CI.

Yet rise, O Land, in all but art alone! Bid the sole wreath that is not thine be won! Fame dwells around thee--Genius is thine own; Call his rich blooms to life--be thou their sun! So, should dark ages o’er thy glory sweep, Should thine e’er be as now are Grecian plains, Nations unborn shall track thine own blue deep To hail thy shore, to worship thy remains; Thy mighty monuments with reverence trace, And cry, “This ancient soil hath nursed a glorious race!”

[12] “The Pæstan rose, from its peculiar fragrance and the singularity of blooming twice a-year, is often mentioned by the classic poets. The wild rose, which now shoots up among the ruins, is of the small single damask kind, with a very high perfume; as a farmer assured me on the spot, it flowers both in spring and autumn.”--Swinburne’s _Travels in the Two Sicilies_.

[13] In the naval engagements of the Greeks, “it was usual for the soldiers before the fight to sing a pæan, or hymn, to Mars, and after the fight another to Apollo.”--See Potter’s _Antiquities of Greece_, vol. ii. p. 155.

[14] The emigration of the natives of the Morea to different parts of Asia is thus mentioned by Châteaubriand in his _Itinéraire de Paris à Jérusalem_--“Parvenu au dernier degré du malheur, le Moraïte s’arrache de son pays, et va chercher en Asie un sort moins rigoureux. Vain espoir! il retrouve des cadis et des pachas jusques dans les sables du Jourdain et dans les déserts de Palmyre.”

[15] In the same work, Châteaubriand also relates his having met with several Greek emigrants who had established themselves in the woods of Florida.

[16] “La grâce est toujours unie à la magnificence dans les scènes de la nature: et tandis que le courant du milieu entraine vers la mer les cadavres des pins et des chênes, on voit sur les deux courants latéraux, remonter, le long des rivages des îles flottantes de Pistia et de Nénuphar, dont les roses jaunes s’élèvent comme de petits papillons.”--_Description of the Banks of the Mississippi_, Chateaubriand’s _Atala_.

[17] “Looking generally at the narrowness and abruptness of this mountain-channel, (Tempe,) and contrasting it with the course of the Peneus through the plains of Thessaly, the imagination instantly recurs to the tradition that these plains were once covered with water, for which some convulsion of nature had subsequently opened this narrow passage. The term vale, in our language, is usually employed to describe scenery in which the predominant features are breadth, beauty, and repose. The reader has already perceived that the term is wholly inapplicable to the scenery at this spot, and that the phrase, _vale_ of Tempe, is one that depends on poetic fiction.... The real character of Tempe, though it perhaps be less beautiful, yet possesses more of magnificence than is implied in the epithet given to it.... To those who have visited St Vincent’s rocks, below Bristol, I cannot convey a more sufficient idea of Tempe, than by saying that its scenery resembles, though on a much larger scale, that of the former place. The Peneus, indeed, as it flows through the valley, is not greatly wider than the Avon; and the channel between the cliffs is equally contracted in its dimensions: but these cliffs themselves are much loftier and more precipitous, and project their vast masses of rock with still more extraordinary abruptness over the hollow beneath.”--Holland’s _Travels in Albania, &c._

[18] The modern name of the Peneus is Salympria.

[19] “Towards the lower part of Tempe, these cliffs are peaked in a very singular manner, and form projecting angles on the vast perpendicular faces of rock which they present towards the chasm; where the surface renders it possible, the summits and ledges of the rocks are for the most part covered with small wood, chiefly oak, with the arbutus and other shrubs. On the banks of the river, wherever there is a small interval between the water and the cliffs, it is covered by the rich and widely spreading foliage of the plane, the oak, and other forest trees, which in these situations have attained a remarkable size, and in various places extend their shadow far over the channel of the stream.... The rocks on each side of the vale of Tempe are evidently the same; what may be called, I believe, a coarse bluish-gray marble, with veins and portions of the rock in which the marble is of finer quality.”--Holland’s _Travels in Albania, &c._

[20] The Amphictyonic Council was convened in spring and autumn at Delphi or Thermopylæ, and presided at the Pythian games which were celebrated at Delphi every fifth year.

[21] “This spot, (the field of Mantinea,) on which so many brave men were laid to rest, is now covered with rosemary and laurels.”--Pouqueville’s _Travels in the Morea_.

[22] For the accounts of the upas or poison tree of Java, now generally believed to be fabulous, or greatly exaggerated, see the notes to Darwin’s _Botanic Garden_.

[23] “The court most to be admired of the Alhambra is that called the court of the Lions; it is ornamented with sixty elegant pillars of an architecture which bears not the least resemblance to any of the known orders, and might be called the Arabian order.... But its principal ornament, and that from which it took its name, is an alabaster cup, six feet in diameter, supported by twelve lions, which is said to have been made in imitation of the Brazen Sea of Solomon’s temple.”--Burgoanne’s _Travels in Spain_.

[24] “Sept des plus fameux parmi les anciens poëtes Arabiques sont désignés par les écrivains orientaux sous le nom de _Pleïade Arabique_, et leurs ouvrages étaient suspendus autour de la Caaba, ou Mosque de la Mecque.”--Sismondi, _Littérature du Midi_.

[25] “The distress and fall of the last Constantine are more glorious than the long prosperity of the Byzantine Cæsars.”--Gibbon’s _Decline and Fall_, &c. vol. xii. p. 226.

[26] See the description of the night previous to the taking of Constantinople by Mahomet II.--Gibbon’s _Decline and Fall_, &c. vol. xii. p. 225.

[27] “This building (the Castle of the Seven Towers) is mentioned as early as the sixth century of the Christian era, as a spot which contributed to the defence of Constantinople; and it was the principal bulwark of the town on the coast of the Propontis, in the last periods of the empire.”--Pouqueville’s _Travels in the Morea_.

[28] See the account from Herodotus of the supernatural defence of Delphi.--Mitford’s _Greece_, vol. i. p. 396-7.

[29] “In succeeding ages the Athenians honoured Theseus as a demigod, induced to it as well by other reasons as because, when they were fighting the Medes at Marathon, a considerable part of the army thought they saw the apparition of Theseus completely armed, and bearing down before them upon the barbarians.”--Langhorne’s _Plutarch, Life of Theseus_.

[30] “From Thermopylæ to Sparta, the leader of the Goths (Alaric) pursued his victorious march without encountering any mortal antagonist; but one of the advocates of expiring paganism has confidently asserted that the walls of Athens were guarded by the goddess Minerva, with her formidable ægis, and by the angry phantom of Achilles, and that the conqueror was dismayed by the presence of the hostile deities of Greece.”--Gibbon’s _Decline and Fall_, &c. vol. v. p. 183.

[31] “Even all the _chief ones of the earth_.”--Isaiah, xiv.

[32] “How are the mighty fallen, and the weapons of war perished!”--Samuel, book ii. chap. i.

[33] For several interesting particulars relative to the Suliote warfare with Ali Pasha, see Holland’s _Travels in Albania_.

[34] “It is related, as an authentic story, that a group of Suliote women assembled on one of the precipices adjoining the modern seraglio, and threw their infants into the chasm below, that they might not become the slaves of the enemy.”--Holland’s _Travels_, &c.

[35] The ruins of Sparta, near the modern town of Mistra, are very inconsiderable, and only sufficient to mark the site of the ancient city. The scenery around them is described by travellers as very striking.

[36] The inscription composed by Simonides for the Spartan monument in the pass of Thermopylæ has been thus translated:--“Stranger, go tell the Lacedemonians that we have obeyed their laws, and that we lie here.”

[37] “In the Eurotas I observed abundance of those famous reeds which were known in the earliest ages; and all the rivers and marshes of Greece are replete with rose-laurels, while the springs and rivulets are covered with lilies, tuberoses, hyacinths, and narcissus orientalis.”--Pouqueville’s _Travels in the Morea_.

[38] It was usual for suppliants to carry an olive branch bound with wool.

[39] The olive, according to Pouqueville, is still regarded with veneration by the people of the Morea.

[40] It was customary at Eleusis, on the fifth day of the festival, for men and women to run about with torches in their hands, and also to dedicate torches to Ceres, and to contend who should present the largest. This was done in memory of the journey of Ceres in search of Proserpine, during which she was lighted by a torch kindled in the flames of Etna.--Porter’s _Antiquities of Greece_, vol. i. p. 392.

[41] The fountains of Oblivion and Memory, with the Hercynian fountain, are still to be seen amongst the rocks near Livadia, though the situation of the cave of Trophonius, in their vicinity, cannot be exactly ascertained.--See Holland’s _Travels_.

[42] Elis was anciently a sacred territory, its inhabitants being considered as consecrated to the service of Jupiter. All armies marching through it delivered up their weapons, and received them again when they had passed its boundary.

[43] “We are assured by Thucydides that Attica was the province of Greece in which population first became settled, and where the earliest progress was made toward civilisation.”--Mitford’s _Greece_, vol. i. p. 35.

[44] Fata Morgana. This remarkable aërial phenomenon, which is thought by the lower order of Sicilians to be the work of a fairy, is thus described by Father Angelucci, whose account is quoted by Swinburne:--

“On the 15th August 1643, I was surprised, as I stood at my window, with a most wonderful spectacle: the sea that washes the Sicilian shore swelled up, and became, for ten miles in length, like a chain of dark mountains, while the waters near our Calabrian coast grew quite smooth, and in an instant appeared like one clear polished mirror. On this glass was depicted, in chiaro-scuro, a string of several thousands of pilasters, all equal in height, distance, and degrees of light and shade. In a moment they bent into arcades, like Roman aqueducts. A long cornice was next formed at the top, and above it rose innumerable castles, all perfectly alike; these again changed into towers, which were shortly after lost in colonnades, then windows, and at last ended in pines, cypresses, and other trees.”--Swinburne’s _Travels in the Two Sicilies_.

[45] All sorts of purple and white flowers were supposed by the Greeks to be acceptable to the dead, and used in adorning tombs; as amaranth, with which the Thessalians decorated the tomb of Achilles.--Potter’s _Antiquities of Greece_, vol. ii. p. 232.

[46] Pericles, on his return to Athens after the reduction of Samos, celebrated in a splendid manner the obsequies of his countrymen who fell in that war, and pronounced himself the funeral oration usual on such occasions. This gained him great applause; and when he came down from the rostrum the women paid their respects to him, and presented him with crowns and chaplets, like a champion just returned victorious from the lists.--Langhorne’s _Plutarch, Life of Pericles_.

[47] The peplus, which is supposed to have been suspended as an awning over the statue of Minerva in the Parthenon, was a principal ornament of the Panathenaic festival; and it was embroidered with various colours, representing the battle of the gods and Titans, and the exploits of Athenian heroes. When the festival was celebrated, the peplus was brought from the Acropolis, and suspended as a sail to the vessel, which on that day was conducted through the Ceramicus and principal streets of Athens, till it had made the circuit of the Acropolis. The peplus was then carried to the Parthenon, and consecrated to Minerva.--See Chandler’s _Travels_, Stuart’s _Athens_, &c.

[48] The gilding amidst the ruins of Persepolis is still, according to Winckelmann, in high preservation.

[49] “In the most broken fragment, the same great principle of life can be proved to exist, as in the most perfect figure,” is one of the observations of Mr Haydon on the Elgin Marbles.

[50] “Every thing here breathes life, with a veracity, with an exquisite knowledge of art, but without the least ostentation or parade of it, which is concealed by consummate and masterly skill.”--Canova’s _Letter to the Earl of Elgin_.

[51] Mr West, after expressing his admiration of the horse’s head in Lord Elgin’s collection of Athenian sculpture, thus proceeds:--“We feel the same, when we view the young equestrian Athenians, and, in observing them, we are insensibly carried on with the impression that they and their horses actually existed, as we see them, at the instant when they were converted into marble.”--West’s _Second Letter to Lord Elgin_.

[52] Mr Flaxman thinks that sculpture has very greatly improved within these last twenty years, and that his opinion is not singular--because works of such prime importance as the Elgin Marbles could not remain in any country without a consequent improvement of the public taste, and the talents of the artist.--See the _Evidence given in reply to Interrogatories from the Committee on the Elgin Marbles_.

[53] The Theseus and Ilissus, which are considered by Sir T. Lawrence, Mr Westmacott, and other distinguished artists, to be of a higher class than the Apollo Belvidere, “because there is in them a union of very grand form, with a more true and natural expression of the effect of

## action upon the human frame than there is in the Apollo, or any of the

other more celebrated statues.”--See _The Evidence, &c._

[54] “Let us suppose a young man at this time in London, endowed with powers such as enabled Michael Angelo to advance the arts, as he did, by the aid of one mutilated specimen of Grecian excellence in sculpture, to what an eminence might not such a genius carry art, by the opportunity of studying those sculptures, in the aggregate, which adorned the temple of Minerva at Athens?”--West’s _Second Letter to Lord Elgin_.

[55] In allusion to the theories of Du Bos, Winckelmann, Montesquieu, &c., with regard to the inherent obstacles in the climate of England to the progress of genius and the arts.--See Hoare’s _Epochs of the Arts_, p. 84, 85.

EXTRACTS FROM CONTEMPORARY REVIEWS.

_Blackwood’s Magazine._--“In our reviews of poetical productions, the better efforts of genius hold out to us a task at once more useful and delightful than those of inferior merit. In the former the beautiful predominate, and expose while they excuse the blemishes. But the public taste would receive no benefit from a detail of mediocrity, relieved only by the censure of faults uncompensated by excellencies. We have great pleasure in calling the attention of our readers to the beautiful poem before us, which we believe to be the work of the same lady who last year put her name to the second edition of another poem on a kindred subject, ‘The Restoration of the Works of Art to Italy’--namely, Mrs Hemans of North Wales. That the author’s fame has not altogether kept pace with her merit, we are inclined to think is a reproach to the public. Poetry is at present experiencing the fickleness of fashion, and may be said to have had its day. Very recently, the _reading_ public, as the phrase is, was immersed in poetry, but seems to have had enough; and, excepting always that portion of it who are found to relish genuine poetry on its own intrinsic account, and will never tire of the exquisite enjoyment which it affords, the said public seldom read poetry at all.

* * * * *

“But so little is that excitement which the bulk of readers covet necessarily connected with poetry, that these readers have tired even of romances in a metrical form, and are regarding all their late rhythmical favourites alike, with that sort of ingratitude with which repletion would lead them to regard a banquet when the dishes are removing from the table. But this is no proof that these great poets have forfeited their title to be admired. They are fixed orbs, which stand just where they did, and shine just as they were wont, although they seem to decline to the world, which revolves the opposite way. But if the world will turn from the poet, whatever be his merit, there is an end of his popularity, inasmuch as the most approved conductor of the latter is the multitude, as essentially as is the air of the sound of his voice. Profit will also fail from the lack of purchasers; and poetry, high as it may intrinsically seem, must fall, commercially speaking, to its ancient proverbially unprofitable level. Yet poetry will still be poetry, however it may cease _to pay_; and although the acclaim of multitudes is one thing, and the still small voice of genuine taste and feeling another, the nobler incense of the latter will ever be its reward.

“Our readers will now cease to wonder that an author like the present, who has had no higher aim than to regale the imagination with imagery, warm the heart with sentiment and feeling, and delight the ear with music, without the foreign aid of tale or fable, has hitherto written to a select few, and passed almost unnoticed by the multitude.

“With the exception of Lord Byron, who has made the theme peculiarly his own, no one has more feelingly contrasted ancient with modern Greece.

“The poem on the Restoration of the Louvre Collection, has, of course, more allusions to ancient Rome; and nothing can be more spirited than the passages in which the author invokes for modern Rome the return of her ancient glories. In a cursory but graphic manner, some of the most celebrated of the ancient statues are described. Referring our readers, with great confidence, to the works themselves, our extracts may be limited.”

_Edinburgh Monthly Review._--“The grand act of retribution--the restoration of the treasures of the Louvre--occasioned Mrs Hemans’ first publication. ‘Modern Greece’ next appeared, and soared still higher into the regions of beauty and pathos. It is a highly promising symptom, that each new effort of her genius excels its predecessor. The present volume strikingly confirms this observation, and leads us to think that we have yet seen no more than the trials of her strength.”

TRANSLATIONS FROM CAMOENS, AND OTHER POETS.

“Siamo nati veramente in un secolo in cui gl’ingegni e gli studj degli uomini sono rivolti all’ utilità. L’Agricoltura, le Arti, il Commercio acquistano tutto dì novi lumi dalle ricerche de’ Saggi; e il voler farsi un nome _tentando di dilettare_, quand’ altri v’aspira con più giustizia giovando, sembra impresa dura e difficile.”--Savioli.

SONNET 70.

“Na metade do ceo subido ardia.”

High in the glowing heavens, with cloudless beam, The sun had reach’d the zenith of his reign, And for the living fount, the gelid stream, Each flock forsook the herbage of the plain: Midst the dark foliage of the forest shade, The birds had shelter’d from the scorching ray; Hush’d were their melodies--and grove and glade Resounded but the shrill cicada’s lay: When, through the grassy vale, a love-lorn swain, To seek the maid who but despised his pain, Breathing vain sighs of fruitless passion, roved: “Why pine for her,” the slighted wanderer cried, “By whom thou art not loved?” and thus replied An echo’s murmuring voice--“_Thou art not loved!_”

SONNET 282.

FROM PSALM CXXXVII.

“Na ribeira de Euprates assentado.”

Wrapt in sad musings, by Euphrates’ stream I sat, retracing days for ever flown, While rose thine image on the exile’s dream, O much-loved Salem! and thy glories gone: When they who caused the ceaseless tears I shed, Thus to their captive spoke--“Why sleep thy lays? Sing of thy treasures lost, thy splendour fled, And all thy triumphs in departed days! Know’st thou not Harmony’s resistless charm Can soothe each passion, and each grief disarm? Sing then, and tears will vanish from thine eye.” With sighs I answer’d,--“When the cup of woe Is fill’d, till misery’s bitter draught o’erflow, The mourner’s cure is not to sing--but die.”

PART OF ECLOGUE 15.

“Se lá no assento da maior alteza.”

If in thy glorious home above Thou still recallest earthly love, If yet retain’d a thought may be Of him whose heart hath bled for thee;

Remember still how deeply shrined Thine image in his joyless mind: Each well-known scene, each former care, Forgotten--thou alone art there!

Remember that thine eye-beam’s light Hath fled for ever from his sight, And, with that vanish’d sunshine, lost Is every hope he cherish’d most.

Think that his life, from thee apart, Is all but weariness of heart; Each stream, whose music once was dear, Now murmurs discord to his ear.

Through thee, the morn, whose cloudless rays Woke him to joy in other days, Now, in the light of beauty drest, Brings but new sorrows to his breast.

Through thee, the heavens are dark to him, The sun’s meridian blaze is dim; And harsh were e’en the bird of eve, But that her song still loves to grieve.

All it hath been, his heart forgets, So alter’d by its long regrets; Each wish is changed, each hope is o’er, And joy’s light spirit wakes no more.

SONNET 271.

“A formosura desta fresca serra.”

This mountain-scene with sylvan grandeur crown’d, These chestnut-woods, in summer verdure bright; These founts and rivulets, whose mingling sound Lulls every bosom to serene delight; Soft on these hills the sun’s declining ray; This clime, where all is new; these murmuring seas; Flocks, to the fold that bend their lingering way; Light clouds, contending with the genial breeze; And all that Nature’s lavish hands dispense, In gay luxuriance, charming every sense, Ne’er in thy absence can delight my breast: Nought, without thee, my weary soul beguiles: And joy may beam; yet, midst her brightest smiles, A secret grief is mine, that will not rest.

SONNET 186.

“Os olhos onde o casto Amor ardia.”

Those eyes, whence Love diffused his purest light, Proud in such beaming orbs his reign to show; That face, with tints of mingling lustre bright, Where the rose mantled o’er the living snow; The rich redundance of that golden hair, Brighter than sunbeams of meridian day; That form so graceful, and that hand so fair, Where now those treasures?--mouldering into clay! Thus, like some blossom prematurely torn, Hath young Perfection wither’d in its morn, Touch’d by the hand that gathers but to blight? Oh, how could Love survive his bitter tears! Shed, not for her, who mounts to happier spheres, But for his own sad fate, thus wrapt in starless night!

SONNET 108.

“Brandas aguas do Tejo que passando.”

Fair Tajo! thou whose calmly-flowing tide Bathes the fresh verdure of these lovely plains, Enlivening all where’er thy waves may glide, Flowers, herbage, flocks, and sylvan nymphs and swains. Sweet stream! I know not when my steps again Shall tread thy shores; and while to part I mourn, I have no hope to meliorate my pain, No dream that whispers--I may yet return! My frowning destiny, whose watchful care Forbids me blessings and ordains despair, Commands me thus to leave thee, and repine And I must vainly mourn the scenes I fly, And breathe on other gales my plaintive sigh, And blend my tears with other waves than thine!

SONNET 23.

TO A LADY WHO DIED AT SEA.

“Chara minha inimiga, em cuja mao.”

Thou to whose power my hopes, my joys I gave, O fondly loved! my bosom’s dearest care! Earth, which denied to lend thy form a grave, Yields not one spell to soothe my deep despair! Yes! the wild seas entomb those charms divine, Dark o’er thy head th’ eternal billows roll; But while one ray of life or thought is mine, Still shalt thou live, the inmate of my soul. And if the tones of my uncultured song Have power the sad remembrance to prolong, Of love so ardent, and of faith so pure; Still shall my verse thine epitaph remain, Still shall thy charms be deathless in my strain, While Time, and Love, and Memory shall endure.

SONNET 19.

“Alma minha gentil, que te partiste.”

Spirit beloved! whose wing so soon hath flown The joyless precincts of this earthly sphere, How is yon Heaven eternally thine own, Whilst I deplore thy loss, a captive here! Oh! if allow’d in thy divine abode Of aught on earth an image to retain, Remember still the fervent love which glow’d In my fond bosom, pure from every stain. And if thou deem’d that all my faithful grief, Caused by thy loss, and hopeless of relief, Can merit thee, sweet native of the skies! Oh! ask of Heaven, which call’d thee soon away, That I may join thee in those realms of day, Swiftly as _thou_ hast vanish’d from mine eyes.

“Que estranho caso de amor!”

How strange a fate in love is mine! How dearly prized the pains I feel! Pangs, that to rend my soul combine, With avarice I conceal: For did the world the tale divine, My lot would then be deeper woe-- And mine is grief that none must know.

To mortal ears I may not dare Unfold the cause, the pain I prove; ’Twould plunge in ruin and despair Or me, or her I love. My soul delights alone to bear Her silent, unsuspected woe, And none shall pity, none shall know.

Thus buried in my bosom’s urn, Thus in my inmost heart conceal’d, Let me alone the secret mourn, In pangs unsoothed and unreveal’d. For whether happiness or woe, Or life or death its power bestow, It is what none on earth must know.

SONNET 58.

“Se as penas com que Amor tao mal me trata.”

Should Love, the tyrant of my suffering heart Yet long enough protract his votary’s days To see the lustre from those eyes depart, The lode-stars[56] now that fascinate my gaze; To see rude Time the living roses blight That o’er thy cheek their loveliness unfold, And, all unpitying, change thy tresses bright To silvery whiteness, from their native gold; Oh! then thy heart an equal change will prove, And mourn the coldness that repell’d my love, When tears and penitence will all be vain; And I shall see thee weep for days gone by, And in thy deep regret and fruitless sigh, Find amplest vengeance for my former pain.

[56] “Your eyes are lode-stars.”--Shakespeare.

SONNET 178.

“Já cantei, já chorei a dura guerra.”

Oft have I sung and mourn’d the bitter woes Which love for years hath mingled with my fate, While he the tale forbade me to disclose, That taught his votaries their deluded state. Nymphs! who dispense Castalia’s living stream, Ye, who from Death oblivion’s mantle steal, Grant me a strain in powerful tone supreme, Each grief by love inflicted to reveal: That those whose ardent hearts adore his sway, May hear experience breathe a warning lay-- How false his smiles, his promises how vain! Then, if ye deign this effort to inspire, When the sad task is o’er, my plaintive lyre, For ever hush’d, shall slumber in your fane.

SONNET 80.

“Como quando do mar tempestuoso.”

Saved from the perils of the stormy wave, And faint with toil, the wanderer of the main, But just escaped from shipwreck’s billowy grave, Trembles to hear its horrors named again. How warm his vow, that Ocean’s fairest mien No more shall lure him from the smiles of home! Yet soon, forgetting each terrific scene, Once more he turns, o’er boundless deeps to roam. Lady! thus I, who vainly oft in flight Seek refuge from the dangers of thy sight, Make the firm vow to shim thee and be free: But my fond heart, devoted to its chain, Still draws me back where countless perils reign, And grief and ruin spread their snares for me.

SONNET 239.

FROM PSALM CXXXVII.

“Em Babylonia sobre os rios, quando.”

Beside the streams of Babylon, in tears Of vain desire, we sat; remembering thee, O hallow’d Sion! and the vanish’d years, When Israel’s chosen sons were blest and free: Our harps, neglected and untuned, we hung Mute on the willows of the stranger’s land; When songs, like those that in thy fanes we sung, Our foes demanded from their captive band. “How shall our voices, on a foreign shore,” (We answer’d those whose chains the exile wore,) “The songs of God, our sacred songs, renew? If I forget, midst grief and wasting toil, Thee, O Jerusalem! my native soil! _May my right hand forget its cunning too!_”

SONNET 128.

“Huma admiravel herva se conhece.”

There blooms a plant, whose gaze from hour to hour Still to the sun with fond devotion turns, Wakes when Creation hails his dawning power, And most expands when most her idol burns: But when he seeks the bosom of the deep, His faithful plant’s reflected charms decay; Then fade her flowers, her leaves discolour’d weep, Still fondly pining for the vanish’d ray. Thou whom I love, the day-star of my sight! When thy dear presence wakes me to delight, Joy in my soul unfolds her fairest flower: But in thy heaven of smiles alone it blooms, And, of their light deprived, in grief consumes, Born but to live within thine eye-beam’s power.

“Polomeu apartamento.”

Amidst the bitter tears that fell In anguish at my last farewell, Oh! who would dream that joy could dwell, To make that moment bright? Yet be my judge, each heart! and say, Which then could most my bosom sway, Affliction or delight?

It was when Hope, oppress’d with woes, Seem’d her dim eyes in death to close, That rapture’s brightest beam arose In sorrow’s darkest night. Thus, if my soul survive that hour, ’Tis that my fate o’ercame the power Of anguish with delight.

For oh! her love, so long unknown, She _then_ confess’d was all my own, And in that parting hour alone Reveal’d it to my sight. And now what pangs will rend my soul, Should fortune still, with stern control, Forbid me this delight!

I know not if my bliss were vain, For all the force of parting pain Forbade suspicious doubts to reign, When exiled from her sight: Yet now what double woe for me, Just at the close of eve, to see The dayspring of delight!

SONNET 205.

“Quem diz que Amor he falso, o enganoso.”

He who proclaims that Love is light and vain, Capricious, cruel, false in all his ways, Ah! sure too well hath merited his pain, Too justly finds him all he thus portrays: For Love is pitying, Love is soft and kind. Believe not him who dares the tale oppose; Oh! deem him one whom stormy passions blind, One to whom earth and heaven may well be foes. If Love bring evils, view them all in me! Here let the world his utmost rigour see, His utmost power exerted to annoy: But all his ire is still the ire of love; And such delight in all his woes I prove, I would not change their pangs for aught of other joy.

SONNET 133.

“Doces e claras aguas do Mondego.”

Waves of Mondego! brilliant and serene, Haunts of my thought, where memory fondly strays, Where hope allured me with perfidious mien, Witching my soul, in long-departed days; Yes, I forsake your banks! but still my heart Shall bid remembrance all your charms restore, And, suffering not one image to depart, Find lengthening distance but endear you more. Let Fortune’s will, through many a future day, To distant realms this mortal frame convey, Sport of each wind, and tost on every wave; Yet my fond soul, to pensive memory true, On thought’s light pinion still shall fly to you, And still, bright waters! in your current lave.

SONNET 181.

“Onde acharei lugar taō apartado.”

Where shall I find some desert-scene so rude, Where loneliness so undisturb’d may reign, That not a step shall ever there intrude Of roving man, or nature’s savage train-- Some tangled thicket, desolate and drear, Or deep wild forest, silent as the tomb, Boasting no verdure bright, no fountain clear, But darkly suited to my spirit’s gloom? That there, midst frowning rocks, alone with grief Entomb’d in life, and hopeless of relief, In lonely freedom I may breathe my woes. For oh! since nought my sorrows can allay, There shall my sadness cloud no festal day, And days of gloom shall soothe me to repose.

SONNET 278.

“Eu vivia de lagrimas isento.”

Exempt from every grief,’twas mine to live In dreams so sweet, enchantments so divine, A thousand joys propitious Love can give Were scarcely worth one rapturous pain of mine Bound by soft spells, in dear illusions blest, I breathed no sigh for fortune or for power; No care intruding to disturb my breast, I dwelt entranced in Love’s Elysian bower: But Fate, such transports eager to destroy, Soon rudely woke me from the dream of joy, And bade the phantoms of delight begone: Bade hope and happiness at once depart, And left but memory to distract my heart, Retracing every hour of bliss for ever flown.

“Mi nueve y dulce querella.”

No searching eye can pierce the veil That o’er my secret love is thrown; No outward signs reveal its tale, But to my bosom known. Thus, like the spark whose vivid light In the dark flint is hid from sight, It dwells within, alone.

METASTASIO.

“Dunque si sfoga in pianto.”

In tears, the heart oppress’d with grief Gives language to its woes; In tears, its fulness finds relief, When rapture’s tide o’erflows! Who, then, unclouded bliss would seek On this terrestrial sphere; When e’en Delight can only speak, Like Sorrow--in a tear?

“Al furor d’avversa Sorte.”

He shall not dread Misfortune’s angry mien, Nor feebly sink beneath her tempest rude, Whose soul hath learn’d, through many a trying scene, To smile at fate, and suffer unsubdued.

In the rough school of billows, clouds, and storms, Nursed and matured, the pilot learns his art: Thus Fate’s dread ire, by many a conflict, forms The lofty spirit and enduring heart!

“Quella onda che ruina.”

The torrent wave, that breaks with force Impetuous down the Alpine height, Complains and struggles in its course, But sparkles, as the diamond bright.

The stream in shadowy valley deep May slumber in its narrow bed; But silent, in unbroken sleep, Its lustre and its life are fled.

“Leggiadra rosa, le cui pure foglie.”

Sweet rose! whose tender foliage to expand Her fostering dews the Morning lightly shed, Whilst gales of balmy breath thy blossoms fann’d, And o’er thy leaves the soft suffusion spread: That hand, whose care withdrew thee from the ground, To brighter worlds thy favour’d charms hath borne; Thy fairest buds, with grace perennial crown’d, There breathe and bloom, released from every thorn. Thus, far removed, and now transplanted flower! Exposed no more to blast or tempest rude, Shelter’d with tenderest care from frost or shower, And each rough season’s chill vicissitude, Now may thy form in bowers of peace assume Immortal fragrance, and unwithering bloom.

“Che speri, instabil Dea, di sassi e spine.”

Fortune! why thus, where’er my footsteps tread, Obstruct each path with rocks and thorns like these? Think’st thou that _I_ thy threatening mien shall dread, Or toil and pant thy waving locks to seize? Reserve the frown severe, the menace rude, For vassal-spirits that confess thy sway! _My_ constant soul should triumph unsubdued, Were the wide universe destruction’s prey. Am I to conflicts new, in toils untried? No! I have long thine utmost power defied, And drawn fresh energies from every fight. Thus from rude strokes of hammers and the wheel, With each successive shock the temper’d steel More keenly piercing proves, more dazzling bright.

“Parlagli d’un periglio.”

Wouldst thou to Love of danger speak?-- Veil’d are his eyes, to perils blind! Wouldst thou from Love a reason seek?-- He is a child of wayward mind!

But with a doubt, a jealous fear, Inspire him once--the task is o’er; His mind is keen, his sight is clear, No more an infant, blind no more.

“Sprezza il furor del vento.”

Unbending midst the wintry skies, Rears the firm oak his vigorous form, And stem in rugged strength, defies The rushing of the storm.

Then sever’d from his native shore, O’er ocean-worlds the sail to bear, Still with those winds he braved before, He proudly struggles there.

“Sol può dir che sia contento.”

Oh! those alone whose sever’d hearts Have mourn’d through lingering years in vain, Can tell what bliss fond Love imparts, When Fate unites them once again. Sweet is the sigh, and blest the tear, Whose language hails that moment bright, When past afflictions but endear The presence of delight!

“Ah! frenate le piante imbelle!”

Ah! cease--those fruitless tears restrain! I go misfortune to defy, To smile at fate with proud disdain, To triumph--not to die!

I with fresh laurels go to crown My closing days at last, Securing all the bright renown Acquired in dangers past.

VINCENZO DA FILICAJA.

“Italia! Italia! O tu cui diè la sorte.”

Italia! O Italia! thou, so graced With ill-starr’d beauty, which to thee hath been A dower whose fatal splendour may be traced In the deep-graven sorrows of thy mien; Oh that more strength, or fewer charms were thine! That those might fear thee more, or love thee less, Who seem to worship at thy radiant shrine, Then pierce thee with the death-pang’s bitterness! Not _then_ would foreign hosts have drain’d the tide Of that Eridanus thy blood hath dyed: Nor from the Alps would legions, still renew’d, Pour down; nor wouldst thou wield an alien brand, And fight thy battles with the stranger’s hand, Still, still a slave, victorious or subdued!

PASTORINI.

“Genova mia! se con asciutto ciglio.”

If thus thy fallen grandeur I behold, My native Genoa! with a tearless eye, Think not thy son’s ungrateful heart is cold; But know--I deem rebellious every sigh! Thy glorious ruins proudly I survey, Trophies of firm resolve, of patriot might! And in each trace of devastation’s way, Thy worth, thy courage, meet my wandering sight. Triumphs far less than suffering virtue shine! And on the spoilers high revenge is thine, While thy strong spirit unsubdued remains. And lo! fair Liberty rejoicing flies To kiss each noble relic, while she cries, “_Hail! though in ruins, thou wert ne’er in chains!_”

LOPE DE VEGA.

“Estese el cortesano.”

Let the vain courtier waste his days, Lured by the charms that wealth displays, The couch of down, the board of costly fare; Be his to kiss th’ ungrateful hand That waves the sceptre of command, And rear full many a palace in the air; Whilst I enjoy, all unconfined, The glowing sun, the genial wind, And tranquil hours, to rustic toil assign’d; And prize far more, in peace and health, Contented indigence than joyless wealth.

Not mine in Fortune’s fane to bend, At Grandeur’s altar to attend, Reflect his smile, and tremble at his frown; Nor mine a fond aspiring thought, A wish, a sigh, a vision, fraught With Fame’s bright phantom, Glory’s deathless crown! Nectareous draughts and viands pure Luxuriant nature will insure; These the clear fount and fertile field Still to the wearied shepherd yield; And when repose and visions reign, Then we are equals all, the monarch and the swain.

FRANCISCO MANUEL.

ON ASCENDING A HILL LEADING TO A CONVENT.

“No baxes temeroso, o peregrino!”

Pause not with lingering foot, O pilgrim! here, Pierce the deep shadows of the mountain-side; Firm be thy step, thy heart unknown to fear-- To brighter worlds this thorny path will guide. Soon shall thy feet approach the calm abode, So near the mansions of supreme delight; Pause not, but tread this consecrated road-- ’Tis the dark basis of the heavenly height. Behold, to cheer thee on the toilsome way, How many a fountain glitters down the hill! Pure gales, inviting, softly round thee play, Bright sunshine guides--and wilt thou linger still? Oh! enter there, where, freed from human strife, Hope is reality, and time is life.

DELLA CASA.

VENICE.

“Quest! palazzi, e queste logge or colte.”

These marble domes, by wealth and genius graced, With sculptured forms, bright hues, and Parian stone, Were once rude cabins midst a lonely waste, Wild shores of solitude, and isles unknown. Pure from each vice, ’twas here a venturous train Fearless in fragile barks explored the sea; Not theirs a wish to conquer or to reign, They sought these island precincts--to be free. Ne’er in their souls ambition’s flame arose, No dream of avarice broke their calm repose; Fraud, more than death, abhorr’d each artless breast: Oh! now, since fortune gilds their brightening day, Let not those virtues languish and decay, O’erwhelm’d by luxury, and by wealth opprest!

IL MARCHESE CORNELIO BENTIVOGLIO.

“L’anima bella, che dal vero Eliso.”

The sainted spirit which, from bliss on high, Descends like dayspring to my favour’d sight, Shines in such noontide radiance of the sky, Scarce do I know that form, intensely bright! But with the sweetness of her well-known smile, That smile of peace! she bids my doubts depart, And takes my hand, and softly speaks the while, And heaven’s full glory pictures to my heart. Beams of that heaven in _her_ my eyes behold, And now, e’en now, in thought my wings unfold, To soar with her, and mingle with the blest! But ah! so swift her buoyant pinion flies, That I, in vain aspiring to the skies, Fall to my native sphere, by earthly bonds deprest.

QUEVEDO.

ROME BURIED IN HER OWN RUINS.

“Buscas en Roma á Roma, o peregrino!”

Amidst these scenes, O pilgrim! seek’st thou Rome? Vain is thy search--the pomp of Rome is fled; Her silent Aventine is glory’s tomb; Her walls, her shrines, but relics of the dead. That hill, where Cæsars dwelt in other days, Forsaken mourns, where once it tower’d sublime; Each mouldering medal now far less displays The triumphs won by Latium than by Time. Tiber alone survives--the passing wave That bathed her towers now murmurs by her grave, Wailing with plaintive sound her fallen fanes. Rome! of thine ancient grandeur all is past, That seem’d for years eternal framed to last: Nought but the wave--a fugitive, remains.

EL CONDE JUAN DE TARSIS.

“Tu, que la dulce vida en tiernas anos.”

Thou, who hast fled from life’s enchanted bowers, In youth’s gay spring, in beauty’s glowing morn, Leaving thy bright array, thy path of flowers, For the rude convent-garb and couch of thorn; Thou that, escaping from a world of cares, Hast found thy haven in devotion’s fane, As to the port the fearful bark repairs To shim the midnight perils of the main-- Now the glad hymn, the strain of rapture pour, While on thy soul the beams of glory rise! For if the pilot hail the welcome shore With shouts of triumph swelling to the skies, Oh! how shouldst _thou_ the exulting pæan raise, Now heaven’s bright harbour opens on thy gaze!

TORQUATO TASSO.

“Negli anni acerbi tuoi, purpurea rosa.”

Thou in thy morn wert like a glowing rose To the mild sunshine only half display’d, That shunn’d its bashful graces to disclose, And in its veil of verdure sought a shade: Or like Aurora did thy charms appear, (Since mortal form ne’er vied with aught so bright,) Aurora, smiling from her tranquil sphere, O’er vale and mountain shedding dew and light. Now riper years have doom’d no grace to fade; Nor youthful charms, in all their pride array’d, Excel, or equal, thy neglected form. Thus, full expanded, lovelier is the flower, And the bright day-star, in its noontide hour, More brilliant shines, in genial radiance warm.

BERNARDO TASSO.

“Quest’ ombra che giammai non vide il sole.”

This green recess, where through the bowery gloom Ne’er, e’en at noontide hours, the sunbeam play’d, Where violet-beds in soft luxuriance bloom Midst the cool freshness of the myrtle shade; Where through the grass a sparkling fountain steals, Whose murmuring wave, transparent as it flows, No more its bed of yellow sand conceals Than the pure crystal hides the glowing rose; This bower of peace, thou soother of our care, God of soft slumbers and of visions fair! A lowly shepherd consecrates to thee! Then breathe around some spell of deep repose, And charm his eyes in balmy dew to close, Those eyes, fatigued with grief, from tear-drops never free.

PETRARCH.

“Chi vuol veder quantunque può natura.”

Thou that wouldst mark, in form of human birth, All heaven and nature’s perfect skill combined, Come gaze on her, the day-star of the earth, Dazzling, not me alone, but all mankind: And haste! for Death, who spares the guilty long, First calls the brightest and the best away; And to her home, amidst the cherub throng, The angelic mortal flies, and will not stay! Haste! and each outward charm, each mental grace, In one consummate form thine eye shall trace, Model of loveliness, for earth too fair! Then thou shalt own how faint my votive lays, My spirit dazzled by perfection’s blaze: But if thou still delay, for long regret prepare.

“Se lamentar augelli, o verdi fronde.”

If to the sighing breeze of summer hours Bend the green leaves; if mourns a plaintive bird; Or from some fount’s cool margin, fringed with flowers, The soothing murmur of the wave is heard; Her whom the heavens reveal, the earth denies, I see and hear: though dwelling far above, Her spirit, still responsive to my sighs, Visits the lone retreat of pensive love. “Why thus in grief consume each fruitless day,” (Her gentle accents thus benignly say,) “While from thine eyes the tear unceasing flows? Weep not for me, who, hastening on my flight, Died, to be deathless; and on heavenly light Whose eyes but open’d, when they seem’d to close!”

VERSI SPAGNUOLI DI PIETRO BEMBO.

“O Muerte! que sueles ser.”

Thou, the stem monarch of dismay, Whom nature trembles to survey, O Death! to me, the child of grief, Thy welcome power would bring relief, Changing to peaceful slumber many a care. And though thy stroke may thrill with pain Each throbbing pulse, each quivering vein; The pangs that bid existence close, Ah! sure are far less keen than those Which cloud its lingering moments with despair.

FRANCESCO LORENZINI.

“O Zefiretto, che movendo vai.”

Sylph of the breeze! whose dewy pinions light Wave gently round the tree I planted here, Sacred to her whose soul hath wing’d its flight To the pure ether of her lofty sphere; Be it thy care, soft spirit of the gale! To fan its leaves in summer’s noontide hour; Be it thy care that wintry tempests fail To rend its honours from the sylvan bower. Then shall it spread, and rear th’ aspiring form. Pride of the wood, secure from every storm, Graced with her name, a consecrated tree! So may thy Lord, thy monarch of the wind, Ne’er with rude chains thy tender pinions bind, But grant thee still to rove, a wanderer wild and free!

GESNER.

MORNING SONG.

“Willkommen, fruhe morgensonn.”

Hail! morning sun, thus early bright; Welcome, sweet dawn! thou younger day! Through the dark woods that fringe the height, Beams forth, e’en now, thy ray.

Bright on the dew it sparkles clear, Bright on the water’s glittering fall, And life, and joy, and health appear, Sweet Morning! at thy call.

Now thy fresh breezes lightly spring From beds of fragrance, where they lay, And roving wild on dewy wing, Drive slumber far away.

Fantastic dreams, in swift retreat, Now from each mind withdraw their spell; While the young loves delighted meet, On Rosa’s cheek to dwell.

Speed, zephyr! kiss each opening flower, Its fragrant spirit make thine own; Then wing thy way to Rosa’s bower, Ere her light sleep is flown.

There, o’er her downy pillow fly, Wake the sweet maid to life and day; Breathe on her balmy lip a sigh, And o’er her bosom play;

And whisper, when her eyes unveil, That I, since morning’s earliest call, Have sigh’d her name to ev’ry gale By the lone waterfall.

GERMAN SONG.

“Mädchen, lernet Amor kennen.”

Listen, fair maid! my song shall tell How Love may still be known full well-- His looks the traitor prove. Dost thou not see that absent smile, That fiery glance replete with guile? Oh! doubt not then--’tis Love.

When varying still the sly disguise, Child of caprice, he laughs and cries, Or with complaint would move; To-day is bold, to-morrow shy, Changing each hour, he knows not why. Oh! doubt not then--’tis Love.

There’s magic in his every wile, His lips, well practised to beguile, Breathe roses when they move; See! now with sudden rage he burns, Disdains, implores, commands, by turns. Oh! doubt not then--’tis Love.

He comes, without the bow and dart, That spare not e’en the purest heart; His looks the traitor prove; That glance is fire, that mien is guile, Deceit is lurking in that smile-- Oh! trust him not--’tis Love!

CHAULIEU.

“Grotte, d’où sort ce clair ruisseau.”

Thou grot, whence flows this limpid spring, Its margin fringed with moss and flowers, Still bid its voice of murmurs bring Peace to my musing hours.

Sweet Fontenay! where first for me The dayspring of existence rose, Soon shall my dust return to thee, And midst my sires repose.

Muses! that watch’d my childhood’s morn, Midst these wild haunts, with guardian eye-- Fair trees! that here beheld me born, Soon shall ye see me die.

GARCILASO DE VEGA.

“Coyed de vuestra alegre primavera.”

Enjoy the sweets of life’s luxuriant May Ere envious Age is hastening on his way With snowy wreaths to crown the beauteous brow; The rose will fade when storms assail the year, And Time, who changeth not his swift career, Constant in this, will change all else below!

LORENZO DE MEDICI.

VIOLETS.

“Non di verdi giardin ornati e colti.”

We come not, fair one! to thy hand of snow From the soft scenes by Culture’s hand array’d; Not rear’d in bowers where gales of fragrance blow, But in dark glens, and depths of forest shade! There once, as Venus wander’d, lost in woe, To seek Adonis through th’ entangled wood, Piercing her foot, a thorn that lurk’d below With print relentless drew celestial blood! Then our light stems, with snowy blossoms fraught, Bending to earth, each precious drop we caught, Imbibing thence our bright purpureal dyes; We were not foster’d in our shadowy vales By guided rivulets or summer gales-- Our dew and air have been Love’s balmy tears and sighs!

PINDEMONTE.

ON THE HEBE OF CANOVA.

“Dove per te, celeste ancilla, or vassi?”

Whither, celestial maid, so fast away? What lures thee from the banquet of the skies? How canst thou leave thy native realms of day For this low sphere, this vale of clouds and sighs? O thou, Canova! soaring high above Italian art--with Grecian magic vying! We knew thy marble glow’d with life and love, But who had seen thee image footsteps flying? Here to each eye the wind seems gently playing With the light vest, its wavy folds arraying In many a line of undulating grace; While Nature, ne’er her mighty laws suspending, Stands, before marble thus with motion blending, One moment lost in thought, its hidden cause to trace.

[A volume of translations published in 1818, might have been called by anticipation, “Lays of many Lands.” At the time now alluded to, her inspirations were chiefly derived from classical subjects. The “graceful superstitions” of Greece, and the sublime patriotism of Rome, held an influence over her thoughts which is evinced by many of the works of this period--such as “The Restoration of the Works of Art to Italy,” “Modern Greece,” and several of the poems which formed the volume entitled “Tales and Historic Scenes.”

“Apart from all intercourse,” says Delta, “with literary society, and acquainted only by name and occasional correspondence with any of the distinguished authors of whom England has to boast, Mrs Hemans, during the progress of her poetical career, had to contend with more and greater obstacles than usually stand in the path of female authorship. To her praise be it spoken, therefore, that it was to her own merit alone, wholly independent of adventitious circumstances, that she was indebted for the extensive share of popularity which her compositions ultimately obtained. From this studious seclusion were given forth the two poems which first permanently elevated her among the writers of her age,--the ‘Restoration of the Works of Art to Italy,’ and ‘Modern Greece.’ In these the maturity of her intellect appears; and she makes us feel, that she has marked out a path for herself through the regions of song. The versification is high-toned and musical, in accordance with the sentiment and subject; and in every page we have evidence, not only of taste and genius, but of careful elaboration and research. These efforts were favourably noticed by Lord Byron; and attracted the admiration of Shelley. Bishop Heber and other judicious and intelligent counsellors cheered her on by their approbation: the reputation which, through years of silent study and exertion, she had, no doubt, sometimes with brightened and sometimes with doubtful hopes, looked forward to as a sufficient great reward, was at length unequivocally and unreluctantly accorded her by the world; and, probably, this was the happiest period of her life. The Translations from Camoens; the prize poem of Wallace, as also that of Dartmoor, the Tales and Historic Scenes, and the Sceptic, may all be referred to this epoch of her literary career.”--_Biographical Sketch, prefixed, to Poetical Remains_, 1836.

In reference to the same period of Mrs Hemans’ career, the late acute and accomplished Miss Jewsbury (afterwards Mrs Fletcher) has the following judicious observations:--

“At this stage of transition, her poetry was correct, classical, and highly polished; but it wanted warmth: it partook more of the nature of statuary than of painting. She fettered her mind with facts and authorities, and drew upon her memory when she might have relied upon her imagination. She was diffident of herself, and, to quote her own admission, ‘loved to repose under the shadow of mighty names.’”--_Athenæum_, Feb. 1831.]

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

LINES

WRITTEN IN A HERMITAGE ON THE SEA-SHORE.

O wanderer! would thy heart forget Each earthly passion and regret, And would thy wearied spirit rise To commune with its native skies; Pause for a while, and deem it sweet To linger in this calm retreat; And give thy cares, thy griefs, a short suspense, Amidst wild scenes of lone magnificence.

Unmix’d with aught of meaner tone, Here Nature’s voice is heard alone: When the loud storm, in wrathful hour, Is rushing on its wing of power, And spirits of the deep awake, And surges foam, and billows break, And rocks and ocean-caves around Reverberate each awful sound-- That mighty voice, with all its dread control, To loftiest thought shall wake thy thrilling soul.

But when no more the sea-winds rave, When peace is brooding on the wave, And from earth, air, and ocean rise No sounds but plaintive melodies; Soothed by their softly mingling swell, As daylight bids the world farewell, The rustling wood, the dying breeze, The faint low rippling of the seas, A tender calm shall steal upon thy breast, A gleam reflected from the realms of rest.

Is thine a heart the world hath stung, Friends have deceived, neglect hath wrung? Hast thou some grief that none may know, Some lonely, secret, silent woe? Or have thy fond affections fled From earth, to slumber with the dead?-- Oh! pause awhile--the world disown, And dwell with Nature’s self alone! And though no more she bids arise Thy soul’s departed energies, And though thy joy of life is o’er, Beyond her magic to restore; Yet shall her spells o’er every passion steal, And soothe the wounded heart they cannot heal.

DIRGE OF A CHILD.

No bitter tears for thee be shed, Blossom of being! seen and gone! With flowers alone we strew thy bed, O blest departed One! Whose all of life, a rosy ray, Blush’d into dawn and pass’d away.

Yes! thou art fled, ere guilt had power To stain thy cherub-soul and form, Closed is the soft ephemeral flower That never felt a storm! The sunbeam’s smile, the zephyr’s breath, All that it knew from birth to death.

Thou wert so like a form of light, That heaven benignly call’d thee hence, Ere yet the world could breathe one blight O’er thy sweet innocence: And thou, that brighter home to bless, Art pass’d, with all thy loveliness!

Oh I hadst thou still on earth remain’d, Vision of beauty! fair, as brief! How soon thy brightness had been stain’d With passion or with grief! Now not a sullying breath can rise To dim thy glory in the skies.

We rear no marble o’er thy tomb-- No sculptured image there shall mourn; Ah! fitter far the vernal bloom Such dwelling to adorn. Fragrance, and flowers, and dews, must be The only emblems meet for thee.

Thy grave shall be a blessed shrine, Adorn’d with Nature’s brightest wreath; Each glowing season shall combine Its incense there to breathe; And oft, upon the midnight air, Shall viewless harps be murmuring there.

And oh! sometimes in visions blest, Sweet spirit! visit our repose; And bear, from thine own world of rest, Some balm for human woes! What form more lovely could be given Than thine to messenger of heaven?[57]

INVOCATION.

Hush’d is the world in night and sleep-- Earth, sea, and air are still as death; Too rude to break a calm so deep Were music’s faintest breath. Descend, bright visions! from aërial bowers, Descend to gild your own soft silent hours.

In hope or fear, in toil or pain, The weary day have mortals pass’d; Now, dreams of bliss! be yours to reign, And all your spells around them cast; Steal from their hearts the pang, their eyes the tear, And lift the veil that hides a brighter sphere.

Oh, bear your softest balm to those Who fondly, vainly, mourn the dead! To them that world of peace disclose Where the bright soul is fled: Whore Love, immortal in his native clime, Shall fear no pang from fate, no blight from time.

Or to his loved, his distant land On your light wings the exile bear, To feel once more his heart expand In his own genial mountain-air; Hear the wild echoes well-known strains repeat, And bless each note, as heaven’s own music sweet.

But oh! with fancy’s brightest ray, Blest dreams! the bard’s repose illume; Bid forms of heaven around him play, And bowers of Eden bloom! And waft _his_ spirit to its native skies Who finds no charm in life’s realities.

No voice is on the air of night, Through folded leaves no murmurs creep, Nor star nor moonbeam’s trembling light Falls on the placid brow of sleep. Descend, bright visions! from your airy bower: Dark, silent, solemn is your favourite hour.

[57] Vide Annotation from _Quarterly Review_, p. 62.

TO THE MEMORY OF

GENERAL SIR E--D P--K--M.[58]

Brave spirit! mourn’d with fond regret, Lost in life’s pride, in valour’s noon, Oh, who could deem thy star should set So darkly and so soon!

Fatal, though bright, the fire of mind Which mark’d and closed thy brief career, And the fair wreath, by Hope entwined, Lies wither’d on thy bier.

The soldier’s death hath been thy doom, The soldier’s tear thy mead shall be; Yet, son of war! a prouder tomb Might Fate have rear’d for thee.

Thou shouldst have died, O high-soul’d chief! In those bright days of glory fled, When triumph so prevail’d o’er grief We scarce could mourn the dead.

Noontide of fame! each tear-drop then Was worthy of a warrior’s grave: When shall affection weep again So proudly o’er the brave?

There, on the battle-fields of Spain, Midst Roncesvalles’ mountain-scene, Or on Vitoria’s blood-red plain, Meet had thy deathbed been.

We mourn not that a hero’s life Thus in its ardent prime should close; Hadst thou but fallen in nobler strife, But died midst conquer’d foes!

Yet hast thou still (though victory’s flame In that last moment cheer’d thee not) Left Glory’s isle another name, That ne’er may be forgot:

And many a tale of triumph won Shall breathe that name in Memory’s ear, And long may England mourn a son _Without reproach or fear_.

[58] Major-general Sir Edward Pakenham, the gallant officer to whose memory these verses are dedicated, fell at the head of the British troops in the unfortunate attack on New Orleans, 8th January 1814. “Six thousand combatants on the British side,” says Mr Alison, “were in the field: a slender force to attack double their number, intrenched to the teeth in works bristling with bayonets and loaded with heavy artillery.”--_History of Europe_, vol. x. p. 743.

The death of Sir Edward is thus alluded to in the official account of General Keane, communicating the result of the action:--“The advancing columns were discernible from the enemy’s line at more than two hundred yards’ distance, when a destructive fire was instantly opened, not only from all parts of the enemy’s line, but from the battery on the opposite side of the river. The gallant Pakenham, who, during his short but brilliant career, was always foremost in the path of glory and of danger, galloped forward to the front, to animate his men by his presence. He had reached the crest of the glacis, and was in the act of cheering his troops with his hat off, when he received two balls, one in the knee and another in the body. He fell into the arms of Major Macdougal, his aide-de-camp, and almost instantly expired.”--_Edinr. An. Regist._ 1815, p. 356.

TO THE MEMORY OF

SIR H--Y E--LL--S,

WHO FELL IN THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO.

“Happy are they who die in youth, when their renown is around them.”--Ossian.

Weep’st thou for him, whose doom was seal’d On England’s proudest battle-field? For him, the lion-heart, who died In victory’s full resistless tide? Oh, mourn him not! By deeds like his that field was won, And Fate could yield to Valour’s son No brighter lot.

He heard his band’s exulting cry, He saw the vanquish’d eagles fly; And envied be his death of fame! It shed a sunbeam o’er his name That nought shall dim: No cloud obscured his glory’s day, It saw no twilight of decay. Weep not for him!

And breathe no dirge’s plaintive moan, A hero claims far loftier tone! Oh, proudly shall the war-song swell, Recording how the mighty fell In that dread hour, When England, midst the battle-storm-- The avenging angel--rear’d her form In tenfold power.

Yet, gallant heart! to swell thy praise, Vain were the minstrel’s noblest lays; Since he, the soldier’s guiding star, The Victor-chief, the lord of war, Has own’d thy fame: And oh! like _his_ approving word, What trophied marble could record A warrior’s name?

GUERILLA SONG.

FOUNDED ON THE STORY RELATED OF THE SPANISH PATRIOT MINA.

Oh! forget not the hour when through forest and vale We return’d with our chief to his dear native halls; Through the woody sierra there sigh’d not a gale, And the moonbeam was bright on his battlement-walls; And nature lay sleeping in calmness and light, Round the home of the valiant, that rose on our sight.

We enter’d that home--all was loneliness round, The stillness, the darkness, the peace of the grave; Not a voice, not a step, bade its echoes resound: Ah, such was the welcome that waited the brave! For the spoilers had pass’d, like the poison-wind’s breath, And the loved of his bosom lay silent in death.

Oh! forget not that hour--let its image be near, In the light of our mirth, in the dreams of our rest, Let its tale awake feelings too deep for a tear, And rouse into vengeance each arm and each breast, Till cloudless the dayspring of liberty shine O’er the plains of the olive and hills of the vine.

THE AGED INDIAN.

Warriors! my noon of life is past, The brightness of my spirit flown; I crouch before the wintry blast, Amidst my tribe I dwell alone; The heroes of my youth are fled, They rest among the warlike dead.

Ye slumberers of the narrow cave! My kindred chiefs in days of yore! Ye fill an unremember’d grave, Your fame, your deeds, are known no more. The records of your wars are gone, Your names forgot by all but one.

Soon shall that one depart from earth, To join the brethren of his prime; Then will the memory of your birth Sleep with the hidden things of time. With him, ye sons of former days! Fades the last glimmering of your praise.

His eyes, that hail’d your spirits’ flame, Still kindling in the combat’s shock, Have seen, since darkness veil’d your fame, Sons of the desert and the rock! Another and another race Rise to the battle and the chase.

Descendants of the mighty dead! Fearless of heart, and firm of hand! Oh, let me join their spirits fled-- Oh! send me to their shadowy land. Age hath not tamed Ontara’s heart-- He shrinks not from the friendly dart.

These feet no more can chase the deer, The glory of this arm is flown;-- Why should the feeble linger here When all the pride of life is gone? Warriors! why still the stroke deny? Think ye Ontara fears to die?

He fear’d not in his flower of days, When strong to stem the torrent’s force, When through the desert’s pathless maze His way was as an eagle’s course! When war was sunshine to his sight, And the wild hurricane delight!

Shall, then, the warrior tremble _now_? Now when his envied strength is o’er-- Hung on the pine his idle bow, His pirogue useless on the shore? When age hath dimm’d his failing eye, Shall he, the joyless, fear to die?

Sons of the brave! delay no more-- The spirits of my kindred call. ’Tis but one pang, and all is o’er! Oh, bid the aged cedar fall! To join the brethren of his prime, The mighty of departed time.

EVENING AMONGST THE ALPS.

Soft skies of Italy! how richly drest, Smile these wild scenes in your purpureal glow! What glorious hues, reflected from the west, Float o’er the dwellings of eternal snow! Yon torrent, foaming down the granite steep, Sparkles all brilliance in the setting beam; Dark glens beneath in shadowy beauty sleep, Where pipes the goat-herd by his mountain-stream. Now from yon peak departs the vivid ray, That still at eve its lofty temple knows; From rock and torrent fade the tints away, And all is wrapt in twilight’s deep repose: While through the pine-wood gleams the vesper star, And roves the Alpine gale o’er solitudes afar.

DIRGE OF THE HIGHLAND CHIEF IN “WAVERLEY.”[59]

Son of the mighty and the free! High-minded leader of the brave! Was it for lofty chief like thee To fill a nameless grave? Oh! if amidst the valiant slain The warrior’s bier had been thy lot, E’en though on red Culloden’s plain, We then had mourn’d thee not.

But darkly closed thy dawn of fame, That dawn whose sunbeam rose so fair; Vengeance alone may breathe thy name, The watchword of Despair! Yet, oh! if gallant spirit’s power Hath e’er ennobled death like thine, Then glory mark’d _thy_ parting hour, Last of a mighty line!

O’er thy own towers the sunshine falls, But cannot chase their silent gloom; Those beams that gild thy native walls Are sleeping on thy tomb! Spring on thy mountains laughs the while, Thy green woods wave in vernal air, But the loved scenes may vainly smile: Not e’en thy dust is there.

On thy blue hills no bugle-sound Is mingling with the torrent’s roar; Unmark’d, the wild deer sport around: Thou lead’st the chase no more! Thy gates are closed, thy halls are still, Those halls where peal’d the choral strain; They hear the wind’s deep murmuring thrill, And all is hush’d again.

No banner from the lonely tower Shall wave its blazon’d folds on high; There the tall grass and summer flower Unmark’d shall spring and die. No more thy bard for other ear Shall wake the harp once loved by thine-- Hush’d be the strain _thou_ canst not hear, Last of a mighty line!

[59] These very beautiful stanzas first appeared in the Edinburgh Annual Register for 1815, (p. 255,) with the following interesting heading.

“A literary friend of ours received these verses with a letter of the following tenor:--

“‘_A very ingenious young friend of mine has just sent me the enclosed, on reading Waverley. To you the world gives that charming work; and if in any future edition you should like to insert the Dirge to a Highland Chief, you would do honour to_

_Your Sincere Admirer._’

“The individual to whom this obliging letter was addressed, having no claim to the honour which is there done him, does not possess the means of publishing the verses in the popular novel alluded to. But that the public may sustain no loss, and that the ingenious author of Waverley may be aware of the honour intended him, our correspondent has ventured to send the verses to our Register.”

Notwithstanding the mysticism in the note about the “_very ingenious young friend of mine_” and “_your sincere admirer_,” on the one hand; and the disclaimer by “_a literary friend of ours_,” on the other, there can be little doubt that the Dirge was sent by Mrs Hermans to Sir Walter, then Mr Scott, and by him to the Register--of which he himself wrote that year the historical department.--_Vide_ Lockhart’s Life of Scott, vol. iv. p. 80.

THE CRUSADERS’ WAR-SONG.

Chieftains, lead on! our hearts beat high-- Lead on to Salem’s towers! Who would not deem it bliss to die, Slain in a cause like ours? The brave who sleep in soil of thine, Die not entomb’d but shrined, O Palestine!

Souls of the slain in holy war! Look from your sainted rest. Tell us ye rose in Glory’s car, To mingle with the blest; Tell us how short the death-pang’s power, How bright the joys of your immortal bower.

Strike the loud harp, ye minstrel train! Pour forth your loftiest lays; Each heart shall echo to the strain Breathed in the warrior’s praise. Bid every string triumphant swell Th’ inspiring sounds that heroes love so well.

Salem! amidst the fiercest hour, The wildest rage of fight, Thy name shall lend our falchions power, And nerve our hearts with might. Envied be those for thee that fall, Who find their graves beneath thy sacred wall.

For them no need that sculptured tomb Should chronicle their fame, Or pyramid record their doom, Or deathless verse their name; It is enough that dust of thine Should shroud their forms, O blessed Palestine!

Chieftains, lead on! our hearts beat high For combat’s glorious hour; Soon shall the red-cross banner fly On Salem’s loftiest tower! We burn to mingle in the strife, Where _but_ to die insures eternal life.

THE DEATH OF CLANRONALD.

[It was in the battle of Sheriffmoor that young Clanronald fell, leading on the Highlanders of the right wing. His death dispirited the assailants, who began to waver. But Glengarry, chief of a rival branch of the Clan Colla, started from the ranks, and, waving his bonnet round his head, cried out, “To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for mourning!” The Highlanders received a new impulse from his words, and, charging with redoubled fury, bore down all before them.--See the _Quarterly Review_ article of “Culloden Papers.”]

Oh, ne’er be Clanronald the valiant forgot! Still fearless and first in the combat, he fell; But we paused not one tear-drop to shed o’er the spot, We spared not one moment to murmur “Farewell.” We heard but the battle-word given by the chief, “To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for grief!”

And wildly, Clanronald! we echo’d the vow, With the tear on our cheek, and the sword in our hand; Young son of the brave! we may weep for thee now, For well has thy death been avenged by thy band, When they joined in wild chorus the cry of the chief, “To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for grief!”

Thy dirge in that hour was the bugle’s wild call, The clash of the claymore, the shout of the brave; But now thy own bard may lament for thy fall, And the soft voice of melody sigh o’er thy grave-- While Albyn remembers the words of the chief, “To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for grief!”

Thou art fallen, O fearless one! flower of thy race! Descendant of heroes! thy glory is set: But thy kindred, the sons of the battle and chase, Have proved that thy spirit is bright in them yet! Nor vainly have echo’d the words of the chief, “To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for grief!”

TO THE EYE.

Throne of expression! whence the spirit’s ray Pours forth so oft the light of mental day, Where fancy’s fire, affection’s mental beam, Thought, genius, passion, reign in turn supreme, And many a feeling, words can ne’er impart, Finds its own language to pervade the heart: Thy power, bright orb! what bosom hath not felt, To thrill, to rouse, to fascinate, to melt! And, by some spell of undefined control, With magnet-influence touch the secret soul!

Light of the features! in the morn of youth Thy glance is nature, and thy language truth; And ere the world, with all-corrupting sway, Hath taught e’en _thee_ to flatter and betray, Th’ ingenuous heart forbids thee to reveal, Or speak one thought that interest would conceal. While yet thou seem’st the cloudless mirror given But to reflect the purity of heaven, Oh! then how lovely, there unveil’d, to trace Th’ unsullied brightness of each mental grace!

When Genius lends thee all his living light, Where the full beams of intellect unite; When love illumes thee with his varying ray, Where trembling Hope and tearful Rapture play; Or Pity’s melting cloud thy beam subdues, Tempering its lustre with a veil of dews; Still does thy power, whose all-commanding spell Can pierce the mazes of the soul so well, Bid some new feeling to existence start From its deep slumbers in the inmost heart. And oh! when thought, in ecstasy sublime, That soars triumphant o’er the bounds of time, Fires thy keen glance with inspiration’s blaze, The light of heaven, the hope of nobler days, (As glorious dreams, for utterance far too high, Flash through the mist of dim mortality;) Who does not own, that through thy lightning-beams A flame unquenchable, unearthly, streams? That pure, though captive effluence of the sky, The vestal-ray, the spark that cannot die!

THE HERO’S DEATH.

Life’s parting beams were in his eye, Life’s closing accents on his tongue, When round him, pealing to the sky, The shout of victory rung!

Then, ere his gallant spirit fled, A smile so bright illumed his face-- Oh! never, of the light it shed, Shall memory lose a trace!

His was a death whose rapture high Transcended all that life could yield; His warmest prayer was so to die, On the red battle-field!

And they may feel, who loved him most, A pride so holy and so pure: Fate hath no power o’er those who boast A treasure thus secure!

STANZAS

ON

THE DEATH OF THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE.

[“Hélas! nous composions son histoire de tout ce qu’on peut imaginer de plus glorieux.... Le passé et le présent nous garantissoient l’avenir.... Telle étoit l’agréable histoire que nous faisions; et pour achever ces nobles projets, il n’y avoit que la durée de sa vie; dont nous ne croyions pas devoir être en peine, car qui eût pu seulement penser, que les années eussent dû manquer à une jeunesse qui sembloit si vive?”--Bossuet.]