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LINES

ON THE

GRAVE OF A SUICIDE.

By strangers left upon a lonely shore,

Unknown, unhonoured, was the friendless dead: For child to weep, or widow to deplore,

There never came to his unburied head

All from his dreary habitation fled. Nor will the lanterned fisherman at eve

Launch on the water by the witches' tow'r, Where hellebore and hemlock seem to weave

Round its dark vaults a melancholy bow'r,

For spirits of the dead at night's enchanted hour. They dread to meet thee, poor unfortunate!

Whose crime it was, on life's unfinished road To feel the stepdame buffetings of fate,

And render back thy being's heavy load.

Ah! once, perhaps, the social passions glowed In thy devoted bosom—and the hand

That smote its kindred heart, might yet be prone To deeds of mercy. Who may understand

Thy many woes, poor suicide, unknown ?-
He who thy being gave shall judge of thee alone.

ODE TO WINTER.

When first the fiery-mantled sun His heavenly race began to run, Round the earth and ocean blue, His children four the Seasons flew.

First, in green apparel dancing,

The young Spring smiled with angel grace ;
Rosy Summer next advancing,

Rushed into her sire's embrace :
Her bright-haired sire, who bade her keep

For ever nearest to his smiles,
On Calpe's olive-shaded steep,

On India's citron-covered isles : More remote and buxom-brown,

The Queen of vintage bowed before his throne
A rich pomegranate gemmed her crown,

A ripe sheaf bound her zone.
But howling Winter fled afar,
To hills that prop the polar star,
And loves on deer borne car to ride,
With barren darkness by his side.
Round the shore where loud Lofoden

Whirls to death the roaring whale,
Round the hall where Runic Odin

Howls his war-song to the gale ; Save when adown the ravaged globe

He travels on his native storm, Deflow'ring nature's grassy robe,

And trampling on her faded form :Till light's returning lord assume

The shaft that drives him to his polar field,

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of power to pierce his raven plume,

And crystal covered shield.

Oh, sire of storms ! whose savage ear
The Lapland drum delights to hear,
When Frenzy with her bloodshot eye
Implores thy dreadful deity.
Archangel ! power of desolation !

Fast descending'as thou art,
Say, hath mortal invocation

Spells to touch thy stony heart?
Then sullen Winter hear my prayer,
And gently rule the ruined year;
Nor chill the wand'rer's bosom bare,
Nor freeze the wretch's falling tear ;-
To shuddering want's unmantled bed,

Thy horror-breathing agues cease to lend,
And gently on the orphan head

Of innocence descend.-
Bụt chiefly spare, O king of clouds !
The sailor on his airy shrouds :
When wrecks and beacons strew the steep,
And spectres walk along the deep.
Milder yet thy snowy breezes

Pour on yonder tented shores,
Where the Rhine's broad billow freezes,

Or the dark-brown Danube roars.
Oh winds of winter! list

ye

there
To many a deep and dying groan;
Or start, ye demons of the midnight air,

At shrieks and thunders louder than your own.
Alas ! ev’n your unhallowed breath

May spare the victim, fallen low;
But man will ask no truce to death,

No bounds to human wo.*
* This ode was written in Germany, at the close of 1800, before the
conclusion of hostilities,

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THE SOLDIER'S DREAM.

Our bugles sang truce-for the night-cloud had lowered

And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered,

to sleep, and the wounded to die.

The weary

When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,

By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain; At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,

And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.

Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array,

Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track; 'Twas autumn-and sunshine arose on the way

To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.

I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so ost

In life's morning march, when my bosom was young; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,

And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.

Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore
From

my home and my weeping friends never to part; My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er, And

my

wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart.

Stay, stay with us-rest, thou art weary and worn

And fain was their war-broken scldier to stay; But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn

And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.

THE TURKISH LADY.

'Twas the hour when rites unholy

Called each Paynim voice to prayer,
And the star that faded slowly

Left to dews the freshened air.

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Day her sultry fires had wasted,

Calm and sweet the moonlight rose;
Ev'n a captive's spirit tasted

Half oblivion of his woes.
Then 'twas from an Emir’s palace

Came an eastern lady bright;
She, in spite of tyrants jealous,

Saw and loved an English knight.
Tell me, captive, why in anguish

Foes have dragged thee here to dwell,
Where

poor Christians as they languish
Hear no sound of sabbath bell?”-
“'Twas on Transylvania's Bannat

When the crescent shone afar,
Like a pale disastrous planet

O'er the purple tide of war-
“In that day of desolation,

Lady, I was captive made;
Bleeding for my Christian nation

By the walls of high Belgrade.”
“Captive ! could the brightest jewel

From my turban set thee free?"-
“ Lady, no !—the gift were cruel,

Ransomed, yet if rest of thee.

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