What if thy deep and ample stream should be
A mirror of my heart, where she may read
The thousand thoughts I now betray to thee,
Wild as thy wave, and headlong as thy speed!

What do I say-a mirror of my heart?

Are not thy waters sweeping, dark, and strong? Such as my feelings were and are, thou art;

And such as thou art were my passions long.

Time may have somewhat tamed them,-not for ever,
Thou overflow'st thy banks, and not for aye
Thy bosom overboils, congenial river!
Thy floods subside, and mine have sunk away,

But left long wrecks behind, and now again Borne in our old unchanged career, we move ; Thou tendest wildly onwards to the main,

And I to loving one I should not love.

The current I behold will sweep beneath

*Her native walls, and murmur at her feet; Her eyes will look on thee, when she shall breathe The twilight air, unharm'd by summer's heat.

She will look on thee,-I have look'd on thee,
Full of that thought; and, from that moment, ne'er
Thy waters could I dream of, name, or see,
Without the inseparable sigh for her;

The Countess Guiccioll.

SONNET TO GEORGE THE FOURTH,

ON THE REPEAL OF LORD EDWARD FITZGERALD'S FORFEITURE.

To be the father of the fatherless,

To stretch the hand from the throne's height, and raise

His offspring, who expired in other days
To make thy sire's sway by a kingdom less,-
This is to be a monarch, and express

Envy into unutterable praise.

Dismiss thy guard, and trust thee to such traits, For who would lift a hand, except to bless? Were it not easy, sire? and is't not sweet To make thyself beloved? and to be Omnipotent by mercy's means? for thus Thy sovereignty would grow but more complete; A despot thou, and yet thy people free, And by the heart, not hand, enslaving us.

August, 1819.

FRANCESCA OF RIMINI.

TRANSLATED FROM THE INFERNO OF DANTE.

CANTO FIFTH.

"THE land where I was born sits by the seas, Upon that shore to which the Po descends, With all his followers, in search of peace. Love, which the gentle heart soon apprehends, Seized him for the fair person which was ta'en From me, and me even yet the mode offends. Love, who to none beloved to love again

573

But Caina waits for him our life who ended: " These were the accents utter'd by her tongue.Since first I listen'd to these soul's offended, I bow'd my visage and so kept it till

"What think'st thou ?" said the bard; unbended,

S then when S

And recommenced: "Alas! unto such ill
How many sweet thoughts, what strong ecstasies,
Led these their evil fortune to fulfil! ""
And then I turn'd unto their side my eyes,
And said, "Francesca, thy sad destinies
Have made me sorrow till the tears arise.
But tell me, in the season of sweet sighs,
By what and how thy love to passion rose,
So as his dim desires to recognize?
Then she to me: "The greatest of all woes
Is to S recall to mind)

remind us of our happy days

.{

overthrew

But one point only wholly us o'erthrew; When we read the

long-sighed for smile of her, Sa fervent To be thus kiss'd by such devoted lover, He who from me can be divided ne'er Kiss'd my mouth, trembling in the act all over. Accursed was the book and he who wrote! That day no further leaf we did uncover.While thus one spirit told us of their lot, The other wept, so that with pity's thralls I swoon'd as if by death I had been smote, And fell down even as a dead body falls."

March, 1820.

THE IRISH AVATAR.†

ERE the daughter of Brunswick is cold in her grave, And her ashes still float to their home o'er the tide, Lo! George the triumphant speeds over the wave, To the long-cherish'd isle which he loved like his-bride.

True, the great of her bright and brief era are gone, The rainbow-like epoch where Freedom could pause

For the few little years, out of centuries won, Which betray'd not, or crush'd not, or wept not

her cause.

• In some of the editions it is, "diro," in others, "faro; "an essential difference between "saying " and "doing," which I know not how to decile. Ask Foscolo. The d-d editions drive me mad.

On the King's visit to Ireland, in 1821.

The castle still stands, and the senate's no more, And the famine which dwelt on her freedomless crags Is extending its steps to her desolate shore.

But he comes! the Messiah of royalty comes! Like a goodly Leviathan roll'd from the waves! Then receive him as best such an advent becomes, With a legion of cooks and an army of slaves'

He comes in the promise and bloom of threescore, To perform in the pageant the sovereign's partBut long live the shamrock which shadows him o'er! Could the green in his hat be transferr'd to his heart!

Could that long-wither'd spot but be verdant again,
And a new spring of noble affections arise-
Then might freedom forgive thee this dance in thy
chain,

And this shout of thy slavery which saddens the skies.

Is it madness or meanness which clings to thee now? Were he God-as he is but the commonest clay, With scarce fewer wrinkles than sins on his browSuch servile devotion might shame him away.

Ay, roar in his train! let thine orators lash
Their fanciful spirits to pamper his pride-

Not thus did thy Grattan indignantly fash

His soul o'er the freedom implored and denied.

Ever glorious Grattan! the best of the good! So simple in heart, so sublime in the rest! With all which Demosthenes wanted endued, And his rival or victor in all he possess'd.

Ere Tully arose in the zenith of Rome,
Though unequall'd, preceded, the task was begun-
But Grattan sprung up like a God from the tomb
Of ages, the first, last, the savior, the one!
With the skill of an Orpheus to soften the brute;
With the fire of Prometheus to kindle mankind;
Even Tyranny listening sate melted or mute,
And Corruption shrunk scorch'd from the glance
of his mind.

But back to our theme! Back to despots and slaves!
Feasts furnish'd by Famine! rejoicings by Pain!
True Freedom but welcomes, while slavery still raves,
When a week's saturnalia hath loosen'd her chain.

Let the poor squalid splendor thy wreck can afford
(As the bankrupt's profusion his ruin would hide)
Gild over the palace. Lo! Erin, thy lord!
Kiss his foot with thy blessing for blessings denied.

Or if freedom past hope be extorted at last,
If the idol of brass find his feet are of clay,
Must what terror or policy wring forth be class'd
With what monarch's ne'er give, but as wolves
yield their prey?

To reign! in that word see, ye ages, comprised

The cause of the curses the all annals contain,

From Cæsar the dreaded to George the despised.

fight,

And this heart, though outworn, had a throb still for thee!

And redeem'd, if they have not retarded, thy fall.

Yes, happy are they in their cold English graves! Their shades cannot start to thy'shouts of to-dayNor the steps of enslavers and chain-kissing slaves Be stamp'd in the turf o'er their fetterless clay.

Till now I had envied thy sons and their shore, Though their virtues were hunted, their liberties fled;

There was something so warm and sublime in the core Of an Irishman's heart, that I envy-thy dead.

Or, if aught in my bosom can quench for an hour

My contempt for a nation so servile, though scre, Which though trod like the worm will not turn upon power,

'Tis the glory of Grattan, and genius of Moore! September, 1821.

STANZAS

TO HER WHO CAN BEST UNDERSTAND THEM. BE it so we part for ever!

Let the past as nothing be;Had I only loved thee, never

Hadst thou been thus dear to me.

Had I loved, and thus been slighted,
That I better could have borne ;-
Love is quell'd, when unrequited,
By the rising pulse of scorn.

Pride may cool what passion heated,
Time will tame the wayward will;
But the heart in friendship cheated
Throbs with wo's most maddening thrill.

Had I loved, I now might hate thee,
In that hatred solace seek,
Might exult to execrate thee,

And, in words, my vengeance wreak.
But there is a silent sorrow,

Which can find no vent in speech,
Which disdains relief to borrow
From the heights that song can reach.

Like a clankless chain enthralling,-
Like the sleepless dreams that mock,-
Like the frigid ice-drops falling
From the surf-surrounded rock.