The old men feel the sunshine of far youth
Returning, fresh as when the hero glow'd.
The young,-lip, eye, and daring heart, are stirr'd;
Their very blood seems rippled with delight,
So deep the fulness of this warlike joy.
Yea, hollow cheeks of Sadness, 'and the brows
Of Poverty, and lean-faced Want itself,
Forget their nature in a share of fame!
NATIVE ASSOCIATIONS AND
SYMPATHIES.
WHERE is the heart, unmoved by more than glee,
Where is the eye that kindles not to see
That spot, where first our beam of life began,
And youth put on the energies of man ?
When far remote from youth's regretted scene,
Imagination sped the way between,
And hovering round each well-known spot, restored
All that the memory loved, and heart adored!
A sabbath bell recall'd the street we trod,
The holy morn, to hymn the name of God;
A ballad-singer, in his lonely strain,
Would thrill the bosom with delicious pain,
As oft beneath the moon's romantic ray
We mused on home, and friendship far away :—
Return'd, at length, again we glow to greet
Each favourite spot, and unforgotten street;
Once more on haunted wood and stream to gaze,
And class the shadow of departed days.
NAPOLEON! on the island rock thou sleep'st!
But such a storm thy spirit raised, so full
The swell of feeling born of thee, that time
Must lend his magic to allay the rush
And tempest of opinion into truth,
That, taming wonder, stamps thee as thou wert,-
A Tyrant! in whose passion for a power
Enthroned above all liberty and law,
Thou stand'st alone, unparagon'd;. thy pride
Of domination tow'ring far o'er heights
Of monarchy,—a shadow of mine own,
That scorn'd an equal, though he proved a God!
Oh! what a cloud on Liberty was thrown, How deep a gash her dreadless form profaned, When thy ambition march'd upon the world, Till Europe quail'd beneath thy sceptred arm !Then perish'd hopes that cent'ries will not raise Again; then god-like spirits felt the pang, That now, when all thy battle-roar is hush'd, And Peace sits musing on the tomb of War, Is felt, an agony, too deep for words To fathom, too sublime for slaves to feel!
Lo! where the tyrant felt a flood of wrath From Heaven pour'd down upon his guilty head, Where first he knew himself a MAN!-Yon spires, With golden pinnacles that pierce the clouds, And river, winding by the pallid walls, Proclaim where unforgotten Moscow stands :
There raged a scene that proved my fellowship
With this usurping world: for what an hour
Was that, when, wildly through the unbarr'd gates,
Like savage war-fiends, his marauders swept,
And saw the city billow'd into flames,
Like a far ocean blazing through the storm!
Then havoc started with a hideous howl;
The shriek of violated maids, the curse
Of dying mothers, and despairing sires,
And dash of corpses, torn from royal tombs,
And plunged amid devouring flame, were heard
Terrific!-Moscow seem'd a madd'ning Hell!
But who, when Rapine could not pillage more,
While cannon-thunder chased the daunted winds,
Paused on a desert heath, in speechless ire,
And mark'd the remnant of a ruin'd host
Flying, and pale as phantoms of Despair?
Napoleon! in the tempest of thy soul,
The Elements were reaping vengeance then!
When slaughter turn'd the tide of victory,
And roll'd it back upon thy powerless host
Of famish'd warriors, freezing as they died!
That hour of agony,-the burning sense
Of danger and defeat,-the broken spell
That blasted all thy triumphs into shame,
Sublimed thy spirit with so proud a pang,
It long'd to swell into a million souls,
And shade the universe to save a throne!
Thy race is o'er! and in the rocky isle Of Ocean, canopied with willow shade,
In death's undreaming calm thou restest now; But all the splendid infamy of War,
The fame of blood and bravery, is thine:
Thy name hath havoc in its sound! and Time
Shall read it while his ages roll,-'twill live
When Time and Nature are forgotten words!
For, as a noble fame can never die,
But proudly passeth on from Earth to Heaven,
There to be hymn'd by angels, and to crown
With bright pre-eminence the gifted mind
That won it gloriously; so evil fame
A fiery torment to the soul must be
For ever-let Ambition think of this!
Who murders kings, to make her heroes gods.
NATIONAL BEAUTIES OF ENGLAND.
ENGLAND is blest in all that Nature lends :
No fields spread greener magic to the gaze,
No streams of purer freshness flow, no winds
In richer harmony their wings unfold,
Than hers and though invading Splendour frown
A stately contrast o'er a ruin'd scene;
Though petty tyrant, and domestic lord,
That elevating charm have long eclipsed
Of happy peasantry, with honest hearts
For country glowing, and for God prepared;
Though wither'd all that pastoral poets sang,
Enough for homage, or refreshing thought,
Doth consecrate her yet.
OUR SAVIOUR ON THE MOUNT.
BUT, lo! the mount, whereon Messiah sat
And taught; while multitudes with lifted gaze,
And soul that listen'd with suspended breath,
Beneath Him swarm'd, to drink eternal life,
Whose fountain issued from the throne of God.-
The spring was forth; young loveliness and bloom
Her reign attested: trees and meadows flash'd
With verdant lustre, while the shaken flowers
Their scent and beauty to the breeze resign'd
With playful murmur.
Oh! what a scene of heart-affecting power Was there beheld !-the consecrated mount On whose green summit sat the Son of Man; The words He utter'd ;-deep and awful tones, Yet tender in their might, as moonlight sounds, From Ocean's lip; with all unclouded spring Of fresh and fair commandeth; and the crowds Which hung like bees upon the mountain side, As thick and numberless! yet hush'd, and chain'd To utter calm, as though their living mass Together breathed but one absorbing soul !— Religion! thou wert throned in godlike pomp Amid a scene transcendently endow'd Like this, with attributes of holy might, Beyond the temple in her costliest hour.
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