And hallowed thrice the band
Of our kindred hearts shall be,
When your land shall be the land
Of the free-of the free!
With Freedom's lion-banner
Britannia rules the waves;
Whilst your BROAD STONE OF HONOUR
Is still the camp of slaves.
For shame, for glory's sake,
Wake, Allemannians, wake,
And thy tyrants now that whelm
Half the world shall quail and flee,
When your realm shall be the realm
Of the free-of the free!
MARS owes to you his thunder +
That shakes the battle-field,
Yet to break your bonds asunder
No martial bolt has pealed.
Shall the laurelled land of art
Wear shackles on her heart?
No! the clock ye framed to tell
By its sound, the march of time;
Let it clang oppression's knell
O'er your clime-o'er your clime!
The press's magic letters,
That blessing ye brought forth,Behold! it lies in fetters
On the soil that gave it birth:
* Ehrenbreitstein, signifies, in German "the broad stone of honour." + Germany invented gunpowder, clock-making, and printing.
But the trumpet must be heard,
And the charger must be spurred;
For your father Armin's Sprite
Calls down from heaven, that ye
Shall gird you for the fight,
And be free !-and be free!
ON A PICTURE OF A GIRL IN THE ATTITUDE OF PRAYER,
By the Artist Gruse, in the possession of Lady Stepney.
Was man e'er doomed that beauty made
By mimic art should haunt him;
Like Orpheus, I adore a shade,
And dote upon a phantom.
Thou maid that in my inmost thought
Art fancifully sainted,
Why liv'st thou not-why art thou nought
But canvass sweetly painted?
Whose looks seem lifted to the skies,
Too pure for love of mortals-
As if they drew angelic eyes
To greet thee at heaven's portals.
Yet loveliness has here no grace,
Abstracted or ideal
Art ne'er but from a living face
Drew looks so seeming real.
What wert thou, maid?- thy life-thy name Oblivion hides in mystery;
Though from thy face my heart could frame A long romantic history.
Transported to thy time I seem,
Though dust thy coffin coversAnd hear the songs, in fancy's dream, Of thy devoted lovers.
How witching must have been thy breath-
How sweet the living charmer-
Whose every semblance after death
Can make the heart grow warmer !
Adieu, the charms that vainly move
My soul in their possession-
That prompt my lips to speak of love,
Yet rob them of expression.
Yet thee, dear picture, to have praised
Was but a poet's duty;
And shame to him that ever gazed
Impassive on thy beauty.
ON THE VIEW FROM ST. LEONARD's.
HAIL to thy face and odours, glorious Sea!
'Twere thanklessness in me to bless thee not,
Great beauteous Being! in whose breath and smile.
My heart beats calmer, and my very mind
Inhales salubrious thoughts. How welcomer
Thy murmurs than the murmurs of the world!
Though like the world thou fluctuatest, thy din
To me is peace, thy restlessness repose.
Ev'n gladly I exchange yon spring-green lanes
With all the darling field-flowers in their prime,
And gardens haunted by the nightingale's
Long trills and gushing ecstasies of song,
For these wild headlands, and the sea-mew's clang
With thee beneath my windows, pleasant Sea,
I long not to o'erlook earth's fairest glades
And green savannahs-Earth has not a plain
So boundless or so beautiful as thine;
The eagle's vision cannot take it in:
The lightning's wing, too weak to sweep its space,
Sinks half-way o'er it like a wearied bird :
It is the mirror of the stars, where all
Their hosts within the concave firmament,
Gay marching to the music of the spheres,
Can see themselves at once.
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