ePub 版

No sound in thy desolate halls
Shall break the twilight gloom;
But the ravens in their dank walls
Shall find a boding home.


Walter Scots.

ALL joy was bereft me the day that you left me,
And climbed the tall vessel to sail yon wide sea;
O weary betide it! I wandered beside it,

And banned it for parting my Willie and me.

Far o'er the wave hast thou followed thy fortune,
Oft fought the squadrons of France and of Spain;
Ae kiss of welcome's worth twenty at parting,
Now I hae gotten my Willie again.

When the sky it was mirk, and the winds they were wailing,

I sat on the beach wi' the tear in my e'e,

And thought o' the bark where my Willie was sailing,
And wished that the tempest could a' blaw on me.

Now that thy gallant ship rides at her mooring,
Now that my wanderer's in safety at hame,

Music to me were the wildest winds roaring,

That e'er o'er Ineh Keith drove the dark ocean faem.

When the lights they did blaze, and the guns they did rattle, And blithe was each heart for the great victory,

In secret I wept for the dangers of battle,

And thy glory itself was scarce comfort to me.


But now shalt thou tell, while I eagerly listen,

Of each bold adventure, and every brave scar; And, trust me, I'll smile, though my een they may glisten; For sweet after dangers the tale of the war.

And oh, how we doubt when there's distance 'tween lovers, When there's naething to speak to the heart thro' the e'e; How often the kindest, and warmest, prove rovers,

And the love of the faithfullest ebbs like the sea.

Till, at times, could I help it? I pined and I pondered,
If love could change notes like the bird on the tree-
Now, I'll ne'er ask if thine eyes may hae wandered,

Enough, thy leal heart has been constant to me.

Welcome, from sweeping o'er sea and through channel,
Hardships and danger despising for fame,

Furnishing story for glory's bright annal,

Welcome, my wanderer, to Jeanie and hame!

Enough now thy story in annals of glory

Has humbled the pride of France, Holland, and Spain; No more shalt thou grieve me, no more shalt thou leave me, I never will part with my Willie again.


Lord Byron.

O'ER the glad waters of the dark blue sea,
Our thoughts as boundless, and our souls as free,
Far as the breeze can bear, the billows foam,
Survey our empire and behold our home!
These are our realms, no limits to their sway-
Our flag the sceptre all who meet obey.

Ours the wild life in tumult still to range
From toil to rest, and joy in every change.
Oh, who can tell? not thou, luxurious slave!
Whose soul would sicken o'er the heaving wave;
Not thou, vain lord of wantonness and ease!
Whom slumber soothes not-pleasure cannot please-

Oh, who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried,
And danced in triumph o'er the waters wide,
The exulting sense-the pulse's maddening play,
That thrills the wanderer of that trackless way?
That for itself can woo the approaching fight,
And turn what some deem danger to delight;

That seeks what cravens shun with more than zeal, And where the feebler faint--can only feel

[ocr errors]

Feel to the rising bosom's inmost core,

Its hope awaken and its spirit soar?

No dread of death--if with us die our foes-
Save that it seems even duller than repose:

Come when it will-we snatch the life of life-
When lost-what recks it--by disease or strife?
Let him who crawls enamoured of decay,
Cling to his couch, and sicken years away;

Heave his thick breath; and shake his palsied head;
Ours-the fresh turf, and not the feverish bed.

While gasp by gasp he faulters forth his soul,
Ours with one pang-one bound-escapes controul.
His corse may boast it's urn and narrow cave,

And they who loathed his life may gild his grave:
Ours are the tears, though few, sincerely shed,
When Ocean shrouds and sepulchres our dead.

For us, even banquets fond regret supply
In the red cup that crowns our memory;
And the brief epitaph in danger's day,

When those who win at length divide the prey,
And cry, Remembrance saddening o'er each brow,
How had the brave who fell exulted now!


T. Moore.

"TIS gone, and for ever, the light we saw breaking, Like Heaven's first dawn o'er the sleep of the dead, When man, from the slumber of ages awaking,

Look'd upward and bless'd the pure ray, ere it fled! "Tis gone, and the gleams it has left of its burning, But deepen the long night of bondage and mourning, That dark o'er the kingdoms of earth is returning,

And, darkest of all, hapless Erin! o'er thee.

For high was thy hope, when those glories were darting
Around thee, thro' all the gross clouds of the world;
When Truth from her fetters indignantly starting,
At once, like a sun burst, her Lanner unfurl'd.
Oh, never shall earth see a monent so splendid!
Then, then, had one Hymn of Deliverance blended
The tongues of all nations, how sweet had ascended
The first note of Liberty, Erin! from thee,

But, shame on those tyrants, who envied the blessing!
And shame on the light race, unworthy its good,
Who, at Death's reeking altar, like furies caressing
The young hope of Freedom, baptiz'd it in blood!
Then vanish'd for ever that fair, sunny vision,
Which, spite of the slavish, the cold heart's derision,
Shall long be remember'd, pure, bright, and elysian,
As first it arose, my lost Erin! on thee.


Lord Byron.

FAREWELL to the land, where the gloom of my glory
Arose and o'ershadowed the earth with her name-
She abandons me now,-but the page of her story,
The brightest or blackest, is filled with my fame.
I have warred with a world which vanquished me only
When the meteor of conquest allured me too far;

I have coped with the nations which dread me thus lonely,
The last single captive to millions in war.

Farewell to thee, France!-when thy diadem crown'd me,
I made thee the gem and the wonder of earth,--
But thy weakness decrees I should leave as I found thee,
Decayed in thy glory, and sunk in thy worth.

Oh! for the veteran hearts that were wasted

In strife with the storm, when their battles were won→ Then the Eagle, whose gaze in that moment was blasted, Had still soared with eyes fixed on victory's sun!

« 上一頁繼續 »