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IV.

The name of Commonwealth is past and gone

O'er the three factions of the groaning globe; Venice is crush’d, and Holland deigns to own

A sceptre, and endures the purple robe; If the free Switzer yet bestrides alone His chainless mountains, 'tis but for a time, For tyranny of late is cunning grown, And in its own good season tramples down The sparkles of our ashes. One great clime, Whose vigorous offspring, by dividing ocean, Are kept apart, and nursed in the devotion Of Freedom, which their fathers fought for, and Bequeath’d-a heritage of heart and hand, And proud distinction from each other land, Whose sons must bow them at a monarch's motion, As if his senseless sceptre were a wand Full of the magic of exploded scienceStill one great clime, in full and free defiance, Yet rears ber crest, unconquer'd and sublime, Above the far Atlantic!-She has taught Her Esau-brethren that the haughty flag, The floating fence of Albion's feebler crag, May strike to those whose red right hands have bought Rights cheaply earn’d with blood. Still, still, for ever Better, though each man's life-blood were a river, That it should flow, and overflow, than creep Through thousand lazy channels in our veins, Damm'd like the dull canal, with locks and chains, And moving, as a sick man in bis sleep, Three paces, and then faltering:- better be Where the extinguish'd Spartans still are free, In their proud charnel of Thermopylæ,

Than stagnate in our marsh,—or o'er the deep
Fly, and one current to the ocean add,
One spirit to the souls our fathers had,
One freeman more, America, to thee!

POEMS.

WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM.

1.
As o'er the cold sepulchral stone

Some name arrests the passer-by;
Thus, when thou view'st this page alone,

May mine attract thy pensive eye!

2.
And when by thee that name is read,

Perchance in some succeeding year,
Reflect on me as on the dead,
And think my heart is buried here.

September 14th, 1809.,

TO * * *
Oh Lady! when I left the shore,

The distant shore, which gave me birth,
I hardly thought to grieve once more,

To quit another spot of earth:
Yet bere, amidst this barren isle,

Where panting nature droops the head,
Where only thou art seen to smile,

I view my parting hour with dread.
Though far from Albin's craggy shore,

Divided by the dark-blue main;
A few, brief, rolling seasons o'er,

Perchance I view her cliffs again :

VOL. VI.

But wheresoe'er I now may roam,

Through scorching clime, and varied sea, Though time restore me to my home,

I ne'er shall bend mine eyes on thee: On thee, in whom at once conspire

All charms which heedless hearts can move, Whom but to see is to admire,

And, oh! forgive the word—to love. Forgive the word, in one who ne'er

With such a word can more oftend; And since thy heart I cannot share,

Believe me, what I am, thy friend. And who so cold as look on thee,

Thou lovely wand'rer, and be less?
Nor be, what man should ever be,

The friend of beauty in distress?
Ah! who would think that form had past

Through Danger's most destructive path, Had braved the death-wing'd tempest's blast,

And ’scaped a tyrant's fiercer wrath? Lady! when I shall view the walls

Where free Byzantium once arose; And Stamboul's Oriental halls

The Turkish tyrants now enclose; Though mightiest in the lists of fame,

That glorious city still shall be;
On me 'twill hold a dearer claim,

As spot of thy nativity;
And though I bid thee now farewell,

When I behold that wondrous scene,
Since where thou art I may not dwell,
'Twill sooth to be, where thou hast been.

September, 1809.

STANZAS

WRITTEN IN PASSING THE AMBRACIAN GULF,

NOVEMBER 14, 1809.

THROUGH cloudless skies, in silvery sheen,

Full beams the moon on Actium's coast: And on these waves, for Egypt's queen,

The ancient world was won and lost.

And now upon the scene I look,

That azure grave of many a Roman; Where stern Ambition once forsook

His wavering crown to follow woman.

3. Florence! whom I will love as well

As ever yet was said or sung, (Since Orpheus sang his spouse from bell)

Whilst thou art fair and I am young;

4. Sweet Florence! those were pleasant times,

When worlds were staked for ladies' eyes Had bards as many realms as rhymes,

Thy charms might raise new Antonies.

5. Though Fate forbids such things to be,

Yet, by thine eyes and ringlets curl'd! I cannot lose a world for thee,

But would not lose thee for a world.

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