And so the film comes o'er him--and the dizzy
Chamber swims round and round-and shadows busy
At which he vainly catches, flit and gleam,
Till the last rattle chokes the strangled scream,
And all is ice and blackness,-and the earth
That which it was the moment ere our birth.

II.

There is no hope for nations!--Search the page
Of many thousand years-the daily scene,
The flow and ebb of each recurring age,
The everlasting to be which hath been,

Hath taught us nought or little: still we lean
On things that rot beneath our weight, and wear
Our strength away in wrestling with the air;
For 't is our nature strikes us down: the beasts
Slaughter'd in hourly hecatombs for feasts
Are of as high an order-they must go

Even where their driver goads them, though to slaughter.
Ye men, who pour your blood for kings as water,
What have they given your children in return?
A heritage of servitude and woes,

A blindfold bondage where your hire is blows.
What! do not yet the red-hot ploughshares burn,
O'er which you stumble in a false ordeal,
And deem this proof of loyalty the real;
Kissing the hand that guides you to your scars,
And glorying as you tread the glowing bars?
All that your sires have left you, all that time,
Bequeaths of free, and history of sublime,
Spring from a different theme!-Ye see and read,
Admire and sigh, and then succumb and bleed!
Save the few spirits, who, despite of all,

And worse than all, the sudden crimes engender'd
By the down-thundering of the prison-wall,
And thirst to swallow the sweet waters tender'd,
Gushing from freedom's fountains-when the crowd,
Madden'd with centuries of drought, are loud,
And trample on each other to obtain
The cup which brings oblivion of a chain
Heavy and sore,-in which long yoked they plough'd
The sand, or if there sprung the yellow grain,
T was not for them, their necks were too much bow'd,
And their dead palates chew'd the cud of pain:-
Yes! the few spirits-who, despite of deeds
Which they abhor, confound not with the cause
Those momentary starts from nature's laws,
Which, like the pestilence and earthquake, smite
But for a term, then pass, and leave the earth
With all her seasons to repair the blight
With a few summers, and again put forth
Cities and generations-fair, when free-
For, tyranny, there blooms no bud for thee!

III.

Glory and empire! once upon these towers

With freedom-god-like triad! how ye sate? The league of mightiest nations, in those hours When Venice was an envy, might abate, But did not quench, her spirit-in her fate All were enwrapp'd: the feasted monarchs knew

And loved their hostess, nor could learn to hate, Although they humbled-with the kingly few The many felt, for from all days and climes She was the voyager's worship;-even her crimes

IV.

The name of commonwealth is past and gone
O'er the three fractions of the groaning globe;
Venice is crush'd, and Holland deigns to own
A sceptre, and endures the purple robe;
If the free Switzer yet bestrides alone
His chainless mountains, 't is but for a time,
For tyranny of late is cunning grown,
And in its own good season tramples down
The sparkles of our ashes. One great clime,
Whose vigorous offspring by dividing ocean
Are kept apart and nursed in the devotion
Of freedom, which their fathers fought for, and
Bequeath'd-a heritage of heart and hand,
And proud distinction from each other land,
Whose sons must bow them at a monarch's motion,
As if his senseless sceptre were a wand
Full of the magic of exploded science-
Still one great clime, in full and free defiance,
Yet rears her crest, unconquer'd and sublime,
Above the far Atlantic!-She has taught
Her Esau-brethren that the haughty flag,
The floating fence of Albion's feebler crag,
May strike to those whose red right hands have bought
Rights cheeply earn'd with blood. Still, still, for ever
Better, though each man's life-blood were a river,
That it should flow, and overflow, than creep
Through thousand lazy channels in our veins,
Damm'd like the dull canal with locks and chains,
And moving, as a sick man in his sleep,
Three paces, and then faltering:-better be
Where the extinguish'd Spartans still are free,
In their proud charnel of Thermopylæ,
Than stagnate in our marsh,—or o'er the deep
Fly, and one current to the ocean add,
One spirit to the souls our fathers had,
One freeman more, America, to thee!

ROMANCE MUY DOLOROSO

DEL

SITIO Y TOMA DE ALHAMA,

EL QUAL DEZIA EN ARAVIGO ASSI.

PASSEAVASE el Rey Moro
Por la ciudad de Grenada,
Desde las puertas de Elvira
Hasta las de Bivarambla.
Ay de mi, Alhama!

Cartas le fueron venidas
Que Alhama era ganada.
Las cartas echo en el fuego,
Y al mensagero matava.
Ay de mi, Alhama!

Descavalga de una mula
Y en un cavallo cavalga.
Por el Zacatin arriba
Subido se avia al Alhambra.

Ay de mi, Alhama!

Como en el Alhambra estuvo,
Al mismo punto mandava.
Que se toquen las trompetas
Con anafiles de plata.
Ay de mi, Alhama!

Y que atambores de guerra
Apriessa toquen alarma;

Por

que lo oygan sus Moros, Los de la Vega y Granada. Ay de mi, Alhama!

Los Moros que el son oyeron,
Que al sangriento Marte llama,
Uno a uno, y dos a dos,
Un gran esquadran formavan.
Ay de mi, Alhama!

Alli hablò un Moro viejo;
Desta manera hablava :-
Para que nos llamas, Rey?
Para que es este llamada?
Ay de mi, Alhama!

Aveys de saber, amigos,
Una nueva desdichada:
Que Cristianos, con braveza,
Ya nos han tomado Alhama.
Ay de mi, Alhama!

Alli hablò un viejo Alfaqui,
De barba crecida y cana:-
Bien se te emplea, buen Rey,
Buen Rey; bien se te empleava.
Ay de mi, Alhama!

Mataste los Bencerrages,
Que era la flor de Granada;
Cogiste los tornadizos

De Cordova la nombrada.

Ay de mi, Alhama!

Di due vaghe donzelle, oneste, accorte
Lieti e miseri padri il ciel ne feo,

Il ciel, che degne di più nobil sorte
L'una e l' altra veggendo, ambo chiedeo.

La mia fu tolta da veloce morte

A le fumanti tede d' imeneo:

La tua, Francesco, in sugellate porte
Eterna prigioniera or si rendeo.
Ma tu almeno potrai de la gelosa

Irremeabil soglia, ove s' asconde
La sua tenera udir voce pietosa.
lo verso un fiume d' amarissim' onda,

Corro a quel marmo, in cui la figlia or posa,
Batto, e ribatto, ma nessun risponde.

TRANSLATION FROM VITTORELLI.

ON A NUN.

Sonnet composed in the name of a father, whose daughter had recently died shortly after her marriage; and addressed to the father of her who had lately taken the veil.

Or 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, May'st hear her sweet and pious voice once more:

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.

While wandering through each broken path,

O'er brake and craggy brow:

While elements exhaust their wrath,

Sweet Florence, where art thou?

Not on the sea, not on the sea,

Thy bark hath long been gone:
Oh,
may the storm that pours on me,
Bow down my head alone!

Full swiftly blew the swift Siroc,
When last I press'd thy lip;

And long ere now, with foaming shock,
Impell'd thy gallant ship.

Now thou art safe; nay, long ere now
Hast trod the shore of Spain:

"T were hard if ought so fair as thou
Should linger on the main.

And since I now remember thee
In darkness and in dread,
As in those hours of revelry

Which mirth and music sped;

Do thou amidst the fair white walls,
If Cadiz yet be free,

At times from out her latticed halls.
Look o'er the dark blue sea;

Then think upon Calypso's isles,
Endear'd by days gone by;
To others give a thousand smiles,
To me a single sigh.

And when the admiring circle mark
The paleness of thy face,

A half form'd tear, a transient spark
Of melancholy grace,

Again thou 'It smile, and blushing shun

Some coxcomb's raillery;

Nor own for once thou thought'st of one,
Who ever thinks on thee.

Though smile and sigh alike are vain,

When sever'd hearts repine,

My spirit flies o'er mount and main, And mourns in search of thine.

ΤΟ

On Lady! when I left the shore,
The distant shore which gave me birth,
I hardly thought to grieve once more,
To quit another spot on earth:

Yet here, amidst this barren isle,

Where panting nature droops the head,
Where only thou art seen to smile,

I view my parting hour with dread.
Though far from Albin's craggy shore,
Divided by the dark blue main;
A few, brief, rolling seasons o'er,
Perchance I view her cliffs again :
But wheresoe'er I now may roam,
Through scorching clime and varied sea,
Though time restore me to my home,

I ne'er shall bend mine eyes on thee:
On thee, in whom at once conspire

All charms which heedless hearts can move, Whom but to see is to admire,

And, oh! forgive the word-to love.
Forgive the word, in one who ne'er

With such a word can more offend;
And since thy heart I cannot share,
Believe me, what I
am, thy friend.
And who so cold as look on thee,
Thou lovely wanderer, and be less?
Nor be, what man should ever be,

The friend of Beauty in distress?
Ah! who would think that form had past
Through Danger's most destructive path,
Had braved the death-wing'd tempest's blast,
And 'scaped a tyrant's fiercer wrath?
Lady! when I shall view the walls

Where free Byzantium once arose;
And Stamboul's Oriental halls

The Turkish tyrants now enclose;
Though mightiest in the lists of fame,
That glorious city still shall be;
On me 't will hold a dearer claim,

As spot of thy nativity:

And though I bid thee now farewell,
When I behold that wondrous scene,
Since where thou art I may not dwell,
'T will soothe to be where thou hast been.
September, 1809.

WRITTEN AT ATHENS,

JANUARY 16, 1810.

THE spell is broke, the charm is flown!
Thus is it with life's fitful fever:
We madly smile when we should groan;
Delirium is our best deceiver.

Each lucid interval of thought

Recals the woes of Nature's charter, And he that acts as wise men ought, But lives, as saints have died, a martyr.

WRITTEN BENEATH A PICTURE.
DEAR object of defeated care!
Though now of love and thee bereft,
To reconcile me with despair
Thine image and my tears are left.

'Tis said with sorrow time can cope ;
But this I feel can ne'er be true:
For by the death-blow of my hope
My memory immortal grew.