The lightning too each eye in dimness shrouds, The fiery progeny of clashing clouds, That carries death upon its blazing wing, It rushes fleeter than the swiftest wind, A moment blazes-dazzles-bursts-and dies: To each replies its own allotted peal. The deep-blue sky, more fresh and bright in hue! My ravish'd senses catch the rich perfume, THE GRAVE OF A SUICIDE. HARK! how the gale, in mournful notes and stern, Sighs thro' yon grove of aged oaks, that wave (While down these solitary walks I turn) Their mingled branches o'er yon lonely grave! Poor soul! the dawning of thy life was dim; Frown'd the dark clouds upon thy natal day; Soon rose thy cup of sorrow to the brim, And hope itself but shed a doubtful ray. That hope had fled, and all within was gloom; Scarce one bright scene thy night of darkness knew! Oft when the moonbeam on the cold bank sleeps, "Oh! softly tread: in death he slumbers here: "Tis here," she cries, "within his narrow cell!"The bitter sob, the wildly-starting tear, The quivering lip, proclaim the rest too well! ON THE DEATH OF LORD BYRON. "Unus tanta dedit ?-dedit et majora daturus DON MANUEL DE SOUZA COUTINO'S Epitaph on Camoens. THE hero and the bard is gone! He died-where vengeance arms the brave, Yet not before his ardent lay Thro' him their ancient valor glows, A little exaggeration may be pardoned on a subject so inspiring. As once in conscious glory bold, Each drop that gushes from their side, At last upon their lords they turn, At last the shame of bondage learn, At last they feel their fetters burn!* Oh! how the heart expands to see An injured people all agrec To burst those fetters and be free! Each far-famed mount that cleaves the skies, Who would not feel their wrongs? and who To see imperial Athens reign, To see rough Sparta train once more Was Byron's hope-was Byron's aim: With ready heart and hand he came; But perish'd in that path of fame! THE WALK AT MIDNIGHT. The swell of distant brook is heard, Come hither! let us thread with care Or on this old bench will we sit, Round which the clust'ring woodbine wreathes. While birds of night around us fit; And thro' each lavish wood-walk breathes, Unto my ravish'd senses, brought From you thick-woven odorous bowers, The still rich breeze, with incense fraught Of glowing fruits and spangled flowers. The whispering leaves, the gushing stream, Then, to the thickly-crowded mart The eager sons of interest press; Then, shine the tinsel works of artNow, all is Nature's loneliness! The enthusiasm the noble poet excited reminds us of Tyrtæus. Then, wealth aloft in state displays The glittering of her gilded cars; Now, dimly stream the mingled rays Of yon far-twinkling, silver stars. Yon church, whose cold gray spire appears In the black outline of the trees, Conceals the object of my tears, Whose form in dreams my spirit sees. There in the chilling bed of earth The chancel's letter'd stone aboveThere sleepeth she who gave me birth, Who taught my lips the hymn of love! Yon mossy stems of ancient oak, So widely crown'd with sombre shade, Those ne'er have heard the woodman's stroke Their solemu, secret depths invade. How oft the grassy way I've trod That winds their knotty boles between, And gather'd from the blooming sod The flowers that flourish'd there unseen! Rise! let us trace that path once more, While o'er our track the cold beams shine; Down this low shingly vale, and o'er You rude, rough bridge of prostrate pine. MITHRIDATES PRESENTING BERENICE WITH THE CUP OF POISON. OH! Berenice, lorn and lost, This wretched soul with shame is bleeding: Oh! Berenice, I am tost By griefs, like wave to wave succeeding. Fall'n Pontus! all her fame is gone, And dim the splendor of her glory; Low in the west her evening sun, And dark the lustre of her story. Dead is the wreath that round her brow And wilt thou, wilt thou basely go, My love, thy life, thy country shaming, In all the agonies of woe, 'Mid madd'ning shouts, and standards flaming? And wilt thou, wilt thou basely go, Proud Rome's triumphal car adorning? Hark! hark! I hear thee answer "No!" The proffer'd life of thraldom scorning. Lone, crownless, destitute, and poor, My heart with bitter pain is burning; So thick a cloud of night hangs o'er, My daylight into darkness turning. Yet though my spirit, bow'd with ill, Small hope from future fortune borrows; One glorions thought shall cheer me still, That thou art free from abject sorrows Art free forever from the strife Of slavery's pangs and tearful anguish; For life is death, and death is life, To those whose limbs in fetters languish. Fill high the bowl! the draught is thine! The Romans!-now thou need'st not heed them! "Tis nobler than the noblest wine It gives thee back to fame and freedom! The scalding tears my cheek bedew; My life, my love, my all-we sever! One last embrace, one long adieu, And then farewell-farewell forever! In reality Mithridates had no personal interview with Montma and Berenice before the deaths of those princesses, but only sent his eunuch Bacchidas to signify his intention that they should die. I have chosen Berenice as the more general name, though Monima was his peculiar favorite. THE BARD'S FAREWELL. "The king, sensible that nothing kept alive the ideas of military valor and of ancient glory so much as the traditional poetry of the people-which, assisted by the power of music and the jollity of festivals, made deep impression on the minds of the youth-gathered together all the Welsh bards, and, from a barbarous though not absurd policy, ordered them to be put to death."-HUME. SNOWDON! thy cliffs shall hear no more This deep-toned harp again ; But banner-cry and battle-roar O'er thy sweet chords, my magic lyre! Well might the crafty Edward fear: Full well he knew the wizard-spell That dwelt upon thy string; And trembled, when he heard thy swell Thro' Snowdon's caverns ring! These eyes shall sleep in death's dull night, This hand all nerveless lie, Ere once again you orb of light Break o'er the clear blue sky! And thou, by Hell's own furies nurst, Unfurl thy banner's pride! But know that, living, thee I cursed; Aud, cursing thee, I died! EPIGRAM. MEDEA'S herbs her magic gave- ON BEING ASKED FOR A SIMILE, TO ILLUSTRATE THE ADVANTAGE OF KEEPING THE PASSIONS SUBSERVIENT TO REASON. As the sharp, pungent taste is the glory of mustard, But, if heighten'd, would trouble your touchy pa pillæ : As a few laurel-leaves add a relish to custard, But, if many, would fight with your stomach and kill ye: So the passions, if freed from the precincts of reason, Have noxious effects-but if duly confined, sir, Are useful, no doubt-this each writer agrees on: So I've dish'd up a simile just to your mind, sir. When my voice was high, and my arm was strong, For when I have chanted the bold song of death, And who might resist the united powers Of battle and music that day, When, all martiall'd in arms on the heaven-kissing towers, Stood the chieftains in peerless array? When our enemies sunk from our eyes as the snow And each note of my harp was his knell? So raise ye the song of the hundred shells; APOLLONIUS RHODIUS'S COMPLAINT.* WITH cutting taunt they bade me lay My high-strung harp aside, As if I dare not soar away On Fancy's plume of pride! Oh! while there's image in my brain And vigor in my hand, The first shall frame the soul-fraught strain, The last these chords command! 'Tis true, I own, the starting tear Has swell'd into mine eye, When she, whose hand the plant should rear, Could bid it fade and die: But, deaf to cavil, spite, and scorn, I still must wake the lyre; And still, on Fancy's pinions borne, To Helicon aspire. This eminent poet, resenting the unworthy treatment of the Alexandrians, quitted their city, where he had been for some time librarian, and retired to Rhodes THE FALL OF JERUSALEM. JERUSALEM! Jerusalem! Thou art low! thou mighty one, Of the Roman bird, whose sway How is thy royal seat-whereon When the ships from Tarshish bore All the wealth of foreign climes- Salem! Salem! city of kings, Where once the glory of the Most High Dwelt visibly enshrined between the wings Of Cherubims, within whose bright embrace The golden mercy-seat remain'd: Land of Jehovah! view that sacred place Abandon'd and profaned! Wail! fallen Salem! Wail: Mohammed's votaries pollute thy fane; Thrice hath Sion's crowned rock Towering on his sainted brow, Down to earth hath seen it driv'n Wail, fallen Salem ! Wail: Though not one stone above another There was left to tell the tale Of the greatness of thy story, Yet the long lapse of ages cannot smother In his cold surge hath deeply laved Oh! who shall e'er forget thy bands, which Alexandria, however, was not his native city he was born at Naucratis. Pizarro! Pizarro! thongh conquest may wing Her course round thy banners that wanton in air; Yet remorse to thy grief-stricken conscience shall cling, And shriek o'er thy banquets in sounds of despair. It shall tell thee, that he who beholds from his throne The blood thou hast spilt and the deeds thou hast done, Shall mock at thy fear, and rejoice at thy groan, SHORT EULOGIUM ON HOMER. IMMORTAL bard! thy warlike lay "A SISTER, SWEET ENDEARING NAME!" "Why should we mourn for the blest?"-BYRON. A SISTER, Sweet endearing name! Beneath this tombstone sleeps: A brother (who such tears could blame?) I saw her when in health she wore I saw her when the icy wind Of sickness froze her bloom; I saw her (bitterest stroke!) consign'd To that cold cell-the tomb! Oh! when I heard the crumbling mould And thought within she lay so cold, O'er her sweet cheek's once lovely dye, From the sad spot, and in mine eye Again I come-again I feel Reflection's poignant sting, As I retrace my sister's form, And back her image bring. Herself I cannot-from the sod She will not rise again; But this sweet thought, "She rests with God," Relieves a brother's pain. "THE SUN GOES DOWN IN THE DARK BLUE MAIN." "Irreparabile tempus."-VIRGIL. THE sun goes down in the dark blue main, The moon goes down on the calm still night, The blossoms depart in the wintry hour, But oh what charm can restore the flower And steal upon my hopeless view, I may not see the glazed eye beam: I may not warm the damps of death, "OH! NEVER MAY FROWNS AND DISSENSION MOLEST." "Ipse meique Ante Larem proprium."-HORACE. On! never may frowns and dissension molest For who could e'er traverse this valley of tears, Without the dear comforts of friendship and home: And bear all the dark disappointments and fears, Which chill most of our joys and annihilate some? Vain, bootless pursuers of honor and fame! 'Tis idle to tell ye, what soon ye must proveThat honor's a bauble, and glory a name, When put in the balance with friendship and love. For when by fruition their pleasure is gone, We think of them no more-they but charm for a while; When the objects of love and affection are flown, With pleasure we cling to their memories still! "STILL, MUTE, AND MOTIONLESS SHE LIES." "Belle en sa fleur d'adolescence."-BERQUIN. "Lovely in death the beauteous ruin lay."-YOUNG. STILL, mute, and motionless she lies, The mist of death has veil'd her eyes. And is that bright-red lip so pale, Whose hue was freshen'd by a gale More sweet than summer e'er could bring To fan her flowers with balmy wing! Thy breath, the summer gale, is fled, And leaves thy lip, the flower, decay'd. When I was young, with fostring care I rear'd a tulip bright and fair, And saw its lovely leaves expand, The labor of my infant hand. But winter came-its varied dye Each morn grew fainter to mine eye; Till, with'ring, it was bright no more, Nor bloom'd as it was wont before: And gazing there in boyish grief, Upon the dull and alter'd leaf, "Alas! sweet flower," I cried in vain, "Would I could bid thee blush again!" So now, "Return, thou crimson dye, To Celia's lip!" I wildly cry; ON A DEAD ENEMY. "Non odi mortuum."-CICERO. I CAME in haste with cursing breath, For when I look upon that face, LINES.* "Cur pendet tacita fistula cum lyra?"-HORACE. WHENCE is it, friend, that thine enchanting lyre Of wizard charm, should thus in silence lie? Ah! why not boldly sweep its chords of fire, And rouse to life its latent harmony? Thy fancy, fresh, exuberant, boundless, wild, Would then transport us, since it charm'd before! * Occasioned by hearing an ardent and beautiful description of the scenery of Southern America given by a gentleman whom the author persuaded to put his ideas into the language of poetry. |