The world has heard your widows' shrieks,
And seen your orphans dragged in thrall.
Even England brooks that, reeking hot,
The ruffian's sabre drinks your veins,
And leaves your thinning remnant's lot
The bitter choice of death or chains.
O! if we have nor hearts nor swords
To snatch you from the assassins' brand,
Let not our pity's idle words
Insult your pale and prostrate land!
No! be your cause to England now,
That by permitting acts the wrong,
A thought of horror to her brow,
A theme for blushing- not for song!
To see her unavenging ships
Ride fast by Greece's funeral-pile, "T is worth a curse from Sybil lips! 'T is matter for a demon's smile!
ON JAMES IV. OF SCOTLAND, WHO FELL AT THE BATTLE OF FLODDEN.
'T WAS he that ruled his country's heart
With more than royal sway;
But Scotland saw her James depart,
And saddened at his stay.
She heard his fate-she wept her grief
That James her loved, her gallant chief,
TO JEMIMA, ROSE, AND ELEANORE.
But this she learnt, that, ere he fell
(0 men! O patriots! mark it well),
His fellow-soldiers round his fall
Enclosed him like a living wall,
Mixing their kindred gore!
Nor was the day of Flodden done
Till they were slaughtered one by one;
And this may serve to show,
When kings are patriots, none will fly;
When such a king was doomed to die,
O, who would death forego?
TO JEMIMA, ROSE, AND ELEANORE,
THREE CELEBRATED SCOTTISH BEAUTIES.
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 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 voice of Eleanore.
Had I been Lawrence, kings had wanted
Their portraits, till I 'd 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 saint-days when he visits you.
And my sere laurels, for my duty,
Miraculous at your touch would rise,
Could I give verse one trace 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 refuses
To twine for you a garland more,
Come back again and be my Muses,
Jemima, Rose, and Eleanore.
'T is now the hour 't is now the hour
To bow at Beauty's shrine;
Now, whilst our hearts confess the power
Of women, wit, and wine;
And beaming eyes look on so bright,
Wit springs, wine sparkles in their light.
In such an hour in such an hour,
In such an hour as this,
While Pleasure's fount throws up a shower
Of social sprinkling bliss,
Why does my bosom heave the sigh
That mars delight? She is not by!
There was an hour there was an hour
When I indulged the spell
That love wound round me with a power
Words vainly try to tell;-
Though love has filled my checkered doom
With fruits and thorns, and light and gloom-
Yet there's an hour- there's still an hour
Whose coming sunshine may
Clear from the clouds that hang and lower
My fortune's future day:
That hour of hours beloved will be
The hour that gives thee back to me !
432 LINES TO EDWARD LYTTON BULWER.
LINES TO EDWARD LYTTON BULWER,
ON THE BIRTH OF HIS CHILD.
My heart is with you, Bulwer! and portrays
The blessings of your first paternal days.
To clasp the pledge of purest, holiest faith,
To taste one's own and love-born infant's breath,
I know, nor would for worlds forget the bliss.
I've felt that to a father's heart that kiss,
As o'er its little lips you smile and cling,
Has fragrance which Arabia could not bring.
Such are the joys, ill mocked in ribald song,
In thought even freshening life our life-time long,
That give our souls on earth a heaven-drawn bloom;
Without them, we are weeds upon a tomb.
Joy be to thee, and her whose lot with thine.
Propitious stars saw truth and passion twine!
Joy be to her who in your rising name
Feels Love's bower brightened by the beams of fame!
I lacked a father's claim to her- but knew
Regard for her young years so pure and true,
That, when she at the altar stood your bride,
A sire could scarce have felt more sire-like pride.
[Air -"The Flower of North Wales."]
O CHERUB Content! at thy moss-covered shrine
I'd all the gay hopes of my bosom resign;
I'd part with ambition thy votary to be,
And breathe not a sigh but to Friendship and thee!
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