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!

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 smiling 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

contemn

not They may torture, but shall not subdue me— "Tis 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, 'twas not to defame me,
Nor, mute, that the world might belie.

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

'Twas 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.

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

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:

Of a most disastrous blow,
That the Christians, stern and bold,
Have obtain’d Alhama's hold.”

Woe is me, Alhama!

is flown,

The age of our nectar shall gladden my own.
We must die-who does not? may our sins
be forgiven!
And Hebe shall never be idle in Heaven.

ON SIR JOHN MOORE'S BURIAL.

Not a drum was heard, nor a funeral note,

As his corse to the ramparts we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning,-
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin confined his breast,
Nor in sheet nor in shrouds we bound him,
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.

And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we heap'd his narrow bed,
And smooth'd down his lonely pillow,
That the foe and the stranger would tread
o'er his head
And we far away on the billow!
Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him;
But nothing he'll reck, if they let him
sleep on

In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done, When the clock told the hour for retiring; And we heard by the distant and random gun, That the foe was suddenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, we raised not a stone, But we left him alone with his glory.

dress ye;

How you fought! how you died! still her annals can tell.

On Marston, with Rupert 'gainst traitors contending,

Four brothers enrich'd with their blood the bleak field;

For the rights of a monarch, their country defending,

Till death their attachment to royalty seal'd.

Shades of heroes, farewell! your descendant, departing

From the seat of his ancestors, bids you adieu!

Abroad, or at home, your remembrance imparting

New courage, he'll think upon glory and you.

Though a tear dim his eye, at this sad separation,

'Tis nature, not fear, that excites his regret ;

Far distant he goes, with the same emulation, The fame of his Fathers he ne'er can forget.

That fame, and that memory, still will he cherish,

He vows that he ne'er will disgrace your

But living statues there are seen to weep; Affliction's semblance bends not o'er thy tomb,

Affliction's self deplores thy youthful doom. What though thy sire lament his failing line, A father's sorrows cannot equal mine! Though none, like thee, his dying hour will cheer,

Yet other offspring soothe his anguish here: But, who with me shall hold thy former place?

Thine image, what new friendship can efface?

Ah, none! a father's tears will cease to flow, Time will assuage an infant-brother's woe; To all, save one, is consolation known, While solitary Friendship sighs alone.

A FRAGMENT.

1803.

EPITAPH ON A FRIEND.

Αστερ πριν μεν έλαμπες ενι ζωοισιν έωος. LAERTIUS.

OH! Friend! for ever loved, for ever dear! What fruitless tears have bathed thy honour'd bier!

What sighs re-echo'd to thy parting breath, While thou wast struggling in the pangs of death!

Could tears retard the tyrant in his course; Could sighs avert his dart's relentless force; Could youth and virtue claim a short delay, Or beauty charm the spectre from his prey; Thou still hadst lived, to bless my aching sight,

Thy comrade's honour, and thy friend's delight.

If, yet, thy gentle spirit hover nigh
The spot, where now thy mouldering ashes

lie,

Here wilt thou read, recorded on my heart, A grief too deep to trust the sculptor's art.