FAREWELL TO LOVE. I HAD a heart that doted once in passion's bound. less pain, And though the tyrant I abjured, I could not break his chain; But now that Fancy's fire is quench'd, and ne'er can burn anew, I've bid to Love, for all my life, adieu! adieu! adieu! I've known, if ever mortal knew, the spells of Beauty's thrall, And if my song has told them not, my soul has felt them all; But Passion robs my peace no more, and Beauty's witching sway Is now to me a star that's fall'n-a dream that's pass'd away. Hail! welcome tide of life, when no tumultuous billows roll, How wondrous to myself appears this halcyon calm of soul! The wearied bird blown o'er the deep would sooner quit its shore, Than I would cross the gulf again that time has brought me o'er. Why say they Angels feel the flame ?-Oh, spirits of the skies! Can love like ours, that dotes on dust, in heavenly bosoms rise?— Ah no! the hearts that best have felt its power, the best can tell, That peace on earth itself begins, when Love has bid farewell. 1830. LINES ON THE CAMP HILL, NEAR HASTINGS. IN the deep blue of eve, Ere the twinkling of stars had begun, Or the lark took his leave Of the skies and the sweet setting sun, I climb'd to yon heights, Where the Norman encamp'd him of old, And his banner all burnish'd with gold. At the Conqueror's side There his minstrelsy sat harp in hand, And they chaunted the deeds of Roland. Still the ramparted ground On each turf of that mead Stood the captors of England's domains, That ennobled her breed And high-mettled the blood of her veins. Over hauberk and helm As the sun's setting splendour was thrown, And to-morrow beheld it their own. [The preceding "Lines" were composed in the year 1831, and their subject (to use the poet's own words) "is a spot of ground, not far from the Castle of Hastings, on which I have ascertained, by a comparison of histories, the camp of William the Conqueror must have been placed the evening before he defeated Harold."] LINES ON POLAND. AND have I lived to see thee sword in hand Poles! with what indignation I endure France with her soul beneath a Bourbon's thrall, In Fate's defiance-in the world's great eye, The Butcher, should he reach her bosem now, Could not tear Glory's garland from her brow; Wreathed, filleted, the victim falls renown'd, And all her ashes will be holy ground! But turn, my soul, from presages so dark: She, like the eagle, will renew her age, And fresh historic plumes of Fame put on,- Where eloquence shall fulmine, arts refine, sun The day that sees Warsaw's cathedral glow The organ sounding through the aisles' long glooms, The mighty dead seen sculptured o'er their tombs ; |