DIRGE OF WALLACE.

Behold where Gallia’s captive queen,With steady eye and look serene,In life’s last awful—awful scene,Slow leaves her sad captivity.Hark! the shrill horn that rends the skyBespeaks thy ready murder nigh,The long parade of death I spy,And leave my lone captivity.Farewell, ye mansions of despair,Scenes of my sad sequestered care.The balm of bleeding war is near.Adieu, my lone captivity.To purer mansions in the sky,Fair Hope directs my grief-worn eye,Where sorrow’s child no more shall sighAmid her lone captivity.Adieu, ye babes whose infant bloomBeneath oppression’s lawless doom,Pines in the solitary gloomOf undeserved captivity.O Power benign that rul’st on high,Cast down, cast down a pitying eye;Shed consolation from the sky,To soothe their sad captivity.Now virtue’s sure reward to prove,I seek empyreal realms above,To meet my long-departed love;Adieu my lone captivity.

Behold where Gallia’s captive queen,With steady eye and look serene,In life’s last awful—awful scene,Slow leaves her sad captivity.

Behold where Gallia’s captive queen,

With steady eye and look serene,

In life’s last awful—awful scene,

Slow leaves her sad captivity.

Hark! the shrill horn that rends the skyBespeaks thy ready murder nigh,The long parade of death I spy,And leave my lone captivity.

Hark! the shrill horn that rends the sky

Bespeaks thy ready murder nigh,

The long parade of death I spy,

And leave my lone captivity.

Farewell, ye mansions of despair,Scenes of my sad sequestered care.The balm of bleeding war is near.Adieu, my lone captivity.

Farewell, ye mansions of despair,

Scenes of my sad sequestered care.

The balm of bleeding war is near.

Adieu, my lone captivity.

To purer mansions in the sky,Fair Hope directs my grief-worn eye,Where sorrow’s child no more shall sighAmid her lone captivity.

To purer mansions in the sky,

Fair Hope directs my grief-worn eye,

Where sorrow’s child no more shall sigh

Amid her lone captivity.

Adieu, ye babes whose infant bloomBeneath oppression’s lawless doom,Pines in the solitary gloomOf undeserved captivity.

Adieu, ye babes whose infant bloom

Beneath oppression’s lawless doom,

Pines in the solitary gloom

Of undeserved captivity.

O Power benign that rul’st on high,Cast down, cast down a pitying eye;Shed consolation from the sky,To soothe their sad captivity.

O Power benign that rul’st on high,

Cast down, cast down a pitying eye;

Shed consolation from the sky,

To soothe their sad captivity.

Now virtue’s sure reward to prove,I seek empyreal realms above,To meet my long-departed love;Adieu my lone captivity.

Now virtue’s sure reward to prove,

I seek empyreal realms above,

To meet my long-departed love;

Adieu my lone captivity.

[85]These lines were published in a leading Glasgow newspaper in 1792.

They lighted the tapers at dead of night,And chanted their holiest hymn,But her brow and her bosom were damp with affright,Her eye was all sleepless and dim.And the lady of Elderslie wept for her lord,When a deathwatch beat in her lonely room,When her curtain had shook of its own accord,And the raven had flapped at her window board,To tell of her warrior’s doom.Now sing the death-song and loudly prayFor the soul of my knight so dear,And call me a widow this wretched day,Since the warning of God is here.For a nightmare rides on my strangled sleep—The lord of my bosom is doomed to die;His valorous heart they have wounded deep,And the blood-red tears shall his country weep,For Wallace of Elderslie.Yet knew not his country that ominous hour,Ere the loud matin bell was rung,That a trumpet of death on an English towerHad the dirge of her champion sung.When his dungeon light looked dim and redOn the high-born blood of a martyr slain,No anthem was sung at his holy death-bed;No weeping was there when his bosom bled,And his heart was rent in twain.Oh! it was not thus when his ashen spearWas true to that knight forlorn,And hosts of a thousand were scattered like deer,At the sound of the hunter’s horn!When he strode o’er the wreck of each well-fought field,With the yellow-haired chiefs of his native land;For his lance was not shivered on helmet or shield,And the sword that seemed fit for archangel to wield,Was light in his terrible hand.But bleeding and bound though “the Wallace wight,”For his much-loved country die,The bugle ne’er sung to a braver knightThan Wallace of Elderslie.But the day of his glory shall never depart,His head unentombed shall with glory be palmed,From its blood-streaming altar his spirit shall start;Though the raven has fed on his mouldering heart—A nobler was never embalmed.

They lighted the tapers at dead of night,And chanted their holiest hymn,But her brow and her bosom were damp with affright,Her eye was all sleepless and dim.

They lighted the tapers at dead of night,

And chanted their holiest hymn,

But her brow and her bosom were damp with affright,

Her eye was all sleepless and dim.

And the lady of Elderslie wept for her lord,When a deathwatch beat in her lonely room,When her curtain had shook of its own accord,And the raven had flapped at her window board,To tell of her warrior’s doom.

And the lady of Elderslie wept for her lord,

When a deathwatch beat in her lonely room,

When her curtain had shook of its own accord,

And the raven had flapped at her window board,

To tell of her warrior’s doom.

Now sing the death-song and loudly prayFor the soul of my knight so dear,And call me a widow this wretched day,Since the warning of God is here.

Now sing the death-song and loudly pray

For the soul of my knight so dear,

And call me a widow this wretched day,

Since the warning of God is here.

For a nightmare rides on my strangled sleep—The lord of my bosom is doomed to die;His valorous heart they have wounded deep,And the blood-red tears shall his country weep,For Wallace of Elderslie.

For a nightmare rides on my strangled sleep—

The lord of my bosom is doomed to die;

His valorous heart they have wounded deep,

And the blood-red tears shall his country weep,

For Wallace of Elderslie.

Yet knew not his country that ominous hour,Ere the loud matin bell was rung,That a trumpet of death on an English towerHad the dirge of her champion sung.

Yet knew not his country that ominous hour,

Ere the loud matin bell was rung,

That a trumpet of death on an English tower

Had the dirge of her champion sung.

When his dungeon light looked dim and redOn the high-born blood of a martyr slain,No anthem was sung at his holy death-bed;No weeping was there when his bosom bled,And his heart was rent in twain.

When his dungeon light looked dim and red

On the high-born blood of a martyr slain,

No anthem was sung at his holy death-bed;

No weeping was there when his bosom bled,

And his heart was rent in twain.

Oh! it was not thus when his ashen spearWas true to that knight forlorn,And hosts of a thousand were scattered like deer,At the sound of the hunter’s horn!

Oh! it was not thus when his ashen spear

Was true to that knight forlorn,

And hosts of a thousand were scattered like deer,

At the sound of the hunter’s horn!

When he strode o’er the wreck of each well-fought field,With the yellow-haired chiefs of his native land;For his lance was not shivered on helmet or shield,And the sword that seemed fit for archangel to wield,Was light in his terrible hand.

When he strode o’er the wreck of each well-fought field,

With the yellow-haired chiefs of his native land;

For his lance was not shivered on helmet or shield,

And the sword that seemed fit for archangel to wield,

Was light in his terrible hand.

But bleeding and bound though “the Wallace wight,”For his much-loved country die,The bugle ne’er sung to a braver knightThan Wallace of Elderslie.

But bleeding and bound though “the Wallace wight,”

For his much-loved country die,

The bugle ne’er sung to a braver knight

Than Wallace of Elderslie.

But the day of his glory shall never depart,His head unentombed shall with glory be palmed,From its blood-streaming altar his spirit shall start;Though the raven has fed on his mouldering heart—A nobler was never embalmed.

But the day of his glory shall never depart,

His head unentombed shall with glory be palmed,

From its blood-streaming altar his spirit shall start;

Though the raven has fed on his mouldering heart—

A nobler was never embalmed.

Adieu! Romance’s heroines—Give me the nymphs who this good hourMay charm me, not in Fiction’s scenes,But teach me Beauty’s living power.My harp that has been mute too longShall sleep at Beauty’s name no more,So but your smiles reward my song—Jemima, Rose, and Eleanore.In whose benignant eyes are beamingThe rays of purity and truth;Such as we fancy woman’s seemingIn the creation’s golden youth.The more I look upon thy grace,Rosina, I could look the more;But for Jemima’s witching face,And the sweet smile of Eleanore.Had I been Lawrence, kings had wantedTheir portraits, till I painted yours;And these had future hearts enchanted,When this poor verse no more endures.I would have left the Congress faces,A dull-eyed diplomatic corps,Till I had grouped you as the Graces—Jemima, Rose, and Eleanore.The Catholic bids fair saints befriend him,Your poet’s heart is Catholic too;His rosary shall be flowers ye send him,His saints’ days when he visits you.And my sere laurels for my duty,Miraculous at your touch would rise;Could I give verse one trait of beautyLike that which glads me from your eyes.Unsealed by you these lips have spoken,Disused to song for many a day,Ye’ve tuned a harp whose strings were broken,And warmed a heart of callous clay;So when my fancy next refusesTo twine for you a garland more,Come back again and be my Muses—Jemima, Rose, and Eleanore.

Adieu! Romance’s heroines—

Give me the nymphs who this good hour

May charm me, not in Fiction’s scenes,

But teach me Beauty’s living power.

My harp that has been mute too long

Shall sleep at Beauty’s name no more,

So but your smiles reward my song—

Jemima, Rose, and Eleanore.

In whose benignant eyes are beamingThe rays of purity and truth;Such as we fancy woman’s seemingIn the creation’s golden youth.The more I look upon thy grace,Rosina, I could look the more;But for Jemima’s witching face,And the sweet smile of Eleanore.

In whose benignant eyes are beaming

The rays of purity and truth;

Such as we fancy woman’s seeming

In the creation’s golden youth.

The more I look upon thy grace,

Rosina, I could look the more;

But for Jemima’s witching face,

And the sweet smile of Eleanore.

Had I been Lawrence, kings had wantedTheir portraits, till I painted yours;And these had future hearts enchanted,When this poor verse no more endures.I would have left the Congress faces,A dull-eyed diplomatic corps,Till I had grouped you as the Graces—Jemima, Rose, and Eleanore.

Had I been Lawrence, kings had wanted

Their portraits, till I painted yours;

And these had future hearts enchanted,

When this poor verse no more endures.

I would have left the Congress faces,

A dull-eyed diplomatic corps,

Till I had grouped you as the Graces—

Jemima, Rose, and Eleanore.

The Catholic bids fair saints befriend him,Your poet’s heart is Catholic too;His rosary shall be flowers ye send him,His saints’ days when he visits you.And my sere laurels for my duty,Miraculous at your touch would rise;Could I give verse one trait of beautyLike that which glads me from your eyes.

The Catholic bids fair saints befriend him,

Your poet’s heart is Catholic too;

His rosary shall be flowers ye send him,

His saints’ days when he visits you.

And my sere laurels for my duty,

Miraculous at your touch would rise;

Could I give verse one trait of beauty

Like that which glads me from your eyes.

Unsealed by you these lips have spoken,Disused to song for many a day,Ye’ve tuned a harp whose strings were broken,And warmed a heart of callous clay;So when my fancy next refusesTo twine for you a garland more,Come back again and be my Muses—Jemima, Rose, and Eleanore.

Unsealed by you these lips have spoken,

Disused to song for many a day,

Ye’ve tuned a harp whose strings were broken,

And warmed a heart of callous clay;

So when my fancy next refuses

To twine for you a garland more,

Come back again and be my Muses—

Jemima, Rose, and Eleanore.

Can restlessness reach the cold sepulchred head?—Ay, the quick have their sleep-walkers, so have the deadThere are brains, though they moulder, that dream in the tomb,And that maddening forehear the last trumpet of doom,Till their corses start sheeted to revel on earth,Making horror more deep by the semblance of mirth:By the glare of new-lighted volcanoes they dance,Or at mid-sea appal the chilled mariner’s glance.Such I wot, was the band of cadaverous smileSeen ploughing the night-surge of Heligo’s isle.The foam of the Baltic had sparkled like fire,And the red moon looked down with an aspect of ire;But her beams on a sudden grew sick-like and grey,And the mews that had slept clanged and shrieked far awayAnd the buoys and the beacons extinguished their light,As the boat of the stony-eyed dead came in sight,High bounding from billow to billow; each formHad its shroud like a plaid flying loose to the storm;With an oar in each pulseless and icy-cold hand,Fast they ploughed, by the lee-shore of Heligoland,Such breakers as boat of the living ne’er crossed;Now surf-sunk for minutes again they uptossed,And with livid lips shouted reply o’er the floodTo the challenging watchman that curdled his blood—“We are dead—we are bound from our graces in the west,First to Hecla, and then to——” Unmeet was the restFor man’s ear. The old abbey bell thundered its clang,And their eyes gleamed with phosphorous light as it rangEre they vanished, they stopped, and gazed silently grim,Till the eye could define them, garb, feature and limbNow who were those roamers?—of gallows or wheelBore they marks, or the mangling anatomist’s steel?No, by magistrates’ chains ’mid their grave-clothes you saw,They were felons too proud to have perished by law;But a ribbon that hung where a rope should have been,’Twas the badge of their faction, its hue was not green,Showed them men who had trampled and tortured and drivenTo rebellion the fairest Isle breathed on by Heaven,—Men whose heirs would yet finish the tyrannous task,If the Truth and the Time had not dragged off their mask.They parted—but not till the sight might discernA scutcheon distinct at their pinnace’s stern,Where letters emblazoned in blood-coloured flame,Named their faction—I blot not my page with its name.

Can restlessness reach the cold sepulchred head?—

Ay, the quick have their sleep-walkers, so have the dead

There are brains, though they moulder, that dream in the tomb,

And that maddening forehear the last trumpet of doom,

Till their corses start sheeted to revel on earth,

Making horror more deep by the semblance of mirth:

By the glare of new-lighted volcanoes they dance,

Or at mid-sea appal the chilled mariner’s glance.

Such I wot, was the band of cadaverous smile

Seen ploughing the night-surge of Heligo’s isle.

The foam of the Baltic had sparkled like fire,

And the red moon looked down with an aspect of ire;

But her beams on a sudden grew sick-like and grey,

And the mews that had slept clanged and shrieked far away

And the buoys and the beacons extinguished their light,

As the boat of the stony-eyed dead came in sight,

High bounding from billow to billow; each form

Had its shroud like a plaid flying loose to the storm;

With an oar in each pulseless and icy-cold hand,

Fast they ploughed, by the lee-shore of Heligoland,

Such breakers as boat of the living ne’er crossed;

Now surf-sunk for minutes again they uptossed,

And with livid lips shouted reply o’er the flood

To the challenging watchman that curdled his blood—

“We are dead—we are bound from our graces in the west,

First to Hecla, and then to——” Unmeet was the rest

For man’s ear. The old abbey bell thundered its clang,

And their eyes gleamed with phosphorous light as it rang

Ere they vanished, they stopped, and gazed silently grim,

Till the eye could define them, garb, feature and limb

Now who were those roamers?—of gallows or wheel

Bore they marks, or the mangling anatomist’s steel?

No, by magistrates’ chains ’mid their grave-clothes you saw,

They were felons too proud to have perished by law;

But a ribbon that hung where a rope should have been,

’Twas the badge of their faction, its hue was not green,

Showed them men who had trampled and tortured and driven

To rebellion the fairest Isle breathed on by Heaven,—

Men whose heirs would yet finish the tyrannous task,

If the Truth and the Time had not dragged off their mask.

They parted—but not till the sight might discern

A scutcheon distinct at their pinnace’s stern,

Where letters emblazoned in blood-coloured flame,

Named their faction—I blot not my page with its name.

When Love came first to Earth, theSpringSpread rose-beds to receive himAnd back he vowed his flight he’d wingTo Heaven, if she should leave him.ButSpringdeparting, saw his faithPledged to the next new comer—He revelled in the warmer breathAnd richer bowers ofSummer.Then sportiveAutumnclaimed by rightsAn Archer for her lover,And even inWinter’sdark, cold nightsA charm he could discover.Her routs and balls, and fireside joy,For this time were his reasons—In short, Young Love’s a gallant boy,That likes all times and seasons.

When Love came first to Earth, theSpringSpread rose-beds to receive himAnd back he vowed his flight he’d wingTo Heaven, if she should leave him.

When Love came first to Earth, theSpring

Spread rose-beds to receive him

And back he vowed his flight he’d wing

To Heaven, if she should leave him.

ButSpringdeparting, saw his faithPledged to the next new comer—He revelled in the warmer breathAnd richer bowers ofSummer.

ButSpringdeparting, saw his faith

Pledged to the next new comer—

He revelled in the warmer breath

And richer bowers ofSummer.

Then sportiveAutumnclaimed by rightsAn Archer for her lover,And even inWinter’sdark, cold nightsA charm he could discover.

Then sportiveAutumnclaimed by rights

An Archer for her lover,

And even inWinter’sdark, cold nights

A charm he could discover.

Her routs and balls, and fireside joy,For this time were his reasons—In short, Young Love’s a gallant boy,That likes all times and seasons.

Her routs and balls, and fireside joy,

For this time were his reasons—

In short, Young Love’s a gallant boy,

That likes all times and seasons.

On England’s shore I saw a pensive band,With sails unfurled for earth’s remotest strand,Like children parting from a mother, shedTears for the home that could not yield them bread,Grief marked each face receding from the view,’Twas grief to nature honourably true.And long, poor wanderers o’er the ecliptic deep,The song that names but home shall bid you weep;Oft shall ye fold your flocks by stars aboveIn that far world, and miss the stars ye love;Oft, when its tuneless birds scream round forlorn,Regret the lark that gladdens England’s morn,And, giving England’s names to distant scenes,Lament that earth’s extension intervenes.But cloud not yet too long, industrious train,Your solid good with sorrow nursed in vain:For has the heart no interest yet as blandAs that which binds us to our native land?The deep-drawn wish, when children crown our hearth,To hear the cherub-chorus of their mirth,Undamped by dread that want may e’er unhouse,Or servile misery knit those smiling brows:The pride to rear an independent shed,And give the lips we love unborrowed bread;To see a world, from shadowy forests won,In youthful beauty wedded to the sun;To skirt our home with harvests widely sown,And call the blooming landscape all our own,Our children’s heritage, in prospect long.These are the hopes, high-minded hopes and strong,That beckon England’s wanderers o’er the brine,To realms where foreign constellations shine;Where streams from undiscovered fountains roll,And winds shall fan them from th’ Antarctic pole,And what though doomed to shores so far apartFrom England’s home, that e’en the home-sick heartQuails, thinking, ere that gulf can be recrossed,How large a space of fleeting life is lost:Yet there, by time, their bosoms shall be changed,And strangers once shall cease to sigh estranged,But jocund in the year’s long sunshine roam,That yields their sickle twice its harvest-home.There, marking o’er his farm’s expanding ringNew fleeces whiten and new fruits upspring,The grey-haired swain, his grandchild sporting round,Shall walk at eve his little empire’s bound,Emblazed with ruby vintage, ripening corn,And verdant rampart of Acacian thorn,While, mingling with the scent his pipe exhales,The orange-grove’s and fig-tree’s breath prevails;Survey with pride beyond a monarch’s spoil,His honest arm’s own subjugated soil;And summing all the blessings God has given,Put up his patriarchal prayer to Heaven,That when his bones shall here repose in peace,The scions of his love may still increase,And o’er a land where life has ample room,In health and plenty innocently bloom.Delightful land, in wildness e’en benign,The glorious past is ours, the future thine!As in a cradled Hercules, we traceThe lines of empire in thine infant face.What nations in thy wide horizon’s spanShall teem on tracts untrodden yet by man!What spacious cities with their spires shall gleamWhere now the panther laps a lonely stream,And all but brute or reptile life is dumb!Land of the free! thy kingdom is to come,Of states, with laws from Gothic bondage burst,And creeds by chartered priesthood’s unaccurst;Of navies, hoisting their emblazoned flags,Where shipless seas now wash unbeaconed crags;Of hosts reviewed in dazzling files and squares,Their pennoned trumpets breathing native airs,—For minstrels thou shalt have of native fire,And maids to sing the songs themselves inspire:—Our very speech, methinks, in after time,Shall catch th’ Ionian blandness of thy clime;And whilst the light and luxury of thy skiesGive brighter smiles to beauteous woman’s eyes,The Arts, whose soul is love, shall all spontaneous rise.Untracked in deserts lies the marble mine,Undug the ore that midst thy roofs shall shine;Unborn the hands—but born they are to be—Fair Australasia, that shall give to theeProud temple-domes, with galleries winding high,So vast in space, so just in symmetry,They widen to the contemplating eye,With colonnaded aisles in long array,And windows that enrich the flood of dayO’er tesselated pavements, pictures fair,And nichèd statues breathing golden air.Nor there, whilst all that’s seen bids Fancy swell,Shall Music’s voice refuse to seal the spell;But choral hymns shall wake enchantment round,And organs yield their tempests of sweet sound.Meanwhile, ere Arts triumphant reach their goal,How blest the years of pastoral life shall roll!E’en should some wayward hour the settler’s mindBrood sad on scenes for ever left behind,Yet not a pang that England’s name imparts,Shall touch a fibre of his children’s hearts;Bound to that native land by nature’s bond,Full little shall their wishes rove beyondIts mountains blue, and melon-skirted streams,Since childhood loved and dreamt of in their dreams.How many a name, to us uncouthly wild,Shall thrill that region’s patriotic child,And bring as sweet thoughts o’er his bosom’s chords,As aught that’s named in song to us affords!Dear shall that river’s margin be to him,Where sportive first he bathed his boyish limb,Or petted birds, still brighter than their bowers,Or twined his tame young kangaroo with flowers.But more magnetic yet to memoryShall be the sacred spot, still blooming nigh,The bower of love, where first his bosom burned,And smiling passion saw its smile returned.Go forth and prosper then, emprizing band:May He, who in the hollow of his handThe ocean holds, and rules the whirlwind’s sweep,Assuage its wrath, and guide you on the deep!

On England’s shore I saw a pensive band,

With sails unfurled for earth’s remotest strand,

Like children parting from a mother, shed

Tears for the home that could not yield them bread,

Grief marked each face receding from the view,

’Twas grief to nature honourably true.

And long, poor wanderers o’er the ecliptic deep,

The song that names but home shall bid you weep;

Oft shall ye fold your flocks by stars above

In that far world, and miss the stars ye love;

Oft, when its tuneless birds scream round forlorn,

Regret the lark that gladdens England’s morn,

And, giving England’s names to distant scenes,

Lament that earth’s extension intervenes.

But cloud not yet too long, industrious train,Your solid good with sorrow nursed in vain:For has the heart no interest yet as blandAs that which binds us to our native land?The deep-drawn wish, when children crown our hearth,To hear the cherub-chorus of their mirth,Undamped by dread that want may e’er unhouse,Or servile misery knit those smiling brows:The pride to rear an independent shed,And give the lips we love unborrowed bread;To see a world, from shadowy forests won,In youthful beauty wedded to the sun;To skirt our home with harvests widely sown,And call the blooming landscape all our own,Our children’s heritage, in prospect long.These are the hopes, high-minded hopes and strong,That beckon England’s wanderers o’er the brine,To realms where foreign constellations shine;Where streams from undiscovered fountains roll,And winds shall fan them from th’ Antarctic pole,And what though doomed to shores so far apartFrom England’s home, that e’en the home-sick heartQuails, thinking, ere that gulf can be recrossed,How large a space of fleeting life is lost:Yet there, by time, their bosoms shall be changed,And strangers once shall cease to sigh estranged,But jocund in the year’s long sunshine roam,That yields their sickle twice its harvest-home.

But cloud not yet too long, industrious train,

Your solid good with sorrow nursed in vain:

For has the heart no interest yet as bland

As that which binds us to our native land?

The deep-drawn wish, when children crown our hearth,

To hear the cherub-chorus of their mirth,

Undamped by dread that want may e’er unhouse,

Or servile misery knit those smiling brows:

The pride to rear an independent shed,

And give the lips we love unborrowed bread;

To see a world, from shadowy forests won,

In youthful beauty wedded to the sun;

To skirt our home with harvests widely sown,

And call the blooming landscape all our own,

Our children’s heritage, in prospect long.

These are the hopes, high-minded hopes and strong,

That beckon England’s wanderers o’er the brine,

To realms where foreign constellations shine;

Where streams from undiscovered fountains roll,

And winds shall fan them from th’ Antarctic pole,

And what though doomed to shores so far apart

From England’s home, that e’en the home-sick heart

Quails, thinking, ere that gulf can be recrossed,

How large a space of fleeting life is lost:

Yet there, by time, their bosoms shall be changed,

And strangers once shall cease to sigh estranged,

But jocund in the year’s long sunshine roam,

That yields their sickle twice its harvest-home.

There, marking o’er his farm’s expanding ringNew fleeces whiten and new fruits upspring,The grey-haired swain, his grandchild sporting round,Shall walk at eve his little empire’s bound,Emblazed with ruby vintage, ripening corn,And verdant rampart of Acacian thorn,While, mingling with the scent his pipe exhales,The orange-grove’s and fig-tree’s breath prevails;Survey with pride beyond a monarch’s spoil,His honest arm’s own subjugated soil;And summing all the blessings God has given,Put up his patriarchal prayer to Heaven,That when his bones shall here repose in peace,The scions of his love may still increase,And o’er a land where life has ample room,In health and plenty innocently bloom.

There, marking o’er his farm’s expanding ring

New fleeces whiten and new fruits upspring,

The grey-haired swain, his grandchild sporting round,

Shall walk at eve his little empire’s bound,

Emblazed with ruby vintage, ripening corn,

And verdant rampart of Acacian thorn,

While, mingling with the scent his pipe exhales,

The orange-grove’s and fig-tree’s breath prevails;

Survey with pride beyond a monarch’s spoil,

His honest arm’s own subjugated soil;

And summing all the blessings God has given,

Put up his patriarchal prayer to Heaven,

That when his bones shall here repose in peace,

The scions of his love may still increase,

And o’er a land where life has ample room,

In health and plenty innocently bloom.

Delightful land, in wildness e’en benign,The glorious past is ours, the future thine!As in a cradled Hercules, we traceThe lines of empire in thine infant face.What nations in thy wide horizon’s spanShall teem on tracts untrodden yet by man!What spacious cities with their spires shall gleamWhere now the panther laps a lonely stream,And all but brute or reptile life is dumb!Land of the free! thy kingdom is to come,Of states, with laws from Gothic bondage burst,And creeds by chartered priesthood’s unaccurst;Of navies, hoisting their emblazoned flags,Where shipless seas now wash unbeaconed crags;Of hosts reviewed in dazzling files and squares,Their pennoned trumpets breathing native airs,—For minstrels thou shalt have of native fire,And maids to sing the songs themselves inspire:—Our very speech, methinks, in after time,Shall catch th’ Ionian blandness of thy clime;And whilst the light and luxury of thy skiesGive brighter smiles to beauteous woman’s eyes,The Arts, whose soul is love, shall all spontaneous rise.

Delightful land, in wildness e’en benign,

The glorious past is ours, the future thine!

As in a cradled Hercules, we trace

The lines of empire in thine infant face.

What nations in thy wide horizon’s span

Shall teem on tracts untrodden yet by man!

What spacious cities with their spires shall gleam

Where now the panther laps a lonely stream,

And all but brute or reptile life is dumb!

Land of the free! thy kingdom is to come,

Of states, with laws from Gothic bondage burst,

And creeds by chartered priesthood’s unaccurst;

Of navies, hoisting their emblazoned flags,

Where shipless seas now wash unbeaconed crags;

Of hosts reviewed in dazzling files and squares,

Their pennoned trumpets breathing native airs,—

For minstrels thou shalt have of native fire,

And maids to sing the songs themselves inspire:—

Our very speech, methinks, in after time,

Shall catch th’ Ionian blandness of thy clime;

And whilst the light and luxury of thy skies

Give brighter smiles to beauteous woman’s eyes,

The Arts, whose soul is love, shall all spontaneous rise.

Untracked in deserts lies the marble mine,Undug the ore that midst thy roofs shall shine;Unborn the hands—but born they are to be—Fair Australasia, that shall give to theeProud temple-domes, with galleries winding high,So vast in space, so just in symmetry,They widen to the contemplating eye,With colonnaded aisles in long array,And windows that enrich the flood of dayO’er tesselated pavements, pictures fair,And nichèd statues breathing golden air.Nor there, whilst all that’s seen bids Fancy swell,Shall Music’s voice refuse to seal the spell;But choral hymns shall wake enchantment round,And organs yield their tempests of sweet sound.

Untracked in deserts lies the marble mine,

Undug the ore that midst thy roofs shall shine;

Unborn the hands—but born they are to be—

Fair Australasia, that shall give to thee

Proud temple-domes, with galleries winding high,

So vast in space, so just in symmetry,

They widen to the contemplating eye,

With colonnaded aisles in long array,

And windows that enrich the flood of day

O’er tesselated pavements, pictures fair,

And nichèd statues breathing golden air.

Nor there, whilst all that’s seen bids Fancy swell,

Shall Music’s voice refuse to seal the spell;

But choral hymns shall wake enchantment round,

And organs yield their tempests of sweet sound.

Meanwhile, ere Arts triumphant reach their goal,How blest the years of pastoral life shall roll!E’en should some wayward hour the settler’s mindBrood sad on scenes for ever left behind,Yet not a pang that England’s name imparts,Shall touch a fibre of his children’s hearts;Bound to that native land by nature’s bond,Full little shall their wishes rove beyondIts mountains blue, and melon-skirted streams,Since childhood loved and dreamt of in their dreams.How many a name, to us uncouthly wild,Shall thrill that region’s patriotic child,And bring as sweet thoughts o’er his bosom’s chords,As aught that’s named in song to us affords!Dear shall that river’s margin be to him,Where sportive first he bathed his boyish limb,Or petted birds, still brighter than their bowers,Or twined his tame young kangaroo with flowers.But more magnetic yet to memoryShall be the sacred spot, still blooming nigh,The bower of love, where first his bosom burned,And smiling passion saw its smile returned.

Meanwhile, ere Arts triumphant reach their goal,

How blest the years of pastoral life shall roll!

E’en should some wayward hour the settler’s mind

Brood sad on scenes for ever left behind,

Yet not a pang that England’s name imparts,

Shall touch a fibre of his children’s hearts;

Bound to that native land by nature’s bond,

Full little shall their wishes rove beyond

Its mountains blue, and melon-skirted streams,

Since childhood loved and dreamt of in their dreams.

How many a name, to us uncouthly wild,

Shall thrill that region’s patriotic child,

And bring as sweet thoughts o’er his bosom’s chords,

As aught that’s named in song to us affords!

Dear shall that river’s margin be to him,

Where sportive first he bathed his boyish limb,

Or petted birds, still brighter than their bowers,

Or twined his tame young kangaroo with flowers.

But more magnetic yet to memory

Shall be the sacred spot, still blooming nigh,

The bower of love, where first his bosom burned,

And smiling passion saw its smile returned.

Go forth and prosper then, emprizing band:May He, who in the hollow of his handThe ocean holds, and rules the whirlwind’s sweep,Assuage its wrath, and guide you on the deep!

Go forth and prosper then, emprizing band:

May He, who in the hollow of his hand

The ocean holds, and rules the whirlwind’s sweep,

Assuage its wrath, and guide you on the deep!

I had a heart that doated once in passion’s boundless pain,And though the tyrant I abjured, I could not break his chain;But now that Fancy’s fire is quenched, and ne’er can burn anew,I’ve bid to Love, for all my life, adieu! adieu! adieu!I’ve known, if ever mortal knew, the spells of Beauty’s thrall,And if my song has told them not, my soul has felt them all;But Passion robs my peace no more, and Beauty’s witching swayIs now to me a star that’s fall’n—a dream that’s passed away.Hail! welcome tide of life, when no tumultuous billows roll,How wondrous to myself appears this halcyon calm of soul!The wearied bird blown o’er the deep would sooner quit its shore,Than I would cross the gulf again that time has brought me o’er.Why say the Angels feel the flame?—Oh, spirits of the skies!Can love like ours, that doats on dust, in heavenly bosoms rise?—Ah no; the hearts that best have felt its power, the best can tell,That peace on earth itself begins, when Love has bid farewell.

I had a heart that doated once in passion’s boundless pain,

And though the tyrant I abjured, I could not break his chain;

But now that Fancy’s fire is quenched, and ne’er can burn anew,

I’ve bid to Love, for all my life, adieu! adieu! adieu!

I’ve known, if ever mortal knew, the spells of Beauty’s thrall,And if my song has told them not, my soul has felt them all;But Passion robs my peace no more, and Beauty’s witching swayIs now to me a star that’s fall’n—a dream that’s passed away.

I’ve known, if ever mortal knew, the spells of Beauty’s thrall,

And if my song has told them not, my soul has felt them all;

But Passion robs my peace no more, and Beauty’s witching sway

Is now to me a star that’s fall’n—a dream that’s passed away.

Hail! welcome tide of life, when no tumultuous billows roll,How wondrous to myself appears this halcyon calm of soul!The wearied bird blown o’er the deep would sooner quit its shore,Than I would cross the gulf again that time has brought me o’er.

Hail! welcome tide of life, when no tumultuous billows roll,

How wondrous to myself appears this halcyon calm of soul!

The wearied bird blown o’er the deep would sooner quit its shore,

Than I would cross the gulf again that time has brought me o’er.

Why say the Angels feel the flame?—Oh, spirits of the skies!Can love like ours, that doats on dust, in heavenly bosoms rise?—Ah no; the hearts that best have felt its power, the best can tell,That peace on earth itself begins, when Love has bid farewell.

Why say the Angels feel the flame?—Oh, spirits of the skies!

Can love like ours, that doats on dust, in heavenly bosoms rise?—

Ah no; the hearts that best have felt its power, the best can tell,

That peace on earth itself begins, when Love has bid farewell.

Was man e’er doomed that beauty madeBy mimic art should haunt him?Like Orpheus, I adore a shade,And doat upon a phantom.Thou maid that in my inmost thoughtArt fancifully sainted,Why liv’st thou not—why art thou noughtBut canvass sweetly painted?Whose looks seem lifted to the skies,Too pure for love of mortals—As if they drew angelic eyesTo greet thee at heaven’s portals.Yet loveliness has here no grace,Abstracted or ideal—Art ne’er but from a living faceDrew looks so seeming real.What wert thou, maid?—thy life—thy nameOblivion hides in mystery;Though from thy face my heart could frameA long romantic history.Transported to thy time I seem,Though dust thy coffin covers—And hear the songs, in fancy’s dream,Of thy devoted lovers.How witching must have been thy breath—How sweet the living charmer—Whose very semblance after deathCan make the heart grow warmer!Adieu, the charms that vainly moveMy soul in their possession—That prompt my lips to speak of love,Yet rob them of expression.Yet thee, dear picture, to have praisedWas but a poet’s duty;And shame to him that ever gazedImpassive on thy beauty.

Was man e’er doomed that beauty madeBy mimic art should haunt him?Like Orpheus, I adore a shade,And doat upon a phantom.

Was man e’er doomed that beauty made

By mimic art should haunt him?

Like Orpheus, I adore a shade,

And doat upon a phantom.

Thou maid that in my inmost thoughtArt fancifully sainted,Why liv’st thou not—why art thou noughtBut canvass sweetly painted?

Thou maid that in my inmost thought

Art fancifully sainted,

Why liv’st thou not—why art thou nought

But canvass sweetly painted?

Whose looks seem lifted to the skies,Too pure for love of mortals—As if they drew angelic eyesTo greet thee at heaven’s portals.

Whose looks seem lifted to the skies,

Too pure for love of mortals—

As if they drew angelic eyes

To greet thee at heaven’s portals.

Yet loveliness has here no grace,Abstracted or ideal—Art ne’er but from a living faceDrew looks so seeming real.

Yet loveliness has here no grace,

Abstracted or ideal—

Art ne’er but from a living face

Drew looks so seeming real.

What wert thou, maid?—thy life—thy nameOblivion hides in mystery;Though from thy face my heart could frameA long romantic history.

What wert thou, maid?—thy life—thy name

Oblivion hides in mystery;

Though from thy face my heart could frame

A long romantic history.

Transported to thy time I seem,Though dust thy coffin covers—And hear the songs, in fancy’s dream,Of thy devoted lovers.

Transported to thy time I seem,

Though dust thy coffin covers—

And hear the songs, in fancy’s dream,

Of thy devoted lovers.

How witching must have been thy breath—How sweet the living charmer—Whose very semblance after deathCan make the heart grow warmer!

How witching must have been thy breath—

How sweet the living charmer—

Whose very semblance after death

Can make the heart grow warmer!

Adieu, the charms that vainly moveMy soul in their possession—That prompt my lips to speak of love,Yet rob them of expression.

Adieu, the charms that vainly move

My soul in their possession—

That prompt my lips to speak of love,

Yet rob them of expression.

Yet thee, dear picture, to have praisedWas but a poet’s duty;And shame to him that ever gazedImpassive on thy beauty.

Yet thee, dear picture, to have praised

Was but a poet’s duty;

And shame to him that ever gazed

Impassive on thy beauty.

Hearts of oak that have bravely delivered the brave,And uplifted old Greece from the brink of the grave,’Twas the helpless to help, and the hopeless to save,That your thunderbolts swept o’er the brine;And as long as yon sun shall look down on the waveThe light of your glory shall shine.For the guerdon ye sought with your bloodshed and toil,Was it slaves, or dominion, or rapine, or spoil?No! your lofty emprize was to fetter and foilThe uprooter of Greece’s domain!When he tore the last remnant of food from her soil,Till her famished sank pale as the slain!Yet, Navarin’s heroes! does Christendom breedThe base hearts that will question the fame of your deedAre they men?—let ineffable scorn be their meed,And oblivion shadow their graves!—Are they women?—to Turkish serails let them speed!And be mothers of Mussulman slaves.Abettors of massacre! dare ye deploreThat the death-shriek is silenced on Hellas’s shore?That the mother aghast sees her offspring no moreBy the hand of Infanticide grasped?And that stretched on yon billows distained by their goreMissolonghi’s assassins have gasped?Prouder scene never hallowed war’s pomp to the mind,Than when Christendom’s pennons wooed social the wind,And the flower of her brave for the combat combined,Their watch-word, humanity’s vow;—Not a sea-boy that fought in that cause, but mankindOwes a garland to honour his brow!Nor grudge, by our side, that to conquer or fall,Came the hardy rude Russ, and the high-mettled Gaul;For whose was the genius, that planned at its call,Where the whirlwind of battle should roll?All were brave! but the star of success over allWas the light of our Codrington’s soul.That star of the day-spring, regenerate Greek!Dimmed the Saracen’s moon, and struck pallid his cheek;In its first flushing morning thy Muses shall speakWhen their lore and their lutes they reclaim:And the first of their songs from Parnassus’s peakShall be “Glory to Codrington’s name!”

Hearts of oak that have bravely delivered the brave,

And uplifted old Greece from the brink of the grave,

’Twas the helpless to help, and the hopeless to save,

That your thunderbolts swept o’er the brine;

And as long as yon sun shall look down on the wave

The light of your glory shall shine.

For the guerdon ye sought with your bloodshed and toil,Was it slaves, or dominion, or rapine, or spoil?No! your lofty emprize was to fetter and foilThe uprooter of Greece’s domain!When he tore the last remnant of food from her soil,Till her famished sank pale as the slain!

For the guerdon ye sought with your bloodshed and toil,

Was it slaves, or dominion, or rapine, or spoil?

No! your lofty emprize was to fetter and foil

The uprooter of Greece’s domain!

When he tore the last remnant of food from her soil,

Till her famished sank pale as the slain!

Yet, Navarin’s heroes! does Christendom breedThe base hearts that will question the fame of your deedAre they men?—let ineffable scorn be their meed,And oblivion shadow their graves!—Are they women?—to Turkish serails let them speed!And be mothers of Mussulman slaves.

Yet, Navarin’s heroes! does Christendom breed

The base hearts that will question the fame of your deed

Are they men?—let ineffable scorn be their meed,

And oblivion shadow their graves!—

Are they women?—to Turkish serails let them speed!

And be mothers of Mussulman slaves.

Abettors of massacre! dare ye deploreThat the death-shriek is silenced on Hellas’s shore?That the mother aghast sees her offspring no moreBy the hand of Infanticide grasped?And that stretched on yon billows distained by their goreMissolonghi’s assassins have gasped?

Abettors of massacre! dare ye deplore

That the death-shriek is silenced on Hellas’s shore?

That the mother aghast sees her offspring no more

By the hand of Infanticide grasped?

And that stretched on yon billows distained by their gore

Missolonghi’s assassins have gasped?

Prouder scene never hallowed war’s pomp to the mind,Than when Christendom’s pennons wooed social the wind,And the flower of her brave for the combat combined,Their watch-word, humanity’s vow;—Not a sea-boy that fought in that cause, but mankindOwes a garland to honour his brow!

Prouder scene never hallowed war’s pomp to the mind,

Than when Christendom’s pennons wooed social the wind,

And the flower of her brave for the combat combined,

Their watch-word, humanity’s vow;—

Not a sea-boy that fought in that cause, but mankind

Owes a garland to honour his brow!

Nor grudge, by our side, that to conquer or fall,Came the hardy rude Russ, and the high-mettled Gaul;For whose was the genius, that planned at its call,Where the whirlwind of battle should roll?All were brave! but the star of success over allWas the light of our Codrington’s soul.

Nor grudge, by our side, that to conquer or fall,

Came the hardy rude Russ, and the high-mettled Gaul;

For whose was the genius, that planned at its call,

Where the whirlwind of battle should roll?

All were brave! but the star of success over all

Was the light of our Codrington’s soul.

That star of the day-spring, regenerate Greek!Dimmed the Saracen’s moon, and struck pallid his cheek;In its first flushing morning thy Muses shall speakWhen their lore and their lutes they reclaim:And the first of their songs from Parnassus’s peakShall be “Glory to Codrington’s name!”

That star of the day-spring, regenerate Greek!

Dimmed the Saracen’s moon, and struck pallid his cheek;

In its first flushing morning thy Muses shall speak

When their lore and their lutes they reclaim:

And the first of their songs from Parnassus’s peak

Shall be “Glory to Codrington’s name!”

Adieu the woods and waters’ sideImperial Danube’s rich domain!Adieu the grotto, wild and wide,The rocks abrupt, and grassy plain!For pallid Autumn once againHath swelled each torrent of the hill;Her clouds collect, her shadows sail,And watery winds that sweep the vale,Grow loud and louder still.But not the storm, dethroning fastYon monarch oak of massy pile;Nor river roaring to the blastAround its dark and desert isle;Nor church-bell[86]tolling to beguileThe cloud-born thunder passing by,Can sound in discord to my soul:Roll on, ye mighty waters, roll!And rage, thou darkened sky!Thy blossoms now no longer bright;Thy withered woods no longer greenYet, Eldurn shore, with dark delightI visit thy unlovely scene!For many a sunset hour sereneMy steps have trod thy mellow dew;When his green light the fire-fly gave,When Cynthia from the distant waveHer twilight anchor drew,And ploughed, as with a swelling sail,The billowy clouds and starry sea:Then while thy hermit nightingaleSang on his fragrant apple-tree,—Romantic, solitary, free,The visitant of Eldurn’s shore,On such a moonlight mountain strayedAs echoed to the music madeBy Druid harps of yore.Around thy savage hills of oak,Around thy waters bright and blue,No hunter’s horn the silence broke,No dying shriek thine echo knew;But safe, sweet Eldurn woods, to youThe wounded wild deer ever ran.Whose myrtle bound their grassy cave,Whose very rocks a shelter gaveFrom blood-pursuing man.Oh heart effusions, that aroseFrom nightly wanderings cherished here;To him who flies from many woes,Even homeless deserts can be dear!The last and solitary cheerOf those that own no earthly home,Say—is it not, ye banished race,In such a loved and lonely placeCompanionless to roam?Yes! I have loved thy wild abode,Unknown, unploughed, untrodden shore;Where scarce the woodman finds a road,And scarce the fisher plies an oar:For man’s neglect I love thee more;That art nor avarice intrudeTo tame thy torrent’s thunder-shock,Or prune thy vintage of the rockMagnificently rude.Unheeded spreads thy blossomed budIts milky bosom to the bee;Unheeded falls along the flooddesolate and aged tree.Forsaken scene, how like to theeThe fate of unbefriended Worth!Like thine her fruit dishonoured falls,Like thee in solitude she callsA thousand treasures forth.O! silent spirit of the place,If, lingering with the ruined year,Thy hoary form and awful faceI yet might watch and worship here!Thy storm were music to mine ear,Thy wildest walk a shelter givenSublimer thoughts on earth to find,And share, with no unhallowed mind,The majesty of heaven.What though the bosom friends of Fate,—Prosperity’s unweanèd brood,—Thy consolations cannot rate,O self-dependent solitude!Yet with a spirit unsubdued,Though darkened by the clouds of Care,To worship thy congenial gloom,A pilgrim to the Prophet’s tombMisfortune shall repair.On her the world hath never smiledOr looked but with accusing eye;All-silent goddess of the wild,To thee that misanthrope shall fly!I hear her deep soliloquy,I mark her proud but ravaged form,As stern she wraps her mantle round,And bids, on winter’s bleakest ground,Defiance to the storm.Peace to her banished heart, at last,In thy dominions shall descend,And, strong as beechwood in the blast,Her spirit shall refuse to bend;Enduring life without a friend,The world and falsehood left behind,Thy votary shall bear elate(Triumphant o’er opposing Fate),Her dark inspirèd mind.But dost thou, Folly, mock the museA wanderer’s mountain walk to sing,Who shuns a warring world, nor wooesThe vulture cover of its wing?Then fly, thou cowering, shivering thing,Back to the fostering world beguiledTo waste in self-consuming strifeThe loveless brotherhood of life,Reviling and reviled!Away, thou lover of the raceThat hither chased yon weeping deer!If Nature’s all majestic faceMore pitiless than man’s appear;Or if the wild winds seem more drearThan man’s cold charities below,Behold around his peopled plains,Where’er the social savage reigns,Exuberance of woe!His art and honours wouldst thou seekEmbossed on grandeur’s giant walls?Or hear his moral thunders speakWhere senates light their airy halls,Where man his brother man enthralls;Or sends his whirlwind warrants forthTo rouse the slumbering fiends of war,To dye the blood-warm waves afar,And desolate the earth?From clime to clime pursue the scene,And mark in all thy spacious way,Where’er the tyrant man has been,There Peace, the cherub, cannot stay;In wilds and woodlands far awayShe builds her solitary bower,Where only anchorites have trod,Or friendless men, to worship God,Have wandered for an hour.In such a far forsaken vale,—And such, sweet Eldurn vale, is thine,—Afflicted nature shall inhaleHeaven-borrowed thoughts and joys divine:No longer wish, no more repineFor man’s neglect or woman’s scorn;—Then wed thee to an exile’s lot,For if the world hath loved thee not,Its absence may be borne.

Adieu the woods and waters’ side

Imperial Danube’s rich domain!

Adieu the grotto, wild and wide,

The rocks abrupt, and grassy plain!

For pallid Autumn once again

Hath swelled each torrent of the hill;

Her clouds collect, her shadows sail,

And watery winds that sweep the vale,

Grow loud and louder still.

But not the storm, dethroning fastYon monarch oak of massy pile;Nor river roaring to the blastAround its dark and desert isle;Nor church-bell[86]tolling to beguileThe cloud-born thunder passing by,Can sound in discord to my soul:Roll on, ye mighty waters, roll!And rage, thou darkened sky!

But not the storm, dethroning fast

Yon monarch oak of massy pile;

Nor river roaring to the blast

Around its dark and desert isle;

Nor church-bell[86]tolling to beguile

The cloud-born thunder passing by,

Can sound in discord to my soul:

Roll on, ye mighty waters, roll!

And rage, thou darkened sky!

Thy blossoms now no longer bright;Thy withered woods no longer greenYet, Eldurn shore, with dark delightI visit thy unlovely scene!For many a sunset hour sereneMy steps have trod thy mellow dew;When his green light the fire-fly gave,When Cynthia from the distant waveHer twilight anchor drew,

Thy blossoms now no longer bright;

Thy withered woods no longer green

Yet, Eldurn shore, with dark delight

I visit thy unlovely scene!

For many a sunset hour serene

My steps have trod thy mellow dew;

When his green light the fire-fly gave,

When Cynthia from the distant wave

Her twilight anchor drew,

And ploughed, as with a swelling sail,The billowy clouds and starry sea:Then while thy hermit nightingaleSang on his fragrant apple-tree,—Romantic, solitary, free,The visitant of Eldurn’s shore,On such a moonlight mountain strayedAs echoed to the music madeBy Druid harps of yore.

And ploughed, as with a swelling sail,

The billowy clouds and starry sea:

Then while thy hermit nightingale

Sang on his fragrant apple-tree,—

Romantic, solitary, free,

The visitant of Eldurn’s shore,

On such a moonlight mountain strayed

As echoed to the music made

By Druid harps of yore.

Around thy savage hills of oak,Around thy waters bright and blue,No hunter’s horn the silence broke,No dying shriek thine echo knew;But safe, sweet Eldurn woods, to youThe wounded wild deer ever ran.Whose myrtle bound their grassy cave,Whose very rocks a shelter gaveFrom blood-pursuing man.

Around thy savage hills of oak,

Around thy waters bright and blue,

No hunter’s horn the silence broke,

No dying shriek thine echo knew;

But safe, sweet Eldurn woods, to you

The wounded wild deer ever ran.

Whose myrtle bound their grassy cave,

Whose very rocks a shelter gave

From blood-pursuing man.

Oh heart effusions, that aroseFrom nightly wanderings cherished here;To him who flies from many woes,Even homeless deserts can be dear!The last and solitary cheerOf those that own no earthly home,Say—is it not, ye banished race,In such a loved and lonely placeCompanionless to roam?

Oh heart effusions, that arose

From nightly wanderings cherished here;

To him who flies from many woes,

Even homeless deserts can be dear!

The last and solitary cheer

Of those that own no earthly home,

Say—is it not, ye banished race,

In such a loved and lonely place

Companionless to roam?

Yes! I have loved thy wild abode,Unknown, unploughed, untrodden shore;Where scarce the woodman finds a road,And scarce the fisher plies an oar:For man’s neglect I love thee more;That art nor avarice intrudeTo tame thy torrent’s thunder-shock,Or prune thy vintage of the rockMagnificently rude.

Yes! I have loved thy wild abode,

Unknown, unploughed, untrodden shore;

Where scarce the woodman finds a road,

And scarce the fisher plies an oar:

For man’s neglect I love thee more;

That art nor avarice intrude

To tame thy torrent’s thunder-shock,

Or prune thy vintage of the rock

Magnificently rude.

Unheeded spreads thy blossomed budIts milky bosom to the bee;Unheeded falls along the flooddesolate and aged tree.Forsaken scene, how like to theeThe fate of unbefriended Worth!Like thine her fruit dishonoured falls,Like thee in solitude she callsA thousand treasures forth.

Unheeded spreads thy blossomed bud

Its milky bosom to the bee;

Unheeded falls along the flood

desolate and aged tree.

Forsaken scene, how like to thee

The fate of unbefriended Worth!

Like thine her fruit dishonoured falls,

Like thee in solitude she calls

A thousand treasures forth.

O! silent spirit of the place,If, lingering with the ruined year,Thy hoary form and awful faceI yet might watch and worship here!Thy storm were music to mine ear,Thy wildest walk a shelter givenSublimer thoughts on earth to find,And share, with no unhallowed mind,The majesty of heaven.

O! silent spirit of the place,

If, lingering with the ruined year,

Thy hoary form and awful face

I yet might watch and worship here!

Thy storm were music to mine ear,

Thy wildest walk a shelter given

Sublimer thoughts on earth to find,

And share, with no unhallowed mind,

The majesty of heaven.

What though the bosom friends of Fate,—Prosperity’s unweanèd brood,—Thy consolations cannot rate,O self-dependent solitude!Yet with a spirit unsubdued,Though darkened by the clouds of Care,To worship thy congenial gloom,A pilgrim to the Prophet’s tombMisfortune shall repair.

What though the bosom friends of Fate,—

Prosperity’s unweanèd brood,—

Thy consolations cannot rate,

O self-dependent solitude!

Yet with a spirit unsubdued,

Though darkened by the clouds of Care,

To worship thy congenial gloom,

A pilgrim to the Prophet’s tomb

Misfortune shall repair.

On her the world hath never smiledOr looked but with accusing eye;All-silent goddess of the wild,To thee that misanthrope shall fly!I hear her deep soliloquy,I mark her proud but ravaged form,As stern she wraps her mantle round,And bids, on winter’s bleakest ground,Defiance to the storm.

On her the world hath never smiled

Or looked but with accusing eye;

All-silent goddess of the wild,

To thee that misanthrope shall fly!

I hear her deep soliloquy,

I mark her proud but ravaged form,

As stern she wraps her mantle round,

And bids, on winter’s bleakest ground,

Defiance to the storm.

Peace to her banished heart, at last,In thy dominions shall descend,And, strong as beechwood in the blast,Her spirit shall refuse to bend;Enduring life without a friend,The world and falsehood left behind,Thy votary shall bear elate(Triumphant o’er opposing Fate),Her dark inspirèd mind.

Peace to her banished heart, at last,

In thy dominions shall descend,

And, strong as beechwood in the blast,

Her spirit shall refuse to bend;

Enduring life without a friend,

The world and falsehood left behind,

Thy votary shall bear elate

(Triumphant o’er opposing Fate),

Her dark inspirèd mind.

But dost thou, Folly, mock the museA wanderer’s mountain walk to sing,Who shuns a warring world, nor wooesThe vulture cover of its wing?Then fly, thou cowering, shivering thing,Back to the fostering world beguiledTo waste in self-consuming strifeThe loveless brotherhood of life,Reviling and reviled!

But dost thou, Folly, mock the muse

A wanderer’s mountain walk to sing,

Who shuns a warring world, nor wooes

The vulture cover of its wing?

Then fly, thou cowering, shivering thing,

Back to the fostering world beguiled

To waste in self-consuming strife

The loveless brotherhood of life,

Reviling and reviled!

Away, thou lover of the raceThat hither chased yon weeping deer!If Nature’s all majestic faceMore pitiless than man’s appear;Or if the wild winds seem more drearThan man’s cold charities below,Behold around his peopled plains,Where’er the social savage reigns,Exuberance of woe!

Away, thou lover of the race

That hither chased yon weeping deer!

If Nature’s all majestic face

More pitiless than man’s appear;

Or if the wild winds seem more drear

Than man’s cold charities below,

Behold around his peopled plains,

Where’er the social savage reigns,

Exuberance of woe!

His art and honours wouldst thou seekEmbossed on grandeur’s giant walls?Or hear his moral thunders speakWhere senates light their airy halls,Where man his brother man enthralls;Or sends his whirlwind warrants forthTo rouse the slumbering fiends of war,To dye the blood-warm waves afar,And desolate the earth?

His art and honours wouldst thou seek

Embossed on grandeur’s giant walls?

Or hear his moral thunders speak

Where senates light their airy halls,

Where man his brother man enthralls;

Or sends his whirlwind warrants forth

To rouse the slumbering fiends of war,

To dye the blood-warm waves afar,

And desolate the earth?

From clime to clime pursue the scene,And mark in all thy spacious way,Where’er the tyrant man has been,There Peace, the cherub, cannot stay;In wilds and woodlands far awayShe builds her solitary bower,Where only anchorites have trod,Or friendless men, to worship God,Have wandered for an hour.

From clime to clime pursue the scene,

And mark in all thy spacious way,

Where’er the tyrant man has been,

There Peace, the cherub, cannot stay;

In wilds and woodlands far away

She builds her solitary bower,

Where only anchorites have trod,

Or friendless men, to worship God,

Have wandered for an hour.

In such a far forsaken vale,—And such, sweet Eldurn vale, is thine,—Afflicted nature shall inhaleHeaven-borrowed thoughts and joys divine:No longer wish, no more repineFor man’s neglect or woman’s scorn;—Then wed thee to an exile’s lot,For if the world hath loved thee not,Its absence may be borne.

In such a far forsaken vale,—

And such, sweet Eldurn vale, is thine,—

Afflicted nature shall inhale

Heaven-borrowed thoughts and joys divine:

No longer wish, no more repine

For man’s neglect or woman’s scorn;—

Then wed thee to an exile’s lot,

For if the world hath loved thee not,

Its absence may be borne.

[86]In Catholic countries you often hear the church bells rung to propitiate Heaven during thunder storms.

O thou by whose expressive artHer perfect image Nature seesIn union with the Graces start,And sweeter by reflection please!In whose creative hand the huesFresh from yon orient rainbow shine;I bless thee, Promethéan Muse!And call thee brightest of the Nine!Possessing more than vocal power,Persuasive more than poet’s tongue;Whose lineage, in a raptured hour,[87]From Love, the Sire of Nature, sprung.Does Hope her high possession meet?Is joy triumphant, sorrow flown?Sweet is the trance, the tremor sweet,When all we love is all our own.But oh! thou pulse of pleasure dear,Slow throbbing, cold, I feel thee part;Lone absence plants a pang severe,Or death inflicts a keener dart.Then for a beam of joy to lightIn memory’s sad and wakeful eye!Or banish from the noon of nightHer dreams of deeper agony.Shall Song its witching cadence roll?Yea, even the tenderest air repeat,That breathed when soul was knit to soul,And heart to heart responsive beat?What visions rise! to charm, to melt!The lost, the loved, the dead are near!Oh, hush that strain too deeply felt!And cease that solace too severe!But thou serenely silent art!By heaven and love wast taught to lendA milder solace to the heart,The sacred image of a friend.All is not lost! if, yet possest,To me that sweet memorial shine:—If close and closer to my breastI hold that idol all divine.Or, gazing through luxurious tears,Melt o’er the loved departed form,Till death’s cold bosom half appearsWith life, and speech, and spirit warm.She looks! she lives! this trancèd hour,Her bright eye seems a purer gemThan sparkles on the throne of power,Or glories wealthy diadem.Yes, Genius, yes! thy mimic aidA treasure to my soul has given,Where beauty’s canonisèd shadeSmiles in the sainted hues of heavenNo spectre forms of pleasure fled,Thy softening, sweetening tints restore;For thou canst give us back the dead,E’en in the loveliest looks they wore.Then blest be Nature’s guardian Muse,Whose hand her perished grace redeems!Whose tablet of a thousand huesThe mirror of creation seems.From Love began thy high descent;And lovers, charmed by gifts of thine,Shall bless thee mutely eloquent;And call thee brightest of the Nine!

O thou by whose expressive artHer perfect image Nature seesIn union with the Graces start,And sweeter by reflection please!

O thou by whose expressive art

Her perfect image Nature sees

In union with the Graces start,

And sweeter by reflection please!

In whose creative hand the huesFresh from yon orient rainbow shine;I bless thee, Promethéan Muse!And call thee brightest of the Nine!

In whose creative hand the hues

Fresh from yon orient rainbow shine;

I bless thee, Promethéan Muse!

And call thee brightest of the Nine!

Possessing more than vocal power,Persuasive more than poet’s tongue;Whose lineage, in a raptured hour,[87]From Love, the Sire of Nature, sprung.

Possessing more than vocal power,

Persuasive more than poet’s tongue;

Whose lineage, in a raptured hour,[87]

From Love, the Sire of Nature, sprung.

Does Hope her high possession meet?Is joy triumphant, sorrow flown?Sweet is the trance, the tremor sweet,When all we love is all our own.

Does Hope her high possession meet?

Is joy triumphant, sorrow flown?

Sweet is the trance, the tremor sweet,

When all we love is all our own.

But oh! thou pulse of pleasure dear,Slow throbbing, cold, I feel thee part;Lone absence plants a pang severe,Or death inflicts a keener dart.

But oh! thou pulse of pleasure dear,

Slow throbbing, cold, I feel thee part;

Lone absence plants a pang severe,

Or death inflicts a keener dart.

Then for a beam of joy to lightIn memory’s sad and wakeful eye!Or banish from the noon of nightHer dreams of deeper agony.

Then for a beam of joy to light

In memory’s sad and wakeful eye!

Or banish from the noon of night

Her dreams of deeper agony.

Shall Song its witching cadence roll?Yea, even the tenderest air repeat,That breathed when soul was knit to soul,And heart to heart responsive beat?

Shall Song its witching cadence roll?

Yea, even the tenderest air repeat,

That breathed when soul was knit to soul,

And heart to heart responsive beat?

What visions rise! to charm, to melt!The lost, the loved, the dead are near!Oh, hush that strain too deeply felt!And cease that solace too severe!

What visions rise! to charm, to melt!

The lost, the loved, the dead are near!

Oh, hush that strain too deeply felt!

And cease that solace too severe!

But thou serenely silent art!By heaven and love wast taught to lendA milder solace to the heart,The sacred image of a friend.

But thou serenely silent art!

By heaven and love wast taught to lend

A milder solace to the heart,

The sacred image of a friend.

All is not lost! if, yet possest,To me that sweet memorial shine:—If close and closer to my breastI hold that idol all divine.

All is not lost! if, yet possest,

To me that sweet memorial shine:—

If close and closer to my breast

I hold that idol all divine.

Or, gazing through luxurious tears,Melt o’er the loved departed form,Till death’s cold bosom half appearsWith life, and speech, and spirit warm.

Or, gazing through luxurious tears,

Melt o’er the loved departed form,

Till death’s cold bosom half appears

With life, and speech, and spirit warm.

She looks! she lives! this trancèd hour,Her bright eye seems a purer gemThan sparkles on the throne of power,Or glories wealthy diadem.

She looks! she lives! this trancèd hour,

Her bright eye seems a purer gem

Than sparkles on the throne of power,

Or glories wealthy diadem.

Yes, Genius, yes! thy mimic aidA treasure to my soul has given,Where beauty’s canonisèd shadeSmiles in the sainted hues of heaven

Yes, Genius, yes! thy mimic aid

A treasure to my soul has given,

Where beauty’s canonisèd shade

Smiles in the sainted hues of heaven

No spectre forms of pleasure fled,Thy softening, sweetening tints restore;For thou canst give us back the dead,E’en in the loveliest looks they wore.

No spectre forms of pleasure fled,

Thy softening, sweetening tints restore;

For thou canst give us back the dead,

E’en in the loveliest looks they wore.

Then blest be Nature’s guardian Muse,Whose hand her perished grace redeems!Whose tablet of a thousand huesThe mirror of creation seems.

Then blest be Nature’s guardian Muse,

Whose hand her perished grace redeems!

Whose tablet of a thousand hues

The mirror of creation seems.

From Love began thy high descent;And lovers, charmed by gifts of thine,Shall bless thee mutely eloquent;And call thee brightest of the Nine!

From Love began thy high descent;

And lovers, charmed by gifts of thine,

Shall bless thee mutely eloquent;

And call thee brightest of the Nine!

[87]Alluding to the well-known tradition respecting the origin of painting, that it arose from a young Corinthian female tracing the shadow of her lovers profile on the wall, as he lay asleep.

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