182. JOCK O' HAZELDEAN."Why weep ye by the tide, ladie?Why weep ye by the tide?I'll wed ye to my youngest son,And ye sall be his bride:And ye sall be his bride, ladie,Sae comely to be seen"—But aye she loot the tears doon fa'For Jock o' Hazeldean."Now let this wilfu' grief be done,And dry that cheek so pale;Young Frank is chief of ErringtonAnd lord of Langley-dale;His step is first in peaceful ha',His sword in battle keen"—But aye she loot the tears down fa'For Jock o' Hazeldean."A chain of gold ye shall not lack,Nor braid to bind your hair,Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawkNor palfrey fresh and fair;And you the foremost o' them a'Shall ride our forest queen"—But aye she loot the tears down fa'For Jock o' Hazeldean.The kirk was deck'd at morning-tide,The tapers glimmer'd fair;The priest and bridegroom wait the bride,And dame and knight are there:They sought her baith by bower and ha';The ladie was not seen!She's o'er the Border, and awa'Wi' Jock o' Hazeldean.SIR W. SCOTT.
183. FREEDOM AND LOVE.How delicious is the winningOf a kiss at love's beginning,When two mutual hearts are sighingFor the knot there's no untying!Yet remember, 'midst your wooing,Love has bliss, but Love has ruing;Other smiles may make you fickle,Tears for other charms may trickle.Love he comes, and Love he tarries,Just as fate or fancy carries;Longest stays, when sorest chidden;Laughs and flies, when press'd and bidden.Bind the sea to slumber stilly,Bind its odour to the lily,Bind the aspen ne'er to quiver,Then bind Love to last for ever.Love's a fire that needs renewalOf fresh beauty for its fuel:Love's wing moults when caged and captured,Only free, he soars enraptured.Can you keep the bee from rangingOr the ringdove's neck from changing?No! nor fetter'd Love from dyingIn the knot there's no untying.T. CAMPBELL.
184. LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY.The fountains mingle with the riverAnd the rivers with the ocean,The winds of heaven mix for everWith a sweet emotion;Nothing in the world is single,All things by a law divineIn one another's being mingle—Why not I with thine?See the mountains kiss high heavenAnd the waves clasp one another;No sister-flower would be forgivenIf it disdain'd its brother:And the sunlight clasps the earth,And the moonbeams kiss the sea—What are all these kissings worth,If thou kiss not me?P.B. SHELLEY.
185. ECHOES.How sweet the answer Echo makesTo Music at nightWhen, roused by lute or horn, she wakes,And far away o'er lawns and lakesGoes answering light!Yet Love hath echoes truer farAnd far more sweetThan e'er, beneath the moonlight's star,Of horn or lute or soft guitarThe songs repeat.'Tis when the sigh,—in youth sincereAnd only then,The sigh that's breathed for one to hear—Is by that one, that only DearBreathed back again.T. MOORE.
186. A SERENADE.Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh,The sun has left the lea,The orange-flower perfumes the bower,The breeze is on the sea.The lark, his lay who trill'd all day,Sits hush'd his partner nigh;Breeze, bird, and flower confess the hour,But where is County Guy?The village maid steals through the shadeHer shepherd's suit to hear;To Beauty shy, by lattice high,Sings high-born Cavalier.The star of Love, all stars above,Now reigns o'er earth and sky,And high and low the influence know—But where is County Guy?SIR W. SCOTT.
187. TO THE EVENING STAR.Gem of the crimson-colour'd Even,Companion of retiring day,Why at the closing gates of heaven,Beloved Star, dost thou delay?So fair thy pensile beauty burnsWhen soft the tear of twilight flows;So due thy plighted love returnsTo chambers brighter than the rose;To Peace, to Pleasure, and to loveSo kind a star thou seem'st to be,Sure some enamour'd orb aboveDescends and burns to meet with thee.Thine is the breathing, blushing hourWhen all unheavenly passions fly,Chased by the soul-subduing powerOf Love's delicious witchery.O! sacred to the fall of dayQueen of propitious stars, appear,And early rise, and long delayWhen Caroline herself is here!Shine on her chosen green resortWhose trees the sunward summit crown,And wanton flowers, that well may courtAn angel's feet to tread them down:—Shine on her sweetly scented roadThou star of evening's purple dome,That lead'st the nightingale abroad,And guid'st the pilgrim to his home.Shine where my charmer's sweeter breathEmbalms the soft exhaling dew,Where dying winds a sigh bequeathTo kiss the cheek of rosy hue:—Where, winnow'd by the gentle air,Her silken tresses darkly flowAnd fall upon her brow so fair,Like shadows on the mountain snow.Thus, ever thus, at day's declineIn converse sweet to wander far—O bring with thee my Caroline,And thou shalt be my Ruling Star!T. CAMPBELL.
188. TO THE NIGHT.Swiftly walk over the western wave,Spirit of Night!Out of the misty eastern caveWhere all the long and lone daylightThou wovest dreams of joy and fearWhich make thee terrible and dear,—Swift be thy flight!Wrap thy form in a mantle gray,Star-inwrought!Blind with thine hair the eyes of day,Kiss her until she be wearied out,Then wander o'er city, and sea, and land,Touching all with thine opiate wand—Come, long-sought!When I arose and saw the dawn,I sigh'd for thee;When light rode high, and the dew was gone,And noon lay heavy on flower and tree,And the weary Day turn'd to his rest,Lingering like an unloved guest,I sigh'd for thee.Thy brother Death came, and cried,Wouldst thou me?Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed,Murmur'd like a noon-tide beeShall I nestle near thy side?Wouldst thou me?—And I repliedNo, not thee!Death will come when thou art dead,Soon, too soon—Sleep will come when thou art fled;Of neither would I ask the boonI ask of thee, belovéd Night—Swift be thine approaching flight,Come soon, soon!P.B. SHELLEY.
189. TO A DISTANT FRIEND.Why art thou silent! Is thy love a plantOf such weak fibre that the treacherous airOf absence withers what was once so fair?Is there no debt to pay, no boon to grant?Yet have my thoughts for thee been vigilant,Bound to thy service with unceasing care—The mind's least generous wish a mendicantFor nought but what thy happiness could spare.Speak!—though this soft warm heart, once free to holdA thousand tender pleasures, thine and mine,Be left more desolate, more dreary coldThan a forsaken bird's-nest fill'd with snow'Mid its own bush of leafless eglantine—Speak, that my torturing doubts their end may know!W. WORDSWORTH.
190.When we two partedIn silence and tears,Half broken-heartedTo sever for years,Pale grew thy cheek and cold,Colder thy kiss;Truly that hour foretoldSorrow to this!The dew of the morningSunk chill on my brow;It felt like the warningOf what I feel now.Thy vows are all broken,And light is thy fame:I hear thy name spoken,And share in its shame.They name thee before me,A knell to mine ear;A shudder comes o'er me—Why wert thou so dear?They know not I knew thee,Who knew thee too well:Long, long shall I rue theeToo deeply to tell.In secret we met:In silence I grieveThat thy heart could forget,Thy spirit deceive.If I should meet theeAfter long years,How should I greet thee?—With silence and tears.LORD BYRON.
191. HAPPY INSENSIBILITY.In a drear-nighted December,Too happy, happy TreeThy branches ne'er rememberTheir green felicity:The north cannot undo themWith a sleety whistle through them,Nor frozen thawings glue themFrom budding at the prime.In a drear-nighted DecemberToo happy, happy BrookThy bubblings ne'er rememberApollo's summer look;But with a sweet forgettingThey stay their crystal fretting,Never, never pettingAbout the frozen time.Ah! would 'twere so with manyA gentle girl and boy!But were there ever anyWrithed not at passéd joy?To know the change and feel it,When there is none to heal itNor numbéd sense to steal it—Was never said in rhyme.J. KEATS.
192.Where shall the lover restWhom the fates severFrom his true maiden's breastParted for ever?Where, through groves deep and highSounds the far billow,Where early violets dieUnder the willow.Eleu loroSoft shall be his pillow.There, through the summer dayCool streams are laving:There, while the tempests sway,Scarce are boughs waving;There thy rest shalt thou take,Parted for ever,Never again to wakeNever, O never!Eleu loroNever, O never!Where shall the traitor rest,He, the deceiver,Who would win maiden's breast,Ruin, and leave her?In the lost battle,Borne down by the flying,Where mingles war's rattleWith groans of the dying;Eleu loroThere shall he be lying.Her wing shall the eagle flapO'er the falsehearted;His warm blood the wolf shall lapEre life be parted:Shame and dishonour sitBy his grave ever;Blessing shall hallow itNever, O never!Eleu loroNever, O never!SIR W. SCOTT.
193. LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI."O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,Alone and palely loitering?The sedge has wither'd from the lake,And no birds sing."O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,So haggard and so woe-begone?The squirrel's granary is full,And the harvest's done."I see a lily on thy browWith anguish moist and fever-dew,And on thy cheeks a fading roseFast withereth too.""I met a lady in the meads,Full beautiful—a faery's child,Her hair was long, her foot was light,And her eyes were wild."I made a garland for her head,And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;She look'd at me as she did love,And made sweet moan."I set her on my pacing steedAnd nothing else saw all day long,For sidelong would she bend, and singA faery's song."She found me roots of relish sweet,And honey wild and manna-dew,And sure in language strange she said,'I love thee true.'"She took me to her elfin grot,And there she wept, and sigh'd full sore,And there I shut her wild wild eyesWith kisses four."And there she lulléd me asleep,And there I dream'd—Ah! woe betide!The latest dream I ever dream'dOn the cold hill's side."I saw pale kings and princes too,Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;They cried—'La belle Dame sans MerciHath thee in thrall!'"I saw their starved lips in the gloamWith horrid warning gapéd wide,And I awoke and found me here,On the cold hill's side."And this is why I sojourn hereAlone and palely loitering,Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake,And no birds sing."J. KEATS.
194. THE ROVER."A weary lot is thine, fair maid,A weary lot is thine!To pull the thorn thy brow to braid,And press the rue for wine.A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien,A feather of the blue,A doublet of the Lincoln green—No more of me you knew,My Love!No more of me you knew."The morn is merry June, I trow,The rose is budding fain;But she shall bloom in winter snowEre we two meet again."He turn'd his charger as he spakeUpon the river shore,He gave the bridle-reins a shake,Said "Adieu for evermore,My Love!And adieu for evermore."SIR W. SCOTT.
195. THE FLIGHT OF LOVE.When the lamp is shatter'd,The light in the dust lies dead—When the cloud is scatter'd,The rainbow's glory is shed.When the lute is broken,Sweet tones are remember'd not;When the lips have spoken,Loved accents are soon forgot.As music and splendourSurvive not the lamp and the lute,The heart's echoes renderNo song when the spirit is mute—No song but sad dirges,Like the wind through a ruin'd cell,Or the mournful surgesThat ring the dead seaman's knell.When hearts have once mingled,Love first leaves the well-built nest;The weak one is singledTo endure what it once possest.O Love! who bewailestThe frailty of all things here,Why choose you the frailestFor your cradle, your home, and your bier?Its passions will rock theeAs the storms rock the ravens on high;Bright reason will mock theeLike the sun from a wintry sky.From thy nest every rafterWill rot, and thine eagle homeLeave thee naked to laughter,When leaves fall and cold winds come.P. B. SHELLEY.
196. THE MAID OF NEIDPATH.O lovers' eyes are sharp to see,And lovers' ears in hearing;And love, in life's extremityCan lend an hour of cheering.Disease had been in Mary's bowerAnd slow decay from mourning,Though now she sits on Neidpath's towerTo watch her Love's returning.All sunk and dim her eyes so bright,Her form decay'd by pining,Till through her wasted hand, at night,You saw the taper shining.By fits a sultry hectic hueAcross her cheek was flying;By fits so ashy pale she grewHer maidens thought her dying.Yet keenest powers to see and hearSeem'd in her frame residing;Before the watch-dog prick'd his earShe heard her lover's riding;Ere scarce a distant form was kenn'dShe knew and waved to greet him,And o'er the battlement did bendAs on the wing to meet him.He came—he pass'd—an heedless gazeAs o'er some stranger glancing;Her welcome, spoke in faltering phrase,Lost in his courser's prancing—The castle-arch, whose hollow toneReturns each whisper spoken,Could scarcely catch the feeble moanWhich told her heart was broken.SIR W. SCOTT
197. THE MAID OF NEIDPATH.Earl March look'd on his dying child,And smit with grief to view her—The youth, he cried, whom I exiledShall be restored to woo her.She's at the window many an hourHis coming to discover:And he look'd up to Ellen's bowerAnd she look'd on her lover—But ah! so pale, he knew her not,Though her smile on him was dwelling—And am I then forgot—forgot?It broke the heart of Ellen.In vain he weeps, in vain he sighs,Her cheek is cold as ashes;Nor love's own kiss shall wake those eyesTo lift their silken lashes.T. CAMPBELL
198.Bright Star! would I were steadfast as thou art—Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night,And watching, with eternal lids apart,Like Nature's patient sleepless Eremite,The moving waters at their priestlike taskOf pure ablution round earth's human shores,Or gazing on the new soft fallen maskOf snow upon the mountains and the moors:—No—yet still steadfast, still unchangeable,Pillow'd upon my fair Love's ripening breastTo feel for ever its soft fall and swell,Awake for ever in a sweet unrest;Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,And so live ever,—or else swoon to death.J. KEATS.
199. THE TERROR OF DEATH.When I have fears that I may cease to beBefore 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 traceTheir 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 powerOf unreflecting love—then on the shoreOf 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 whomBut 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 powerEven for the least division of an hourHave I been so beguiled as to be blindTo my most grievous loss?—That thought's returnWas the worst pang that sorrow ever boreSave one, one only, when I stood forlorn,Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more;That neither present time, nor years unbornCould to my sight that heavenly face restore.W. WORDSWORTH.
201.At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping,I flyTo the lone vale we loved, when life shone warm inthine eye;And I think oft, if spirits can steal from the regionsof airTo revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come tome thereAnd tell me our love is remember'd even in the sky!Then I sing the wild song it once was rapture to hearWhen our voices, commingling, breathed like one onthe ear;And as Echo far off through the vale my sad orisonrolls,I think, O my love! 'tis thy voice, from the Kingdomof SoulsFaintly answering still the notes that once were so dear.T. MOORE.
202. ELEGY ON THYRZA.And thou art dead, as young and fairAs aught of mortal birth;And forms so soft and charms so rareToo soon return'd to Earth!Though Earth received them in her bed,And o'er the spot the crowd may treadIn carelessness or mirth,There is an eye which could not brookA moment on that grave to look.I will not ask where thou liest lowNor gaze upon the spot;There flowers and weeds at will may growSo I behold them not:It is enough for me to proveThat what I loved and long must loveLike 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 thouWho didst not change through all the pastAnd canst not alter now.The love where Death has set his sealNor age can chill, nor rival steal,Nor falsehood disavow:And, what were worse, thou canst not seeOr 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 loursShall never more be thine.The silence of that dreamless sleepI envy now too much to weep;Nor need I to repineThat all those charms have pass'd awayI might have watch'd through long decay.The flower in ripen'd bloom unmatch'dMust fall the earliest prey;Though by no hand untimely snatch'd,The leaves must drop away.And yet it were a greater griefTo watch it withering, leaf by leaf,Than see it pluck'd to-day;Since earthly eye but ill can bearTo trace the change from foul to fair.I know not if I could have borneTo see thy beauties fade;The night that follow'd such a mornHad 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 skyShine brightest as they fall from high.As once I wept if I could weep,My tears might well be shedTo think I was not near, to keepOne 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 remainThan thus remember thee!The all of thine that cannot dieThrough dark and dread EternityReturns again to me,And more thy buried love endearsThan aught except its living years.LORD BYRON.
203.One word is too often profanedFor me to profane it,One feeling too falsely disdain'dFor thee to disdain it.One hope is too like despairFor prudence to smother,And Pity from thee more dearThan that from another.I can give not what men call love;But wilt thou accept notThe worship the heart lifts aboveAnd the Heavens reject not:The desire of the moth for the star,Of the night for the morrow,The devotion to something afarFrom the sphere of our sorrow?P.B. SHELLEY.
204. GATHERING SONG OF DONALD THE BLACK.Pibroch of Donuil DhuPibroch of DonuilWake 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, andFrom mountain so rocky;The war-pipe and pennonAre at Inverlochy.Come every hill-plaid, andTrue heart that wears one,Come every steel blade, andStrong 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, whenForests are rended,Come as the waves come, whenNavies 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 plumeBlended with heather.Cast your plaids, draw your blades,Forward each man set!Pibroch of Donuil DhuKnell for the onset!SIR W. SCOTT.
205.A wet sheet and a flowing sea,A wind that follows fastAnd fills the white and rustling sailAnd bends the gallant mast;And bends the gallant mast, my boys,While like the eagle freeAway the good ship flies, and leavesOld England on the lee.O for a soft and gentle wind!I heard a fair one cry;But give to me the snoring breezeAnd 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 EnglandThat guard our native seas!Whose flag has braved, a thousand yearsThe battle and the breeze!Your glorious standard launch againTo match another foe:And sweep through the deep,While the stormy winds do blow;While the battle rages loud and longAnd the stormy winds do blow.The spirits of your fathersShall start from every wave—For the deck it was their field of fame,And Ocean was their grave:Where Blake and mighty Nelson fellYour manly hearts shall glow,As ye sweep through the deep,While the stormy winds do blow;While the battle rages loud and longAnd 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 oakShe quells the floods below—As they roar on the shore,When the stormy winds do blow;When the battle rages loud and longAnd the stormy winds do blow.The meteor flag of EnglandShall yet terrific burn;Till danger's troubled night departAnd the star of peace return.Then, then, ye ocean-warriors!Our song and feast shall flowTo 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 NorthSing the glorious day's renown,When to battle fierce came forthAll the might of Denmark's crown,And her arms along the deep proudly shone;By each gun the lighted brandIn a bold determined hand,And the Prince of all the landLed them on.Like leviathans afloatLay their bulwarks on the brine;While the sign of battle flewOn the lofty British line:It was ten of April morn by the chime:As they drifted on their pathThere was silence deep as death;And the boldest held his breathFor a time.But the might of England flush'dTo anticipate the scene;And her van the fleeter rush'dO'er the deadly space between."Hearts of oak!" our captains cried, when each gunFrom its adamantine lipsSpread a death-shade round the ships,Like the hurricane eclipseOf the sun.Again! again! again!And the havoc did not slack,Till a feeble cheer the DaneTo 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 paleLight the gloom.Out spoke the victor thenAs 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 fleetWith the crews, at England's feet,And make submission meetTo our King."Then Denmark blest our chiefThat he gave her wounds repose;And the sounds of joy and griefFrom her people wildly rose,As death withdrew his shades from the day:While the sun look'd smiling brightO'er a wide and woeful sight,Where the fires of funeral lightDied 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 sleepFull many a fathom deepBy thy wild and stormy steep,Elsinore!Brave hearts! to Britain's prideOnce so faithful and so true,On the deck of fame that diedWith the gallant good Riou:Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their grave!While the billow mournful rollsAnd the mermaid's song condolesSinging glory to the soulsOf the brave!T. CAMPBELL.
208. ODE TO DUTYStern Daughter of the voice of God!O Duty! if that name thou loveWho art a light to guide, a rodTo check the erring, and reprove;Thou who art victory and lawWhen 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 eyeBe on them; who, in love and truthWhere no misgiving is, relyUpon the genial sense of youth:Glad hearts! without reproach or blot,Who do thy work, and know it not:Oh! if through confidence misplacedThey fail, thy saving arms, dread Power! around them cast.Serene will be our days and brightAnd happy will our nature beWhen love is an unerring light,And joy its own security.And they a blissful course may holdEv'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 heardThy timely mandate, I deferr'dThe task, in smoother walks to stray;But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may.Through no disturbance of my soulOr 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 wearThe Godhead's most benignant grace;Nor know we anything so fairAs 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 commendUnto 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 martyrdomAnd Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind.Chillon! thy prison is a holy placeAnd thy sad floor an altar, for 'twas trodUntil his very steps have left a traceWorn 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 gleeThou fought'st against him,—but hast vainly striven:Thou from thy Alpine holds at length are drivenWhere 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 beThat 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 feeAnd was the safeguard of the West; the worthOf 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 paidWhen her long life hath reach'd its final day:Men are we, and must grieve when even the shadeOf that which once was great has pass'd away.W. WORDSWORTH.
212. LONDON, MDCCCII.O Friend! I know not which way I must lookFor comfort, being, as I am, opprestTo think that now our life is only drestFor show; mean handiwork of craftsman, cook,Or groom!—We must run glittering like a brookIn the open sunshine, or we are unblest;The wealthiest man among us is the best:No grandeur now in Nature or in bookDelights 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 causeIs gone; our peace, our fearful innocence,And pure religion breathing household laws.W. WORDSWORTH.