STANZAS

ON THE BATTLE OF NAVARINO.

HEARTS of oak that have bravely deliver'd the brave, And uplifted old Greece from the brink of the grave, "Twas the helpless to help, and the hopeless to save,

That your thunderbolts swept o'er the brine: And as long as yon sun shall look down on the wave The light of your glory shall shine.

For the guerdon ye sought with your bloodshed and toil,

Was it slaves, or dominion, or rapine, or spoil?
No! your lofty emprise was to fetter and foil
The uprooter of Greece's domain !

When he tore the last remnant of food from her soil,
Till her famish'd sank pale as the slain !

Yet, Navarin's heroes! does Christendom breed The base hearts that will question the fame of your deed?

Are they men?—let ineffable scorn be their meed, And oblivion shadow their graves!

Are they women?—to Turkish serails let them speed! And be mothers of Mussulman slaves.

Abettors of massacre! dare ye deplore

That the death-shriek is silenced on Hellas's shore? That the mother aghast sees her offspring no more By the hand of Infanticide grasp'd?

And that stretch'd on yon billows distain'd by their gore

Missolonghi's assassins have gasp'd?

Prouder scene never hallow'd war's pomp to the mind, Than when Christendom's pennons woo'd social the wind,

And the flower of her brave for the combat combined, Their watchword humanity's vow:

Not a seaboy that fought in that cause, but mankind Owes a garland to honour his brow!

Nor grudge, by our side, that to conquer or fall, Came the hardy rude Russ, and the high-mettled

Gaul:

For whose was the genius, that plann'd at its call Where the whirlwind of battle should roll? All were brave! but the star of success over all Was the light of our Codrington's soul.

That star of thy day-spring, regenerate Greek! Dimm'd the Saracen's moon, and struck pallid his cheek:

In its fast-flushing morning thy Muses shall speak

When their lore and their lutes they reclaim: And the first of their songs from Parnassus's peak Shall be "Glory to Codrington's name!”

LINES

ON LEAVING A SCENE IN BAVARIA.

ADIEU the woods and waters' side,
Imperial Danube's rich domain;
Adieu the grotto, wild and wide,

The rocks abrupt, and grassy plain!
For pallid Autumn once again
Hath swell'd each torrent of the hill;

Her clouds collect, her shadows sail,
And watery winds, that sweep the vale,
Grow loud and louder still.

But not the storm, dethroning fast
Yon monarch oak of massy pile;
Nor river roaring to the blast

Around its dark and desert isle ;
Nor church-bell* tolling to beguile
The cloud-born thunder passing by,
Can sound in discord to my soul:
Roll on, ye mighty waters, roll!

And rage, thou darken'd sky!

* In Catholic countries you often hear the church-bells rung to propitiate Heaven during thunder-storms.

Thy blossoms now no longer bright;
Thy wither'd woods no longer green;
Yet, Eldurn shore, with dark delight
I visit thy unlovely scene!

For many a sunset hour serene
My steps have trod thy mellow dew;
When his green light the glow-worm gave,
When Cynthia from the distant wave
Her twilight anchor drew,

And plough'd, as with a swelling sail,
The billowy clouds and starry sea:
Then while thy hermit nightingale
Sang on his fragrant apple-tree,-
Romantic, solitary, free,
The visitant of Eldurn's shore,

On such a moonlight mountain stray'd
As echo'd to the music made
By Druid harps of yore.

Around thy savage hills of oak,
Around thy waters bright and blue,
No hunter's horn the silence broke,
No dying shriek thine echo knew;
But safe, sweet Eldurn woods, to you
The wounded wild deer ever ran,

Whose myrtle bound their grassy cave,
Whose very rocks a shelter gave

From blood-pursuing man.

Oh! heart effusions, that arose

From nightly wanderings cherish'd here; To him who flies from many woes,

Even homeless deserts can be dear!
The last and solitary cheer
Of those that own no earthly home,
Say-is it not, ye banish'd race,
In such a loved and lonely place
Companionless to roam?

Yes! I have loved thy wild abode,
Unknown, unplough'd, untrodden shore;
Where scarce the woodman finds a road,
And scarce the fisher plies an oar:
For man's neglect I love thee more;
That art nor avarice intrude

To tame thy torrent's thunder-shock,
Or prune thy vintage of the rock
Magnificently rude.

Unheeded spreads thy blossom'd bud
Its milky bosom to the bee;
Unheeded falls along the flood
Thy desolate and aged tree.
Forsaken scene, how like to thee
The fate of unbefriended Worth!
Like thine her fruit dishonour'd falls;
Like thee in solitude she calls

A thousand treasures forth.