The fate thou didst so well foresee That in his hand the lightnings trembled. Thy godlike crime was to be kind, In the endurance and repulse Of thine impenetrable Spirit, Which Earth and Heaven could not convulse, A mighty lesson we inherit : Thou art a symbol and a sign To mortals of their fate and force, His wretchedness, and his resistance, STANZAS TO I. THOUGH the day of my destiny 's over 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 2. Then when nature around me is smiling Because it reminds me of thine; And when winds are at war with the ocean, If their billows excite an emotion, 3. Though the rock of my last hope is shiver❜d, There is many a pang to pursue me : They may crush, but they shall not contemn, They may torture, but shall not subdue me--'Tis of thee that I think-not of them. 4. Though human, thou didst not deceive me, Though slander'd, thou never could'st shake,- 5. Yet I blame not the world, nor despise it, If my soul was not fitted to prize it, 'Twas folly not sooner to shun : And if dearly that error hath cost me, And more than I once could foresee, I have found that, whatever it lost me It could not deprive me of thee. 6. From the wreck of the past, which hath perish'd, It hath taught me that what I most cherish'd In the desart a fountain is springing, In the wide waste there still is a tree, And a bird in the solitude singing, ON THE DEATH OF SIR PETER PARKER, BART. THERE is a tear for all that die, A mourner o'er the humblest grave; For them is sorrow's purest sigh O'er Ocean's heaving bosom sent : A tomb is theirs on every page, For them bewail, to them belong. For them the voice of festal mirth Grows hushed, their name the only sound; While deep Remembrance pours to Worth The goblet's tributary round. A theme to crowds that knew them not, Who would not share their glorious lot? And, gallant Parker! thus enshrined Thy life, thy fall, thy fame shall be; And early valour, glowing, find A model in thy memory. But there are breasts that bleed with thee Where one so dear, so dauntless, fell. Where shall they turn to mourn thee less? Alas! for them, though not for thee, WRITTEN AT ATHENS. JANUARY 16, 1810. THE spell is broke, the charm is flown! Each lucid interval of thought Recalls the woes of Nature's charter, And he that acts as wise men ought, But lives, as saints have died, a martyr. |