Though Naples to her leaden sleep
Returns, no longer free;
Though liberty has fled, to weep
Her dire apostacy;

Yet, despots! turn, and trembling, view

Your potency how vain;

Behold a generous nation true,

Behold regenerate Spain.

I CAN NOT BUT SIGH.

I CAN not but sigh, when the friends of my youth,
Who repaid with fond ardor the love that I gave,
Who tendered their pledge on the altar of truth,
Forgetful, return to their rest in the grave.

I can not but sigh, when the visions of joy,
That rose on gay childhood, and sought to allure,
Like the dreams of the wretched but smiled to destroy,
Or adorn the bright sketchings they failed to ensure.

I can not but sigh, while reviewing the years,
When hope in this bosom beat ardent and high:
O Memory, what art thou? a record of tears,
Of meteor-enjoyments, that sparkle and die.

I can not but sigh, when futurity's scroll, Unfolding, gives sign of no pleasure in store; When regret for the past still remains on the soul, While the present is lost in aspiring to more.

I can not but sigh, when heart-stricken, I scan The victims of misery that float down the stream; And e'en while recounting the bliss of frail man, I can not but sigh, for that bliss is a dream.

WHEN THE LAST TEAR.

WHEN the last tear of love is shed,
And the freed spirit hastes away;
When joy, desire, and hope have fled,
And beauty seeks its couch in clay,

O, then, what art, what pageantry

Of worth deceased, shall tell? what bust To years shall breathe the memory

Of those that slumber, dust with dust?

For marbled busts will disappear,
While time obliterates the urn,
And those that now bestow the tear,
Will claim the tribute in return.

Vain is the pageant, vain is art,

To glean from years a living name; One simple deed from virtue's heart

Alone can consecrate its fame.

THERE IS AN HOUR.

THERE is an hour of peaceful rest,
To mourning wanderers given;
There is a tear for souls distressed,
A balm for every wounded breast,
'Tis found above, in heaven.

There is a soft, a downy bed,
'Tis fair as breath of even;
A couch for weary mortals spread,
Where they may rest the aching head,
And find repose in heaven.

There is a home for weeping souls,

By sin and sorrow driven;

When tost on life's tempestuous shoals,
Where storms arise and ocean rolls,

And all is drear-'tis heaven.