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And Freedom hallows with her tread
The silent cities of the dead;

WRITTEN ON A BLANK LEAF OF For beautiful in death are they

"THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY." Who proudly fall in her array ; And soon, oh Goddess! may we be

ABSENT or present, still to thee, For evermore with them or thee!

My friend, what magic spells belong ! As all can tell, who share, like me,

In turn, thy converse and thy song. But when the dreaded hour shall come,

By Friendship ever deem'd too nigh, NAPOLEON'S FAREWELL. And "MEMORY" O'er her Druid's tomb

Shall weep that aught of thee can die, (FBOM THE FRENCR.)

How fondly will She then repay

Thy homage offer'd at her shrine, FAREWELL to the Land where the gloom of And bler while Ages roll away,

my Glory

Her name immortally with thine! Arose and o'ershadow'd the earth with her

April 19, 1812

name

my fame.

She abandons me now,-but the page of

her story; The brightest or blackest, ia fillid with

SONNET. I have warr'd with a world which van- ROUSSEAU--Voltaire-our Gibbon—and de quish'd me only

StaelWhen the meteor of Conquest allured me Leman! these names are worthy of thy too far;

shore, I have coped with the nations which dread Thy shore of names like these; wert me thus lonely,

thou no more, The last single Captive to millions in war. Their memory thy remembrance would

recal: Farewell to thee, France !-when thy dia- To them thy banks were lovely as to all ;

dem crown'd me But they have made them lovelier, for I made thee the gem and the wonder of

the lore earth,

Of mighty minds doth hallow in the core But thy weakness decrees I should leave of human hearts the ruin of a wall,

as I found thee, Where dwelt the wise and wondrous; but Decay'd in thy glory and sunk in thy worth. I

by thee

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How much more, Lake of Beauty! do we | In the desert a fountain is springing,

feel,

In the wide waste there still is a tree, In sweetly gliding o'er thy crystal sea,

And a bird in the solitude singing,
The wild glow of that not ungentle zeal, Which speaks to my spirit of thee.
Which of the heirs of immortality
Is proud, and makes the breath of glory real!

A VERY MOURNFUL BALLAD ON THE

SIEGE AND CONQUEST OF ALHAMA. STANZAS TO •

'The effect of the original ballad (which existed Though the day of my destiny's over, both in Spanish and Arabic) was such that it

And the star of my fate hath declined, was forbidden to be sung by the Moors, on Thy soft heart refused to discover

pain of death, within Granada. The faults which so many could find ; Though thy soul with my grief was ac- The Moorish King rides up and down

quainted,

Through Granada's royal town;
It shrunk not to share it with me, From Elvira's gates to those
And the love which my spirit hath painted Of Bivarambla on he goes.
It never hath found but in thee.

Woe is me, Alhama !

Then when nature around me is smiling Letters to the monarch tell

The last smile which answers to mine, How Alhama's city fell; I do not believe it beguiling

In the fire the scroll he threw,
Because it reminds me of thine; And the messenger he slew.
And when winds are at war with the ocean,

Woe is me, Alhama !
As the breasts I believed in with me,
If their billows excite an emotion,

He quits his mule, and mounts his horse,
It is that they bear me from thee.

And through the street directs his course; Though the rock of my last hope is shiverid, To the Alhambra spurring in.

Through the street of Zacatin
And its fragments are sunk in the wave,

Woe is me, Alhama !
Though I feel that my soul is deliver'd

To pain- it shall not be its slave.
There is many a pang to pursue me:

When the Alhambra walls he gain'd,
They may crush, but they shall not on the moment he ordain'd

contemn

That the trumpet straight should sound They may torture, but shall not subdue me- With the silver clarion round. Tis of thee that I think-not of them.

Woe is me, Alhama!

Though human, thou didst not deceive me, And when the hollow drums of war

Though woman, thou didst not forsake, Beat the loud alarm afar,
Though loved, thou forborest to grieve me, That the Moors of town and plain
Though slander'd, thou never couldst Might answer to the martial strain,
shake,-

Woe is me, Alhama !
Though trusted thou didst not disclaim me,
Though parted, it was not to fly,

Then the Moors by this aware Though watchful, 'twas not to defame me, That bloody Mars recall'd them there, Nor, mute, that the world might belie.

One by one, and two by two,

To a mighty squadron grew.
Yet I blame not the world, nor despise it,

Woe is me, Alhama !
Nor the war of the many with one-
If my soul was not fitted to prize it,
'Twas folly not sooner to shun:

Out then spake an aged Moor
And if dearly that error hath cost me,

In these words the king before,
And more than I once could foresee,

“Wherefore call on us, oh king? I have found that, whatever it lost me,

What may mean this gathering?"
It could not deprive me of thee.

Woe is me, Alhama!
From the wreck of the past, which hath “Friends! ye have, alas! to know

perishid,

Of a most disastrous blow,
Thus much I at least may recal, That the Christians, stern and bold,
It hath taught me that what I most cherish'd Have obtain'd Alhama's hold.”
Degerved to be dearest of all :

Woe is me, Alhama!

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Moor Alfaqui! Moor Alfaqui!
Though thy beard so hoary be,
The King hath sent to have thee seized,
For Albama's loss displeased.

Woe is me, Alhama !

And to fix thy head upon
High Alhambra's loftiest stone;
That this for thee should be the law,
And others tremble when they saw.

Woe is me, Alhama !

Of two fair virgins, modest, though admired, Heaven made us happy; and now, wretched

sires, Heaven for a nobler doom their worth

desires, And gazing upon either, both required. Mine, while the torch of Hymen newly fired Becomes extinguish'd, soon too soon

expires: But thine within the closing grate retired, Eternal captive, to her God aspires. But thou at least from out the jealous door, Which shuts between your never-meeting

eyes, Mayst hear her sweet and pious voice I to the marble, where my daughter lies, Rush,—the swoln flood of bitterness I pour, And knock, and knock, and knock-but

none replies.

“Cavalier! and man of worth!
Let these words of mine go forth;
Let the Moorish Monarch know,
That to him I nothing owe:

Woe is me, Alhama !

once more:

But on my soul Alhama weighs, And on my inmost spirit preys; And if the King his land hath lost, Yet others may have lost the most.

Woe is me, Alhama !

STANZAS.

Sircs have lost their children, wives
Their lords, and valiant men their lives;
One what best his love might claim
Hath lost, another wealth or fame.

Woe is me, Alhama!

River, that rollest by the ancient walls Where dwells the lady of my love, when she Walks by thy brink, and there perchance

recals A faint and fleetiag memory of me:

What if thy deep and ample stream should be 'Tis vain to struggle-let me perish youngA mirror of my heart, where she may read Live as I lived, and love as I have loved : The thousand thoughts I now betray to thee, To dust if I return, from dust I sprung, Wild as thy wave,and head long as thy speed? And then at least my heart can ne'er be

moved. What do I say-a mirror of my heart? Are not thy waters sweeping, dark and strong ?

DRINKING-SONG. Such as my feelings were and are, thou art; And such as thou art, were my passions long. Fill the goblet again, for I never before

Felt the glow that now gladdens my heart Time may have somewhat tamed them, not

to its core : for ever:

Let us drink-who would not? since, thro' Thou overflowst thy banks, and not for ayo;

life's varied round, Thy bosom overboils, congenial river ! In the goblet alone no deception is found. Thy floods subside; and mine have sunk

away

I have tried in its turn all that life can supply;

I have bask'd in the beams of a dark rolling But left long wrecks behind them, and again

eye; Borne on our old unchanged career, we move; I have lov'd-who has not ? but what tongue Thou tendest wildly onward to the main,

will declare And I to loving one I should not love.

That pleasure existed while passion was

there? The current I behold will sweep beneath Her native walls, and murmur at her feet; In the days of our youth, when the heart's Her eyes will look on thee, when she shall

in its spring, breathe

And dreams that affection can never take The twilight-air, unharm’d by summer's

wing, heat.

I had friends,- who has not? but what She will look on thee: I have look'd on thee,

tongue will avow Full of that thought, and from that That friends, rosy wine, are so faithful ag

thou? moment ne'er Thy waters could I dream of, name or see, The breast of a mistress somo boy may Without the inseparable sigh for her.

estrange ; Her bright eyes will be imaged in thy Friendship shifts with the sun-beam,-thou stream ;

never canst change. Yes, they will meet the wave I gaze on now:

Thou growst old—who does not ? but on

earth what appears, Mine cannot witness, even in a dream, That happy wave repass me in its flow.

Whose virtues, like thine, but increase

with our years ? The wave that bears my tears returns no

Yet if blest to the utmost that love can Will she return by whom that wave shall

bestow, sweep?

Should a rival bow down to our idol below, Both tread thy banks, both wander on thy We are jealous--who 's not ? thou hast no shore;

such alloy, I near thy source, she by the dark-blue deep. For the more that enjoy thee, the more they

enjoy. But that which keepeth us apart is not Distance, nor depth of wave, nor space of When, the season of youth and its jollities earth,

past, But the distraction of a various lot, For refuge we fly to the goblet at last, As various as the climates of our birth. Then we find—who does not? in the flow

of the soul, A stranger loves a lady of the land, That truth, as of yore, is confin'd to the bowl. Born far beyond the mountains, but his

blood

When the box of Pandora was opened on Is all meridian, as if never fann'd

earth, By the bleak wind that chills the polar flood. And Memory's triumph commenced over

Mirth, My blood is all meridian; were it not, Hope was left-was she not? but the goblet I had not left my clime;-I shall not be

we kiss, In spite of tortures ne'er to be forgot, And care not for hope, who are certain of A slave again of love, at least of thee.

bliss.

more:

a

Long life to the grape! and when summer | Few and short were the prayers we said,

is flown,

And we spoke not a word of sorrow; The age of our nectar shall gladden my own. But we stedfastly gazed on the face of the We must die-who does not? may our sins

dead, be forgiven! And we bitterly thought of the morrow. And Hebe shall never be idlo in Heaven.

We thought, as we heap'd his narrow bed,
And smooth'd down his lonely pillow,
That the foe and the stranger would tread

o'er his head ON SIR JOHN MOORE'S BURIAL. And we far away on the billow! Not a drum was heard, nor a funeral Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,

note,

And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him; As his corse to the ramparts we hurried ; But nothing he'll reck, if they let him Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot

sleep on O'er the grave where our hero we buried. In the grave where a Briton has laid him. We buried him darkly at dead of night, But half of our heavy task was done, The sods with our bayonets turning, When the clock told the hour for retiring ; By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, And we heard by the distant and random gun, And the lantern dimly burning.

That the foe was suddenly firing. No useless coffin confined his breast, Slowly and sadly we laid him down, Nor in sheet nor in shrouds we bound him, From the field of his fame fresh and gory; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, We carved not a line, we raised not a stonc, With his martial cloak around him. But we left him alone with his glory.

HOURS OF IDLENESS.

Μήτ' αρ με μάλ' αίνεε, μήτε τι νείκει.

HOMER.

He whistled as he went for want of thought.

DRYDEN.

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLB

Of the mail-cover'd Barons, who, proudly, FREDERICK, EARL OF CARLISLE,

to battle

Led their vassals from Europe to PalesKNIGHT OF THE GARTER, etc. etc.

tine's plain, THBSE POEMS ARE INSCRIBED BY HIS OBLIGBD

The escutcheon and shield, which with WARD AND AFYECTIONATE KINSMAN, THE AUTHOR.

every blast rattle, Are the only sad vestiges now that

remain. ON LEAVING NEWSTEAD ABBEY.

No more doth old Robert, with harp-stringWhy dost thon build the hall? Son of the winged days! Thou lookest from thy tower to-day; yet a

ing numbers, few years, and the blast of the desert comes; it howls

Raise a flame in the breast, for the warin thy empty court.

laurell'd wreath;

OSSIAN. Near Askalon's towers John of Horistan THROUGH thy battlements, Newstead, the

slumbers, hollow winds whistle;

Unnerved is the hand of his minstrel, by Thou, the hall of my Fathers, art gone

death. to decay; In thy once smiling garden the hemlock and Paul and Hubert too sleep, in the valley of thistle

Cressy; Have choked up the rose, which late For the safety of Edward and England bloom'd in the way.

they fell;

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