That chain was firm in every link,
But not to bear a stranger's touch; That lute was sweet-till thou could'st think, In other hands its notes were such.
Let him, who from thy neck unbcund The chain which shiver'd in his grasp, Who saw that lute refuse to sound,
Restring the chords, renew the clasp.
When thou wert changed, they alter'd too, The chain is broke, the music mute. 'Tis past-to them and thee adieu-
False heart, frail chain, and silent lute.
This Praise, which would be unmeaning Flattery If inscribed over buman ashes,
ls but a just tribute to the Memory of BOATSWAIN, a Dog,
Who was born at Newfoundland, May, 1803, And died at Newstead Abbey, Nov. 18, 1808,"
WHEN some proud son of man returns to earth, Unkno vn to glory, but upheld by birth, The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of wo, And storied urns record who rests below; When all is done, upon the tomb is seen, Not what he was, but what he should have been But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend, The first to welcome, foremost to defend, Whose honest heart is still his master's own, Who labors, fights, lives, breathes for him alone, Unhonor'd falls, unnoticed all his worth, Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth: While man, vain insect! hopes to be forgiven, And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven. Oh man! thou feeble tenant of an hour, Debased by slavery, or corrupt by power, Who knows thee well must quit thee with disgust Degraded mass of animated dust!
THINE eyes' blue tenderness, thy long fair hair, And the wan lustre of thy features-caught From contemplation-where serenely wrought, Seems Sorrow's softness charm'd from its despair-Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit!
Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat,
Have thrown such speaking sadness in thine air, That-but I know thy blessed bosom fraught With mines of unalloy'd and stainless thought-Ye! who perchance behold this simple urn,
By nature vile, ennobled but by name,
Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame
I should have deem'd thee doom'd to earthly care. With such an aspect, by his colors blent,
When from his beauty-breathing pencil born, Except that thou hast nothing to repent,) The Magdalen of Guido saw the morn- Such seem'st thou-but how much more excellent! With nought Remorse can claim-nor Virtue
Pass on-it honors none you wish to mourn; To mark a friend's remains these stones arise; I never knew but one, and here he lies.
Newstead Abbey, Oct. 30, 1808.
THY cheek is pale with thought, but not from wo, And yet so lovely, that if Mirth could flush Its rose of whiteness with the brightest blush, My heart would wish away that ruder glow: And dazzle not thy deep-blue eyes-but oh! While gazing on them sterner eyes will gush, And into mine my mother's weakness rush, Soft as the last drops round heaven's airy bow, For, through thy long dark lashes low depending, The soul of melancholy Gentleness Gleams like a seraph from the sky descending, Above all pain, yet pitying all distress; At ace such majesty with sweetness blending, I worship more, but cannot love thee less.
ON THE MONUMENT OF A NEWFOUNDLAND DOG.
Are deposited the Remains of one
Who possessed Beauty without Vanity,
Strength without Insulence,
Courage without Ferocity,
An all use Virtues of Man, without his Vices.
FAREWELL! if ever fondest prayer For others' weal avail'd on high, Mine will not all be lost in air,
But waft thy name beyond the sky. "Twere vain to speak, to weep, to sigh;
Oh! more than tears of blood can tell, When wrung from guilt's expiring eye, Are in that word-Farewell!-Farewell These lips are mute, these eyes are dry;
But in my breast, and in my brain, Awake the pangs that pass not by,
The thought that ne'er shall sleep again. My soul nor deigns nor dares complain, Though grief and passion there rebel; I only know we loved in vain- I only feel-Farewell!-Farewell!
BRIGHT BE THE PLACE OF THY SOUL
BRIGHT be the place of thy soul! No lovelier spirit than thine E'er burst from its mortal control, In the orbs of the blessed to shine.
On earth thou wert all but divine,
As thy soul shall immortally be; And our sorrow may cease to repine. When we know that thy God is with thee
"O Lachrymarum fons, tenero sacros Ducentium ortus ex animo: quater Felix in imo qui scatentem Pectore te, pia Nympha, sensit." Gray's Poemala.
I'HERE's not a joy the world can give like that it
When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's dull decay;
• These verses were given by Lord Byron to Mr. Power, of the Strand, The has published them, with very beautiful music by Sir John Stevenson.
THERE be none of Beauty's daughters With a magic like thee;
And like music on the waters
Is thy sweet voice to me: When, as if its sound were causing The charmed ocean's pausing, The waves lie still and gleaming, And the lull'd winds seem dreaming And the midnight moon is weaving Her bright chain o'er the deep; Whose breast is gently heaving, As an infant's asleep: So the spirit bows before thee, To listen and adore thee; With a full but soft emotion, Like the swell of Summer's ocean
If that thou be'at a devil, I cannot kill thee." Shakspears
BORN in the garret, in the kitchen bred, Promoted thence to deck her mistress' head; Next-for some gracious service unexprest, And from its wages only to be guess'd- Raised from the toilet to the table,-where Her wondering betters wait behind her chair With eye unmoved, and forehead unabash'd, She dines from off the plate she lately wash'd. Quick with the tale, and ready with the lie- The genial confidante, and general spy- Who could, ye gods! her next employment guess- An only infant's earliest governess!
She taught the child to read, and taught so well, That she herself, by teaching, learn'd to spell. An adept next in penmanship she grows, As many a nameless slander deftly shows: What she had made the pupil of her art, None know-but that high Soul secured the heart, And panted for the truth it could not hear, With longing breast and undeluded ear. Foil'd was perversion by that youthful mind, Which Flattery fool'd not-Baseness could not blind Deceit infect not-near Contagion soil- Indulgence weaken-nor Example spoil- Nor master'd Science tempt her to look down On humbler talents with a pitying frown- Nor Genius swell-nor Beauty render vain- Nor Envy ruffle to retaliate pain- Nor Fortune change-Pride raise-nor Passion bow Nor Virtue teach austerity-till now. Serenely purest of her sex that live,
But wanting one sweet weakness-to forgive, Too shock'd at faults her soul can never know, She deems that all could be like her below: Foe to all vice, yet hardly Virtue's friend, For Virtue pardons those she would amend.
But to the theme :-now laid aside too long, The baleful burden of this honest song
Though. all her former functions are no more, She rules the circle which she served before. If mothers-none know why-before her quake; If daughters dread her for the mothers' sake; If early habits-those false links, which bind At times the loftiest to the meanest mind- Have given her power too deeply to instil The angry essence of her deadly will; If like a snake she steal within your walls, fill the black slime betray her as she crawls; If like a viper to the heart she wind,
And leave the venom there she did not find; What marvel that this hag of hatred works Eternal evil latent as she lurks,
To make a Pandemonium where she dwells, And reign the Hecate of domestic hells? Skill'd by a touch to deepen scandal's tints With all the kind mendacity of hints,
While mingling truth with falsehood-sneers with smiles
A thread of candor with a web of wiles;
A plain blunt show of briefly-spoken seeming, To hide her bloodless heart's soul harden'd scheming; A lip of lies-a face form'd to conceal; And, without feeling, mock at all who feel: With a vile mask the Gorgon would disown; A cheek of parchment-and an eye of stone. Mark, how the channels of her yellow blood Ooze through her skin, and stagnate there to mud, Cased like the centipede in saffron mail,
Or darker greenness of the scorpion's scale- (For drawn from reptiles only may we trace Congenial colors in that soul or face)- Look on her features! and behold her mind As in a mirror of itself defined: Look on the picture! deem it not o'ercharged- There is no trait which might not be enlarged: Yet true to "Nature's journeymen," who made This monster when their mistress left off trade- This female dog-star of her little sky, Where all beneath her influence droop or die.
Oh! wretch without a tear-without a thought, Save joy above the ruin thou hast wrought- The time shall come, nor long remote, when thou Shalt feel far more than thou inflictest now; Feel for thy vile self-loving self in vain, And turn thee howling in unpitied pain. May the strong curse of crush'd affections light Back on thy bosom with reflected blight! And make thee in thy leprosy of mind As loathsome to thyself as to mankind! Till all thy self-thoughts curdle into hate, Black-as thy will for others would create: Till thy hard heart be calcined into dust, And thy soul welter in its hideous crust. Oh, may thy grave be sleepless as the bed,- The widow'd couch of fire, that thou hast spread! Ther., when thou fain wouldst weary Heaven with
Look on thine earthly victims-and despair! Down to the dust!-and, as thou rott'st away, Even worms shall perish on thy poisonous clay. But for the love I bore, and still must bear, To her thy malice from all ties would tear- Thy name-thy human name-to every eye The climax of all scorn should hang on high, Exalted o'er thy less abhorr'd compeers- And festering in the infamy of years.
WHEN all around grew drear and dark, And reason half withheld her ray- And hope but shed a dying spark Which more misled my lonely way;
In that deep midnight of the mind, And that internal strife of heart, When dreading to be deem'd too kind, The weak despair-the cold depart;
When fortune changed-and love fled fai 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 away.
Still may thy spirit dwell on mine,
And teach it what to brave 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 theeAnd 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 sunk- Rising from each gory trunk,
• His sister, Mrs. Leigh.
Like the water-spout from ocean, With a strong and growing motion- It soars, and mingles in the air, With that of lost LABEDOYERE- With that of him whose honor'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- Never yet was heard such thunder
As then shall shake the world with wonder- Never yet was seen such lightning
As o'er heaven shall then be bright'ning! Like the Wormwood Star foretold
By the sainted Seer of old, Show'ring down a fiery flood, Turning rivers into blood.*
The Chief has fallen, but not by you, Vanquishers of Waterloo!
When the soldier citizen
Sway'd not o'er his fellow men- Save in deeds that led them on Where glory smiled on Freedom's son- Who, of all the despot's banded,
With that youthful chief competed? Who could boast o'er France defeated, Till lone Tyranny commanded? Till, goaded by ambition's sting, The Hero sunk into the King?
Then he fell :-So perish all,
Who would men by man enthral!
And thou too of the snow-white plume! Whose realm refused thee ev'n a tomb;t 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 thee- Of 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,-
See Rev. chap. viii. verse 7, &c. "The first ange! sounded, and there followed hail and fire mingled with blood," &c.
Verse 8. "And the second angel sounded, and as it were a great mountain burning with fire was cast into the sea; and the third part of the sea became blood."
Verse 10. "And he third angel sounded, and there fell a great star from sent n, burning as it were a lamp; and it fell upon the third part of the vers, and upon the fountains of waters."
Verse 11. "And the name of the star is called Wormwood: and the third part of the waters became wormwood; and many men died of the waters, xouse they were made bitter,"
1 Murat's remains are said have been torn from the grave and burnt.
And, as it onward rolling rose,
So moved his heart upon our foes, There, where death's brief pang was quickest And the battle's wreck lay thickest, Strew'd beneath the advancing banner
Of the eagle's burning crest- (There with thunder-clouds to fan her, Who could then her wing arrest- Victory beaming from her breast?) While the broken line enlarging Fell, or fled along the plain; There be sure was MURAT charging! There he ne'er shall charge again'
O'er glories gone the invaders march, Weeps Triumph o'er each levell'd arch- But let Freedom rejoice,
With her heart in her voice;
But, her hand on her sword, Doubly shall she be adored;
France has twice too well been taught The "moral lesson" dearly bought- Her safety sits not on a throne," With CAPET or NAPOLEON! But in equal rights and laws,
Hearts and hands in one great cause- Freedom, such as God hath given Unto all beneath his heaven,
With their breath, and from their birth, Though Guilt would sweep it from the earta With a fierce and lavish hand
Scattering nations' wealth like sand; Pouring nations' blood like water, In imperial seas of slaughter!
But the heart and the mind, And the voice of mankind, Shall arise in communion-
And who shall resist that proud union? The time is past when swords subdued- Man may die-the soul's renew'd: Even in this low world of care Freedom ne'er shall want an heir; Millions breathe but to inherit Her for ever bounding spirit- When once more her hosts assemble, Tyrants shall believe and tremble- Smile they at this idle threat? Crimson tears will follow yet
"ALL WEPT, BUT PARTICULARLY SAVARY, AND A POLISH OFFICER WHO HAD BEEN EXALTED FROM THE RANKS BY BONAPARTE. HE CLUNG TO HIS MASTER'S KNEES; WROTE A LETTER TO LORD KEITH, ENTREATING PERMISSION TO ACCOMPANY HIM, IN THE MOST MENIAL CAPACITY, WHICH COULD NOT BE ADMITTED."
MUST thou go, my glorious Chief, Sever'd from thy faithful few? Who can tell thy warrior's grief, Maddening o'er that long adieu ?
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