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The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of woe,
Not what he was, but what he should have been:
Who knows thee well must quit thee with disgust,
Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat,
By nature vile, ennobled but by name,
Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame.
Newstead Abbey, Oct. 30, 1808.
FAREWELL! if ever fondest prayer
Mine will not all be lost in air,
But waft thy name beyond the sky. "T were vain to speak, to weep, to sigh: Oh! more than tears of blood can tell, When wrung from guilt's expiring eye, Are in that word-Farewell!-Farewell! These lips are mute, these eyes are dry;
But in my breast, and in my brain, Awake the pangs that pass not by,
The thought that ne er shall sleep again. My soul nor deigns nor dares complain, Though grief and passion there rebel; I only know we loved in vain
I only feel-Farewell!-Farewell!
BRIGHT be the place of thy soul!
In the orbs of the blessed to shine.
Light be the turf of thy tomb!
May its verdure like emeralds be: There should not be the shadow of gloom In aught that reminds us of thee. Young flowers and an evergreen tree May spring from the spot of thy rest: But nor cypress nor yew let us see;
For why should we mourn for the blest?
While that placid sleep came o'er thee
Could no other arm be found
Love may sink by slow decay,
Still must mine, though bleeding, beat; And the undying thought which paineth Is-that we no more may meet, These are words of deeper sorrow Than the wail above the dead; Both shall live, but every morrow Wake us from a widow'd bed. And when thou wouldst solace gather,
When our child's first accents flow, Wilt thou teach her to say « Father!»
Though his care she must forego? When her little hands shall press thee,
When her lip to thine is prest,
Those thou never more mayst see,
Even my soul forsakes me now.
Words from me are vainer still; But the thoughts we cannot bridle
When fortune, changed-and love fled far, And hatred's shafts flew thick and fast, Thou wert the solitary star
Which rose and set not to the last. Oh blest be thine unbroken light! That watch'd me as a seraph's eye, And stood between me and the night, For ever shining sweetly nigh. And when the cloud upon us came, Which strove to blacken o'er thy rayThen purer spread its gentle flame,
And dash'd the darkness all away.
Still may thy spirit dwell on mine,
And teach it what to brave or brookThere's more in one soft word of thine, Than in the world's defied rebuke.
Thou stood'st, as stands a lovely tree,
That still unbroke, though gently bent,
Still waves with fond fidelity
Its boughs above a monument.
The winds might rend-the skies might pour, But there thou wert-and still wouldst be Devoted in the stormiest hour
To shed thy weeping leaves o'er me.
But thou and thine shall know no blight,
For heaven in sunshine will requite
The kind-and thee the most of all.
Then let the ties of baffled love
Be broken-thine will never break; Thy heart can feel-but will not move; Thy soul, though soft, will never shake.
And these, when all was lost beside,
Earth is no desert-even to me.
[FROM THE FRENCH.]
WE do not curse thee, Waterloo!
As then shall shake the world with wonder
Never yet was seen such lightning,
As o'er heaven shall then be bright'ning!
Showering down a fiery flood, Turning rivers into blood.'
The chief has fallen, but not by you,
When the soldier citizen
Till lone tyranny commanded?
And thou too of the snow-white plume!
On thy war-horse through the ranks,
So moved his heart upon our foes.
There, where death's brief pang was quickest,
Of the eagle's burning crest
(There, with thunder-clouds to fan her,
There be sure was MURAT charging!
O'er glories gone the invaders march,
With her heart in her voice;
France hath twice too well been taught
But in equal rights and laws,
Hearts and hands in one great cause--
With their breath, and from their birth,
But the heart and the mind,
And who shall resist that prond union?
Even in this low world of care
Her for ever bounding spirit:
[FROM THE FRENCH. }
«All wept, but particularly Savary, and a Polish officer who had been exalted from the ranks by Bonaparte. He clung to his master's knees, wrote a letter to Lord Keith, entreating permission to a company him, even in the most moenial capacity, which could not be admitted.
Must thou go, my glorious chief,
Maddening o'er that long adieu?
With a soldier's faith, for thee?
Idol of the soldier's soul!
First in fight, but mightiest now Many could a world control:
Thee alone no doom can bow. By thy side for years I dared
Death, and envied those who fell, When their dying shout was heard Blessing him they served so well.'
At Waterloo, one man was seen, v hose left arm was shattered by a cannon-l all, to wrench it off with the other, and, throwing it up an the air, ex laimed to his comrades Vive l'En percur jusqu'à la mort.' There were many other instances of the like; this you may, however, depend on as true,
A private Letter from Brussels.
Would that I were cold with those,
Scarce dare trust a man with thee,
Oh! although in dungeons pent, All their chains were light to me, Gazing on thy soul unbent.
Would the sycophants of him
Now so deaf to duty's prayer, Were his borrow'd glories dim,
In his native darkness share? Were that world this hour his own,
All thou calmly dost resign, Could he purchase with that throne
Hearts like those which still are thine:
My chief, my king, my friend, adieu'
As his foes I now implore.
Every peril he must brave, Sharing by the hero's side
Ilis fall, his exile, and his grave.
ON THE STAR OF « THE LEGION OF HONOUR. »
[FROM THE FRENCH. ]
STAR of the brave!-whose beam hath shed
Such glory o'er the quick and dead—
Thou radiant and adored deceit!
Which millions rush'd in arms to greet,—
Wild meteor of immortal birth!
Why rise in heaven to set on earth?
Souls of slain heroes form'd thy rays;
Like lava roll'd thy stream of blood.
Before thee rose, and with thee grew,
A rainbow of the loveliest hue
One tint was of the sunbeam's dyes;
The tri- olour.
ROUSSEAU-Voltaire-our Gibbon-and de Stael-
But they have made them lovelier, for the lore
Where dwelt the wise and wond'rous; but by thee
Is proud, and makes the breath of glory real?
Geneva, Ferncy, Coppet, Lausanne.
WRITTEN ON A BLANK LEAF OF
ABSENT or present, still to thee,
In turn, thy converse and thy song.
April 19, 1812.
STANZAS TO ***. THOUGH the day of my destiny 's over, And the star of my fate hath declined, Thy soft heart refused to discover
The faults which so many could find: Though thy soul with my grief was acquainted, It shrunk not to share it with me, And the love which my spirit hath painted
It never hath found but in thee.
Then when nature around me is smiling
Because it reminds me of thine;
If their billows excite an emotion,
It is that they bear me from thee.
They may crush, but they shall not contemnThey may torture, but shall not subdue me: 'Tis of thee that I think-not of them.
Though human, thou didst not deceive me,
I have found that, whatever it lost me,
From the wreck of the past, which hath perish'd,
It hath taught me that what I most cherish'd