE MEMORY OF

GENERAL SIR E--D P--K--M.[58]

Brave spirit! mourn’d with fond regret,
Lost in life’s pride, in valour’s noon,
Oh, who could deem thy star should set
So darkly and so soon!

Fatal, though bright, the fire of mind
Which mark’d and closed thy brief career,
And the fair wreath, by Hope entwined,
Lies wither’d on thy bier.

The soldier’s death hath been thy doom,
The soldier’s tear thy mead shall be;
Yet, son of war! a prouder tomb
Might Fate have rear’d for thee.

Thou shouldst have died, O high-soul’d chief!
In those bright days of glory fled,
When triumph so prevail’d o’er grief
We scarce could mourn the dead.

Noontide of fame! each tear-drop then
Was worthy of a warrior’s grave:
When shall affection weep again
So proudly o’er the brave?

There, on the battle-fields of Spain,
Midst Roncesvalles’ mountain-scene,
Or on Vitoria’s blood-red plain,
Meet had thy deathbed been.

We mourn not that a hero’s life
Thus in its ardent prime should close;
Hadst thou but fallen in nobler strife,
But died midst conquer’d foes!

Yet hast thou still (though victory’s flame
In that last moment cheer’d thee not)
Left Glory’s isle another name,
That ne’er may be forgot:

And many a tale of triumph won
Shall breathe that name in Memory’s ear,
And long may England mourn a son
_Without reproach or fear_.

[58] Major-general Sir Edward Pakenham, the gallant officer to whose memory these verses are dedicated, fell at the head of the British troops in the unfortunate attack on New Orleans, 8th January 1814. “Six thousand combatants on the British side,” says Mr Alison, “were in the field: a slender force to attack double their number, intrenched to the teeth in works bristling with bayonets and loaded with heavy artillery.”--_History of Europe_, vol. x. p. 743.

The death of Sir Edward is thus alluded to in the official account of General Keane, communicating the result of the action:--“The advancing columns were discernible from the enemy’s line at more than two hundred yards’ distance, when a destructive fire was instantly opened, not only from all parts of the enemy’s line, but from the battery on the opposite side of the river. The gallant Pakenham, who, during his short but brilliant career, was always foremost in the path of glory and of danger, galloped forward to the front, to animate his men by his presence. He had reached the crest of the glacis, and was in the act of cheering his troops with his hat off, when he received two balls, one in the knee and another in the body. He fell into the arms of Major Macdougal, his aide-de-camp, and almost instantly expired.”--_Edinr. An. Regist._ 1815, p. 356.

TO THE MEMORY OF

SIR H--Y E--LL--S,

WHO FELL IN THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO.

“Happy are they who die in youth, when their renown is around them.”--Ossian.

Weep’st thou for him, whose doom was seal’d
On England’s proudest battle-field?
For him, the lion-heart, who died
In victory’s full resistless tide?
Oh, mourn him not!
By deeds like his that field was won,
And Fate could yield to Valour’s son
No brighter lot.

He heard his band’s exulting cry,
He saw the vanquish’d eagles fly;
And envied be his death of fame!
It shed a sunbeam o’er his name
That nought shall dim:
No cloud obscured his glory’s day,
It saw no twilight of decay.
Weep not for him!

And breathe no dirge’s plaintive moan,
A hero claims far loftier tone!
Oh, proudly shall the war-song swell,
Recording how the mighty fell
In that dread hour,
When England, midst the battle-storm--
The avenging angel--rear’d her form
In tenfold power.

Yet, gallant heart! to swell thy praise,
Vain were the minstrel’s noblest lays;
Since he, the soldier’s guiding star,
The Victor-chief, the lord of war,
Has own’d thy fame:
And oh! like _his_ approving word,
What trophied marble could record
A warrior’s name?

GUERILLA SONG.

FOUNDED ON THE STORY RELATED OF THE SPANISH PATRIOT MINA.

Oh! forget not the hour when through forest and vale
We return’d with our chief to his dear native halls;
Through the woody sierra there sigh’d not a gale,
And the moonbeam was bright on his battlement-walls;
And nature lay sleeping in calmness and light,
Round the home of the valiant, that rose on our sight.

We enter’d that home--all was loneliness round,
The stillness, the darkness, the peace of the grave;
Not a voice, not a step, bade its echoes resound:
Ah, such was the welcome that waited the brave!
For the spoilers had pass’d, like the poison-wind’s breath,
And the loved of his bosom lay silent in death.

Oh! forget not that hour--let its image be near,
In the light of our mirth, in the dreams of our rest,
Let its tale awake feelings too deep for a tear,
And rouse into vengeance each arm and each breast,
Till cloudless the dayspring of liberty shine
O’er the plains of the olive and hills of the vine.

THE AGED INDIAN.

Warriors! my noon of life is past,
The brightness of my spirit flown;
I crouch before the wintry blast,
Amidst my tribe I dwell alone;
The heroes of my youth are fled,
They rest among the warlike dead.

Ye slumberers of the narrow cave!
My kindred chiefs in days of yore!
Ye fill an unremember’d grave,
Your fame, your deeds, are known no more.
The records of your wars are gone,
Your names forgot by all but one.

Soon shall that one depart from earth,
To join the brethren of his prime;
Then will the memory of your birth
Sleep with the hidden things of time.
With him, ye sons of former days!
Fades the last glimmering of your praise.

His eyes, that hail’d your spirits’ flame,
Still kindling in the combat’s shock,
Have seen, since darkness veil’d your fame,
Sons of the desert and the rock!
Another and another race
Rise to the battle and the chase.

Descendants of the mighty dead!
Fearless of heart, and firm of hand!
Oh, let me join their spirits fled--
Oh! send me to their shadowy land.
Age hath not tamed Ontara’s heart--
He shrinks not from the friendly dart.

These feet no more can chase the deer,
The glory of this arm is flown;--
Why should the feeble linger here
When all the pride of life is gone?
Warriors! why still the stroke deny?
Think ye Ontara fears to die?

He fear’d not in his flower of days,
When strong to stem the torrent’s force,
When through the desert’s pathless maze
His way was as an eagle’s course!
When war was sunshine to his sight,
And the wild hurricane delight!

Shall, then, the warrior tremble _now_?
Now when his envied strength is o’er--
Hung on the pine his idle bow,
His pirogue useless on the shore?
When age hath dimm’d his failing eye,
Shall he, the joyless, fear to die?

Sons of the brave! delay no more--
The spirits of my kindred call.
’Tis but one pang, and all is o’er!
Oh, bid the aged cedar fall!
To join the brethren of his prime,
The mighty of departed time.

EVENING AMONGST THE ALPS.

Soft skies of Italy! how richly drest,
Smile these wild scenes in your purpureal glow!
What glorious hues, reflected from the west,
Float o’er the dwellings of eternal snow!
Yon torrent, foaming down the granite steep,
Sparkles all brilliance in the setting beam;
Dark glens beneath in shadowy beauty sleep,
Where pipes the goat-herd by his mountain-stream.
Now from yon peak departs the vivid ray,
That still at eve its lofty temple knows;
From rock and torrent fade the tints away,
And all is wrapt in twilight’s deep repose:
While through the pine-wood gleams the vesper star,
And roves the Alpine gale o’er solitudes afar.

DIRGE OF THE HIGHLAND CHIEF IN “WAVERLEY.”[59]

Son of the mighty and the free!
High-minded leader of the brave!
Was it for lofty chief like thee
To fill a nameless grave?
Oh! if amidst the valiant slain
The warrior’s bier had been thy lot,
E’en though on red Culloden’s plain,
We then had mourn’d thee not.

But darkly closed thy dawn of fame,
That dawn whose sunbeam rose so fair;
Vengeance alone may breathe thy name,
The watchword of Despair!
Yet, oh! if gallant spirit’s power
Hath e’er ennobled death like thine,
Then glory mark’d _thy_ parting hour,
Last of a mighty line!

O’er thy own towers the sunshine falls,
But cannot chase their silent gloom;
Those beams that gild thy native walls
Are sleeping on thy tomb!
Spring on thy mountains laughs the while,
Thy green woods wave in vernal air,
But the loved scenes may vainly smile:
Not e’en thy dust is there.

On thy blue hills no bugle-sound
Is mingling with the torrent’s roar;
Unmark’d, the wild deer sport around:
Thou lead’st the chase no more!
Thy gates are closed, thy halls are still,
Those halls where peal’d the choral strain;
They hear the wind’s deep murmuring thrill,
And all is hush’d again.

No banner from the lonely tower
Shall wave its blazon’d folds on high;
There the tall grass and summer flower
Unmark’d shall spring and die.
No more thy bard for other ear
Shall wake the harp once loved by thine--
Hush’d be the strain _thou_ canst not hear,
Last of a mighty line!

[59] These very beautiful stanzas first appeared in the Edinburgh Annual Register for 1815, (p. 255,) with the following interesting heading.

“A literary friend of ours received these verses with a letter of the following tenor:--

“‘_A very ingenious young friend of mine has just sent me the enclosed, on reading Waverley. To you the world gives that charming work; and if in any future edition you should like to insert the Dirge to a Highland Chief, you would do honour to_

_Your Sincere Admirer._’

“The individual to whom this obliging letter was addressed, having no claim to the honour which is there done him, does not possess the means of publishing the verses in the popular novel alluded to. But that the public may sustain no loss, and that the ingenious author of Waverley may be aware of the honour intended him, our correspondent has ventured to send the verses to our Register.”

Notwithstanding the mysticism in the note about the “_very ingenious young friend of mine_” and “_your sincere admirer_,” on the one hand; and the disclaimer by “_a literary friend of ours_,” on the other, there can be little doubt that the Dirge was sent by Mrs Hermans to Sir Walter, then Mr Scott, and by him to the Register--of which he himself wrote that year the historical department.--_Vide_ Lockhart’s Life of Scott, vol. iv. p. 80.

THE CRUSADERS’ WAR-SONG.

Chieftains, lead on! our hearts beat high--
Lead on to Salem’s towers!
Who would not deem it bliss to die,
Slain in a cause like ours?
The brave who sleep in soil of thine,
Die not entomb’d but shrined, O Palestine!

Souls of the slain in holy war!
Look from your sainted rest.
Tell us ye rose in Glory’s car,
To mingle with the blest;
Tell us how short the death-pang’s power,
How bright the joys of your immortal bower.

Strike the loud harp, ye minstrel train!
Pour forth your loftiest lays;
Each heart shall echo to the strain
Breathed in the warrior’s praise.
Bid every string triumphant swell
Th’ inspiring sounds that heroes love so well.

Salem! amidst the fiercest hour,
The wildest rage of fight,
Thy name shall lend our falchions power,
And nerve our hearts with might.
Envied be those for thee that fall,
Who find their graves beneath thy sacred wall.

For them no need that sculptured tomb
Should chronicle their fame,
Or pyramid record their doom,
Or deathless verse their name;
It is enough that dust of thine
Should shroud their forms, O blessed Palestine!

Chieftains, lead on! our hearts beat high
For combat’s glorious hour;
Soon shall the red-cross banner fly
On Salem’s loftiest tower!
We burn to mingle in the strife,
Where _but_ to die insures eternal life.

THE DEATH OF CLANRONALD.

[It was in the battle of Sheriffmoor that young Clanronald fell, leading on the Highlanders of the right wing. His death dispirited the assailants, who began to waver. But Glengarry, chief of a rival branch of the Clan Colla, started from the ranks, and, waving his bonnet round his head, cried out, “To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for mourning!” The Highlanders received a new impulse from his words, and, charging with redoubled fury, bore down all before them.--See the _Quarterly Review_ article of “Culloden Papers.”]

Oh, ne’er be Clanronald the valiant forgot!
Still fearless and first in the combat, he fell;
But we paused not one tear-drop to shed o’er the spot,
We spared not one moment to murmur “Farewell.”
We heard but the battle-word given by the chief,
“To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for grief!”

And wildly, Clanronald! we echo’d the vow,
With the tear on our cheek, and the sword in our hand;
Young son of the brave! we may weep for thee now,
For well has thy death been avenged by thy band,
When they joined in wild chorus the cry of the chief,
“To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for grief!”

Thy dirge in that hour was the bugle’s wild call,
The clash of the claymore, the shout of the brave;
But now thy own bard may lament for thy fall,
And the soft voice of melody sigh o’er thy grave--
While Albyn remembers the words of the chief,
“To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for grief!”

Thou art fallen, O fearless one! flower of thy race!
Descendant of heroes! thy glory is set:
But thy kindred, the sons of the battle and chase,
Have proved that thy spirit is bright in them yet!
Nor vainly have echo’d the words of the chief,
“To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for grief!”

TO THE EYE.

Throne of expression! whence the spirit’s ray
Pours forth so oft the light of mental day,
Where fancy’s fire, affection’s mental beam,
Thought, genius, passion, reign in turn supreme,
And many a feeling, words can ne’er impart,
Finds its own language to pervade the heart:
Thy power, bright orb! what bosom hath not felt,
To thrill, to rouse, to fascinate, to melt!
And, by some spell of undefined control,
With magnet-influence touch the secret soul!

Light of the features! in the morn of youth
Thy glance is nature, and thy language truth;
And ere the world, with all-corrupting sway,
Hath taught e’en _thee_ to flatter and betray,
Th’ ingenuous heart forbids thee to reveal,
Or speak one thought that interest would conceal.
While yet thou seem’st the cloudless mirror given
But to reflect the purity of heaven,
Oh! then how lovely, there unveil’d, to trace
Th’ unsullied brightness of each mental grace!

When Genius lends thee all his living light,
Where the full beams of intellect unite;
When love illumes thee with his varying ray,
Where trembling Hope and tearful Rapture play;
Or Pity’s melting cloud thy beam subdues,
Tempering its lustre with a veil of dews;
Still does thy power, whose all-commanding spell
Can pierce the mazes of the soul so well,
Bid some new feeling to existence start
From its deep slumbers in the inmost heart.
And oh! when thought, in ecstasy sublime,
That soars triumphant o’er the bounds of time,
Fires thy keen glance with inspiration’s blaze,
The light of heaven, the hope of nobler days,
(As glorious dreams, for utterance far too high,
Flash through the mist of dim mortality;)
Who does not own, that through thy lightning-beams
A flame unquenchable, unearthly, streams?
That pure, though captive effluence of the sky,
The vestal-ray, the spark that cannot die!

THE HERO’S DEATH.

Life’s parting beams were in his eye,
Life’s closing accents on his tongue,
When round him, pealing to the sky,
The shout of victory rung!

Then, ere his gallant spirit fled,
A smile so bright illumed his face--
Oh! never, of the light it shed,
Shall memory lose a trace!

His was a death whose rapture high
Transcended all that life could yield;
His warmest prayer was so to die,
On the red battle-field!

And they may feel, who loved him most,
A pride so holy and so pure:
Fate hath no power o’er those who boast
A treasure thus secure!

STANZAS

ON

THE DEATH OF THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE.

[“Hélas! nous composions son histoire de tout ce qu’on peut imaginer de plus glorieux.... Le passé et le présent nous garantissoient l’avenir.... Telle étoit l’agréable histoire que nous faisions; et pour achever ces nobles projets, il n’y avoit que la durée de sa vie; dont nous ne croyions pas devoir être en peine, car qui eût pu seulement penser, que les années eussent dû manquer à une jeunesse qui sembloit si vive?”--Bossuet.]

I.

Mark’d ye the mingling of the city’s throng,
Each mien, each glance, with expectation bright?
Prepare the pageant and the choral song,
The pealing chimes, the blaze of festal light!
And hark! what rumour’s gathering sound is nigh?
Is it the voice of joy, that murmur deep?
Away! be hush’d, ye sounds of revelry!
Back to your homes, ye multitudes, to weep!
Weep! for the storm hath o’er us darkly pass’d,
And England’s royal flower is broken by the blast!

II.

Was it a dream? so sudden and so dread
That awful fiat o’er our senses came!
So loved, so blest, is that young spirit fled,
Whose early grandeur promised years of fame?
Oh! when hath life possess’d, or death destroy’d
More lovely hopes, more cloudlessly that smiled?
When hath the spoiler left so dark a void?
For all is lost--the mother and her child!
Our morning-star hath vanish’d, and the tomb
Throws its deep lengthen’d shade o’er distant years to come.

III.

Angel of Death! did no presaging sign
Announce thy coming, and thy way prepare?
No warning voice, no harbinger was thine,
Danger and fear seem’d past--but thou wert there!
Prophetic sounds along the earthquake’s path
Foretell the hour of nature’s awful throes;
And the volcano, ere it burst in wrath,
Sends forth some herald from its dread repose:
But _thou_, dark Spirit! swift and unforeseen,
Cam’st like the lightning’s flash, when heaven is all serene.

IV.

And she is gone!--the royal and the young,
In soul commanding, and in heart benign!
Who, from a race of kings and heroes sprung,
Glow’d with a spirit lofty as her line.
Now may the voice she loved on earth so well
Breathe forth her name unheeded and in vain;
Nor can those eyes on which her own would dwell
Wake from that breast one sympathy again:
The ardent heart, the towering mind are fled,
Yet shall undying love still linger with the dead.

V.

Oh, many a bright existence we have seen
Quench’d in the glow and fulness of its prime;
And many a cherish’d flower, ere now, hath been
Cropt ere its leaves were breathed upon by time.
We have lost heroes in their noon of pride,
Whose fields of triumph gave them but a bier;
And we have wept when soaring genius died,
Check’d in the glory of his mid career!
But here our hopes were centred--all is o’er:
All thought in this absorb’d,--she was--and is no more!

VI.

We watch’d her childhood from its earliest hour,
From every word and look blest omens caught;
While that young mind developed all its power,
And rose to energies of loftiest thought.
On her was fix’d the patriot’s ardent eye--
One hope still bloom’d, one vista still was fair;
And when the tempest swept the troubled sky,
She was our dayspring--all was cloudless _there_;
And oh! how lovely broke on England’s gaze,
E’en through the mist and storm, the fight of distant days.

VII.

Now hath one moment darken’d future years,
And changed the track of ages yet to be!--
Yet, mortal! midst the bitterness of tears,
Kneel, and adore th’ inscrutable decree!
Oh! while the clear perspective smiled in light,
Wisdom should _then_ have temper’d hope’s excess;
And, lost One! when we saw thy lot so bright,
We might have trembled at its loveliness.
Joy is no earthly flower--nor framed to bear,
In its exotic bloom, life’s cold, ungenial air.

VIII.

All smiled around thee: Youth, and Love, and Praise,
Hearts all devotion and all truth were thine!
On thee was riveted a nation’s gaze,
As on some radiant and unsullied shrine.
Heiress of empires! thou art pass’d away
Like some fair vision, that arose to throw
O’er one brief hour of life a fleeting ray,
Then leave the rest to solitude and woe!
Oh! who shall dare to woo such dreams again!
Who hath not wept to know that tears for thee were vain?

IX.

Yet there is one who loved thee--and whose soul
With mild affections nature form’d to melt;
His mind hath bow’d beneath the stern control
Of many a grief--but _this_ shall be unfelt!
Years have gone by--and given his honour’d head
A diadem of snow; his eye is dim;
Around him Heaven a solemn cloud hath spread--
The past, the future, are a dream to him!
Yet, in the darkness of his fate, alone[60]
He dwells on earth, while thou in life’s full pride art gone!

X.

The Chastener’s hand is on us--we may weep,
But not repine--for many a storm hath pass’d,
And, pillow’d on her own majestic deep,
Hath England slept, unshaken by the blast!
And War hath raged o’er many a distant plain,
Trampling the vine and olive in his path;
While she, that regal daughter of the main,
Smiled in serene defiance of his wrath!
As some proud summit, mingling with the sky,
Hears calmly far below the thunders roll and die.

XI.

Her voice hath been th’ awakener--and her name
The gathering-word of nations. In her might,
And all the awful beauty of her fame,
Apart she dwelt, in solitary light.
High on her cliffs, alone and firm she stood,
Fixing the torch upon her beacon-tower--
That torch whose flame, far streaming o’er the flood,
Hath guided Europe through her darkest hour.
Away, vain dreams of glory!--in the dust
Be humbled, Ocean-queen! and own thy sentence just!

XII.

Hark! ’twas the death-bell’s note! which, full and deep,
Unmix’d with aught of less majestic tone,
While all the murmurs of existence sleep,
Swell’d on the stillness of the air alone!
Silent the throngs that fill the darken’d street,
Silent the slumbering Thames, the lonely mart;
And all is still, where countless thousands meet,
Save the full throbbing of the awe-struck heart!
All deeply, strangely, fearfully serene,
As in each ravaged home th’ avenging one had been.

XIII.

The sun goes down in beauty--his farewell,
Unlike the world he leaves, is calmly bright;
And his last mellow’d rays around us dwell,
Lingering, as if on scenes of young delight.
They smile and fade--but, when the day is o’er,
What slow procession moves with measured tread?--
Lo! those who weep, with her who weeps no more,
A solemn train--the mourners and the dead!
While, throned on high, the moon’s untroubled ray
Looks down, as earthly hopes are passing thus away.

XIV.