These heavy walls to me had grown WATERLOO. THERE was a sound of revelry by night, Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again, Roused up the soldier ere the morning star; While throng'd the citizens with terror dumb, Or whispering, with white lips-"The foe! They come, they come !" And wild and high the "Cameron'sgathering" rose! The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes;— How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills, Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fills Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers With the fierce native daring which instils The stirring memory of a thousand years, [ears! And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, Dewy, with nature's tear-drops, as they pass, Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, Over the unreturning brave-alas! Ere evening to be trodden like the grass Which now beneath them, but above shall grow, In its next verdure, when this fiery mass [and low. Of living valour rolling on the foe, Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which, when rent, The earth is cover'd thick with other clay, Which her own clay shall cover, heap'd and pent, Rider and horse,-friend, foe,-in one red burial blent! MONODY ON THE DEATH OF THE RIGHT HON. R. B. SHERIDAN. SPOKEN AT DRURY-LANE THEATRE. WHEN the last sunshine of expiring day Unmix'd with worldly grief or selfish stain, Of light no likeness is bequeath'd-no name, Focus at once of all the rays of fame! The flash of wit-the bright intelligence, The beam of song-the blaze of eloquence, Set with their sun-but still have left behind The enduring produce of immortal mind; Fruits of a genial morn and glorious noon, A deathless part of him who died too soon, But small that portion of the wondrous whole, These sparkling segments of that circling soul, Which all embraced, and lighten'd over all, To cheer, to pierce, to please, or to appal. From the charm'd council to the festive board, Of human feelings the unbounded lord; In whose acclaim the loftiest voices vied, [pride. The praised, the proud, who made his praise their When the loud cry of trampled Hindostan* Arose to heaven in her appeal from man, His was the thunder-his the avenging rod, The wrath-the delegated voice of God! [blazed Which shook the nations through his lips--and Till vanquish'd senates trembled as they praised. And here, oh! here, where yet all young and warm The gay creations of his spirit charm, The matchless dialogue, the deathless wit, Which knew not what it was to intermit; The glowing portraits, fresh from life, that bring Home to our hearts the truth from which they spring; These wondrous beings of his fancy, wrought To fulness by the fiat of his thought, Here in their first abode you still may meet, Bright with the hues of his Promethean heat, A halo of the light of other days, Which still the splendour of its orb betrays. But should there be to whom the fatal blight Of failing wisdom yields a base delight; Men who exult when minds of heavenly tone Jar in the music which was born their own; Still let them pause-Ah! little do they know That what to them seem'd vice might be but wo. Hard is his fate on whom the public gaze Is fix'd forever, to detract or praise; Repose denies her requiem to his name, And folly loves the martyrdom of fame. The secret enemy whose sleepless eye Stands sentinel, accuser, judge, and spy, The foe, the fool, the jealous, and the vain, The envious who but breathe in other's pain, Behold the host! delighting to deprave, Who track the steps of glory to the grave, Watch every fault that daring genius owes Half to the ardour which its birth bestows, Distort the truth, accumulate the lie, And pile the pyramid of calumny! These are his portion-but if, join'd to these Gaunt poverty should league with deep disease, If the high spirit must forget to soar, And stoop to strive with misery at the door, To soothe indignity-and face to face Meet sordid rage, and wrestle with disgrace, * See Fox, Burke, and Pitt's eulogy on Mr. Sheridan's speech on the charges exhibited against Mr. Hastings in the House of Commons. Mr. Pitt entreated the House to adjourn, to give time for a calmer consideration of the question than could then occur after the immediate effect of that oration. To find in hope but the renew'd caress, THE ISLES OF GREECE. THE isles of Greece! the isles of Greece! The Scian and the Teian muse, The hero's harp, the lover's lute, Have found the fame your shores refuse; Their place of birth alone is mute To sounds which echo further west Than your sires' "Islands of the Bless'd.” The mountains look on MarathonAnd Marathon looks on the sea; And musing there an hour alone, I dream'd that Greece might still be free; For, standing on the Persians' grave, I could not deem myself a slave. A king sate on the rocky brow Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis; And ships, by thousands, lay below, And men in nations;-all were his! Fox-Pitt-Burke. He counted them at break of day- The heroic bosom beats no more! Even as I sing, suffuse my face; A remnant of our Spartan dead! Ah! no;-the voices of the dead And answer, " Let one living head, And shed the blood of Scio's vine! The nobler and the manlier one? He served-but served Polycrates- The tyrant or the Chersonese Was freedom's best and bravest friend, That tyrant was Miltiades! Oh! that the present hour would lend Another despot of the kind! Such chains as his were sure to bind. Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! On Suli's rock and Parga's shore Exists the remnant of a line Such as the Doric mothers bore; And there, perhaps, some seed is sown, The Heracleidan blood might own. Trust not for freedom to the FranksThey have a king who buys and sells. In native swords, and native ranks, The only hope of courage dwells; But Turkish force and Latin fraud Where nothing, save the waves and I, May hear our mutual murmurs sweep; There, swan-like, let me sing and die: A land of slaves shall ne'er be mineDash down yon cup of Samian wine! SOLILOQUY OF MANFRED. THE stars are forth, the moon above the tops Of the snow-shining mountains.-Beautiful! I linger yet with Nature, for the night Hath been to me a more familiar face Than that of man; and in her starry shade Of dim and solitary loveliness, I learn'd the language of another world. While Caesars' chambers and the Augustan halls And thou didst shine, thou rolling moon, upon "I was such a night! 'Tis strange that I recall it at this time; But I have found our thoughts take wildest flight Even at the moment when they should array Themselves in pensive order. CECILIA METELLA. THERE is a stern round tower of other days, The green leaves over all by time o'erthrown ;What was this tower of strength? within its cave What treasure lay so lock'd, so hid?-A woman's grave. But who was she, the lady of the dead, Tomb'd in a palace? Was she chaste and fair? Worthy a king's-or more-a Roman's bed? What race of chiefs and heroes did she bear? What daughter of her beauties was the heir? How lived, how loved, how died she? was she not So honour'd-and conspicuously there, Where meaner relics must not dare to rot, Placed to commemorate a more than mortal lot? Was she as those who love their lords, or they Who love the lords of others? such have been Even in the olden time, Rome's annals say. Was she a matron of Cornelia's mien, Or the light air of Egypt's graceful queen, Profuse of joy- -or 'gainst it did she war, Inveterate in virtue? Did she lean To the soft side of the heart, or wisely bar Love from amongst her griefs?-for such the affections are. Perchance she died in youth: it may be, bow'd With woes far heavier than the ponderous tomb That weigh'd upon her gentle dust, a cloud Might gather o'er her beauty, and a gloom In her dark eye, prophetic of the doom Heaven gives its favourites-early death; yet shed A sunset charm around her, and illume, With hectic light, the Hesperus of the dead, Of her consuming cheek the autumnal leaf like red. Perchance she died in age-surviving all, Charms, kindred, children-with the silver gray On her long tresses, which might yet recall, It may be, still a something of the day When they were braided, and her proud array And lovely form were envied, praised, and eyed By Rome-But whither would conjecture stray? Thus much alone we know-Metella died, [pride! The wealthiest Roman's wife; behold his love or I know not why-but, standing thus by thee, It seems as if I had thine inmate known, Thou tomb! and other days come back on me With recollected music, though the tone Is changed and soleren, like the cloudy groan Of dying thunder on the distant wind; Yet could I seat me by this ivied stone Till I had bodied forth the heated mind [behind; Forms from the flowing wreck which ruin leaves And from the planks, far shatter'd o'er the rocks, Built me a little bark of hope, once more To battle with the ocean and the shocks Of the loud breakers, and the ceaseless roar Which rushes on the solitary shore Where all lies founder'd that was ever dear: But could I gather from the wave-worn store Enough for my rude boat, where should I steer? There woos no home, nor hope, nor life, save what is here. Then let the winds howl on! their harmony Shall henceforth be my music, and the night The sound shall temper with the owlets' cry, As I now hear them, in the fading light Dim o'er the bird of darkness' native site, Answering each other on the Palatine, [bright, With their large eyes, all glistening gray and And sailing pinions.-Upon such a shrine What are our petty griefs?-let me not number mine. THE OCEAN. On! that the desert were my dwelling-place, With one fair spirit for my minister, That I might all forget the human race, And, hating no one, love but only her! Ye elements!-in whose ennobling stir I feel myself exalted-Can ye not Accord me such a being? Do I err In deeming such inhabit many a spot? Though with them to converse can rarely be our lot. There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a rapture on the lonely shore; There is society, where none intrudes, By the deep sea, and music in its roar : I love not man the less, but nature more, From these our interviews, in which I steal From all I may be, or have been before, To mingle with the universe, and feel What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal. Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean-roll! Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain; Man marks the earth with ruin-his control Stops with the shore;-upon the watery plain The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain A shadow of man's ravage, save his own, When for a moment, like a drop of rain, He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, Without a grave, unknell'd, uncoffin'd, and unknown. His steps are not upon thy paths,-thy fields Are not a spoil for him,-thou dost arise [wields And shake him from thee; the vile strength he For earth's destruction thou dost all despise, Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies, And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray And howling, to his gods, where haply lies His petty hope in some near port or bay, And dashest him again to earth;—there let him lay. The armaments which thunderstrike the walls Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake, And monarchs tremble in their capitals, The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make Their clay creator the vain title take Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war; These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, Calm or convulsed-in breeze, or gale, or storm, Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime The monsters of the deep are made; each zone Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone. And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be Borne, like thy bubbles, onward: from a boy I wanton'd with thy breakers-they to me Were a delight; and if the freshening sea Made them a terror-'t was a pleasing fear, For I was as it were a child of thee, And trusted to thy billows far and near, And laid thy hand upon thy mane-as I do here. TO THYRZA. WITHOUT a stone to mark the spot, And say, what truth might well have said By all, save one, perchance forgot, Ah, wherefore art thou lowly laid? To bid us meet-no-ne'er again! With fainter sighs, thy soul's release. And didst thou not, since Death for thee Prepared a light and pangless dart, Once long for him thou ne'er shall see, Who held, and holds thee in his heart? Oh! who like him had watch'd thee here? Or sadly mark'd thy glazing eye In that dread hour ere death appear, When silent sorrow fears to sigh, Had flow'd as fast-as now they flow. Affection's mingling tears were ours? Ours too the glance none saw beside; That love each warmer wish forbore; When prone, unlike thee to repine; The song, celestial from thy voice, But sweet to me from none but thine, But never bent beneath till now! I would not wish thee here again: Thy virtues seek a fitter sphere, To wean me from mine anguish here. STANZAS. AWAY, away, ye notes of wo. Be silent, thou once soothing strain, I must not think, I may not gaze The voice that made those sounds more sweet Is hush'd, and all their charms are fled; And now their softest notes repeat A dirge, an anthem o'er the dead! Yes, Thyrza! yes, they breathe of thee, Beloved dust! since dust thou art; And all that once was harmony Is worse than discord to my heart! "Tis silent all!-but on my car The well-remember'd echoes thrill; I hear a voice I would not hear, A voice that now might well be still: To listen, though the dream be flown. Then turn'd from earth its tender beam. U |