FAREWELL TO LOVE.

I HAD a heart that doted 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

sway

Is now to me a star that's fallen- 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 they Angels feel the flame? - O, spirits of the

skies!

Can love like ours, that dotes on dust, in heavenly bosoms

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.

LINES

ON THE CAMP HILL, NEAR HASTINGS.

IN the deep blue of eve,

Ere the twinkling of stars had begun,
Or the lark took his leave

Of the skies and the sweet setting sun,

I climbed to yon heights,

Where the Norman encamped him of old,
With his bowmen and knights,

And his banner all burnished with gold.

At the Conqueror's side

There his minstrelsy sat harp in hand,

In pavilion wide;

And they chanted the deeds of Roland.

Still the ramparted ground
With a vision my fancy inspires,
And I hear the trump sound,
As it marshalled our Chivalry's sires.

On each turf of that mead

Stood the captors of England's domains,
That ennobled her breed

And high-mettled the blood of her veins.

Over hauberk and helm

As the sun's setting splendor was thrown,
Thence they looked o'er a realm
And to-morrow beheld it their own.

LINES ON POLAND.

AND have I lived to see thee sword in hand
Uprise again, immortal Polish Land!

Whose flag brings more than chivalry to mind,
And leaves the tri-color in shade behind;

A theme for uninspired lips too strong;

That swells my heart beyond the power of song:-
Majestic men, whose deeds have dazzled faith,
Ah! yet your fate's suspense arrests my

breath:

Whilst envying bosoms, bared to shot and steel,
I feel the more that fruitlessly I feel.

Poles! with what indignation I endure

The half-pitying, servile mouths that call you poor!
Poor! is it England mocks you with her grief,

Who hates, but dares not chide, the Imperial Thief?
France with her soul beneath a Bourbon's thrall,
And Germany that has no soul at all,—
States, quailing at the giant overgrown,
Whom dauntless Poland grapples with alone!
No, ye are rich in fame e'en whilst ye bleed:

we are poor indeed!

in the world's great eye,

Poland has won her immortality;

The Butcher, should he reach her bosom now,
Could not tear Glory's garland from her brow;
Wreathed, filletted, the victim falls renowned,
And all her ashes will be holy ground!

But turn, my soul, from presages so dark:
Great Poland's spirit is a deathless spark
That's fanned by Heaven to mock the Tyrant's rage:
She, like the eagle, will renew her age,

And fresh historic plumes of Fame put on,—
Another Athens after Marathon,-

Where eloquence shall fulmine, arts refine,
Bright as her arms that now in battle shine.
Come should the heavenly shock my life destroy,
And shut its flood-gates with excess of joy;
Come but the day when Poland's fight is won
And on my grave-stone shine the morrow's sun
The day that sees Warsaw's cathedral glow
With endless ensigns ravished from the foe,-
Her women lifting their fair hands with thanks,
Her pious warriors kneeling in their ranks,
The 'scutcheoned walls of high heraldic boast,
The odorous altars' elevated host,

The organ sounding through the aisles' long glooms,
The mighty dead seen sculptured o'er their tombs
(John, Europe's savior - Poniatowski's fair
Resemblance Kosciusko's shall be there);
The tapered pomp - the hallelujah's swell,
Shall o'er the soul's devotion cast a spell,
Till visions cross the rapt enthusiast's glance,
And all the scene becomes a waking trance.

Should Fate put far far off that glorious scene,
And gulfs of havoc interpose between,

Imagine not, ye men of every clime,

Who act, or by your sufferance share, the crime-
Your brother Abel's blood shall vainly plead
Against the "deep damnation" of the deed.
Germans, ye view its horror and disgrace
With cold phosphoric eyes and phlegm of face.
Is Allemagne profound in science, lore,
And minstrel art?- her shame is but the more
To doze and dream by governments oppressed,
The spirit of a book-worm in each breast.
Well can ye mouth fair Freedom's classic line,
And talk of Constitutions o'er your wine:
But all your vows to break the tyrant's yoke
Expire in Bacchanalian song and smoke:
Heavens! can no ray of foresight pierce the leads
And mystic metaphysics of your heads,
To show the self-same grave Oppression delves
For Poland's rights is yawning for yourselves?
See, whilst the Pole, the vanguard aid of France,
Has vaulted on his barb, and couched the lance,
France turns from her abandoned friends afresh,
And soothes the Bear that prowls for patriot flesh;
Buys, ignominious purchase! short repose,
With dying curses and the groans of those
That served, and loved, and put in her their trust.
Frenchmen! the dead accuse you from the dust.
Brows laurelled — bosoms marked with many a scar
For France that wore her Legion's noblest star,
Cast dumb reproaches from the field of Death
On Gallic honor: and this broken faith

Has robbed you more of Fame- the life of life
Than twenty battles lost in glorious strife!