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While powers of inind almost of boundless range,

Seen in their sad reality, Complete in kind, as various in their change;

Were not as things that gods despise, While Eloquence, Wit, Poesy, and Mirth,

What was thy pity's recompense ? That humbler Harmonist of care on Earth,

A silent suffering, and intense ; Survive within our souls--while lives our sense

The rock, the vulture, and the chain, Of pride in Merit's proud pre-eminence,

All that the proud can feel of pain, Long shall we seek his likeness, long in vain,

The agony they do not show, And turn to all of him which may remain,

The suffocating sense of woe, Sighing that Nature form'd but one such man,

Which speaks but in its loneliness, And broke the die-in moulding Sheridan!

And then is jealous lest the sky
Should have a listener, nor will sigh

Until its voice is echoless.


I STOOD beside the grave of him who blazed

The comet of a season, and I saw
The humblest of all sepulchres, and gazed

With not the less of sorrow and of awe
On that neglected turf and quiet stone,
With name no clearer than the names unknown,
Which lay unread around it; and I ask'd

The Gardener of that ground, why it might be
That for this plant strangers his memory task'd,

Through the thick deaths of half a century? And thus he answer'd : Well, I do not know Why frequent travellers turn to pilgrims so; He died before my day of Sextonship,

And I had not the digging of this grave.' And is this all ? I thought-and do we rip

The vale of Immortality, and crave
I know not what of honour and of light,
Through unborn ages, to endure this blight,
So soon, and so successless? As I said,
The Architect of all on which we tread,
For Earth is but a tombstone, did essay
To extricate remembrance from the clay,
Whose minglings might confuse a Newton's thought,

Were it not that all life must end in one,
Of which we are but dreamers :---as he caught

As 'twere the twilight of a former Sun,
Thus spoke he: 'I believe the man of whom
You wot, who lies in this selected tomb,
Was a most famous writer in his day,
And therefore travellers step from out their way
To pay him honour,--and inyself whate'er
Your honour pleases.' Then most pleased I shook
From out my pocket's avaricious nook
Some certain coins of silver, which as 'twere
Perforce I gave this man, though I could spare
So much but inconveniently :-Ye smile,
I see ye, ye profane ones! all the while,
Because my homely phrase the truth would tell.
You are the fools, not I ; for I did dwell
With a deep thought, and with a soften'd eye,
On that old Sexton's natural homily,
In which there was Obscurity and Fame-
The glory and the Nothing of a Name.

Titan I to thee the strife was given
Between the suffering and the will,
Which torture where they cannot kill;
And the inexorable Heaven,
And the deaf tyranny of Fate,
The ruling principle of Hate,
Which for its pleasure doth create
The things it may annihilate,
Refused thee even the boon to die :
The wretched gift Eternity
Was thine--and thou hast borne it well,
All that the Thunderer wrung from thee
Was but the menace which flung back
On him the torments of thy rack;
The fate thou didst so well foresee,
But would not to appease him tell ;
And in thy Silence was his Sentence,
And in his soul a vain repentance,
And evil dread so ill dissembled,
That in his hand the lightnings trembled.
Thy godlike crime was to be kind,

To render with thy precepts less

The sum of human wretchedness,
And strengthen Man with his own mind;
But baffled as thou wert from high,
Still in thy patient energy,
In the endurance, and repulse

Of thine impenetrable Spirit,
Which Earth and Heaven could not convulse,

A mighty lesson we inherit: Thou art a symbol and a sign

To mortals of their fate and forc
Like thee Man is in part divine,

A troubled stream from a pure source ;
And Man in portions can foresee
His own funereal destiny;
Ilis wretchedness, and his resistance,
And his sad unallied existence:
To which his Spirit may oppose
Itself-and equal to all woes,

And a firm will, and a deep sense,
Which even in torture can descry

Its own concentred recompense, Triumphant where it dares defy, And making Death a Victory!


PROMETHEUS. TITAN! to whose immortal eyes

The sufferings of mortality,

COULD I remount the river of my years,
To the first fountain of our smiles and tears,

I would not trace again the stream of hours

A VERY MOURNFUL BALLAD Between their outworn banks of wither'd flowers,

ON THE SIEGE AND CONQUEST OF ALHAMIA, But bid it flow as now-until it glides

Which, in the Arabic language, is to the following Into the number of the nameless tides.


THE Moorish King rides up and down What is this Death?–a quiet of the heart?

Through Granada's royal town; The whole of that of which we are a part ?

From Elvira's gates to those For life is but a vision-what I see

Of Bivarambla on he goes.
Of all that lives alone is life to me;

Woe is me, Alhama !
And being so--the absent are the dead,
Who haunt us from tranquillity, and spread

Letters to the monarch tell
A dreary shroud around us, and invest

How Alhama's city fell : With sad ren mbrances our hours of rest.

In the fire the scroll he threw,

And the messenger he slew.
The absent are the dead-for they are cold,

Woe is me, Alhama !
And ne'er can be what once we did behold;
And they are changed, and cheerless,—or if yet

He quits-his mule, and mounts his horse.
The unforgotten do not all forget,

And through the street directs his course; Since thus divided-equal must it be

Through the street of Zacatin If the deep barrier be of earth, or sea ;

To the Alhambra spurring in. It may be both—but one day end it must,

Woe is me, Alhama ! In the dark union of insensate dust.

When the Alhambra walls he gaind,

On the moment he ordain'd The under-earth inhabitants-are they

That the trumpet straight should sound But mingled millions decomposed to clay?

With the silver clarion round.
The ashes of a thousand ages spread

Woe is me, Alhama !
Wherever man has trodden or shall tread?
Or do they in their silent cities dwell

And when the hollow drums of war
Each in his incommunicative cell?

Beat the loud alarm afar, Or have they their own language? and a sense

That the Moors of town and plain Of breathless being ?-darkend and intense

Might answer to the martial strain.
As midnight in her solitude?-0 Earth!

Woe is me, Alhaina !
Where are the past?-and wherefore had threy birth?
The dead are thy inheritors—and we

Then the Moors, by this aware
But bubbles on thy surface; and the key

That bloody Mars recall'd them there, Of thy profundity is in the grave,

One by one, and two by two, The ebon portal of thy peopled cave,

To a mighty squadron grew.
Where I would walk in spirit, and behold

Woe is me, Alhama !
Our elements resolved to things untold,
And fathom-hidden wonders, and explore

Out then spake an aged Moor

In these words the king before,
The essence of great bosoms now no more.

Wherefore call on us, o King ?
What may mean this gathering?"

Woe is me, Alhama !

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. ye have, alas ! to know
Of a most disastrous blow;
That the Christians, stern and bold,
Have obtain d Alhama's hold.'

Woe is ine, Alhaina !

ROUSSEAU-Voltaire-our Gibbon-and De Staël

Leman ! these names are worthy of thy shore,*
Thy shore of names like these! wert thou no more,
Their memory thy remembrance would recall:
To them thy banks were lovely as to all,

But they have made them lovelier, for the lore

Of mighty minds doth hallow in the core of human hearts the ruin of a wall

Where dwelt the wise and wondrous; but by thee, How much more, Lake of Beauty! do we feel,

In sweetly gliding o'er thy crystal sea,
The wild glow of that not ungentle zeal,

Which of the heirs of immortality
Is proud, and makes the breath of glory re:!!

Out then spake old Alfaqui,
With his beard so white to see:
"Good King ! thou art justly served,
Good King! this thou hast deserved.

Woe is me, Alhama !
By thee were slain, in evil hour,
The Abencerrage, Granada's flower;
And strangers were received by thiee
Of Cordova the Chivalry.

Woe is me, Alhama!
. And for this, O King! is sent
On thee a double chastiseinent;

Geneva, Ferney, Copet, Lausanne,

Thee and thine, thy crown and realm, One last wreck shall overwhelm.

Woe is me, Alhama !

"He who holds no laws in awe,
He must perish by the law;
And Granada must be won,
And thyself with her undone.'

Woe is me, Alhama !
Fire flashed from out the old Moor's cyes,
The Monarch's wrath began to rise,
Because he answered, and because
He spake exceeding well of laws.

Woe is me, Alhama! • There is no law to say such things As may disgust the ear of kings:' Thus, snorting with his choler, said The Moorish King, and doom'd him dead.

Woe is me, Alhama !

Moor Alfaqui! Moor Alsaqui!
Though thy beard so hoary be,
The King hath sent to have thce seized,
For Alhama's loss displeased.

Woc is me, Alhama !

And to fix thy head upon
High Alhambra's loftiest stone;
That this for thee should be the law,
And others tremble when they saw.

Woe is ine, Alhama !
"Cavalier, and man of worth !
Let these words of mine go forth !
Let the Moorish Monarch know,
That to him I nothing owe.

Woe is me, Alhama !

• But on my soul Alhama weighs, And on my inmost spirit preys ; And if the King his land hath lost, Yet others may have lost the most.

Woc is me, Alhama !

• Sires have lost their children, wires
Their lords, and valiant men their lives;
One what best his love might claim
Hath lost, another wealth, or fame.

Woe is me, Alhama !

• I lost a damsel in that hour,
Of all the land the loveliest fower;
Doubloons a hundred I woull pay,
And think her ransom cheap that day.'

Woe is me, Alhama !

And as these things the old Moor said, They severed from the trunk his head; And to the Alhambra's wall with speed 'Twas carried, as the King decreed.

Woe is me, Alhama!

And from the windows o'er the walls
The sable web of mourning falls;
The King weeps as a woman o'er
His loss, for it is much and sore.

Woe is me, Alhama!

STANZAS FOR MUSIC. THEY say that hope is happiness; But genuine love must prize the past, And Memory wakes the thoughts that blessi They rose the first-they set the last; And all that Memory loves the most Was once our only Hope to be, And all that hope adored and lost Hath melted into Memory. Alas! it is delusion all : The future cheats us from afar, Nor can we be what we recall, Nor dare we think on what we are.


My boat is on the shore,

And my bark is on the sea; But, before I go, Tom Moore,

Here's a double health to thee !

Here's a sigh to those who love me,

And a smile to those who hate; And, whatever sky's above me,

Here's a heart for every fate. Though the ocean roar around me,

Yet it still shall bear me on; Though a desert should surround me,

It hath springs that may be won. Were't the last drop in the well,

As I gasped upon the brink, Ere my fainting spirit fell,

'Tis to thee that I would drink. With that water, as this wine,

The libation I would pour
Should be-Peace with thine and mine,

And a health to thee, Tom Moorc.

TO SAMUEL ROGERS, ESO. ABSENT or present, still to thee,

My friend, what magic spells belong! As all can tell, who share, like me,

In turn thy converse and thy song. But when the dreaded hour sliall come,

By Friendship ever deem'd too niyl, And MEMORY' o'er her Druid's tomb

Shall weep that aught of thee can die, How fondly will she then repay

Thy homage offer'd at her shrine, And blend, while ages roll away,

Her name immortally with tizie!

And men and infants therein weep Their loss, so heavy and so deep; Granada's ladies, all she rears Within her walls, burst into tears.

Woe is me, Alhama !


When Faintness, the last inortal birth of Pain,

And apathy of limb, the dull beginning 1818.

Of the cold staggering race which Death is winning, THE "Ode to Venice" was written during the period Steals vein by vein and pulse by pulse away; of Byron's residence in the " city of a hundred isles," Yet so relieving the o'er-tortured clay, n 1818. Shelley, who visited him at that period, used To him appears renewal of his breath, to say that all he observed of the workings of Byron's And freedom the mere numbness of his chain ; mind during his visit, gave him a far higher idea of

And then he talks of life, and how again

He feels his spirit soaring-albeit weak, its powers than he had ever before entertained.

And of the fresher air, which he would seek : The city, the history of which is so full of romantic

And as he whispers knows not that he gasps, and poetic incidents, suggested also the poet's two

That his thin finger feels not what it clasps, dramas, “ Marino Faliero 'and the “Two Foscari."

And so the film comes o'er him, and the dizzy The lament for the lost glory of the Ocean Queen Chamber swim round and round, and siiadows has happily not proved prophetic.


At which he vainly catches, flit and gleam, "There is no Hope for Nations," cannot be said of

Till the last rattle chokes the strangled scream, the ransomed Venetia, who shares the hopes, the

And all is ice and blackness, -and the earth energies, and the future of young Italy. There was

That which it was the moment ere our birth. something prosaic, and like this workaday nineteenth century, in the means employed for her deliverance;

II. but the origin of her freedom may be traced back to

There is no hope for nations !-Search the page the fields of Magenta and Solferino, red with the best

Of many thousand years—the daily scene, blood of her brethren,-Edit.

The flow and ebb of each recurring age,

The everlasting to be which hath been, 1.

Hath taught us nought, or little : still we lean OH Venice ! Venice ! when thy marble walls On things that rot beneath our weight, and wear Are level with the waters, there shall be

Our strength away in wrestling with the air : A cry of nations o'er thy sunken halls,

For 'tis our nature strikes us down : the beasts A loud lament along the sweeping sea!

Slaughter'd in hourly hecatombs for feasts Ifl, a northern wanderer, weep for thee,

Are of as high an order-they must go What should thy sons do ?-anything but weep: Even where their driver goads them, though to And yet they only murmur in their sleep.

slaughter. In contrast with their fathers as the slime,

Ye men, who pour your blood for kings as water, The dull green ooze of the receding deep,

What have they given your children in return! Is with the dashing of the spring-tide foam

A heritage of servitude and woes, That drives the sailor shipless to his home,

A blindfold bondage, where your hire is blows. Are they to those that were; and thus they creep, What I do not yet the red-hot plough-shares burn, Crouching and crab-like, through their sapping O'er which you stumble in a false ordeal, streets.

And deem this proof of loyalty the real: Oh ! agony-that centuries should reap

Kissing the hand that guides you to your scars, No mellower harvest! Thirteen hundred

years And glorying as you tread the glowing bars? Of wealth and glory turn'd to dust and tears,

All that your sires have left you, all that Time And every monument the stranger meets,

Bequeaths of free, and History of sublime, Church, palace, pillar, as a mourner greets;

Spring from a different theme! Ye see and read, And even the Lion all subdued appears,

Admire and sigh, and then succumb and bleed ! And the harsh sound of the barbarian drum,

Save the few spirits who, despite of all, With dull and daily dissonance, repeats

And worse than all, the sudden crimes engender'd The ccho of thy tyrant's voice along

By the down-thundering of the prison-wall, The soft waves, once all musical to song,

And thirst to swallow the sweet waters tender'd, That heaved beneath the moonlight with the throng Gushing from Freedom's fountains, when the crowd, Of gondolasand to the busy hum

Madden'd with centuries of drought, are loud, Or cheerful creatures, whose most sinful deeds And trample on each other to obtain Were but the overbeating of the heart,

The cup which brings oblivion of a chain And flow of too much happiness, which needs Heavy and sore, in which long yoked they plough'd The aid of age to turn its course apart

The sand, or if there sprung the yellow grain, From the luxuriant and voluptuous floo:1

'Twas not for them, their necks were too much Of sweet sensations, battling with the blood.

bow'd, But these are better than the gloomy errors, And their dead palates chew'd the cud of pain : The weeds of nations in their last decay,

Yes I the few spirits,—who, despite of deeds When Vice walks forth with her unsoften'd terrors, Which they abhor, confound not with the cause And Mirth is madness, and but smiles to slay; Those momentary starts froin Nature's laws, And Hope is nothing but a false delay,

Which, like the pestilence and earthquake, smite The sick man's lightning half an hour ere death, But for a term, then pass, and leave the earth

With all her seasons to repair the blight

As if his senseless sceptre were a wand With a few summers, and again put forth

Full of the magic of exploded scienceCities and generations-fair, when free

Still one great climc, in full and free defiance, For, Tyranny, there blooms no bud for thee!

Yet rears her crest, unconquer'd and sublime,

Above the far Atlantic !-She has taught 111.

Her Esau-brethren that the haughty flag, Glory and Empire ! once upon these towers

The floating fence of Albion's feebler crag, With Freedom-godlike Triad! how ye sate !

May strike to those whose red right hands have The league of mightiest nations, in those hours

bought When Venice was an envy, might abate,

Rights cheaply earn'd with blood. Still, still for But did not quench her spirit; in her fate

ever, All were enwrapp'd: the feasted monarchs knew

Better, though each man's life-blood were a river, And loved their hostess, nor could learn to hate,

That it should flow, and overflow, than creep Although they humbled-with the kingly few

Through thousand lazy channels in our veins, The many felt, for from all days and climes

Damm'd like the dull canal with locks and chains, She was the voyager's worship; even her crimes

And moving, as a sick man in his sleep, Were of the softer order--born of Love,

Three paces, and then faltering :-better be She drank no blood, nor fattend on the dead,

Where the extinguish'd Spartans still are free, But gladden'd where her harmless conquests spread In their proud charnel of Thermopylae, For these restored the Cross, that from above

Than stagnate in our marsh,-or o'er the deep Hallow'd her sheltering banners, which incessant

Fly, and one current to the ocean add, Flew between earth and the unholy Crescent,

One spirit to the souls our fathers had,
Which, if it waned and dwindled, Earth may thank

One freeman more, America, to thee!
The city it has clothed in chains, which clank
Now, creaking in the ears of those who owe
The name of Freedom to her glorious struggles;
Yet she but shares with them a common woe,

TRANSLATION FROM VITTORELLI. And call'd the ‘kingdom of a conquering foe,

ON A NUN. But knows what all-and, most of all, we know Sonnet composed in the name of a father, whose With what set gilded terms a tyrant juggles!

daughter had recently died shortly after her mar.

riage ; and addressed to the father of her who had IV.

lately taken the veil. The name of Commonwealth is past and gone OF two fair virgins, modest, though admired,

O'er the three fractions of the groaning globe; Heaven made us happy; and now, wretched sires, Venice is crush'd, and Holland deigns to own

Heaven for a nobler doom their worth desires, A sceptre, and endures the purple robe;

And gazing upon either, both required. If the free Switzer yet bestrides alone

Mine, while the torch of Hymen newly fired His chainless mountains, 'tis but for a time,

Becomes extinguish'd, soon-too soon-expires : For tyranny of iate is cunning grown,

But thine, within the closing grate retired, And in its own good season tramples down

Eternal captive, to her God aspires. The sparkles of our ashes. One great clime, But thou at least from out the jealous door, Whose vigorous offspring by dividing ocean Which shuts between your never-meeting eyes, Are kept apart and nursed in the devotion

May'st hear her sweet and pious voice once more: Of Freedom, which their fathers fought for, and I to the marble, where my daughter lies, Bequeath'd--a heritage of heart and hand,

Rush,--the swoln flood of bitterness I pour, And proud distinction from each other land,

And knock, and knock, and knock-but none Whose sons must bow them at a monarch's motion, replies.

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