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I thought mine enemies had been but man, | While thou, Ferrara! when no longer dwell
A poet's wreath shall be thine only crown,
A poet's dungeon thy most far renown, Against the outworn creature they assail.
While stranger's wonder o'er thy unpeopled walls ! Why in this furnace is my spirit proved.
And thou, Leonora! thou-who wert ashamed Like steel in tempering fire because I loved ? That such as I could love-who blush'd to hear Because I loved what not to love, and see,
To less than monarchs that thou could'st be dear, Was more or less than mortal, and than me. Go! tell thy brother that my heart, untamed
By grief, years, weariness—and it may be
A taint of that he would impute to me
From long infection of a den like this, My scars are callous, or I should have dash'd Where the mind rots congenial with the abyss, My brain against these bars as the sun flash'd Adores thee still;—and add--that when the towers In mockery through them ;- if I bear and bore And battlements, which guard his joyous hours The much I have recounted, and the more
Of banquet, dance, and revel, are forgot, Which hath no words, 'tis that I would not die Or left untended in a dull repose, And sanction with self-slaughter the dull lie This—this shall be a consecrated spot! Which snared me here, and with a brand of shame. But Thou-when all that Birth and Beauty throws Stamp madness deep into my memory,
Of magic round thee is extinct-shalt have And woo compassion to a blighted name,
One half the laurel which o'ershades my grave. Sealing the sentence which my foes proclaim. No power in death can tear our names apart, No-it shall be immortal !-and I make
As none in life could rend thee from my heart, A future temple of my present cell,
Yes, Leonora! it shall be our fate Which nations yet shall visit for my sake.
To be entwined for ever-but too late!
ON THE DEATH OF THE RIGHT HON. R. B. SHERIDAN,
SPOKEN AT DRURY-LANE THEATRE,
WHEN the last sunshine of expiring day
So feels the fulness of our heart and eyes, In summer's twilight weeps itself away,
| When all of Genius which can perish dies. Who hath not felt the softness of the hour A mighty Spirit is eclipsed—a Power Sink on the heart, as dew along the flower ? Hath pass'd from day to darkness--to whose With a pure feeling which absorbs and awes,
hour While Nature makes that melancholy pause, Of light no likeness is bequeath'd-no name, Her breathing moment on the bridge where Time Focus at once of all the rays of Fame! Of light and darkness forms an arch sublime, The flash of Wit,the bright Intelligence, Who hath not shared that calm so still and deep, The beam of Song—the blaze of Eloquence, The voiceless thought which would not speak but Set with their Sun-but still have left behind weep,
The enduring produce of immortal Mind; A holy concord-and a bright regret,
Fruits of a genial morn, and glorious noon, A glorious sympathy with suns that set?
A deathless part of him who died too soon. 'Tis not harsh sorrow-but a tender wo,
But small that portion of the wondrous whole, Nameless, but dear to gentle hearts below, These sparkling segments of that circling soul, Felt without bitterness—but full and clear,
Which all embraced-and lightend over all, A sweet dejection-a transparent tear,
To cheer-to pierce-to please-or to appal. Unmix'd with worldly grief or selfish stain, From the charm'd council to the festive board, Shed without shame and secret without pain. Of human feelings the unbounded lord;
In whose acclaim the loftiest voices vied, Even as the tenderness that hour instils,
The praised--the proud—who made his praise their When Summer's day declines along the hills,
When the loud cry of trampled Hindostan* These are his portion-but if join'd to these
Gaunt Poverty should league with deep Disease,
To find in Hope but the renew'd caress, And here, oh! here, where yet all young and warm, The serpent-fold of further Faithlessness, The gay creations of his spirit charm,
If such may be the ills which men assail, The matchless dialogue the deathless wit, What marvel if at last the mightiest fail ? Which knew not what it was to intermit;
Breasts to whom all the strength of feeling given The glowing portraits, fresh from life, that bring Bear hearts electric-charged with fire from Heaven, Home to our hearts the truth from which they spring; Black with the rude collision, inly torn, These wondrous beings of his Fancy, wrought By clouds surrounded, and on whirlwinds borne, To fulness by the fiat of his thought,
Driven o'er the lowering atmosphere that nurst Here in their first abode you still may meet, Thoughts which have turn’d to thunder-scorchBright with the hues of his Promethean heat,
and burst. A halo of the light of other days, Which still the splendor of its orb betrays. But far from us and from our mimic scene
Such things should be if such have ever been; But should there be to whom the fatal blight, Ours be the gentler wish, the kinder task, Of failing Wisdom yields a base delight,
To give the tribute Glory need not ask, Men who exult when minds of heavenly tone To mourn the vanquish'd beam--and add our mite Jar in the music which was born their own, Of praise in payment of a long delight. Still let them pause-Ah! little do they know Ye Orators ! whom yet our councils yield, That what to them seem'd Vice might be but Wo. Mourn for the veteran Hero of our field! Hard is his fate on whom the public gaze
The worthy rival of the wondrous Three! * Is fix'd forever to detract or praise;
Whose words were sparks of Immortality! Repose denies her requiem to his name,
Ye Bards! to whom the Drama's Muse is dear, And Folly loves the martyrdom of Fame.
He was your Master-emulate him here! The secret enemy whose sleepless eye
Ye men of wit and social eloquence ! Stands sentinel-accuser-judge—and spy, He was your brother bear his ashes hence ! The foethe fool--the jealous and the vain, While Powers of mind, almost of boundless range, The envious who but breathe in others' pain, Complete in kind--as various in their change, Behold the host! delighting to deprave,
While eloquence-Wit-Poesy--and Mirth, Who track the steps of Glory to the grave, That humble Harmonist of care on Earth, Watch every fault that daring Genius owes Survive within our souls-while lives our sense Half to the ardor which his birth bestows,
Of pride in Merit's proud preeminence, Distort the truth, accumulate the lie,
Long shall we seek his likeness-long in vain, And pile the pyramid of Calumny!
And turn to all of him which may remain,
- Sighing that Nature form'd but one such man, * See Fox, Burke, and Pitt's eulogy on Mr. Sheridan's speech on the And broke the die in moulding Sheridan! charges exhibited against Mr. Hastings in the House of Commons. Mr. Pitt entreated the House to adjourn, to give time for a calmer consideration of the question than could then occur after the inmediate effect of thaus
ODE TO NAPOLEON BONAPARTE.
" Expende Annibalem :-quot libras in duce sumino
JUVENAL, Satire ..
«The Emperor Nepos wa acknowledged by the Senate, by the Italians, and by the Provincials of Gaul; his moral virtues, and military talents, were cadly celebrated ; and those who derived any private benefit from his government, announced in prophetic strains the restoration of public felicity.
By this shameful abdication, he protracted his lifo a few years, in a very ambiguous state, between an Emperor and an Exile, till
But thou---from thy reluctant hand,
And she, proud Austria's mournful flower, The thunderbolt is wrung
Thy still imperial bride; Too late thou leav'st the high command,
How bears her breast the torturing hour? To which thy weakness clung;
Still clings she to thy side ? All Evil Spirit as thou art,
Must she too bend, must she too share
Thy late repentance, long despair,
Thou throneless Homicide ?
If still she loves thee, hoard that gem, The footstool of a thing so mean!
"Tis worth thy vanish'd diadem!
ODE ON VENICE.
And as he whispers knows not that he gasps, On Venice ! Venice! when thy marble walls That his thin finger feels not what it clasps, Are level with the waters, there shall be
And so the film comes o'er him and the dizzy A cry of nations o'er thy sunken halls,
Chamber swims round and round-and shadows busy, A loud lament along the sweeping sea!
At which he vainly catches, flit and gleam, If I, a northern wanderer, weep for thee,
Till the last rattle chokes the strangled stream,
That which it was the moment ere our birth.
There is no hope for nations !-Search the page
The everlasting to be which hath been, Oh! agony--that centuries should reap
Hath taught us nought or little : still we lean No mellower harvest! Thirteen hundred years On things that rot beneath our weight, and wear Of wealth and glory turn'd to dust and tears; Our strength away in wrestling with the air; And every monument the stranger meets,
For 'tis our nature strikes us down: the beasts Church, palace, pillar, as a mourner greets;
Slaughter'd in hourly hecatombs for feasts And even the Lion all subdued appears,
Are of as high an order--they must go And the harsh sound of the barbarian drum, Even where their driver goads them, though to With dull and daily dissonance, repeats
slaughter. The echo of thy tyrant's voice along
Ye men, who pour your blood for kings as water, The soft waves, once all musical to song,
What have they given your children in return? That heaved beneath the moonlight with the throng A heritage of servitude and woes, Of gondolas—and to the busy hum
A blindfold bondage, where your hire is blows. Of cheerful creatures, whose most sinful deeds What! do not yet the red-hot ploughshares burn, Were but the overbeating of the heart,
O’er which you stumble in a false ordeal, And flow of too much happiness, which needs And deem this proof of loyalty the real; The aid of age to turn its course apart
Kissing the hand that guides you to your scars, From the luxuriant and voluptuous flood
And glorying as you tread the glowing bars ? Of sweet sensations, battling with the blood. All that your sires have left you, all that Time But these are better than the gloomy errors, Bequeaths of free, and History of sublime, The weeds of nations in their last decay,
Spring from a different theme!-Ye see and read, When Vice walks forth with her unsoften'd terrors, Admire and sigh, and then succumb and bleed! And Mirth is madness, and but smiles to slay; Save the few spirits, who, despite of all, And Hope is nothing but a false delay,
And worse than all, the sudden crimes engender'i The sick man's lightning half an hour ere death, By the down-thundering of the prison-wall, When Faintness, the last mortal birth of Pain, And thirst to swallow the sweet waters tender'd, And apathy of limb, the dull beginning
Gushing from Freedom's fountains--when the crowd, Of the cold staggering race which Death is winning, Madden'd with centuries of drought, are loud, Steals vein by vein and pulse by pulse away, And trample on each other to obtain, Yet so relieving the o'er-tortured clay,
The cup which brings oblivion of a chain To him appears renewal of his breath,
Heavy and sore,-in which long yoked they plough'd And freedom the mere numbness of his chain ; The sand,-or if there sprung the yellow grain, And then he talks of life, and how again
|'Twas not for them, their necks were too much bow'de He feels his spirit soaring—albeit weak,
And their dead palates chew'd the cud of pain :-And of the fresher air, which he would seek. Yes! the few spirits-who, despite of deeds,