There is a very life in our despair, Vitality of poison,-a quick root Which feeds these deadly branches; for it were

As nothing did we die; but Life will suit

Itself to Sorrow's most detested fruit, Like to the apples on the Dead Sea's shore,

All ashes to the taste.1 Did man compute

Existence by enjoyment, and count o'er Such hours 'gainst years of life,-say, would he name threescore?

The Psalmist number'd out the years of man:?

They are enough; and if thy tale be true,

Thou, who didst grudge him even that fleeting span,

3

More than enough, thou fatal Waterloo!

Millions of tongues record thee, and

anew

Their children's lips shall echo them, and say

"Here, where the sword united nations drew,

Our countrymen were warring on that day!"

And this is much, and all which will not pass away.

There sunk the greatest, nor the worst
of men,

Whose spirit, antithetically mixt,
One moment of the mightiest, and again
On little objects with like firmness fixt;
Extreme in all things! hadst thou been
betwixt,

Thy throne had still been thine, or
never been;

For daring made thy rise as fall: thou seek'st

Even now to re-assume the imperial

mien,

1

And far beneath the earth and ocean 49 spread,

Round him are icy rocks, and loudly

blow

Contending tempests on his naked head, And thus reward the toils which to those summits led.

Away with these! true Wisdom's world will be

Within its own creation, or in thine, Maternal Nature! for who teems like thee,

Thus on the banks of thy majestic

Rhine?

There was a day when they were young and proud;

Banners on high, and battles1 pass'd below;

But they who fought are in a bloody shroud,

And those which waved are shredless dust ere now,

And the bleak battlements shall bear no future blow.

Beneath these battlements, within those walls,

Power dwelt amidst her passions; in proud state

Each robber chief upheld his armed halls,

Doing his evil will, nor less elate

Than mightier heroes of a longer date. What want these outlaws conquerors should have2

But history's purchased page to call them great?

A wider space, an ornamented grave? Their hopes were not less warm, their souls were full as brave.

In their baronial feuds and single fields, What deeds of prowess unrecorded died!

And Love, which lent a blazon to their shields,

With emblems well devised by amorous pride,

Through all the mail of iron hearts would glide;

But still their flame was fierceness, and

drew on

Keen contest and destruction near allied,

And many a tower for some fair mischief won,

Saw the discolor'd Rhine beneath its ruin

run.

And in its tenderer hour on that his bosom dwelt.1

And he had learn'd to love,-I know not why,

For this in such as him seems strange of mood,

The helpless looks of blooming infancy, Even in its earliest nurture; what subdued,

To change like this, a mind so far imbued

With scorn of man, it little boots to know;

But thus it was; and though in solitude Small power the nipp'd affections have to grow,

In him this glow'd when all beside had ceased to glow.

And there was one soft breast, as hath been said,

Which unto his was bound by stronger

ties

Than the church links withal; and, though unwed,

That love was pure, and, far above
disguise,

Had stood the test of mortal enmities
Still undivided, and cemented more
By peril, dreaded most in female eyes;
But this was firm, and from a foreign
shore

Well to that heart might his these absent
greetings pour!
1

The castled crag of Drachenfels
Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine,
Whose breast of waters broadly swells
Between the banks which bear the vine,
And hills all rich with blossom'd trees,
And fields that promise corn2 and wine,
And scatter'd cities crowning these,
Whose far white walls along them shine,
Have strew'd a scene, which I should see
With double joy wert thous with me.