The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of woe,
And storied urns record who rests below;
When all is done, upon the tomb is seen,

Not what he was, but what he should have been:
But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend,
The first to welcome, foremost to defend,
Whose honest heart is still his master's own,
Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone,
Unhonour'd falls, unnoticed all his worth,
Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth :
While man,
vain insect! hopes to be forgiven,
And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven.
Oh man! thou feeble tenant of an hour,
Debased by slavery, or corrupt by power,

Who knows thee well must quit thee with disgust,
Degraded mass of animated dust!

Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat,
Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit!

By nature vile, ennobled but by name,

Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame.
Ye! who perchance behold this simple urn,
Pass on-it honours none you wish to mourn:
To mark a friend's remains these stones arise-
I never knew but one, and here he lies.

Newstead Abbey, Oct. 30, 1808.

FAREWELL.

FAREWELL! if ever fondest prayer
For other's weal avail'd on high,

Mine will not all be lost in air,

But waft thy name beyond the sky. "T were vain to speak, to weep, to sigh: Oh! more than tears of blood can tell, When wrung from guilt's expiring eye, Are in that word-Farewell!-Farewell! These lips are mute, these eyes are dry;

But in my breast, and in my brain, Awake the pangs that pass not by,

The thought that ne er shall sleep again. My soul nor deigns nor dares complain, Though grief and passion there rebel; I only know we loved in vain

I only feel-Farewell!-Farewell!

BRIGHT be the place of thy soul!
No lovelier spirit than thine
Eer burst from its mortal control,

In the orbs of the blessed to shine.
On earth thou wert all but divine,
As thy soul shall immortally be;
And our sorrow may cease to repine,
When we know that thy God is with thee.

Light be the turf of thy tomb!

May its verdure like emeralds be: There should not be the shadow of gloom In aught that reminds us of thee. Young flowers and an evergreen tree May spring from the spot of thy rest: But nor cypress nor yew let us see;

For why should we mourn for the blest?

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 mayst 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 idle-

Words from me are vainer still; But the thoughts we cannot bridle

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 LABEDOYER E—
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; 2
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 its 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 roll'd 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!

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;
But, 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 prond union?
The time is past when swords subdued-
Man may die-the soul's renewd:

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?
Crimson tears will follow yet.

[FROM THE FRENCH. }

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

Must thou go, my glorious chief,
Sever'd from thy faithful few?
Who can tell thy warrior's 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, v hose left arm was shattered by a cannon-l all, to wrench it off with the other, and, throwing it up an the air, ex laimed to his comrades Vive l'En percur jusqu'à la mort.' There were many other instances of the like; this you may, however, depend on as true,

A private Letter from Brussels.

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

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

Oh! although in dungeons pent, 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, adieu'
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

Ilis 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 shorn 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 seraphs' 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- olour.

ROUSSEAU-Voltaire-our Gibbon-and de Stael-
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?

Geneva, Ferncy, Coppet, Lausanne.

WRITTEN ON A BLANK LEAF OF
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 that aught of thee can die,
weep
How fondly will she then repay
Thy homage offer'd at her shrine,
And blend, while ages roll away,
Her name immortally with thine!

THE

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 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 not contemnThey 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, 't was 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,
"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.