Yet laugh not in your carnival of crime,
Too proudly, ye oppressors! - Spain was free,
Her soil has felt the foot-prints, and her clime
Been winnowed by the wings of Liberty;
And these even parting scatter as they flee
Thoughts-influences, to live in hearts unborn,
Opinions that shall wrench the prison-key

From Persecution - show her mask off-torn,
And tramp her bloated head beneath the foot of Scorn.

Glory to them that die in this great cause;
Kings, Bigots, can inflict no brand of shame,

Or shape of death, to shroud them from applause :-
No! - manglers of the martyr's earthly frame;
Your hangman fingers can not touch his fame.
Still in your prostrate land there shall be some
Proud hearts, the shrines of Freedom's vestal flame.
Long trains of ill may pass unheeded, dumb,
But vengeance is behind, and justice is to come.

SONG OF THE GREEKS.

AGAIN to the battle, Achaians!

Our hearts bid the tyrants defiance;

Our land, the first garden of Liberty's tree

It has been, and shall yet be, the land of the free;

For the cross of our faith is replanted,

The pale dying crescent is daunted,

And we march that the foot-prints of Mahomet's slaves May be washed out in blood from our forefathers' graves

Their spirits are hovering o'er us,

And the sword shall to glory restore us.

Ah! what though no succor advances,

Nor Christendom's chivalrous lances

Are stretched in our aid-be the combat our own !

And we'll perish or conquer more proudly alone;
For we've sworn by our Country's assaulters,
By the virgins they dragged from our altars,

By our massacred patriots, our children in chains,

By our heroes of old, and their blood in our veins,
That, living, we shall be victorious,

Or that, dying, our deaths shall be glorious.

A breath of submission we breathe not;

The sword that we've drawn we will sheath not!
Its scabbard is left where our martyrs are laid,
And the vengeance of ages has whetted its blade.
Earth may hide- waves ingulf-fire consume us,

But they shall not to slavery doom us :

If they rule, it shall be o'er our ashes and graves;
But we've smote them already with fire on the waves,
And new triumphs on land are before us,

To the charge! - Heaven's banner is o'er us.

This day shall ye blush for its story,

Or brighten your lives with its glory.

Our women, oh, say, shall they shriek in despair,

Or embrace us from conquest with wreaths in their hair? Accursed may his memory blacken,

If a coward there be that would slacken

Till we've trampled the turban, and shown ourselves

worth

Being sprung from and named for the godlike of earth. Strike home and the world shall revere us

As heroes descended from heroes.

Old Greece lightens up with emotion

Her inlands, her isles of the Ocean;

Fanes rebuilt and fair towns shall with jubilee ring, And the Nine shall new-hallow their Helicon's spring:

Our hearths shall be kindled in gladness,

That were cold and extinguished in sadness;

Whilst our maidens shall dance with their white-waving

arms,

Singing joy to the brave that delivered their charms,

When the blood of yon Mussulman cravens,

Shall have purpled the beaks of our ravens.

ODE TO WINTER.

WHEN first the fiery-mantled sun
His heavenly race began to run;
Round the earth and ocean blue

His children four, the Seasons, flew.

First, in green apparel dancing,

The young Spring smiled with angel grace;

Rosy Summer next advancing,

Rushed into her sire's embrace

Her bright-haired sire, who bade her keep
For ever nearest to his smiles,

On Calpe's olive-shaded steep,

On India's citron-covered isles:

More remote and buxom-brown,

The Queen of vintage bowed before his throne:

A rich pomegranate gemmed her crown,

A ripe sheaf bound her zone.

But howling Winter fled afar,
To hills that prop the polar star,
And loves on deer-borne car to ride
With barren Darkness by his side,
Round the shore where loud Lofoden

Whirls to death the roaring whale,

Round the hall where Runic Odin
Howls his war-song to the gale;
Save when adown the ravaged globe
He travels on his native storm,
Deflowering Nature's grassy robe,

And trampling on her faded form;

Till light's returning lord assume

The shaft that drives him to his polar field.

Of power to pierce his raven plume

And crystal-covered shield.

Oh, sire of storms! whose savage ear
The Lapland drum delights to hear,
When Frenzy with her blood-shot eye
Implores thy dreadful deity,
Archangel! power of desolation!

Fast descending as thou art,

Say, hath mortal invocation

Spells to touch thy stony heart?
Then sullen Winter, hear my prayer,
And gently rule the ruined year;
Nor chill the wanderer's bosom bare,
Nor freeze the wretch's falling tear:
To shuddering Want's unmantled bed
Thy horror-breathing agues cease to lead,
And gently on the orphan head

Of innocence descend.

But chiefly spare, O king of clouds !

The sailor on his airy shrouds ;

When wrecks and beacons strew the steep,

And spectres walk along the deep.

Milder yet thy snowy breezes

Pour on yonder tented shores,

Where the Rhine's broad billow freezes,
Or the dark-brown Danube roars.

Oh, winds of Winter! list ye there
To many a deep and dying groan

Or start, ye demons of the midnight air,

At shrieks and thunders louder than your own. Alas! ev'n your unhallowed breath

May spare the victim fallen low;

But man will ask no truce to death,
No bounds to human wo.*

LINES,

SPOKEN BY MRS. BARTLEY, AT DRURY-LANE THEATRE, ON

THE FIRST OPENING OF THE HOUSE
OF THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE, 1817.

AFTER THE DEATH

BRITONS! although our task is but to show
The scenes and passions of fictitious wo,
Think not we come this night without a part
In that deep sorrow of the public heart,
Which like a shade hath darkened every place,
And moistened with a tear the manliest face!
The bell is scarcely hushed in Windsor's piles.
That tolled a requiem from the solemn aisles,
For her, the royal flower, low laid in dust,
That was your fairest hope, your fondest trust.
Unconscious of the doom, we dreamed, alas!
That ev'n these walls, ere many months should pass,
Which but return sad accents for her now,
Perhaps had witnessed her benignant brow,

Cheered by the voice you would have raised on high,
In bursts of British love and loyalty.

But, Britain! now thy chief, thy people mourn,
And Claremont's home of love is left forlorn :

* This ode was written in Germany, at the close of 1800, before the conclusion of hostilities