Chapter V: Part II: Analysis of Part II (3)

——Down, soothless insulter! I trust not the tale:
For never shall Albin a destiny meet,
So black with dishonour, so foul with retreat.
Though my perishing ranks should be strewed in their gore,
Like ocean-weeds heaped on the surf-beaten shore,
Lochiel, untainted by flight or by chains,
While the kindling of life in his bosom remains,
Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low,
With his back to the field, and his feet to the foe!
And leaving in battle no blot on his name,
Look proudly to Heaven from the death-bed of fame

[67] See Notes at the end of the Volume.

[68] The Gaelic appellation of Scotland,—more particularly the Highlands.

[69] Charles Edward Stuart.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

BATTLE OF THE BALTIC.

I.

Of Nelson and the North,
Sing the glorious day’s renown,
When to battle fierce came forth
All the might of Denmark’s crown,
And her arms along the deep proudly shone;
By each gun the lighted brand,
In a bold determined hand,
And the Prince of all the land
Led them on.

II.

Like leviathans afloat,
Lay their bulwarks on the brine;
While the sign of battle flew
On the lofty British line:
It was ten of April morn by the chime;
As they drifted on their path,
There was silence deep as death;
And the boldest held his breath,
For a time.

III.

But the might of England flushed
To anticipate the scene;
And her van the fleeter rushed
O’er the deadly space between.
“Hearts of oak!” our captain cried; when each gun
From its adamantine lips
Spread a death-shade round the ships,
Like the hurricane eclipse
Of the sun.

IV.

Again! again! again!
And the havoc did not slack,
Till a feeble cheer the Dane
To our cheering sent us back;—
Their shots along the deep slowly boom:—
Then ceased—and all is wail,
As they strike the shattered sail;
Or, in conflagration pale,
Light the gloom.

V.

Out spoke the victor then,
As he hailed them o’er the wave;
“Ye are brothers! ye are men!
And we conquer but to save:—
So peace instead of death let us bring;
But yield, proud foe, thy fleet,
With the crews, at England’s feet,
And make submission meet
To our King.”

VI.

Then Denmark blessed our chief,
That he gave her wounds repose;
And the sounds of joy and grief
From her people wildly rose,
As death withdrew his shades from the day.
While the sun looked smiling bright
O’er a wide and woeful sight,
Where the fires of funeral light
Died away.

VII.

Now joy, Old England, raise!
For the tidings of thy might,
By the festal cities’ blaze,
While the wine-cup shines in light;
And yet amidst that joy and uproar,
Let us think of them that sleep,
Full many a fathom deep,
By thy wild and stormy steep.
Elsinore!

VIII.

Brave hearts! to Britain’s pride
Once so faithful and so true,
On the deck of fame that died;—
With the gallant good Riou:[70]
Soft sigh the winds of Heaven o’er their grave!
While the billow mournful rolls
And the mermaid’s song condoles,
Singing glory to the souls
Of the brave!

[70] Captain Riou, justly entitled the gallant and the good, by Lord Nelson when he wrote home his despatches.

YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND: A NAVAL ODE.

I.

Ye Mariners of England!
That guard our native seas;
Whose flag has braved, a thousand years,
The battle and the breeze!
Your glorious standard launch again
To meet another foe!
And sweep through the deep,
While the stormy tempests blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests blow.

II.

The spirits of your fathers
Shall start from every wave!—
For the deck it was their field of fame,
And Ocean was their grave:
Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell,
Your manly hearts shall glow,
As ye sweep through the deep,
While the stormy tempests blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests blow.

III.

Britannia needs no bulwark,
No towers along the steep;
Her march is o’er the mountain-waves,
Her home is on the deep.
With thunders from her native oak,
She quells the floods below,—
As they roar on the shore,
When the stormy tempests blow:
When the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests blow.

IV.

The meteor flag of England
Shall yet terrific burn;
Till danger’s troubled night depart,
And the star of peace return.
Then, then, ye ocean-warriors!
Our song and feast shall flow
To the fame of your name,
When the storm has ceased to blow;
When the fiery fight is heard no more,
And the storm has ceased to blow.

TO THE RAINBOW.

Triumphal arch, that fill’st the sky
When storms prepare to part,
I ask not proud Philosophy
To teach me what thou art—

Still seem as to my childhood’s sight,
A midway station given
For happy spirits to alight
Betwixt the earth and heaven.

Can all that Optics teach, unfold
Thy form to please me so,
As when I dreamt of gems and gold
Hid in thy radiant bow?

When Science from Creation’s face
Enchantment’s veil withdraws,
What lovely visions yield their place
To cold material laws!

And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams,
But words of the Most High,
Have told why first thy robe of beams
Was woven in the sky.

When o’er the green undeluged earth
Heaven’s covenant thou didst shine,
How came the world’s grey fathers forth
To watch thy sacred sign.

And when its yellow lustre smiled
O’er mountains yet untrod,
Each mother held aloft her child
To bless the bow of God.

Methinks, thy jubilee to keep,
The first made anthem rang
On earth delivered from the deep,
And the first poet sang.

Nor ever shall the Muse’s eye
Unraptured greet thy beam:
Theme of primeval prophecy,
Be still the poet’s theme!

The earth to thee her incense yields,
The lark thy welcome sings,
When glittering in the freshened fields
The snowy mushroom springs.

How glorious is thy girdle cast
O’er mountain, tower, and town,
Or mirrored in the ocean vast,
A thousand fathoms down!

As fresh in yon horizon dark,
As young thy beauties seem,
As when the eagle from the ark
First sported in thy beam

For, faithful to its sacred page,
Heaven still rebuilds thy span,
Nor lets the type grow pale with age
That first spoke peace to man.

THE LAST MAN.

All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom,
The Sun himself must die,
Before this mortal shall assume
Its Immortality!
I saw a vision in my sleep,
That gave my spirit strength to sweep
Adown the gulph of Time!
I saw the last of human mould,
That shall Creation’s death behold,
As Adam saw her prime!

The Sun’s eye had a sickly glare,
The Earth with age was wan,
The skeletons of nations were
Around that lonely man!
Some had expired in fight,—the brands
Still rested in their bony hands;
In plague and famine some!
Earth’s cities had no sound nor tread;
And ships were drifting with the dead
To shores where all was dumb!

Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood
With dauntless words and high,
That shook the sere leaves from the wood
As if a storm passed by,
Saying, “We are twins in death, proud Sun,
Thy face is cold, thy race is run,
’Tis Mercy bids thee go.
For thou ten thousand thousand years
Hast seen the tide of human tears,
That shall no longer flow.

“What though beneath thee man put forth
His pomp, his pride, his skill;
And arts that made fire, flood, and earth,
The vassals of his will;—
Yet mourn I not thy parted sway,
Thou dim discrownèd king of day:
For all those trophied arts
And triumphs that beneath thee sprang,
Healed not a passion or a pang
Entailed on human hearts.

“Go, let oblivion’s curtain fall
Upon the stage of men,
Nor with thy rising beams recall
Life’s tragedy again.
Its piteous pageants bring not back,
Nor waken flesh, upon the rack
Of pain anew to writhe;
Stretched in disease’s shapes abhorred,
Or mown in battle by the sword,
Like grass beneath the scythe.

“E’en I am weary in yon skies
To watch thy fading fire;
Test of all sumless agonies,
Behold not me expire.
My lips that speak thy dirge of death—
Their rounded gasp and gurgling breath
To see thou shalt not boast.
The eclipse of Nature spreads my pall,—
The majesty of Darkness shall
Receive my parting ghost!

“This spirit shall return to Him
That gave its heavenly spark;
Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim
When thou thyself art dark!
No! it shall live again, and shine
In bliss unknown to beams of thine,
By Him recalled to breath,
Who captive led captivity,
Who robbed the grave of Victory,—
And took the sting from Death!

“Go, Sun, while Mercy holds me up
On Nature’s awful waste
To drink this last and bitter cup
Of grief that man shall taste—
Go, tell the night that hides thy face,
Thou saw’st the last of Adam’s race,
On Earth’s sepulchral clod,
The darkening universe defy
To quench his Immortality,
Or shake his trust in God!”

VALEDICTORY STANZAS To J. P. KEMBLE, ESQ. COMPOSED FOR A PUBLIC MEETING, _Held June, 1817_.

Pride of the British stage,
A long and last adieu!
Whose image brought the heroic age
Revived to Fancy’s view
Like fields refreshed with dewy light
When the sun smiles his last
Thy parting presence makes more bright
Our memory of the past;
And memory conjures feelings up
That wine or music need not swell,
As high we lift the festal cup
To Kemble—fare thee well!

His was the spell o’er hearts
Which only Acting lends,—
The youngest of the sister Arts,
Where all their beauty blends:
For ill can Poetry express
Full many a tone of thought sublime,
And Painting, mute and motionless,
Steals but a glance of time.
But by the mighty actor brought,
Illusion’s perfect triumphs come,—
Verse ceases to be airy thought,
And Sculpture to be dumb.

Time may again revive,
But ne’er eclipse the charm,
When Cato spoke in him alive,
Or Hotspur kindled warm.
What soul was not resigned entire
To the deep sorrows of the Moor,—
What English heart was not on fire
With him at Agincourt?
And yet a Majesty possessed
His transport’s most impetuous tone,
And to each passion of his breast
The Graces gave their zone.

High were the task—too high,
Ye conscious bosoms here!
In words to paint your memory
Of Kemble and of Lear;
But who forgets that white discrownèd head,
Those bursts of Reason’s half-extinguished glare—
Those tears upon Cordelia’s bosom shed,
In doubt more touching than despair,
If ’twas reality he felt?
Had Shakespeare’s self amidst you been,
Friends, he had seen you melt,
And triumphed to have seen!

And there was many an hour
Of blended kindred fame,
When Siddons’ auxiliar power
And sister magic came.
Together at the Muse’s side
The tragic paragons had grown—
They were the children of her pride,
The columns of her throne,
And undivided favour ran
From heart to heart in their applause,
Save for the gallantry of man,
In lovelier woman’s cause.

Fair as some classic dome,
Robust and richly graced,
Your Kemble’s spirit was the home
Of genius and of taste:—
Taste like the silent dial’s power,
That when supernal light is given,
Can measure inspiration’s hour
And tell its height in Heaven.
At once ennobled and correct,
His mind surveyed the tragic page,
And what the actor could effect,
The scholar could presage.

These were his traits of worth:—
And must we lose them now!
And shall the scene no more show forth
His sternly pleasing brow!
Alas, the moral brings a tear!—
’Tis all a transient hour below;
And we that would detain thee here,
Ourselves as fleetly go!
Yet shall our latest age
This parting scene review:—
Pride of the British stage,
A long and last adieu!

A DREAM.

Well may sleep present us fictions,
Since our waking moments teem
With such fanciful convictions
As make life itself a dream.
Half our daylight faith’s a fable;
Sleep disports with shadows too
Seeming in their turn as stable
As the world we wake to view.
Ne’er by day did Reason’s mint
Give my thoughts a clearer print
Of assured reality,
Than was left by Phantasy,
Stamped and coloured on my sprite,
In a dream of yesternight.

In a bark, methought, lone steering,
I was cast on Ocean’s strife;
This, ’twas whispered in my hearing,
Meant the sea of life.
Sad regrets from past existence
Came, like gales of chilling breath;
Shadowed in the forward distance
Lay the land of Death.
Now seeming more, now less remote,
On that dim-seen shore, methought,
I beheld two hands a space
Slow unshroud a spectre’s face;
And my flesh’s hair upstood,—
’Twas mine own similitude.

But my soul revived at seeing
Ocean, like an emerald spark,
Kindle, while an air-dropt being
Smiling steered my bark.
Heaven-like—yet he looked as human
As supernal beauty can,
More compassionate than woman
Lordly more than man.
And as some sweet clarion’s breath
Stirs the soldier’s scorn of death—
So his accents bade me brook
The spectre’s eyes of icy look,
Till it shut them—turned its head,
Like a beaten foe, and fled.

“Types not this,” I said, “fair spirit!
That my death-hour is not come?
Say, what days shall I inherit?—
Tell my soul their sum.”
“No,” he said, “yon phantom’s aspect,
Trust me, would appal thee worse,
Held in clearly measured prospect:—
Ask not for a curse!
Make not, for I overhear
Thine unspoken thoughts as clear
As thy mortal ear could catch
The close-brought tickings of a watch—
Make not the untold request
That’s now revolving in thy breast.

“’Tis to live again, remeasuring
Youth’s years, like a scene rehearsed,
In thy second life-time treasuring
Knowledge from the first.
Hast thou felt, poor self-deceiver!
Life’s career so void of pain,
As to wish its fitful fever
New begun again?
Could experience, ten times thine,
Pain from Being disentwine—
Threads by Fate together spun?
Could thy flight Heaven’s lightning shun?
No, nor could thy foresight’s glance
’Scape the myriad shafts of Chance.

“Would’st thou bear again Love’s trouble—
Friendship’s death-dissevered ties;
Toil to grasp or miss the bubble
Of Ambition’s prize?
Say thy life’s new guided action
Flowed from Virtue’s fairest springs—
Still would Envy and Detraction
Double not their stings?
Worth itself is but a charter
To be mankind’s distinguished martyr.”
I caught the moral, and cried, “Hail!
Spirit! let us onward sail,
Envying, fearing, hating none—
Guardian Spirit, steer me on!”

LINES WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF THE HIGHLAND SOCIETY IN LONDON, WHEN MET TO COMMEMORATE THE 21ST OF MARCH, THE DAY OF VICTORY IN EGYPT.

Pledge to the much-loved land that gave us birth!
Invincible romantic Scotia’s shore!
Pledge to the memory of her parted worth!
And first, amidst the brave, remember Moore!

And be it deemed not wrong that name to give,
In festive hours, which prompts the patriot’s sigh!
Who would not envy such as Moore to live?
And died he not as heroes wish to die?

Yes, though too soon attaining glory’s goal,
To us his bright career too short was given;
Yet in a mighty cause his phœnix soul
Rose on the flames of victory to Heaven!

How oft (if beats in subjugated Spain
One patriot heart) in secret shall it mourn
For him!—How oft on far Corunna’s plain
Shall British exiles weep upon his urn!

Peace to the mighty dead!—our bosom thanks
In sprightlier strains the living may inspire!
Joy to the chiefs that lead old Scotia’s ranks,
Of Roman garb and more than Roman fire!

Triumphant be the thistle still unfurled,
Dear symbol wild! on Freedom’s hills it grows,
Where Fingal stemmed the tyrants of the world,
And Roman eagles found unconquered foes!

Joy to the band[71] this day on Egypt’s coast,
Whose valour tamed proud France’s tricolor,
And wrenched the banner from her bravest host,
Baptised Invincible in Austria’s gore!

Joy for the day on red Vimeira’s strand,
When, bayonet to bayonet opposed,
First of Britannia’s host her Highland band
Gave but the death-shot once, and foremost closed!

Is there a son of generous England here
Or fervid Erin?—he with us shall join,
To pray that in eternal union dear,
The rose, the shamrock, and the thistle twine!

Types of a race who shall the invader scorn,
As rocks resist the billows round their shore;
Types of a race who shall to time unborn
Their country leave unconquered as of yore!

[71] The 42nd Regiment.

STANZAS TO THE MEMORY OF THE SPANISH PATRIOTS LATEST KILLED IN RESISTING THE REGENCY AND THE DUKE OF ANGOULEME.

Brave men who at the Trocadero fell—
Beside your cannons conquered not, though slain,
There is a victory in dying well
For Freedom,—and ye have not died in vain,
For come what may, there shall be hearts in Spain
To honour, ay embrace your martyred lot,
Cursing the Bigot’s and the Bourbon’s chain,
And looking on your graves, though trophied not,
As holier, hallowed ground than priests could make the spot!

What though your cause be baffled—freemen cast
In dungeons—dragged to death, or forced to flee;
Hope is not withered in affliction’s blast—
The patriot’s blood’s the seed of Freedom’s tree;
And short your orgies of revenge shall be,
Cowled Demons of the Inquisitorial cell!
Earth shudders at your victory,—for ye
Are worse than common fiends from Heaven that fell,
The baser, ranker sprung, _Autochthones_ of Hell!

Go to your bloody rites again—bring back
The hall of horrors and the assessor’s pen,
Recording answers shrieked upon the rack;
Smile o’er the gaspings of spine-broken men;—
Preach, perpetrate damnation in your den;—
Then let your altars, ye blasphemers! peal
With thanks to Heaven, that let you loose again,
To practise deeds with torturing fire and steel
No eye may search—no tongue may challenge or reveal!

Yet laugh not in your carnival of crime
Too proudly, ye oppressors!—Spain was free,
Her soil has felt the foot-prints, and her clime
Been winnowed by the wings of Liberty;
And these even parting scatter as they flee
Thoughts—influences, to live in hearts unborn,
Opinions that shall wrench the prison-key
From Persecution—show her mask off-torn,
And tramp her bloated head beneath the foot of Scorn.

Glory to them that die in this great cause!
Kings, Bigots, can inflict no brand of shame,
Or shape of death, to shroud them from applause:—
No!—manglers of the martyr’s earthly frame!
Your hangmen fingers cannot touch his fame.
Still in your prostrate land there shall be some
Proud hearts, the shrines of Freedom’s vestal flame.
Long trains of ill may pass unheeded, dumb,
But vengeance is behind, and justice is to come.

SONG OF THE GREEKS.

Again to the battle, Achaians!
Our hearts bid the tyrants defiance;
Our land, the first garden of Liberty’s tree—
It has been, and shall yet be the land of the free:
For the cross of our faith is replanted,
The pale dying crescent is daunted,
And we march that the foot-prints of Mahomet’s slaves
May be washed out in blood from our forefathers’ graves.
Their spirits are hovering o’er us,
And the sword shall to glory restore us.

Ah! what though no succour advances,
Nor Christendom’s chivalrous lances
Are stretched in our aid—be the combat our own!
And we’ll perish or conquer more proudly alone;
For we’ve sworn by our Country’s assaulters,
By the virgins they’ve dragged from our altars,
By our massacred patriots, our children in chains,
By our heroes of old and their blood in our veins.
That living, we shall be victorious,
Or that dying, our deaths shall be glorious.

A breath of submission we breathe not;
The sword that we’ve drawn we will sheathe not!
Its scabbard is left where our martyrs are laid,
And the vengeance of ages has whetted its blade.
Earth may hide—waves engulph—fire consume us,
But they shall not to slavery doom us:
If they rule, it shall be o’er our ashes and graves;
But we’ve smote them already with fire on the waves,
And new triumphs on land are before us,
To the charge!—Heaven’s banner is o’er us.

This day shall ye blush for its story,
Or brighten your lives with its glory.
Our women, oh, say, shall they shriek in despair,
Or embrace us from conquest with wreaths in their hair?
Accursed may his memory blacken,
If a coward there be that would slacken
Till we’ve trampled the turban and shown ourselves worth
Being sprung from and named for the godlike of earth.
Strike home, and the world shall revere us
As heroes descended from heroes.

Old Greece lightens up with emotion
Her inlands, her isles of the Ocean;
Fanes rebuilt and fair towns shall with jubilee ring,
And the Nine shall new-hallow their Helicon’s spring:
Our hearths shall be kindled in gladness,
That were cold and extinguished in sadness;
Whilst our maidens shall dance with their white-waving arms,
Singing joy to the brave that delivered their charms,
When the blood of yon Mussulman cravens
Shall have purpled the beaks of our ravens.

ODE TO WINTER.

When first the fiery-mantled sun
His heavenly race began to run;
Round the earth and ocean blue,
His children four the Seasons flew.
First, in green apparel dancing,
The young Spring smiled with angel grace;
Rosy Summer next advancing,
Rushed into her sire’s embrace:—
Her bright-haired sire, who bade her keep
For ever nearest to his smiles,
On Calpe’s olive-shaded steep,
On India’s citron-covered isles:
More remote and buxom-brown,
The Queen of vintage bowed before his throne;
A rich pomegranate gemmed her crown,
A ripe sheaf bound her zone.

But howling Winter fled afar,
To hills that prop the polar star,
And loves on deer-borne car to ride,
With barren darkness by his side,
Round the shore where loud Lofoden
Whirls to death the roaring whale,
Round the hall where Runic Odin
Howls his war-song to the gale;
Save when adown the ravaged globe
He travels on his native storm,
Deflowering Nature’s grassy robe,
And trampling on her faded form:—
Till light’s returning lord assume
The shaft that drives him to his polar field,
Of power to pierce his raven plume
And crystal-covered shield.

Oh, sire of storms! whose savage ear
The Lapland drum delights to hear,
When frenzy with her blood-shot eye
Implores thy dreadful deity,
Archangel! power of desolation!
Fast descending as thou art,
Say, hath mortal invocation
Spells to touch thy stony heart?
Then, sullen Winter, hear my prayer,
And gently rule the ruined year;
Nor chill the wanderer’s bosom bare,
Nor freeze the wretch’s falling tear;—
To shuddering Want’s unmantled bed
Thy horror-breathing agues cease to lead,
And gently on the orphan head
Of innocence descend.

But chiefly spare, O, king of clouds!
The sailor on his airy shrouds;
When wrecks and beacons strew the steep,
And spectres walk along the deep.
Milder yet thy snowy breezes
Pour on yonder tented shores,
Where the Rhine’s broad billow freezes,
Or the dark-brown Danube roars.
Oh, winds of Winter! list ye there
To many a deep and dying groan;
Or start, ye demons of the midnight air,
At shrieks and thunders louder than your own.
Alas! ev’n your unhallowed breath
May spare the victim fallen low;
But man will ask no truce to death,—
No bounds to human woe.[72]

[72] This ode was written in Germany, at the close of 1800, before the conclusion of hostilities.

LINES SPOKEN BY MR. * * *, AT DRURY-LANE THEATRE, ON THE FIRST OPENING OF THE HOUSE AFTER THE DEATH OF THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE, 1817.

Britons! although our task is but to show
The scenes and passions of fictitious woe,
Think not we come this night without a part
In that deep sorrow of the public heart,
Which like a shade hath darkened every place,
And moistened with a tear the manliest face!
The bell is scarcely hushed in Windsor’s piles,
That tolled a requiem from the solemn aisles,
For her, the royal flower, low laid in dust,
That was your fairest hope, your fondest trust.
Unconscious of the doom, we dreamt, alas!
That e’en these walls, ere many months should pass,
Which but return sad accents for her now,
Perhaps had witnessed her benignant brow,
Cheered by the voice you would have raised on high,
In bursts of British love and loyalty.
But, Britain! now thy chief, thy people mourn,
And Claremont’s home of love is left forlorn:—
There, where the happiest of the happy dwelt,
The ’scutcheon glooms, and royalty hath felt
A wound that every bosom feels its own,—
The blessing of a father’s heart o’erthrown—
The most beloved and most devoted bride
Torn from an agonizèd husband’s side,
Who “long as Memory holds her seat” shall view
That speechless, more than spoken last adieu,
When the fixed eye long looked connubial faith,
And beamed affection in the trance of death.
Sad was the pomp that yesternight beheld,
As with the mourner’s heart the anthem swelled;
While torch succeeding torch illumed each high
And bannered arch of England’s chivalry.
The rich plumed canopy, the gorgeous pall,
The sacred march, and sable-vested wall,—
These were not rites of inexpressive show,
But hallowed as the types of real woe!
Daughter of England! for a nation’s sighs.
A nation’s heart went with thine obsequies!—
And oft shall time revert a look of grief
On thine existence, beautiful and brief.
Fair spirit! send thy blessing from above
On realms where thou art canonised by love!
Give to a father’s, husband’s bleeding mind,
The peace that angels lend to human kind,
To us who in thy loved remembrance feel
A sorrowing, but a soul-ennobling zeal—
A loyalty that touches all the best
And loftiest principles of England’s breast!
Still may thy name speak concord from the tomb—
Still in the Muse’s breath thy memory bloom!
They shall describe thy life—thy form portray;
But all the love that mourns thee swept away,
’Tis not in language or expressive arts
To paint—yet feel it, Britons in your hearts!

LINES ON THE GRAVE OF A SUICIDE.

By strangers left upon a lonely shore,
Unknown, unhonoured, was the friendless dead,
For child to weep, or widow to deplore,
There never came to his unburied head:—
All from his dreary habitation fled.
Nor will the lanterned fisherman at eve
Launch on that water by the witches’ tower,
Where hellebore and hemlock seem to weave
Round its dark vaults a melancholy bower,
For spirits of the dead at night’s enchanted hour.
They dread to meet thee, poor unfortunate!
Whose crime it was, on life’s unfinished road
To feel the stepdame buffetings of fate,
And render back thy being’s heavy load.
Ah! once, perhaps, the social passions glowed
In thy devoted bosom—and the hand
That smote its kindred heart, might yet be prone
To deeds of mercy. Who may understand
Thy many woes, poor suicide, unknown?—
He who thy being gave shall judge of thee alone.

THE TURKISH LADY.

’Twas the hour when rites unholy
Called each Paynim voice to prayer,
And the star that faded slowly
Left to dews the freshened air.

Day her sultry fires had wasted,
Calm and sweet the moonlight rose;
E’en a captive spirit tasted
Half oblivion of his woes.

Then ’twas from an Emir’s palace
Came an Eastern lady bright:
She, in spite of tyrants jealous,
Saw and loved an English knight.

“Tell me, captive, why in anguish
Foes have dragged thee here to dwell,
Where poor Christians as they languish
Hear no sound of Sabbath bell?”

“’Twas on Transylvania’s Bannat,
When the Crescent shone afar,
Like a pale disastrous planet
O’er the purple tide of war—

“In that day of desolation,
Lady, I was captive made;
Bleeding for my Christian nation
By the walls of high Belgrade.”

“Captive! could the brightest jewel
From my turban set thee free?”
“Lady no!—the gift were cruel,
Ransomed, yet if reft of thee.”

“Say, fair princess! would it grieve thee
Christian climes should we behold?”
“Nay, bold knight! I would not leave thee
Were thy ransom paid in gold!”

Now in heaven’s blue expansion
Rose the midnight star to view,
When to quit her father’s mansion
Thrice she wept, and bade adieu!

“Fly we then, while none discover!
Tyrant barks, in vain ye ride!”
Soon at Rhodes the British lover
Clasped his blooming Eastern bride.

THE WOUNDED HUSSAR.

Alone to the banks of the dark-rolling Danube
Fair Adelaide hied when the battle was o’er:—
“Oh, whither,” she cried, “hast thou wandered, my lover?
Or here dost thou welter and bleed on the shore?

“What voice did I hear? ’twas my Henry that sighed!”
All mournful she hastened, nor wandered she far,
When bleeding, and low, on the heath she descried,
By the light of the moon, her poor wounded Hussar!

From his bosom that heaved, the last torrent was streaming,
And pale was his visage, deep marked with a scar!
And dim was that eye, once expressively beaming,
That melted in love, and that kindled in war!

How smit was poor Adelaide’s heart at the sight!
How bitter she wept o’er the victim of war!
“Hast thou come, my fond Love, this last sorrowful night,
To cheer the lone heart of your wounded Hussar?”

“Thou shalt live,” she replied, “Heaven’s mercy relieving
Each anguishing wound, shall forbid me to mourn!”
“Ah, no! the last pang of my bosom is heaving!
No light of the morn shall to Henry return!

“Thou charmer of life, ever tender and true!
Ye babes of my love, that await me afar!”
His faltering tongue scarce could murmur adieu,
When he sunk in her arms—the poor wounded Hussar!

LINES INSCRIBED ON THE MONUMENT LATELY FINISHED BY MR. CHANTREY, WHICH HAS BEEN ERECTED BY THE WIDOW OF ADMIRAL SIR G. CAMPBELL K.C.B., TO THE MEMORY OF HER HUSBAND.

To him, whose loyal, brave, and gentle heart,
Fulfilled the hero’s and the patriot’s part,—
Whose charity, like that which Paul enjoined,
Was warm, beneficent, and unconfined,—
This stone is reared: to public duty true,
The seaman’s friend, the father of his crew—
Mild in reproof, sagacious in command,
He spread fraternal zeal throughout his band,
And led each arm to act, each heart to feel,
What British valour owes to Britain’s weal.
These were his public virtues:—but to trace
His private life’s fair purity and grace,
To paint the traits that drew affection strong
From friends, an ample and an ardent throng,
And, more, to speak his memory’s grateful claim
On her who mourns him most, and bears his name—
O’ercomes the trembling hand of widowed grief,
O’ercomes the heart, unconscious of relief
Save in religion’s high and holy trust,
Whilst placing their memorial o’er his dust.

THE BRAVE ROLAND.[73]

The brave Roland!—the brave Roland!—
False tidings reached the Rhenish strand
That he had fallen in fight;
And thy faithful, bosom swooned with pain,
O loveliest maiden of Allémayne!
For the loss of thine own true knight.

But why so rash has she ta’en the veil,
In yon Nonnenwerder’s cloisters pale?
For her vow had scarce been sworn,
And the fatal mantle o’er her flung,
When the Drachenfells to a trumpet rung—
’Twas her own dear warrior’s horn!

Woe! woe! each heart shall bleed—shall break!
She would have hung upon his neck,
Had he come but yester-even;
And he had clasped those peerless charms
That shall never, never fill his arms,
Or meet him but in heaven.

Yet Roland the brave—Roland the true—
He could not bid that spot adieu;
It was dear still ’midst his woes;
For he loved to breathe the neighbouring air,
And to think she blessed him in her prayer,
When the Halleluiah rose.

There’s yet one window of that pile,
Which he built above the Nun’s green isle;
Thence sad and oft looked he
(When the chant and organ sounded slow)
On the mansion of his love below,
For herself he might not see.

She died!—He sought the battle plain;
Her image filled his dying brain,
When he fell and wished to fall:
And her name was in his latest sigh,
When Roland, the flower of chivalry,
Expired at Roncevall.

[73] The tradition which forms the substance of these stanzas is still preserved in Germany. An ancient tower on a height, called the Rolandseck, a few miles above Bonn on the Rhine, is shown as the habitation which Roland built in sight of a nunnery, into which his mistress had retired, on having heard an unfounded account of his death. Whatever may be thought of the credibility of the legend, its scenery must be recollected with pleasure by every one who has visited the romantic landscape of the Drachenfells, the Rolandseck, and the beautiful adjacent islet of the Rhine, where a nunnery still stands.

THE SPECTRE BOAT. A BALLAD.

Light rued false Ferdinand to leave a lovely maid forlorn,
Who broke her heart and died to hide her blushing cheek from scorn.
One night he dreamt he wooed her in their wonted bower of love,
Where the flowers sprang thick around them, and the birds sang sweet
above.

But the scene was swiftly changed into a churchyard’s dismal view,
And her lips grew black beneath his kiss, from love’s delicious hue.
What more he dreamt, he told to none; but, shuddering, pale, and dumb,
Looked out upon the waves, like one that knew his hour was come.

’Twas now the dead watch of the night—the helm was lashed a-lee,
And the ship rode where Mount Ætna lights the deep Levantine sea;
When beneath its glare a boat came, rowed by a woman in her shroud,
Who, with eyes that made our blood run cold, stood up and spoke aloud:—

“Come, Traitor, down, for whom my ghost still wanders unforgiven!
Come down, false Ferdinand, for whom I broke my peace with heaven!”—
It was vain to hold the victim, for he plunged to meet her call,
Like the bird that shrieks and flutters in the gazing serpent’s thrall.

You may guess the boldest mariner shrunk daunted from the sight,
For the spectre and her winding-sheet shone blue with hideous light;
Like a fiery wheel the boat spun with the waving of her hand,
And round they went, and down they went, as the cock crew from the land.

THE LOVER TO HIS MISTRESS ON HER BIRTH-DAY.

If any white-winged Power above
My joys and griefs survey,
The day when thou wert born, my love—
He surely blessed that day.

I laughed (till taught by thee) when told
Of Beauty’s magic powers,
That ripened life’s dull ore to gold,
And changed its weeds to flowers.

My mind had lovely shapes portrayed,
But thought I earth had one
Could make e’en Fancy’s visions fade
Like stars before the sun?

I gazed, and felt upon my lips
The unfinished accents hang:
One moment’s bliss, one burning kiss,
To rapture changed each pang.

And though as swift as lightning’s flash
Those trancèd moments flew,
Not all the waves of time shall wash
Their memory from my view.

But duly shall my raptured song,
And gladly shall my eyes
Still bless this day’s return, as long
As thou shalt see it rise.

HOHENLINDEN.

On Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow,
And dark as winter was the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

But Linden saw another sight,
When the drum beat, at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light
The darkness of her scenery.

By torch and trumpet fast arrayed,
Each horseman drew his battle blade,
And furious every charger neighed,
To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills with thunder riven,
Then rushed the steed to battle driven,
And louder than the bolts of heaven,
Far flashed the red artillery.

But redder yet that light shall glow
On Linden’s hills of stainèd snow,
And bloodier yet the torrent flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

’Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,
Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun,
Shout in their sulph’rous canopy.

The combat deepens. On, ye brave,
Who rush to glory, or the grave!
Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave,
And charge with all thy chivalry!

Few, few, shall part where many meet!
The snow shall be their winding-sheet,
And every turf beneath their feet
Shall be a soldier’s sepulchre.

GLENARA.

O heard ye yon pibroch sound sad in the gale,
Where a band cometh slowly with weeping and wail?
’Tis the chief of Glenara[74] laments for his dear;
And her sire, and the people, are called to her bier.

Glenara came first with the mourners and shroud;
Her kinsmen they followed, but mourned not aloud:
Their plaids all their bosoms were folded around:
They marched all in silence,—they looked on the ground.

In silence they reached over mountain and moor,
To a heath, where the oak-tree grew lonely and hoar;
“Now here let us place the grey stone of her cairn:
Why speak ye no word!”—said Glenara the stern.

“And tell me, I charge you! ye clan of my spouse,
Why fold ye your mantles, why cloud ye your brows?”
So spake the rude chieftain:—no answer is made,
But each mantle unfolding a dagger displayed.

“I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her shroud,”
Cried a voice from the kinsmen, all wrathful and loud;
“And empty that shroud, and that coffin did seem:
Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!”

O! pale grew the cheek of that chieftain, I ween,
When the shroud was unclosed, and no lady was seen;
When a voice from the kinsmen spoke louder in scorn,
’Twas the youth who had loved the fair Ellen of Lorn:

“I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her grief,
I dreamt that her lord was a barbarous chief:
On a rock of the ocean fair Ellen did seem;
Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!”

In dust, low the traitor has knelt to the ground,
And the desert revealed where his lady was found;
From a rock of the ocean that beauty is borne—
Now joy to the house of fair Ellen of Lorn!

[74] Maclean of Duart.

LINES ON RECEIVING A SEAL WITH THE CAMPBELL CREST, FROM K. M——, BEFORE HER MARRIAGE.

This wax returns not back more fair
The impression of the gift you send,
Than stamped upon my thoughts I bear
The image of your worth, my friend!

We are not friends of yesterday;—
But poet’s fancies are a little
Disposed to heat and cool (they say),—
By turns impressible and brittle.

Well! should its frailty e’er condemn
My heart to prize or please you less,
_Your_ type is still the sealing gem,
And _mine_ the waxen brittleness.

What transcripts of my weal and woe
This little signet yet may lock,—
What utterances to friend or foe,
In reason’s calm or passion’s shock!

What scenes of life’s yet curtained page
May own its confidential die,
Whose stamp awaits the unwritten page,
And feelings of futurity!

Yet wheresoe’er my pen I lift
To date the epistolary sheet,
The blest occasion of the gift
Shall make its recollection sweet;

Sent when the star that rules your fates
Hath reached its influence most benign—
When every heart congratulates,
And none more cordially than mine.

So speed my song—marked with the crest
That erst the adventurous Norman[75] wore,
Who won the Lady of the West,
The daughter of Macaillain Mor.

Crest of my sires! whose blood it sealed
With glory in the strife of swords,
Ne’er may the scroll that bears it yield
Degenerate thoughts or faithless words!

Yet little might I prize the stone,
If it but typed the feudal tree
From whence a scattered leaf, I’m blown
In Fortune’s mutability.

No!—but it tells me of a heart,
Allied by friendship’s living tie;
A prize beyond the herald’s art—
Our soul-sprung consanguinity!

Katherine! to many an hour of mine
Light wings and sunshine you have lent;
And so adieu, and still be thine
The all-in-all of life—Content!

[75] A Norman leader, Gilliespie le Camile, in the service of the king of Scotland, married the heiress of Lochaw in the twelfth century, and from him the Campbells are sprung.

GILDEROY.

The last, the fatal hour is come,
That bears my love from me;
I hear the dead note of the drum,
I mark the gallows’ tree!

The bell has tolled; it shakes my heart;
The trumpet speaks thy name;
And must my Gilderoy depart
To bear a death of shame?

No bosom trembles for thy doom;
No mourner wipes a tear;
The gallows’ foot is all thy tomb,
The sledge is all thy bier.

Oh, Gilderoy! bethought we then
So soon, so sad to part,
When first in Roslin’s lovely glen
You triumphed o’er my heart?

Your locks they glittered to the sheen,
Your hunter garb was trim;
And graceful was the ribbon green
That bound your manly limb!

Ah! little thought I to deplore
Those limbs in fetters bound;
Or hear, upon the scaffold floor,
The midnight hammer sound.

Ye cruel, cruel, that combined
The guiltless to pursue;
My Gilderoy was ever kind,
He could not injure you!

A long adieu! but where shall fly
Thy widow all forlorn,
When every mean and cruel eye
Regards my woe with scorn?

Yes! they will mock thy widow’s tears,
And hate thine orphan boy;
Alas! his infant beauty wears
The form of Gilderoy.

Then will I seek the dreary mound
That wraps thy mouldering clay,
And weep and linger on the ground,
And sigh my heart away.

ADELGITHA.

The ordeal’s fatal trumpet sounded,
And sad pale Adelgitha came,
When forth a valiant champion bounded,
And slew the slanderer of her fame.

She wept, delivered from her danger;
But when he knelt to claim her glove—
“Seek not,” she cried, “oh! gallant stranger,
For hapless Adelgitha’s love.

“For he is in a foreign far land
Whose arm should now have set me free
And I must wear the willow garland
For him that’s dead, or false to me.”

“Nay! say not that his faith is tainted!”
He raised his vizor—At the sight
She fell into his arms and fainted;
It was indeed her own true knight!

ABSENCE.

’Tis not the loss of love’s assurance,
It is not doubting what thou art,
But ’tis the too, too long endurance
Of absence, that afflicts my heart.

The fondest thoughts two hearts can cherish,
When each is lonely doomed to weep,
Are fruits on desert isles that perish,
Or riches buried in the deep.

What though, untouched by jealous madness,
Our bosom’s peace may fall to wreck;
The undoubting heart, that breaks with sadness,
Is but more slowly doomed to break.

Absence! is not the soul torn by it
From more than light, or life, or breath?
’Tis Lethe’s gloom, but not its quiet,—
The pain without the peace of death!

THE RITTER BANN.

The Ritter Bann from Hungary
Came back renowned in arms,
But scorning jousts of chivalry
And love and ladies’ charms.

While other knights held revels, he
Was wrapt in thoughts of gloom,
And in Vienna’s hostelrie
Slow paced his lonely room.

There entered one whose face he knew,—
Whose voice, he was aware,
He oft at mass had listened to,
In the holy house of prayer.

’Twas the Abbot of St. James’s monks,
A fresh and fair old man:
His reverend air arrested even
The gloomy Ritter Bann.

But seeing with him an ancient dame
Come clad in Scotch attire,
The Ritter’s colour went and came,
And loud he spoke in ire.

“Ha! nurse of her that was my bane,
Name not her name to me;
I wish it blotted from my brain:
Art poor?—take alms, and flee.”

“Sir Knight,” the Abbot interposed,
“This case your ear demands;”
And the crone cried, with a cross enclosed
In both her trembling hands:—

“Remember, each his sentence waits;
And he that shall rebut
Sweet Mercy’s suit, on him the gates
Of Mercy shall be shut.

“You wedded, undispensed by Church,
Your cousin Jane in Spring;
In Autumn, when you went to search
For churchmen’s pardoning,

“Her house denounced your marriage-band,
Betrothed her to De Grey,
And the ring you put upon her hand
Was wrenched by force away.

“Then wept your Jane upon my neck,
Crying, ‘Help me, nurse, to flee
To my Howel Bann’s Glamorgan hills;’
But word arrived—ah me!—

“You were not there; and ’twas their threat,
By foul means or by fair,
To-morrow morning was to set
The seal on her despair.

“I had a son, a sea-boy, in
A ship at Hartland Bay;
By his aid from her cruel kin
I bore my bird away.

“To Scotland from the Devon’s
Green myrtle shores we fled;
And the Hand that sent the ravens
To Elijah, gave us bread.

“She wrote you by my son, but he
From England sent us word
You had gone into some far countrie,
In grief and gloom he heard.

“For they that wronged you, to elude
Your wrath, defamed my child;
And you—ay, blush, Sir, as you should—
Believed, and were beguiled.

“To die but at your feet, she vowed
To roam the world; and we
Would both have sped and begged our bread,
But so it might not be.

“For when the snow-storm beat our roof,
She bore a boy, Sir Bann,
Who grew as fair your likeness proof
As child e’er grew like man.

“’Twas smiling on that babe one morn
While heath bloomed on the moor,
Her beauty struck young Lord Kinghorn
As he hunted past our door.

‘She shunned him, but he raved of Jane,
And roused his mother’s pride;
Who came to us in high disdain,—
‘And where’s the face,’ she cried,

“‘Has witched my boy to wish for one
So wretched for his wife?—
Dost love thy husband? Know, my son
Has sworn to seek his life.’

“Her anger sore dismayed us,
For our mite was wearing scant,
And unless that dame would aid us,
There was none to aid our want.

“So I told her, weeping bitterly,
What all our woes had been;
And though she was a stern ladie,
The tears stood in her een.

“And she housed us both, when, cheerfully,
My child to her had sworn,
That even if made a widow, she
Would never wed Kinghorn.”——

Here paused the nurse, and then began
The Abbot, standing by:—
“Three months ago a wounded man
To our abbey came to die.

“He heard me long, with ghastly eyes
And hand obdurate clenched,
Speak of the worm that never dies,
And the fire that is not quenched.

“At last by what this scroll attests
He left atonement brief,
For years of anguish to the breasts
His guilt had wrung with grief.

“‘There lived,’ he said, ‘a fair young dame
Beneath my mother’s roof;
I loved her, but against my flame
Her purity was proof.

“‘I feigned repentance, friendship pure:
That mood she did not check,
But let her husband’s miniature
Be copied from her neck.

“‘As means to search him, my deceit
Took care to him was borne
Nought but his picture’s counterfeit,
And Jane’s reported scorn.

“‘The treachery took: she waited wild;
My slave came back and lied
Whate’er I wished; she clasped her child,
And swooned, and all but died.

“‘I felt her tears for years and years
Quench not my flame, but stir;
The very hate I bore her mate
Increased my love for her.

“‘Fame told us of his glory, while
Joy flushed the face of Jane;
And while she blessed his name, her smile
Struck fire into my brain.

“‘No fears could damp; I reached the camp,
Sought out its champion;
And if my broad-sword failed at last,
’Twas long and well laid on.

“‘This wound’s my meed, my name’s Kinghorn,
My foe’s the Ritter Bann.’——
The wafer to his lips was borne,
And we shrived the dying man.

“He died not till you went to fight
The Turks at Warradein;
But I see my tale has changed you pale.”—
The Abbot went for wine;

And brought a little page who poured
It out, and knelt and smiled:—
The stunned knight saw himself restored
To childhood in his child;

And stooped and caught him to his breast,
Laughed loud and wept anon,
And with a shower of kisses pressed
The darling little one.

“And where went Jane?”—“To a nunnery, Sir—
Look not again so pale—
Kinghorn’s old dame grew harsh to her.”—
“And has she ta’en the veil?”—

“Sit down, Sir,” said the priest, “I bar
Rash words.”—They sat all three,
And the boy played with the knight’s broad star,
As he kept him on his knee.

“Think ere you ask her dwelling-place,”
The Abbot further said;
“Time draws a veil o’er beauty’s face
More deep than cloister’s shade.

“Grief may have made her what you can
Scarce love perhaps for life.”
“Hush, Abbot,” cried the Ritter Bann,
“Or tell me where’s my wife.”

The priest undid two doors that hid
The inn’s adjacent room,
And there a lovely woman stood,
Tears bathed her beauty’s bloom.

One moment may with bliss repay
Unnumbered hours of pain;
Such was the throb and mutual sob
Of the Knight embracing Jane.

THE HARPER.

On the green banks of Shannon, when Sheelah was nigh,
No blithe Irish lad was so happy as I;
No harp like my own could so cheerily play,
And wherever I went was my poor dog Tray.

When at last I was forced from my Sheelah to part,
She said (while the sorrow was big at her heart),
“Oh! remember your Sheelah when far, far away;
And be kind, my dear Pat, to our poor dog Tray.”

Poor dog! he was faithful and kind, to be sure,
And he constantly loved me, although I was poor;
When the sour-looking folks sent me heartless away,
I had always a friend in my poor dog Tray.

When the road was so dark, and the night was so cold,
And Pat and his dog were grown weary and old,
How snugly we slept in my old coat of grey,
And he licked me for kindness—my poor dog Tray.

Though my wallet was scant, I remembered his case,
Nor refused my last crust to his pitiful face;
But he died at my feet on a cold winter day,
And I played a sad lament for my poor dog Tray.

Where now shall I go, poor, forsaken, and blind
Can I find one to guide me, so faithful, and kind;
To my sweet native village, so far, far away,
I can never more return with my poor dog Tray.

SONG TO THE EVENING STAR.

Star that bringest home the bee,
And sett’st the weary labourer free!
If any star shed peace, ’tis thou,
That send’st it from above,
Appearing when Heaven’s breath and brow
Are sweet as hers we love.

Come to the luxuriant skies,
Whilst the landscape’s odours rise,
Whilst far-off lowing herds are heard,
And songs, when toil is done,
From cottages whose smoke unstirred
Curls yellow in the sun.

Star of love’s soft interviews,
Parted lovers on thee muse;
Their remembrancer in Heaven
Of thrilling vows thou art,
Too delicious to be riven
By absence from the heart.

SONG. “MEN OF ENGLAND.”

Men of England! who inherit
Rights that cost your sires their blood!
Men whose undegenerate spirit
Has been proved on land and flood:—

By the foes ye’ve fought uncounted,
By the glorious deeds ye’ve done,
Trophies captured—breaches mounted,
Navies conquered—kingdoms won!

Yet, remember, England gathers
Hence but fruitless wreaths of fame,
If the patriotism of your fathers
Glow not in your hearts the same.

What are monuments of bravery,
Where no public virtues bloom?
What avail in lands of slavery,
Trophied temples, arch, and tomb?

Pageants!—Let the world revere us
For our people’s rights and laws,
And the breasts of civic heroes
Bared in Freedom’s holy cause.

Yours are Hampden’s, Russell’s glory,
Sydney’s matchless shade is yours,—
Martyrs in heroic story,
Worth a hundred Agincourts!

We’re the sons of sires that baffled
Crowned and mitred tyranny:—
They defied the field and scaffold
For their birthrights—so will we!

THE MAID’S REMONSTRANCE.

Never wedding, ever wooing,
Still a love-lorn heart pursuing,
Read you not the wrong you’re doing
In my cheek’s pale hue?
All my life with sorrow strewing,
Wed, or cease to woo.

Rivals banished, bosoms plighted,
Still our days are disunited;
Now the lamp of hope is lighted,
Now half quenched appears,
Damped, and wavering, and benighted,
Midst my sighs and tears.

Charms you call your dearest blessing,
Lips that thrill at your caressing,
Eyes a mutual soul confessing,
Soon you’ll make them grow
Dim, and worthless your possessing
Not with age, but woe!

SONG.

Drink ye to her that each loves best.
And if you nurse a flame
That’s told but to her mutual breast,
We will not ask her name.

Enough, while memory tranced and glad
Paints silently the fair,
That each should dream of joys he’s had,
Or yet may hope to share.

Yet far, far hence be jest or boast
From hallowed thoughts so dear;
But drink to them that we love most,
As they would love to hear.

SONG.

When Napoleon was flying
From the field of Waterloo,
A British soldier dying
To his brother bade adieu!

“And take,” he said, “this token
To the maid that owns my faith,
With the words that I have spoken
In affection’s latest breath.”

Sore mourned the brother’s heart,
When the youth beside him fell;
But the trumpet warned to part,
And they took a sad farewell.

There was many a friend to lose him,
For that gallant soldier sighed;
But the maiden of his bosom
Wept when all their tears were dried.

THE BEECH-TREE’S PETITION.