remorse; And, oh! that pang where more than madness lies, [dies! The worm that will not sleep, and never Thought of the gloomy day and ghastly night, [the light, That dreads the darkness and yet loathes That winds around and tears the quivering heart, [part? Ah! wherefore not consume it and deWoe to thee, rash and unrelenting chief! Vainly thou heap'st the dust upon thy head, [spread; Vainly the sackcloth o'er thy limbs doth By that same hand Abdallah-Selimbled. Now let it tear thy beard in idle grief; Thy pride of heart, thy bride for Osman's bed, She, whom thy Sultan had but seen to wed, Thy daughter's dead! [beam, Hope of thine age, thy twilight's lonely The star hath set that shone on Helle's stream. What quenched its ray?-the blood that thou hast shed! Hark! to the hurried question of Despair; "Where is my child?"-an Echo answers "Where?" Within the place of thousand tombs That shine beneath, while dark above Like early unrequited love, Its lonely lustre, meek and pale ; So white-so faint-the slightest gale Might whirl the leaves on high; And yet, though storms and blight assail, And hands more rude than wintry sky May wring it from the stem-in vainTo-morrow sees it bloom again! The stalk some spirit gently rears, And waters with celestial tears; For well may maids of Helle deem That this can be no earthly flower, Which mocks the tempest's withering hour, And buds unsheltered by a bower; Nor droops, though spring refuse her Nor woos the summer beam; [shower, To it the livelong night there sings A bird unseen-but not remote: But soft as harp that Houri strings It were the Bulbul; but his throat, Though mournful, pours not such a strain, For they who listen cannot leave And yet so sweet the tears they shed, And longer yet would weep and wake, But when the day-blush bursts from high, Yet harsh be they that blame), Into Zuleika's name. "Tis from her cypress' summit heard, EVENING. SLOW sinks, more lovely ere his race be run, Along Morea's hills the setting sun; Not, as in northern climes, obscurely bright, Gilds the green wave, that trembles as it Though there his altars are no more divine. And tenderest tints, along their summits Mark his gay course, and own the hues of heaven; Till, darkly shaded from the land and deep, Behind his Delphian cliff he sinks to sleep. On such an eve, his palest beam he cast, When, Athens! here thy Wisest looked his last. [ray, How watched thy better sons his farewell That closed their murdered sage's latest day! Not yet not yet-Sol pauses on the hill-The precious hour of parting lingers still; But sad his light to agonizing eyes, And dark the mountain's once delightful dyes: [pour, Gloom o'er the lovely land he seemed to The land where Phoebus never frowned before; But ere he sank below Citharon's head, The cup of woe was quaffed-the spirit fled; The soul of him who scorned to fear or fly, Who lived and died as none can live or die! All tinged with varied hues, arrest the eyeAnd dull were his that passed them heedless by. Again the Ægean, heard no more afar, Lulls his chafed breast from elemental war; Again his waves in milder tints unfold Their long array of sapphire and of gold, Mixed with the shades of many a distant isle, That frown-where gentler ocean seems to smile. [to thee? Not now my theme-why turn my thoughts Oh! who can look along thy native sea, Nor dwell upon thy name, whate'er the tale, So much its magic must o'er all prevail? Who that beheld that sun upon thee set, Fair Athens! could thine evening face forget? frees, Not he whose heart nor time nor distance Spell-bound within the clustering Cyclades. Nor seems this homage foreign to his strain, -His Corsair's isle was once thine own domain Would that with freedom it were thine again! CORINTH. MANY a vanished year and age, And tempest's breath, and battle's rage, Have left untouched her hoary rock, skies, Than yon tower-capped Acropolis, Which seems the very clouds to kiss. WATERLOO. STOP! for thy tread is on an Empire's dust! An Earthquake's spoil is sepulchred below. Is the spot marked with no colossal bust? Nor column trophied for triumphal show? None; but the moral's truth tells simpler so, As the ground was before, thus let it be ;How that red rain hath made the harvest grow! And is this all the world has gained by thee, Thou first and last of fields! king-making Victory? [skulls, And Harold stands upon this place of The grave of France, the deadly Waterloo! How in an hour the power which gave annuls Its gifts, transferring fame as fleeting too. In "pride of place" here last the eagle flew, Then tore with bloody talon the rent plain, Pierced by the shaft of banded nations through; Ambition's life and labours all were vain; He wears the shattered links of the world's broken chain. Fit retribution! Gaul may champ the bit, And foam in fetters, but is Earth more free? Did nations combat to make One submit, Or league to teach all kings true sovereignty? What! shall reviving thraldom again be The patched-up idol of enlightened days? Shall we, who struck the Lion down, shall we [gaze Pay the Wolf homage? proffering lowly And servile knees to thrones? No; prove before ye praise. If not, o'er one fall'n despot boast no more. In vain fair cl eeks were furrowed with hot tears For Europe's flowers long rooted up before The trampler of her vineyards; in vain years Of death, depopulation, bondage, fears, Have all been borne, and broken by the accord [dears Of roused-up millions: all that most enGlory is when the myrtle wreathes a sword Such as Harmodius drew on Athens' tyrant lord. There was a sound of revelry by night, And Belgium's capital had gathered then Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men; Their praise is hymned by loftier harps [throng, than mine; Yet one I would select from that proud Partly because they blend me with his line, And partly that I did his sire some wrong, And partly that bright names will hallow song; [showered And his was of the bravest, and when The death-bolts deadliest the thinned files [lowered, along, Even where the thickest of war's tempest They reached no nobler breast than thine, young, gallant Howard! There have been tears and breaking hearts for thee, And mine were nothing, had I such to give; But when I stood beneath the fresh green tree, [to live, Which living waves where thou didst cease And saw around me the wide field revive With fruits and fertile promise, and the Spring Come forth her work of gladness to contrive, With all her reckless birds upon the wing, I turned from all she brought to those she could not bring. I turned to thee, to thousands, of whom each And one as all a ghastly gap did make In his own kind and kindred, whom to teach Forgetfulness were mercy for their sake; The Archangel's trump, not glory's, must awake [sound of fame Those whom they thirst for: though the May for a moment soothe, it cannot slake The fever of vain longing, and the name So honoured, but assumes a stronger, bitterer claim. And thus the heart will do which not forLiving in shattered guise, and still, and cold, And bloodless, with its sleepless sorrow aches, Yet withers on till all without is old, Showing no visible sign, for such things are untold. There is a very life in our despair, |