While that placid sleep came o'er thee
Which thou ne'er canst know again:
Would that breast, by thee glanced over,
Every inmost thought could show!
Then thou wouldst at last discover
'T was not well to spurn it so.

Though the world for this commend thee-
Though it smile upon the blow,

Even its praises must offend thee,

Founded on another's woe-
Though my many faults defaced me,
Could no other arm be found
Than the one which once embraced me,
To inflict a cureless wound?
Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not,

Love may sink by slow decay,
But by sudden wrench, believe not
Hearts can thus be torn away:
Still thine own its life retaineth-

Still must mine, though bleeding, beat; And the undying thought which paineth Is-that we no more may meet. These are words of deeper sorrow Than the wail above the dead; Both shall live, but every morrow Wake us from a widow'd bed. And when thou wouldst solace gather, When our child's first accents flow, Wilt thou teach her to say « Father!>>

Though his care she must forego?
When her little hands shall press thee,
When her lip to thine is prest,
Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee,
Think of him thy love had bless'd!
Should her lineaments resemble

Those thou never more may'st see,
Then thy heart will softly tremble
With a pulse yet true to me.
All my faults perchance thou knowest,
All my madness none can know;
All my hopes, where'er thou goest,
Wither-yet with thee they go.
Every feeling hath been shaken;

Pride, which not a world could bow,
Bows to thee-by thee forsaken,

Even my soul forsakes me now: But 't is done-all words are idleWords from me are vainer still; But the thoughts we cannot bridle

Force their way without the will.-
Fare thee well!-thus disunited,

Torn from every nearer tie,
Sear'd in heart, and lone, and blighted-
More than this I scarce can die.

TO***

WHEN all around grew drear and dark, And reason half withheld her rayAnd hope but shed a dying spark Which more misled my lonely way;

In that deep midnight of the mind, And that internal strife of heart, When dreading to be deem'd too kind, The weak despair-the cold depart;

When fortune changed-and love fled far, And hatred's shafts flew thick and fast, Thou wert the solitary star

Which rose and set not to the last.

Oh! blest be thine unbroken light!

That watch'd me as a seraph's eye, And stood between me and the night, For ever shining sweetly nigh.

And when the cloud upon us came, Which strove to blacken o'er thy rayThen purer spread its gentle flame,

And dash'd the darkness all away.

Still may thy spirit dwell on mine,

And teach it what to brave or brookThere's more in one soft word of thine, Than in the world's defied rebuke.

Thou stood'st, as stands a lovely tree,

That still unbroke, though gently bent, Still waves with fond fidelity

Its boughs above a monument.

The winds might rend-the skies might pour, But there thou wert-and still wouldst be Devoted in the stormiest hour

To shed thy weeping leaves o'er me.

But thou and thine shall know no blight,
Whatever fate on me may fall;
For heaven in sunshine will requite
The kind-and thee the most of all.

Then let the ties of baffled love

Be broken-thine will never break; Thy heart can feel-but will not move; Thy soul, though soft, will never shake.

And these, when all was lost beside,
Were found, and still are fixed, in thee-
And bearing still a breast so tried,
Earth is no desert--even to me.

ODE.

[FROM THE FRENCH.]

We do not curse thee, Waterloo!

Though Freedom's blood thy plain bedew;
There't was shed, but is not sunk-

Rising from each gory trunk,
Like the water-spout from ocean,
With a strong and growing motion-
It soars, and mingles in the air,
With that of lost LABEDOYERE

With that of him whose honour'd grave
Contains the bravest of the brave.»>
A crimson cloud it spreads and glows,
But shall return to whence it rose;
When 't is full 't will burst asunder-
Never yet was heard such thunder

As then shall shake the world with wonder

Never yet was seen such lightning,

As o'er heaven shall then be bright'ning!
Like the Wormwood star foretold
By the sainted seer of old,

Showering down a fiery flood, Turning rivers into blood.'

The chief has fallen, but not by you,
Vanquishers of Waterloo!

When the soldier citizen

Sway'd not o'er his fellow men-
Save in deeds that led them on
Where glory smiled on freedom's son-
Who, of all the despots banded,

With that youthful chief competed?
Who could boast o'er France defeated,
Till lone tyranny commanded?
Till, goaded by ambition's sting,
The hero sunk into the king?
Then he fell;-so perish all,
Who would men by man enthral!

And thou too of the snow-white plume!
Whose realm refused thee even a tomb;"
Better hadst thou still been leading
France o'er hosts of hirelings bleeding,
Than sold thyself to death and shame
For a meanly royal name;
Such as he of Naples wears,

Who thy blood-bought title bears.
Little didst thou deem, when dashing
On thy war-horse through the ranks,
Like a stream which burst it banks,
While helmets cleft, and sabres clashing,
Shone and shiver'd fast around thee-
Of the fate at last which found thee:
Was that haughty plume laid low
By a slave's dishonest blow?
Once-as the moon sways o'er the tide,
It rolled in air, the warrior's guide;
Through the smoke-created night
Of the black and sulphurous fight,
The soldier raised his seeking eye
To catch that crest's ascendancy,-
And as it onward rolling rose,
So moved his heart upon our foes.
There, where death's brief pang was quickest,
And the battle's wreck lay thickest,
Strew'd beneath the advancing banner
Of the eagle's burning crest-

(There, with thunder-clouds to fan her,
Who could then her wing arrest-
Victory beaming from her breast')
While the broken line enlarging
Fell, or fled along the plain:
There be sure was MURAT charging!
There he ne'er shall charge again!

↑ See Rev. chap, viit, verse, etc. The first angel sounded, and there followed bail and fire mingled with blood, etc.

Verse 8. And the second angel sounded, and as it were a great mountain burning with fire was cast into the sea; and the third part of the sea became blood, etc.

Verse 10. And the third angel sounded, and there fell a great star from heaven, burning as it were a lamp; and it fell upon a third part of the rivers, and upon the fountains of waters..

Verse 11. And the name of the star is called Wormwood: and the third part of the waters became wormwood; and many men died of the waters, because they were made bitter..

* Murat's remains are said to have been torn from the grave and burnt.

O'er glories gone the invaders march,
Weeps triumph o'er each levell'd arch-
But let Freedom rejoice,

With her heart in her voice;
Put her hand on her sword,
Doubly shall she be adored;

France hath twice too well been taught
The moral lesson» dearly bought-
Her safety sits not on a throne,
With CAPET or NAPOLEON!

But in equal rights and laws,

Hearts and hands in one great cause--
Freedom, such as God hath given
Unto all beneath his heaven,

With their breath, and from their birth,
Though Guilt would sweep it from the earth;
With a fierce and lavish hand
Scattering nations' wealth like sand;
Pouring nations' blood like water,
In imperial seas of slaughter!

But the heart and the mind,
And the voice of mankind,
Shall arise in communion-

And who shall resist that proud union?
The time is past when swords subdued--
Man may die--the soul 's renew'd:
Even in this low world of care
Freedom ne'er shall want an heir;
Millions breathe but to inherit
Her for ever bounding spirit-
When once more her hosts assemble,
Tyrants shall believe and tremble---
Smile they at this idle threat?
Crimsou tears will follow yet.

[FROM THE FRENCH.]

All wept, but particularly Savary, and a Polish officer who had been exalted from the ranks by Buonaparte. He clung to his master's knees: wrote a letter to Lork Keith, entreating permission to accompany him, even in the most menial capacity, which could not be admitted..

MUST thou go, my glorious chief,
Sever'd from thy faithful few?
Who can tell thy warriors' grief,
Maddening o'er that long adieu?
Woman's love, and friendship's zeal-
Dear as both have been to me-
What are they to all I feel,

With a soldier's faith, for thee?

Idol of the soldier's soul!

First in fight, but mightiest now: Many could a world control;

Thee alone no doom can bow. By thy side for years I dared

Death, and envied those who fell, When their dying shout was heard

Blessing him they served so well.'

At Waterloo, one man was seen, whose left arm was shattered by a cannon ball, to wrench it off with the other, and throwing it up in the air, exclaimed to his comrades, Vive l'Empereur jusqu'à la mort.' There were many other instances of the like; this you may, however, depend on as true.

4 private Letter from Brussels.

Would that I were cold with those,
Since this hour I live to sec;
When the doubts of coward foes

Scarce dare trust a man with thee,
Dreading each should set thee free.

Oh! although in dungeons peut,
All their chains were light to me,
Gazing on thy soul unbent.

Would the sycophants of him
Now so deaf to duty's prayer,
Were his borrow'd glories dim,

In his native darkness share?
Were that world this hour his own,

All thou calmly dost resign,
Could he purchase with that throne

Hearts like those which still are thine?

My chief, my king, my friend, adien!
Never did I droop before;
Never to my sovereign sue,

As his foes I now implore.
All I ask is to divide

Every peril he must brave, Sharing by the hero's side

His fall, his exile, and his grave.

ON THE STAR OF « THE LEGION OF HONOUR.»

[FROM THE FRENCH.]

STAR of the brave!-whose beam hath shed

Such glory o'er the quick and dead

Thou radiant and adored deceit!

Which millions rush'd in arms to greet,

Wild meteor of immortal birth!

Why rise in heaven to set on earth?

Souls of slain heroes form'd thy rays;
Eternity flash'd through thy blaze;
The music of thy martial sphere
Was fame on high and honour here;
And thy light broke on human eyes
Like a volcano of the skies.

Like lava roll'd thy stream of blood,
And swept down empires with its flood;
Earth rock'd beneath thee to her base,
As thou didst lighten through all space;
And the shoru sun grew dim in air,
And set while thou wert dwelling there.

Before thee rose, and with thee grew,
A rainbow of the loveliest hue

Of three bright colours, each divine,
And fit for that celestial sign;
For freedom's hand had blended them
Like tints in an immortal gem.

One tint was of the sunbeam's dyes;
One, the blue depth of seraph's eyes;
One, the pure spirit's veil of white
Had robed in radiance of its light;
The three so mingled did beseem
The texture of a heavenly dream.

The tri-coleur.

ROUSSEAU-Voltaire-our Gibbon-and de Staël-
Leman!' these names are worthy of thy shore,
Thy shore of names like these; wert thou no more,
Their memory thy remembrance would recal:
To them thy banks were lovely as to all;

But they have made them lovelier, for the lore
Of mighty minds doth hallow in the core
Of human hearts the ruin of a wall

Where dwelt the wise and wond'rous; but by thee
How much more, Lake of Beauty! do we feel,
In sweetly gliding o'er thy crystal sea,
The wild glow of that not ungentle zeal,
Which of the heirs of immortality

Is proud, and makes the breath of glory real!

Genea, Tracy, Copper, Lausanae

WRITTEN ON A BLANK LEAF OF THE

PLEASURES OF MEMORY..

ABSENT or present, still to 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,
And « MEMORY » o'er her Druid's tomb
Shall weep that aught of thee can die,
How fondly will she then repay
Thy homage offer'd at her shrine,
And blend, while ages roll away,
Her name immortally with thine!

April 19, 1812

STANZAS TO***. THOUGH the day of my destiny's over, And the star of my fate hath declined, Thy soft heart refused to discover

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
It never hath found but in thee.

Then when nature around me is siniling
The last smile which answers to mine,
I do not believe it beguiling,

Because it reminds me of thine;

And when winds are at war with the ocean,
As the breasts I believed in with me,

If their billows excite an emotion,

It is that they bear me from thee.

Though the rock of my last hope is shiver'd,
And its fragments are sunk in the wave,
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:

They may crush, but they shall not contemnThey may torture, but shall not subdue meTis of thee that I think-not of them.

Though human, thou didst not deceive me,

Though woman, thou didst not forsake, Though loved, thou forborest to grieve me,

Though slander'd, thou never couldst shake,-
Though trusted, thou didst not disclaim me,
Though parted, it was not to fly,
Though watchful, 't was not to defame me,
Nor, mute, that the world might belie.

Yet I blame not the world, nor depsise it,
Nor the war of the many with one-
If my soul was not fitted to prize it,

T was 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.

From the wreck of the past, which hath perish'd,
Thus much I at least may recal,

It hath taught me that what I most cherish'd
Deserved to be dearest of all:

In the desert a fountain is springing,

In the wide waste there still is a tree, And a bird in the solitude singing, Which speaks to my spirit of thee.

DARKNESS.

I HAD a dream, which was not all a dream.
The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars
Did wander darkling in the eternal space,
Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth
Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air;
Morn came, and went—and came, and brought no day.
And men forgot their passions in the dread
Of this their desolation; and all hearts
Were chill'd into a selfish prayer for light:
And they did live by watchfires-and the thrones,
The palaces of crowned kings-the huts,
The habitations of all things which dwell,
Were burnt for beacons; cities were consumed,
And men were gather'd round their blazing homes
To look once more into each other's face;
Happy were those who dwelt within the eye
Of the volcanos and their mountain-torch :
A fearful hope was all the world contain'd;
Forests were set on fire-but hour by hour
They fell and faded—and the crackling trunks
Extinguish'd with a crash--and all was black.
The brows of men by the despairing light
Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits
The flashes fell upon them; some lay down
And hid their eyes and wept; and some did rest
Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smiled;
And others hurried to and fro, and fed

Their funeral piles with fuel, and look'd up

With mad disquietude on the dull sky,

The pall of a past world; and then again

With curses cast them down upon the dust,

Where had been heap'd a mass of holy things

For an unholy usage; they raked up,

And shivering scraped with their cold skeleton hands
The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath

Blew for a little life, aud made a flame
Which was a mockery; then they lifted up
Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld
Each other's aspects-saw, and shriek'd and died—
Even of their mutual hideousness they died,
Unknowing who he was upon whose brow
Famine had written fiend. The world was void,
The populous and the powerful was a lump,
Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless-
A lump of death-a chaos of hard clay.
The rivers, lakes, and ocean all stood still,
And nothing stirred within their silent depths;
Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea,

And their masts fell down piecemeal; as they dropp'd,
They slept on the abyss without a surge—

The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave,
The moon their mistress had expired before;
The winds were wither'd in the stagnant air,
And the clouds perish'd; darkness had no need
Of aid from them-she was the universe.

CHURCHILL'S GRAVE,

A FACT LITERALLY RENDERED.

I STOOD beside the grave of him who blazed
The comet of a season, and I saw

The humblest of all sepulchres, and gazed
With not the less of sorrow and of awe

On that neglected turf and quiet stone,

With name no clearer than the names unknowa,
Which lay unread around it; and I ask'd
The gardener of that ground, why it might be
That for this plant strangers his memory task`d

shriek'd,

And, terrified, did flutter on the ground,

And flap their useless wings; the wildest brutes
Came tame and tremulous; and vipers crawl'd
And twined themselves among the multitude,
Hissing, but stingless-they were slain for food:
And war, which for a moment was no more,
Did glut himself again—a meal was bought
With blood, and each sate sullenly apart,
Gorging himself in gloom: no love was left;
All earth was but one thought—and that was death,
Immediate and inglorious; and the pang
Of famine fed upon all entrails-men

Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh;
The meagre by the meagre were devour'd,
Even dogs assail'd their masters, all save one,
And he was faithful to a corse and kept

The birds and beasts and famish'd men at bay,
Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead
Lured their lank jaws; himself sought out no food,
But with a piteous and perpetual moan
And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand
Which answered not with a caress—he died.
The crowd was famish'd by degrees; but two
Of an enormous city did survive,
And they were enemies; they met beside
The dying embers of an altar-place

And thus he answer'd-« Well, I do not know
Why frequent travellers turn to pilgrims so;
He died before my day of sextonship,
And I had not the digging of this grave.»
And is this all? I thought,—and do we rip
The veil of immortality? and crave

I know not what of honour and of light
Through unborn ages to endure this bught?
So soon and so successless? As I said,
The architect of all on which we tread,
For earth is but a tombstone, did essay
To extricate remembrance from the clay,
Whose minglings might confuse a Newton's thought
Were it not that all life must end in one,
Of which we are but dreamers;-as he caught
As 't were the twilight of a former sun,
Thus spoke he,« I believe the man of whom
You wot, who lies in this selected tomb,
Was a most famous writer in his day,

And therefore travellers step from out their way
To pay him honour,—and myself whate er
Your honour pleases.»-then most pleased I shook
From out my pocket's avaricious nook
Some certain coius of silver, which as 't were
Perforce I gave this man, though I could spare
So much but inconveniently-Ye smile,

I see ye, ye profane ones! all the while,