And shall the scene no more show forth
His sternly pleasing brow!
Alas, the moral brings a tear !—
"Tis all a transient hour below;
And we that would detain thee here,
Ourselves as fleetly go!
Yet shall our latest age
This parting scene review :
Pride of the British stage,
A long and last adieu!
On the first opening of the House after the death of the
Princess Charlotte, 1817
BRITONS! although our task is but to show
The scenes and passions of fictitious wo,
Think not we come this night without a part
In that deep sorrow of the public heart,
Which like a shade hath darkened ev'ry place,
And moistened with a tear the manliest face!
The bell is scarcely hushed in Windsor's piles,
That tolled a requiem from the solemn aisles,
For her, the royal flower, low laid in dust,
That was your fairest hope, your fondest trust.
Unconscious of the doom, we dreamt, alas!
'That ev'n these walls, ere many months should
Which but return sad accents for her now,
Perhaps had witnessed her benignant brow,
Cheered by the voice you would have raised on high,
In bursts of British love and loyalty.
But, Britain! now thy chief, thy people mourn,
And Claremont's home of love is left forlorn :-
There, where the happiest of the happy dwelt,
The 'scutcheon glooms, and royalty hath felt
A wound that ev'ry bosom feels its own,—
The blessing of a father's heart o'erthrown—
The most beloved and most devoted bride
Torn from an agonized husband's side,
Who "long as memory holds her seat" shall view
That speechless, more than spoken last adieu,
When the fixed eye long looked connubial faith,
And beamed affection in the trance of death.
Sad was the pomp that yesternight beheld,
As with the mourner's heart the anthem swelled;
While torch succeeding torch illumed each high
And bannered arch of England's chivalry.
The rich plumed canopy, the gorgeous pall,
The sacred march, and sable-vested wall-
These were not rites of inexpressive show,
But hallowed as the types of real wo!
Daughter of England! for a nation's sighs,
A nation's heart went with thine obsequies!—
And oft shall time revert a look of grief
On thine existence, beautiful and brief.
Fair spirit! send thy blessing from above
On realms where thou art canonized by love'
Give to a father's, husband's bleeding mind,
That peace that angels lend to humankind;
To us who in thy loved remembrance feel
A sorrowing, but a soul ennobling zeal-
A loyalty that touches all the best
And loftiest principles of England's breast!
Still may thy name speak concord from the tomb;
Still in the Muse's breath thy memory bloom!
They shall describe thy life-thy form portray
But all the love that mourns thee swept away,
'Tis not in language or expressive arts
To paint-ye feel it, Britons, in your hearts!
On receiving a seal with the Campbell Crest, from
K. M., before her marriage.
THIS wax returns not back more fair,
Th' impression of the gift you send,
Than stamped upon my thoughts I bear
The image of your worth, my friend!-
We are not friends of yesterday:-
But poet's fancies are a little
Disposed to heat and cool, (they say,)-
By turns impressible and brittle.
Well! should its frailty e'er condemn
My heart to prize or please you less,
Your type is still the sealing gem,
And mine the waxen brittleness.
What transcripts of my weal and wo
This little signet yet may lock,-
What utt'rances to friend or foe,
In reason's calm or passion's shock!
What scenes of life's yet curtained page
May own its confidential die,
Whose stamp awaits th' unwritten page
And feelings of futurity!-
Yet wheresoe'er my pen I lift
To date th' epistolary sheet,
The blest occasion of the gift
Shall make its recollection sweet;
Sent when the star that rules
your fates Hath reached its influence most benign— When every heart congratulates,
And none more cordially than mine.
So speed my song-marked with the crest
That erst th' advent'rous Norman* wore,
Who won the Lady of the West,
The daughter of Macaillain Mor.
Crest of my sires! whose blood it sealed
With glory in the strife of swords,
Ne'er may the scroll that bears it yield
Degenerate thoughts or faithless words!
Yet little might I prize the stone,
If it but typed the feudal tree
From whence, a scattered leaf, I'm blown
In Fortune's mutability.
No! but it tells me of a heart,
Allied by friendship's living tie;
A prize beyond the herald's art—
Our soul-sprung consanguinity!
Katherine! to many an hour of mine
Light wings and sunshine you have lent;
And so adieu, and still be thine
The all in-all of life-Content!
* A Norman leader, in the service of the king of Scotland, married the heiress of Lochow in the twelfth century, and from him the Camp bells are sprung.
To the memory of the Spanish Patriots latest killed in resisting the Regency and the Duke of Angouleme.
BRAVE men who at the Trocadero fell-
Beside your cannons conquered not, though slain,
There is a Victory in dying well
For Freedom, and ye have not died in vain ;
For come what may there shall be hearts in Spain
To honour, ay embrace your martyred lot.
Cursing the Bigot's and the Bourbon's chain,
And looking on your graves, though trophied not,
As holier, hallowed ground than priests could make the
spot!
What though your cause be baffled-freemen cast
In dungeons-dragged to death, or forced to flee;
Hope is not withered in affliction's blast-
The patriot's blood's the seed of Freedom's tree;
And short your orgies of revenge shall be,
Cowled demons of the Inquisitorial cell!
Earth shudders at your victory,-for ye
Are worse than common fiends from Heaven that fell,
The baser, ranker sprung Autochthones of hell!
Go to your bloody rites again-bring back
The hall of horrors and the assessor's pen,
Recording answers shrieked upon the rack;
Smile o'er the gaspings of spine-broken men ;-
Preach, perpetrate damnation in your den ;-
Then let your altars, ye blasphemers! peal
With thanks to Heaven, that let you loose again,
To practise deeds with torturing fire and steel
No eye may search-nó tongue may challenge or reveal!
|