What if thy deep and ample stream should be 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, 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, The Countess Guiccioll. SONNET TO GEORGE THE FOURTH, ON THE REPEAL OF LORD EDWARD FITZGERALD' 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 Remits, seized me with wish to please, so strong, | True, the chains of the Catholic clank o'er his rags, That, as thou seest, yet, yet it doth remain. Love to one death conducted us along, And recommenced: "Alas! unto such ill And then I turn'd unto their side my eyes, And said, "Francesca, thy sad destinies remind us of our happy days this { relate do even } I will as he who weeps and saysWe read one day for pastime, seated nigh, Of Lancilot, how love enchain'd him too. We were alone, quite unsuspiciously. But oft our eyes met, and our cheeks in hue All o'er discolor'd by that reading were; Soverthrew But one point only wholly us o'erthrew; 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. To her desolate shore-where the emigrant stands For a moment to gaze ere he flies from his hearth, Tears fall on his chain, though it drops from his hands, For the dungeon he quits is the place of his birth 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 this shout of thy slavery which saddens the skies. Is it madness or meanness which clings to thee now? Ay, roar in his train! let thine orators lash 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 Or if freedom past hope be extorted at last, 574 Each brute hath its nature, a king's is to reign,- This hand, though but feeble, would arm in thy 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. Wear, Fingal, thy trappings! O'Connell proclaim Half an age's contempt was an error of fame, Will thy yard of blue riband, poor Fingal, recall fight, And this heart, though outworn, had a throb still for thee! Yes, I loved thee and thine, though thou art not my land, I have known noble hearts and great souls in thy sons, And I wept with the world o'er the patriot band once. For happy are they now reposing afar,- The slaves, who now hail their betrayer with Who, for years, were the chiefs in the eloquent war, hymns? And redeem'd, if they have not retarded, thy fall. Yes, happy are they in their cold English graves! Till now I had envied thy sons and their shore, There was something so warm and sublime in the core Or, if aught in my bosom can quench for an hour My contempt for a nation so servile, though sore, 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. Let the past as nothing be;- Hadst thou been thus dear to me. Had I loved, and thus been slighted, Pride may cool what passion heated, Had I loved, I now might hate thee, And, in words, my vengeance wreak. |