Part 12
When I have fears that I may cease to be Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain, Before high-piléd books, in charact'ry, Hold like rich garners the full-ripen'd grain;
When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face, Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance, And think that I may never live to trace Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;
And when I feel, fair Creature of an hour! That I shall never look upon thee more, Never have relish in the fairy power Of unreflecting love--then on the shore
Of the wide world I stand alone, and think, Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink.
J. KEATS.
200. DESIDERIA.
Surprized by joy--impatient as the wind-- I turn'd to share the transport--Oh, with whom But Thee--deep buried in the silent tomb, That spot which no vicissitude can find?
Love, faithful love recall'd thee to my mind-- But how could I forget thee? Through what power Even for the least division of an hour Have I been so beguiled as to be blind
To my most grievous loss?--That thought's return Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn,
Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more; That neither present time, nor years unborn Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.
W. WORDSWORTH.
201.
At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly To the lone vale we loved, when life shone warm in thine eye; And I think oft, if spirits can steal from the regions of air To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to me there And tell me our love is remember'd even in the sky!
Then I sing the wild song it once was rapture to hear When our voices, commingling, breathed like one on the ear; And as Echo far off through the vale my sad orison rolls, I think, O my love! 'tis thy voice, from the Kingdom of Souls Faintly answering still the notes that once were so dear.
T. MOORE.
202. ELEGY ON THYRZA.
And thou art dead, as young and fair As aught of mortal birth; And forms so soft and charms so rare Too soon return'd to Earth! Though Earth received them in her bed, And o'er the spot the crowd may tread In carelessness or mirth, There is an eye which could not brook A moment on that grave to look.
I will not ask where thou liest low Nor gaze upon the spot; There flowers and weeds at will may grow So I behold them not: It is enough for me to prove That what I loved and long must love Like common earth can rot; To me there needs no stone to tell 'Tis Nothing that I loved so well.
Yet did I love thee to the last, As fervently as thou Who didst not change through all the past And canst not alter now. The love where Death has set his seal Nor age can chill, nor rival steal, Nor falsehood disavow: And, what were worse, thou canst not see Or wrong, or change, or fault in me.
The better days of life were ours; The worst can be but mine: The sun that cheers, the storm that lours Shall never more be thine. The silence of that dreamless sleep I envy now too much to weep; Nor need I to repine That all those charms have pass'd away I might have watch'd through long decay.
The flower in ripen'd bloom unmatch'd Must fall the earliest prey; Though by no hand untimely snatch'd, The leaves must drop away. And yet it were a greater grief To watch it withering, leaf by leaf, Than see it pluck'd to-day; Since earthly eye but ill can bear To trace the change from foul to fair.
I know not if I could have borne To see thy beauties fade; The night that follow'd such a morn Had worn a deeper shade: Thy day without a cloud hath past, And thou wert lovely to the last, Extinguish'd, not decay'd; As stars that shoot along the sky Shine brightest as they fall from high.
As once I wept if I could weep, My tears might well be shed To think I was not near, to keep One vigil o'er thy bed: To gaze, how fondly! on thy face, To fold thee in a faint embrace, Uphold thy drooping head; And show that love, however vain, Nor thou nor I can feel again.
Yet how much less it were to gain, Though thou hast left me free, The loveliest things that still remain Than thus remember thee! The all of thine that cannot die Through dark and dread Eternity Returns again to me, And more thy buried love endears Than aught except its living years.
LORD BYRON.
203.
One word is too often profaned For me to profane it, One feeling too falsely disdain'd For thee to disdain it. One hope is too like despair For prudence to smother, And Pity from thee more dear Than that from another.
I can give not what men call love; But wilt thou accept not The worship the heart lifts above And the Heavens reject not: The desire of the moth for the star, Of the night for the morrow, The devotion to something afar From the sphere of our sorrow?
P.B. SHELLEY.
204. GATHERING SONG OF DONALD THE BLACK.
Pibroch of Donuil Dhu Pibroch of Donuil Wake thy wild voice anew, Summon Clan Conuil. Come away, come away, Hark to the summons! Come in your war-array, Gentles and commons.
Come from deep glen, and From mountain so rocky; The war-pipe and pennon Are at Inverlochy. Come every hill-plaid, and True heart that wears one, Come every steel blade, and Strong hand that bears one.
Leave untended the herd, The flock without shelter; Leave the corpse uninterr'd, The bride at the altar; Leave the deer, leave the steer, Leave nets and barges: Come with your fighting gear, Broadswords and targes.
Come as the winds come, when Forests are rended, Come as the waves come, when Navies are stranded: Faster come, faster come, Faster and faster, Chief, vassal, page and groom, Tenant and master.
Fast they come, fast they come; See how they gather! Wide waves the eagle plume Blended with heather. Cast your plaids, draw your blades, Forward each man set! Pibroch of Donuil Dhu Knell for the onset!
SIR W. SCOTT.
205.
A wet sheet and a flowing sea, A wind that follows fast And fills the white and rustling sail And bends the gallant mast; And bends the gallant mast, my boys, While like the eagle free Away the good ship flies, and leaves Old England on the lee.
O for a soft and gentle wind! I heard a fair one cry; But give to me the snoring breeze And white waves heaving high; And white waves heaving high, my lads, The good ship tight and free-- The world of waters is our home, And merry men are we.
There's tempest in yon hornéd moon, And lightning in yon cloud; But hark the music, mariners! The wind is piping loud; The wind is piping loud, my boys, The lightning flashes free-- While the hollow oak our palace is, Our heritage the sea.
A. CUNNINGHAM.
206.
Ye Mariners of England That guard our native seas! Whose flag has braved, a thousand years The battle and the breeze! Your glorious standard launch again To match another foe: And sweep through the deep, While the stormy winds do blow; While the battle rages loud and long And the stormy winds do blow.
The spirits of your fathers Shall start from every wave-- For the deck it was their field of fame, And Ocean was their grave: Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell Your manly hearts shall glow, As ye sweep through the deep, While the stormy winds do blow; While the battle rages loud and long And the stormy winds do blow.
Britannia needs no bulwarks, No towers along the steep; Her march is o'er the mountain waves, Her home is on the deep. With thunders from her native oak She quells the floods below-- As they roar on the shore, When the stormy winds do blow; When the battle rages loud and long And the stormy winds do blow.
The meteor flag of England Shall yet terrific burn; Till danger's troubled night depart And the star of peace return. Then, then, ye ocean-warriors! Our song and feast shall flow To the fame of your name, When the storm has ceased to blow; When the fiery fight is heard no more, And the storm has ceased to blow.
T. CAMPBELL.
207. BATTLE OF THE BALTIC.
Of Nelson and the North Sing the glorious day's renown, When to battle fierce came forth All the might of Denmark's crown, And her arms along the deep proudly shone; By each gun the lighted brand In a bold determined hand, And the Prince of all the land Led them on.
Like leviathans afloat Lay their bulwarks on the brine; While the sign of battle flew On the lofty British line: It was ten of April morn by the chime: As they drifted on their path There was silence deep as death; And the boldest held his breath For a time.
But the might of England flush'd To anticipate the scene; And her van the fleeter rush'd O'er the deadly space between. "Hearts of oak!" our captains cried, when each gun From its adamantine lips Spread a death-shade round the ships, Like the hurricane eclipse Of the sun.
Again! again! again! And the havoc did not slack, Till a feeble cheer the Dane To our cheering sent us back;-- Their shots along the deep slowly boom:-- Then ceased--and all is wail, As they strike the shatter'd sail, Or in conflagration pale Light the gloom.
Out spoke the victor then As he hail'd them o'er the wave, "Ye are brothers! ye are men! And we conquer but to save:-- So peace instead of death let us bring: But yield, proud foe, thy fleet With the crews, at England's feet, And make submission meet To our King."
Then Denmark blest our chief That he gave her wounds repose; And the sounds of joy and grief From her people wildly rose, As death withdrew his shades from the day: While the sun look'd smiling bright O'er a wide and woeful sight, Where the fires of funeral light Died away.
Now joy, old England, raise! For the tidings of thy might, By the festal cities' blaze, Whilst the wine-cup shines in light; And yet amidst that joy and uproar, Let us think of them that sleep Full many a fathom deep By thy wild and stormy steep, Elsinore!
Brave hearts! to Britain's pride Once so faithful and so true, On the deck of fame that died With the gallant good Riou: Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their grave! While the billow mournful rolls And the mermaid's song condoles Singing glory to the souls Of the brave!
T. CAMPBELL.
208. ODE TO DUTY
Stern Daughter of the voice of God! O Duty! if that name thou love Who art a light to guide, a rod To check the erring, and reprove; Thou who art victory and law When empty terrors overawe; From vain temptations dost set free, And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity!
There are who ask not if thine eye Be on them; who, in love and truth Where no misgiving is, rely Upon the genial sense of youth: Glad hearts! without reproach or blot, Who do thy work, and know it not: Oh! if through confidence misplaced They fail, thy saving arms, dread Power! around them cast.
Serene will be our days and bright And happy will our nature be When love is an unerring light, And joy its own security. And they a blissful course may hold Ev'n now who, not unwisely bold, Live in the spirit of this creed; Yet find that other strength, according to their need.
I, loving freedom, and untried; No sport of every random gust, Yet being to myself a guide, Too blindly have reposed my trust: And oft, when in my heart was heard Thy timely mandate, I deferr'd The task, in smoother walks to stray; But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may.
Through no disturbance of my soul Or strong compunction in me wrought, I supplicate for thy controul, But in the quietness of thought: Me this uncharter'd freedom tires; I feel the weight of chance desires; My hopes no more must change their name; I long for a repose which ever is the same.
Stern lawgiver! yet thou dost wear The Godhead's most benignant grace; Nor know we anything so fair As is the smile upon thy face: Flowers laugh before thee on their beds, And fragrance in thy footing treads; Thou dost preserve the Stars from wrong; And the most ancient Heavens, through thee, are fresh and strong.
To humbler functions, awful Power! I call thee: I myself commend Unto thy guidance from this hour; O let my weakness have an end! Give unto me, made lowly wise, The spirit of self-sacrifice; The confidence of reason give; And in the light of Truth thy bondman let me live.
W. WORDSWORTH.
209. ON THE CASTLE OF CHILLON.
Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind! Brightest in dungeons, Liberty, thou art-- For there thy habitation is the heart-- The heart which love of Thee alone can bind;
And when thy sons to fetters are consign'd, To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom, Their country conquers with their martyrdom And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind.
Chillon! thy prison is a holy place And thy sad floor an altar, for 'twas trod Until his very steps have left a trace
Worn as if thy cold pavement were a sod, By Bonnivard! May none those marks efface! For they appeal from tyranny to God.
LORD BYRON.
210. ENGLAND AND SWITZERLAND.
1802.
Two Voices are there; one is of the Sea, One of the Mountains; each a mighty voice: In both from age to age thou didst rejoice, They were thy chosen music, Liberty!
There came a tyrant, and with holy glee Thou fought'st against him,--but hast vainly striven: Thou from thy Alpine holds at length are driven Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee.
--Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft; Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is left-- For, high-soul'd Maid, what sorrow would it be
That Mountain floods should thunder as before, And Ocean bellow from his rocky shore, And neither awful Voice be heard by Thee!
W. WORDSWORTH.
211. ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE VENETIAN REPUBLIC.
Once did She hold the gorgeous East in fee And was the safeguard of the West; the worth Of Venice did not fall below her birth, Venice, the eldest child of liberty.
She was a maiden city, bright and free; No guile seduced, no force could violate; And when she took unto herself a mate, She must espouse the everlasting Sea.
And what if she had seen those glories fade, Those titles vanish, and that strength decay,-- Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid
When her long life hath reach'd its final day: Men are we, and must grieve when even the shade Of that which once was great has pass'd away.
W. WORDSWORTH.
212. LONDON, MDCCCII.
O Friend! I know not which way I must look For comfort, being, as I am, opprest To think that now our life is only drest For show; mean handiwork of craftsman, cook,
Or groom!--We must run glittering like a brook In the open sunshine, or we are unblest; The wealthiest man among us is the best: No grandeur now in Nature or in book
Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense, This is idolatry; and these we adore: Plain living and high thinking are no more:
The homely beauty of the good old cause Is gone; our peace, our fearful innocence, And pure religion breathing household laws.
W. WORDSWORTH.
213. THE SAME.
Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour: England hath need of thee: she is a fen Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen, Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,
Have forfeited their ancient English dower Of inward happiness. We are selfish men O! raise us up, return to us again; And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.
Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart: Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea, Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free;
So didst thou travel on life's common way In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart The lowliest duties on herself did lay.
W. WORDSWORTH.
214.
When I have borne in memory what has tamed Great nations; how ennobling thoughts depart When men change swords for ledgers, and desert The student's bower for gold,--some fears unnamed
I had, my Country!--am I to be blamed? Now, when I think of thee, and what thou art, Verily, in the bottom of my heart Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed.
For dearly must we prize thee; we who find In thee a bulwark of the cause of men; And I by my affection was beguiled:
What wonder if a Poet now and then, Among the many movements of his mind, Felt for thee as a lover or a child!
W. WORDSWORTH.
215. HOHENLINDEN.
On Linden, when the sun was low, All bloodless lay the untrodden snow; And dark as winter was the flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
But Linden saw another sight, When the drum beat at dead of night Commanding fires of death to light The darkness of her scenery.
By torch and trumpet fast array'd Each horseman drew his battle-blade, And furious every charger neigh'd To join the dreadful revelry.
Then shook the hills with thunder riven; Then rush'd the steed, to battle driven; And louder than the bolts of Heaven Far flash'd the red artillery.
But redder yet that light shall glow On Linden's hills of stainéd snow; And bloodier yet the torrent flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
'Tis morn; but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank and fiery Hun Shout in their sulphurous canopy.
The combat deepens. On, ye Brave Who rush to glory, or the grave! Wave, Munich all thy banners wave, And charge with all thy chivalry!
Few, few shall part, where many meet! The snow shall be their winding-sheet, And every turf beneath their feet Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.
T. CAMPBELL.
216. AFTER BLENHEIM.
It was a summer evening, Old Kaspar's work was done, And he before his cottage door Was sitting in the sun; And by him sported on the green His little grandchild Wilhelmine.
She saw her brother Peterkin Roll something large and round Which he beside the rivulet In playing there had found He came to ask what he had found That was so large and smooth and round.
Old Kaspar took it from the boy Who stood expectant by; And then the old man shook his head, And with a natural sigh "'Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he, "Who fell in the great victory.
"I find then in the garden, For there's many here about; And often when I go to plough The ploughshare turns them out. For many thousand men," said he, "Were slain in that great victory."
"Now tell us what 'twas all about," Young Peterkin he cries; And little Wilhelmine looks up With wonder-waiting eyes; "Now tell us all about the war, And what they fought each other for."
"It was the English," Kaspar cried, "Who put the French to rout; But what they fought each other for I could not well make out. But every body said," quoth he, "That 'twas a famous victory.
"My father lived at Blenheim then, Yon little stream hard by; They burnt his dwelling to the ground, And he was forced to fly: So with his wife and child he fled, Nor had he where to rest his head.
"With fire and sword the country round Was wasted far and wide, And many a childing mother then And newborn baby died: But things like that, you know, must be At every famous victory.
"They say it was a shocking sight After the field was won; For many thousand bodies here Lay rotting in the sun: But things like that, you know, must be After a famous victory.
"Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won And our good Prince Eugene"; "Why 'twas a very wicked thing!" Said little Wilhelmine; "Nay--nay--my little girl," quoth he, "It was a famous victory.
And every body praised the Duke Who this great fight did win." "But what good came of it at last?" Quoth little Peterkin:-- "Why that I cannot tell," said he, "But 'twas a famous victory."
R. SOUTHEY.
217. PRO PATRIA MORI.
When he who adores thee has left but the name Of his fault and his sorrows behind, O! say wilt thou weep, when they darken the fame Of a life that for thee was resign'd! Yes, weep, and however my foes may condemn, Thy tears shall efface their decree; For, Heaven can witness, though guilty to them, I have been but too faithful to thee.
With thee were the dreams of my earliest love; Every thought of my reason was thine; In my last humble prayer to the Spirit above Thy name shall be mingled with mine! O! blest are the lovers and friends who shall live The days of thy glory to see; But the next dearest blessing that Heaven can give Is the pride of thus dying for thee.
T. MOORE.
218. THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE AT CORUNNA.
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corpse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried.
We buried him darkly at dead of night, The sods with our bayonets turning; By the struggling moonbeam's misty light And the lantern dimly burning.
No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him: But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him.
Few and short were the prayers we said And we spoke not a word of sorrow, But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed And smooth'd down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow!
Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him-- But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
But half of our heavy task was done When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing.
Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, But we left him alone with his glory.
C. WOLFE.
219. SIMON LEE THE OLD HUNTSMAN.
In the sweet shire of Cardigan, Not far from pleasant Ivor Hall, An old man dwells, a little man, I've heard he once was tall. Full five-and-thirty years he lived A running huntsman merry; And still the centre of his cheek Is red as a ripe cherry.