572 TO THOMAS MOORE. My boat is on the shore, And my bark is on the sea; Her bright eyes will be imaged in thy stream,— That happy wave repass me in its flow! The wave that bears my tears returns no more; But that which keepeth us apart is not As various as the climates of our birth. A stranger loves the lady of the land, Born far beyond the mountains, but his blood Is all meridian, as if never fann'd By the bleak wind that chills the polar flood. My blood is all meridian; were it not, I had not left my clime, nor should I be, "Tis vain to struggle-let me perish young- And then, at least, my heart can ne'er be moved. STANZAS TO THE RIVER PO. RIVER, that rollest by the ancient walls, What if thy deep and ample stream should be What do I say-a mirror of my heart? Are not thy waters sweeping, dark, and strong? Such as my feelings were and are, thou art; And such as thou art were my passions long. Time may have somewhat tamed them,-not for ever, But left long wrecks behind, and now again Borne in our old unchanged career, we move ; The current I behold will sweep beneath *Her native walls, and murmur at her feet; Her eyes will look on thee, when she shall breathe The twilight air, unharm'd by summer's heat. She will look on thee,-I have look'd on thee, The Countess Guiccioll. SONNET TO GEORGE THE FOURTH, ON THE REPEAL OF LORD EDWARD FITZGERALD'S To be the father of the fatherless, To stretch the hand from the throne's height, and raise His offspring, who expired in other days Envy into unutterable praise. Dismiss thy guard, and trust thee to such traits, FRANCESCA OF RIMINI. TRANSLATED FROM THE INFERNO OF DANTE. "THE land where I was born sits by the seas, Remits, seized me with wish to please, so strong, | True, the chains of the Catholic clank o'er his rags, But Caina waits for him our life who ended: " These were the accents utter'd by her tongue.Since first I listen'd to these soul's offended, I bow'd my visage and so kept it till The castle still stands, and the senate's no more, And the famine which dwelt on her freedomless crags Is extending its steps to her desolate shore. To her desolate shore-where the emigrant stands "What think'st thou ?" said the bard; when I Tears fall on his chain, though it drops from his unbended, I will as he who weeps and saysWe read one day for pastime, seated nigh, Of Lancilot, how love enchain'd him too. We were alone, quite unsuspiciously. But oft our eyes met, and our cheeks in hue All o'er discolor'd by that reading were; overthrew { But one point only wholly us o'erthrew; When we read the long sighed for smile of her, March, 1820. THE IRISH AVATAR.† ERE the daughter of Brunswick is cold in her grave, And her ashes still float to their home o'er the tide, Lo! George the triumphant speeds over the wave, To the long-cherish'd isle which he loved like his-bride. True, the great of her bright and brief era are gone, The rainbow-like epoch where Freedom could pause For the few little years, out of centuries won, Which betray'd not, or crush'd not, or wept not her cause. • In some of the editions it is, " diro," in others, "faro; "an essential difference between "saying " and "doing," which I know not how to deeile. Ask Foscolo. The d-d editions drive me mad. On the King's it to freland, in 1821. hands, For the dungeon he quits is the place of his birth But he comes! the Messiah of royalty comes! Like a goodly Leviathan roll'd from the waves! Then receive him as best such an advent becomes, With a legion of cooks and an army of slaves' He comes in the promise and bloom of threescore, To perform in the pageant the sovereign's partBut long live the shamrock which shadows him o'er! Could the green in his hat be transferr'd to his heart! Could that long-wither'd spot but be verdant again, And this shout of thy slavery which saddens the skies. Is it madness or meanness which clings to thee now? Were he God-as he is but the commonest clay, With scarce fewer wrinkles than sins on his browSuch servile devotion might shame him away. Ay, roar in his train! let thine orators lash His soul o'er the freedom implored and denied. Ever glorious Grattan! the best of the good! So simple in heart, so sublime in the rest! With all which Demosthenes wanted endued, And his rival or victor in all he possess'd. Ere Tully arose in the zenith of Rome, But back to our theme! Back to despots and slaves! Let the poor squalid splendor thy wreck can afford Or if freedom past hope be extorted at last, Each brute hath its nature, a king's is to reign,- This hand, though but feeble, would arm in thy The slaves, who now hail their betrayer with Who, for years, were the chiefs in the eloquent war, hymns? Ay!"build him a dwelling!" let each give his mite! Till, like Babel, the new royal dome hath arisen! Let thy beggars and helots their pittance uniteAnd a palace bestow for a poorhouse and prison! Spread-spread, for Vitellius the royal repast, Till the gluttonous despot be stuff'd to the gorge! And the roar of his drunkards proclaims him at last The Fourth of the fools and oppressors, call'd "George!" Let the tables be loaded with feasts till they groan! Till they groan like thy people, through ages of wo! Let the wine flow around the old Bacchanal's throne, Like their blood which has flow'd, and which yet has to flow. But let not his name be thine idol alone On his right hand behold a Sejanus appears! Thine own Castlereagh! let him still be thine own! A wretch never named but with curses and jeers! Till now, when the isle which should blush for his birth, Deep, deep as the gore which he shed on her soil, Seems proud of the reptile which crawl'd from her earth, And for murder repays him with shouts and a smile. Without one single ray of her genius, without If she did-let her long-boasted proverb be hush'd, Which proclaims that from Erin no reptile can spring See the cold-blooded serpent, with venom full flush'd, Still warming its folds in the breast of a king! Shout, drink, feast, and flatter! Oh! Erin, how low Wert thou sunk by misfortune and tyranny, till Thy welcome of tyrants hath plunged thee below The depth of thy deep in a deeper gulf still. My voice, though but humble, was raised for thy right, My vote as a freeman's, still voted thee free, And redeem'd, if they have not retarded, thy fall. Yes, happy are they in their cold English graves! Their shades cannot start to thy shouts of to-dayNor the steps of enslavers and chain-kissing slaves Be stamp'd in the turf o'er their fetterless clay. Till now I had envied thy sons and their shore, Though their virtues were hunted, their liberties fled; There was something so warm and sublime in the core Of an Irishman's heart, that I envy-thy dead. Or, if aught in my bosom can quench for an hour My contempt for a nation so servile, though sore, Which though trod like the worm will not turn upon power, "Tis the glory of Grattan, and genius of Moore! September, 1821. STANZAS TO HER WHO CAN BEST UNDERSTAND THEM. BE it so we part for ever! Let the past as nothing be;Had I only loved thee, never Hadst thou been thus dear to me. Had I loved, and thus been slighted, Pride may cool what passion heated, Had I loved, I now might hate thee, And, in words, my vengeance wreak. But there is a silent sorrow, Which can find no vent in speech, Which disdains relief to borrow From the heights that song can reach. Like a clankless chain enthralling,Like the sleepless dreams that mock,Like the frigid ice-drops falling From the surf-surrounded rock. |