Her sons shall venerate, and cheer thy breast
With blessings heaven-ward breathed. And when the doom
Of Nature bids thee die, beyond the tomb
Thy light shall shine: as sunk beneath the West Though the great Summer Sun eludes our gaze, Still burns wide Heaven with his distended blaze.
It was some Spirit, Sheridan! that breathed O'er thy young mind such wildly various power! My soul hath marked thee in her shaping hour, Thy temples with Hymettian flow'rets wreathed: And sweet thy voice, as when o'er Laura's bier Sad music trembled through Vauclusa's glade; Sweet, as at dawn the love-lorn Serenade
That wafts soft dreams to Slumber's listening ear. Now patriot Rage and Indignation high
Swell the full tones! And now thine eye-beams dance Meanings of Scorn and Wit's quaint revelry! Writhes inly from the bosom-probing glance The Apostate by the brainless rout adored,
As erst that elder Fiend beneath great Michael's sword.
O WHAT a loud and fearful shriek was there, As though a thousand souls one death-groan poured! Ah me! they saw beneath a hireling's sword Their Kosciusko fall! Through the swart air (As pauses the tired Cossac's barbarous yell Of triumph) on the chill and midnight gale Rises with frantic burst or sadder swell
The dirge of murdered Hope! while Freedom pale Bends in such anguish o'er her destined bier, As if from eldest time some Spirit meek Had gathered in a mystic urn each tear That ever on a Patriot's furrowed cheek
Fit channel found, and she had drained the bowl In the mere wilfulness, and sick despair of soul!
As when far off the warbled strains are heard That soar on Morning's wing the vales among, Within his cage the imprisoned matin bird Swells the full chorus with a generous song: He bathes no pinion in the dewy light, No Father's joy, no Lover's bliss he shares, Yet still the rising radiance cheers his sight: His fellows' freedom soothes the captive's cares!
Thou, Fayette! who didst wake with startling voice Life's better sun from that long wintry night, Thus in thy Country's triumphs shalt rejoice, And mock with raptures high the dungeon's might: For lo! the morning struggles into day,
And Slavery's spectres shriek and vanish from the ray!
NoT Stanhope! with the Patriot's doubtful name I mock thy worth-Friend of the Human Race! Since, scorning Faction's low and partial aim, Aloof thou wendest in thy stately pace, Thyself redeeming from that leprous stain, Nobility and aye unterrify'd
Pourest thine Abdiel warnings on the train That sit complotting with rebellious pride
'Gainst her,* who from the Almighty's bosom leapt With whirlwind arm, fierce Minister of Love! Wherefore, ere Virtue o'er thy tomb hath wept, Angels shall lead thee to the Throne above: And thou from forth its clouds shalt hear the voice, Champion of Freedom and her God! rejoice!
THOU gentle look, that didst my soul beguile, Why hast thou left me? Still in some fond dream Revisit my sad heart, auspicious Smile!
As falls on closing flowers the lunar beam: What time, in sickly mood, at parting day I lay me down and think of happier years; Of Joys, that glimmered in Hope's twilight ray, Then left me darkling in a vale of tears. O pleasant days of Hope-for ever gone Could I recall you!-But that thought is vain. Availeth not Persuasion's sweetest tone
To lure the fleet-winged Travellers back again : Yet fair, though faint, their images shall gleam Like the bright Rainbow on a willowy stream.
PALE Roamer through the night! thou poor Forlorn! Remorse that man on his death-bed possess,
Who in the credulous hour of tenderness
Betrayed, then cast thee forth to want and scorn! The world is pitiless: the chaste one's pride Mimic of Virtue scowls on thy distress: Thy Loves and they, that envied thee, deride: And Vice alone will shelter wretchedness!
O! I could weep to think, that there should be Cold-bosomed lewd ones, who endure to place Foul offerings on the shrine of misery, And force from famine the caress of Love; May He shed healing on thy sore disgrace, He, the great Comforter that rules above!
SWEET Mercy! how my very heart has bled To see thee, poor Old Man! and thy gray hairs Hoar with the snowy blast: while no one cares To clothe thy shrivelled limbs and palsied head. My Father! throw away this tattered vest That mocks thy shivering! take my garment-use A young man's arm ! I'll melt these frozen dews That hang from thy white beard and numb thy breast. My Sara too shall tend thee, like a Child:
And thou shalt talk, in our fire-side's recess,
Of purple pride, that scowls on wretchedness.
He did not so, the Galilean mild,
Who met the Lazars turned from rich men's doors,
And called them Friends, and healed their noisome
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