SONNET.

ON THE DEATH OF COLONEL SCHILL, 1809.

BRIEF was thy course, brave Schill! but dazzling blaze O'er that brief course the star of glory shed:

'Twas thine, for fetter'd realms the sword to raise ; And dare a foe who smote those realms with dread. 'Twas thine, at honour and at freedom's call,

To scorn of danger and of death the frown; 'Twas thine, awhile, to triumph o'er the Gaul,

And nurse the dreams of conquest and renown.
Nor wert thou doom'd those visions to resign:
Ere hope expir'd, to press the field was thine;

Nor hear the taunt, nor wear the chain, of foes. Bless'd was thy fate! who would not rather own The few and glowing hours which thou hast known, Than long and languid years of indolent repose?

R. A. DAVENPORT.

SONNET.

TO THE SPIRIT OF THE LATE QUEEN OF PRUSSIA.

THOUGH never can celestial beings feel

The spirit of dark revenge, yet sure the glow Of righteous triumph o'er their breasts may steal, When tyrants sink, o'erwhelm'd by shame and woe. Then, from the realm where hymning seraphs kneel,

Bend, O high-minded queen! thy glance below: Heaven hears, at length, the groaning world's appeal; And dooms the stern oppressor's overthrow.

He towers not now, imperial victor hail'd

By thronging myriads, in their slavish mood; As when the fires of Prussia's star were paled,

And Jena's plain the Prussian blood embrued: He flies! he flies! in shades of darkness veil'd; By all the wrath of earth and heaven pursued.

JAN. 1813.

R. A. DAVENPORT.

SONNET.

TO NAPOLEON, FLYING FROM WILNA.

LONE Fugitive! where are the throngs that late
Thou led'st in martial pomp? Well may'st thou start!
Fallen are unnumber'd legions! small the part

That lives, to curse thee with a rancorous hate.
Close at thy heels the Russ, in victor state,

Comes thundering on; and terror chills thy heart.
In every hand thou see'st of death the dart,
And hear'st in every breeze the voice of fate.
Proud Lord! thy boasted star with dimmer light
Begins to burn! In solitary woe

Thus ever may'st thou fly, and wild affright.
So Persia's king, his countless hosts laid low,
Urged o'er the insulted wave his lonely flight,
And, shuddering, thought each sound announc'd the
vengeful foe.

R. A. DAVENPORT.

SONNET.

TO NAPOLEON, RETURNED TO PARIS, DEC. 1812.

ONCE more enthron'd amid thy slaves, why lours
Thy furrow'd brow? Why rolls thy troubled eye,
While o'er thy cheek in quick succession fly
Alternate red and pale? What grief devours
Thy haughty mind, that thus thy spirit cowers?
Thou mourn'st not that thy warrior legions lie
Livid and stiff beneath the boreal sky;

Nor yet that dreadful glance thy heart o'erpowers,
From orphans, widows, childless parents cast.
No! flashing on thy mental sight appear
Visions more form'd a soul like thine to blast:
Baffled AMBITION points the broken spear;
And, trampling in the dust thy trophies past,
SCORN shows thy laurel wreath now rent and sere.

R. A. DAVENPORT.

SONNET.

A MEDITERRANEAN SCENE.

WHO, on the shore of yonder rocky isle, "Sits desolate, and o'er the watery vast "Gazes with dead and hollow eye? No smile "O'er his wan cheek seems ever to have past. "Hope in his heart is wither'd: keen the blast, "The bitter blast of woe, has smitten there, "Even heaven itself from mercy sure has cast

"That sunk, lorn wretch, and sternly cried-despair." "Yes! heaven-abandoned he, and plunged in gloom; "Yet wail him not; his crimes have earn'd his doom: "Unwept, unmourn'd, unpitied, be his fate.

"He, who thus lonely sits beside the surge, "Was once of earth the terror and the scourge:: "Thou see'st Napoleon, long miscall'd the Great."

VOL. VIII.

N

R. A. DAVENPORT.