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When fortune changed—and love fled far,
And hatred's shafts flew thick and fast, Thou wert the solitary star
Which rose and set not to the last.
Oh! blest be thine unbroken light!
That watch'd me as a seraph's eye, And stood between me and the night,
For ever shining sweetly nigh.
And when the cloud upon us came,
Which strove to blacken o'er thy rayThen purer spread its gentle flame, And dash'd the darkness all
Still may thy spirit dwell on mine,
And teach it what to braye or brookThere's more in one soft word of thine,
Than in the world's defied rebuke.
Thou stood'st, as stands a lovely tree,
That still unbroke, though gently bent, Still waves with fond fidelity
Its boughs above a monument,
The winds might rend—the skies might pour,
But there thou wert—and still would'st be Devoted in the stormiest hour
To shed thy weeping leaves o'er me.
But thou and thine shall know no blight,
Whatever fate on me may fall; For heaven in sunshine will requite
The kind and thee the most of all.
Then let the ties of baffled love
Be broken—thine will never break; Thy heart can feel—but will not move;
Thy soul, though soft, will never shake.
And these, when all was lost beside,
Were found and still are fix'd in thee And bearing still a breast so tried,
Earth is no desert-ev'n to me.
(FROM THE FRENCH]
I. We do not curse thee, Waterloo ! Though Freedom's blood thy plain bedew; There 'twas shed, but is not sunkRising from each gory trunk, Like the Water-spout from ocean, With a strong and growing motionIt soars, and mingles in the air, With that of lost LABEDOYERE With that of him whose honour'd grave Contains the “ bravest of the brave.” A crimson cloud it spreads and glows, But shall return to whence it rose;
When 'tis full 'twill burst asunder-
With that youthful chief competed ?
Who could boast o'er France defeated,
III. And thou too of the snow-white plume! Whose realm refused thee ev'n a tomb; (7) Better hadst thou still been leading France o'er hosts of hirelings bleeding, Than sold thyself to death and shame For a meanly royal name ; Such as he of Naples wears, Who thy blood-bought title bears. Little didst thou deem, when dashing
On thy war-horse through the ranks,
Like a stream which burst its banks, While helmets cleft, and sabres clashing, Shone and shiver'd fast around theeOf the fate at last which found thee: Was that haughty plume laid low By a slave's dishonest blow? Once-as the Moon sways o'er the tide, It roll'd in air, the warrior's guide ; Through the smoke-created night Of the black and sulphurous fight, The soldier raised his seeking eye To catch that crest's ascendancy, And, as it onward rolling rose, So moved his heart upon our foes.