By the sainted Seer of old,
Show’ring down a fiery flood,
Turning rivers into blood.
II.
The Chief has fallen, but not by you,
Vanquishers of Waterloo!
When the soldier citizen
Swayed not o’er his fellow-men —
Save in deeds that led them on
Where Glory smiled on Freedom’s son —
Who, of all the despots banded,
With that youthful chief competed?
Who could boast o’er France defeated,
Till lone Tyranny commanded?
Till, goaded by Ambition’s sting,
The Hero sunk into the King?
Then he fell: — so perish all,
Who would men by man enthral!
III.
And thou, too, of the snow-white plume!
Whose realm refused thee ev’n a tomb;
Better hadst thou still been leading
France o’er hosts of hirelings bleeding,
Than sold thyself to death and shame
For a meanly royal name;
Such as he of Naples wears,
Who thy blood-bought title bears.
Little didst thou deem, when dashing
On thy war-horse through the ranks.
Like a stream which burst its banks,
While helmets cleft, and sabres clashing,
Shone and shivered fast around thee —
Of the fate at last which found thee:
Was that haughty plume laid low
By a slave’s dishonest blow?
Once — as the Moon sways o’er the tide,
It rolled in air, the warrior’s guide;
Through the smoke-created night
Of the black and sulphurous fight,
The soldier raised his seeking eye
To catch that crest’s ascendancy, —
And, as it onward rolling rose,
So moved his heart upon our foes.
There, where death’s brief pang was quickest,
And the battle’s wreck lay thickest,
Strewed beneath the advancing banner
Of the eagle’s burning crest —
(There with thunder-clouds to fan her,
Who could then her wing arrest —
Victory beaming from her breast?)
While the broken line enlarging
Fell, or fled along the plain;
There be sure was Murat charging!
There he ne’er shall charge again!
IV.
O’er glories gone the invaders march,
Weeps Triumph o’er each levelled arch —
But let Freedom rejoice,
With her heart in her voice;
But, her hand on her sword,
Doubly shall she be adored;
France hath twice too well been taught
The “moral lesson” dearly bought —
Her safety sits not on a throne,
With Capet or Napoleon!
But in equal rights and laws,
Hearts and hands in one great cause —
Freedom, such as God hath given
Unto all beneath his heaven,
With their breath, and from their birth,
Though guilt would sweep it from the earth;
With a fierce and lavish hand
Scattering nations’ wealth like sand;
Pouring nations’ blood like water,
In imperial seas of slaughter!
V.
But the heart and the mind,
And the voice of mankind,
Shall arise in communion —
And who shall resist that proud union?
The time is past when swords subdued —
Man may die — the soul’s renewed:
Even in this low world of care
Freedom ne’er shall want an heir;
Millions breathe but to inherit
Her for ever bounding spirit —
When once more her hosts assemble,
Tyrants shall believe and tremble —
Smile they at this idle threat?
Crimson tears will follow yet.
[First published, Morning Chronicle, March 15, 1816.]
FROM THE FRENCH.
I.
Must thou go, my glorious Chief,
Severed from thy faithful few?
Who can tell thy warrior’s grief,
Maddening o’er that long adieu?
Woman’s love, and Friendship’s zeal,
Dear as both have been to me —
What are they to all I feel,
With a soldier’s faith for thee?
II.
Idol of the soldier’s soul!
First in fight, but mightiest now;
Many could a world control;
Thee alone no doom can bow.
By thy side for years I dared
Death; and envied those who fell,
When their dying shout was heard,
Blessing him they served so well.
III.
Would that I were cold with those,
Since this hour I live to see;
When the doubts of coward foes
Scarce dare trust a man with thee,
Dreading each should set thee free!
Oh! although in dungeons pent,
All their chains were light to me,
Gazing on thy soul unbent.
IV.
Would the sycophants of him
Now so deaf to duty’s prayer,
Were his borrowed glories dim,
In his native darkness share?
Were that world this hour his own,
All thou calmly dost resign,
Could he purchase with that throne
Hearts like those which still are thine?
V.
My Chief, my King, my Friend, adieu!
Never did I droop before;
Never to my Sovereign sue,
As his foes I now implore:
All I ask is to divide
Every peril he must brave;
Sharing by the hero’s side
His fall — his exile — and his grave.
[First published, Poems, 1816,]
ON THE STAR OF “THE LEGION OF HONOUR.”
[FROM THE FRENCH.]
1.
Star of the brave! — whose beam hath shed
Such glory o’er the quick and dead —
Thou radiant and adored deceit!
Which millions rushed in arms to greet, —
Wild meteor of immortal birth!
Why rise in Heaven to set on Earth?
2.
Souls of slain heroes formed thy rays;
Eternity flashed through thy blaze;
The music of thy martial sphere
Was fame on high and honour here;
And thy light broke on human eyes,
Like a Volcano of the skies.
3.
Like lava rolled thy stream of blood,
And swept down empires with its flood;
Earth rocked beneath thee to her base,
As thou didst lighten through all space;
And the shorn Sun grew dim in air,
And set while thou wert dwelling there.
4.
Before thee rose, and with thee grew,
A rainbow of the loveliest hue
Of three bright colours, each divine,
And fit for that celestial sign;
For Freedom’s hand had blended them,
Like tints in an immortal gem.
5.
One tint was of the sunbeam’s dyes;
One, the blue depth of Seraph’s eyes;
One, the pure Spirit’s veil of white
Had robed in radiance of its light:
The three so ming
led did beseem
The texture of a heavenly dream.
6.
Star of the brave! thy ray is pale,
And darkness must again prevail!
But, oh thou Rainbow of the free!
Our tears and blood must flow for thee.
When thy bright promise fades away,
Our life is but a load of clay.
7.
And Freedom hallows with her tread
The silent cities of the dead;
For beautiful in death are they
Who proudly fall in her array;
And soon, oh, Goddess! may we be
For evermore with them or thee!
[First published, Examiner, April 7, 1816.]
NAPOLEON’S FAREWELL.
[FROM THE FRENCH.]
1.
Farewell to the Land, where the gloom of my Glory
Arose and o’ershadowed the earth with her name —
She abandons me now — but the page of her story,
The brightest or blackest, is filled with my fame.
I have warred with a World which vanquished me only
When the meteor of conquest allured me too far;
I have coped with the nations which dread me thus lonely,
The last single Captive to millions in war.
2.
Farewell to thee, France! when thy diadem crowned me,
I made thee the gem and the wonder of earth, —
But thy weakness decrees I should leave as I found thee,
Decayed in thy glory, and sunk in thy worth.
Oh! for the veteran hearts that were wasted
In strife with the storm, when their battles were won —
Then the Eagle, whose gaze in that moment was blasted
Had still soared with eyes fixed on Victory’s sun!
3.
Farewell to thee, France! — but when Liberty rallies
Once more in thy regions, remember me then, —
The Violet still grows in the depth of thy valleys;
Though withered, thy tear will unfold it again —
Yet, yet, I may baffle the hosts that surround us,
And yet may thy heart leap awake to my voice —
There are links which must break in the chain that has bound us,
Then turn thee and call on the Chief of thy choice!
July 25, 1815. London.
[First published, Examiner, July 30, 1815.]
OCCASIONAL PIECES, 1807-1824
CONTENTS
THE ADIEU
TO A VAIN LADY
TO ANNE
TO ANNE: OH, SAY NOT, SWEET ANNE
TO THE AUTHOR OF A SONNET,
ON FINDING A FAN
FAREWELL TO THE MUSE
TO AN OAK AT NEWSTEAD
ON REVISITING HARROW
EPITAPH ON JOHN ADAMS, OF SOUTHWELL – A CARRIER, WHO DIED OF DRUNKENNESS
TO MY SON
FAREWELL! IF EVER FONDEST PRAYER
BRIGHT BE THE PLACE OF THY SOUL!
WHEN WE TWO PARTED
TO A YOUTHFUL FRIEND
LINES INSCRIBED UPON A CUP FORMED FROM A SKULL
WELL! THOU ART HAPPY
INSCRIPTION ON THE MONUMENT OF A NEWFOUNDLAND DOG
TO A LADY, ON BEING ASKED MY REASONS FOR QUITTING ENGLAND IN THE SPRING
REMIND ME NOT, REMIND ME NOT
THERE WAS A TIME, I NEED NOT NAME
AND WILT THOU WEEP WHEN I AM LOW?
FILL THE GOBLET AGAIN
STANZAS TO A LADY, ON LEAVING ENGLAND
LINES ON MR. HODGSON WRITTEN ON BOARD THE LISBON PACKET
TO FLORENCE
LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM, AT MALTA
STANZAS COMPOSED DURING A THUNDERSTORM
STANZAS WRITTEN IN PASSING THE AMBRACIAN GULF
THE SPELL IS BROKE, THE CHARM IS FLOWN!
WRITTEN AFTER SWIMMING FROM SESTOS TO ABYDOS
LINES IN THE TRAVELLERS’ BOOK AT ORCHOMENUS
MAID OF ATHENS, ERE WE PART
TRANSLATION OF THE NURSE’S DOLE IN THE MEDEA OF EURIPIDES
MY EPITAPH
SUBSTITUTE FOR AN EPITAPH
LINES WRITTEN BENEATH A PICTURE
TRANSLATION OF THE FAMOUS GREEK WAR SONG
TRANSLATION OF A ROMAIC LOVE SONG
ON PARTING
EPITAPH FOR JOSEPH BLACKETT, LATE POET AND SHOEMAKER
FAREWELL TO MALTA
TO DIVES.
ON MOORE’S LAST OPERATIC FARCE, OR FARCICAL OPERA
EPISTLE TO A FRIEND
TO THYRZA
AWAY, AWAY, YE NOTES OF WOE!
ONE STRUGGLE MORE, AND I AM FREE
EUTHANASIA
AND THOU ART DEAD, AS YOUNG AND FAIR
IF SOMETIMES IN THE HAUNTS OF MEN
FROM THE FRENCH
ON A CORNELIAN HEART WHICH WAS BROKEN
LINES TO A LADY WEEPING
THE CHAIN I GAVE: FROM THE TURKISH
LINES WRITTEN ON A BLANK LEAF OF ‘THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY’
ADDRESS, SPOKEN AT THE OPENING OF DRURY-LANE THEATRE. SATURDAY, OCTOBER 10, 1812
PARENTHETICAL ADDRESS
VERSES FOUND IN A SUMMERHOUSE AT HALES-OWEN
REMEMBER THEE! REMEMBER THEE!
TO TIME
TRANSLATION OF A ROMAIC LOVE SONG
THOU ART NOT FALSE, BUT THOU ART FICKLE
ON BEING ASKED WHAT WAS THE ‘ORIGIN OF LOVE’
REMEMBER HIM, WHOM PASSION’S POWER
ON LORD THURLOW’S POEMS
TO LORD THURLOW
TO THOMAS MOORE
IMPROMPTU, IN REPLY TO A FRIEND
SONNET, TO GENEVRA
SONNET TO GENEVRA
SONNET, TO THE SAME (GENEVRA)
FROM THE PORTUGUESE, ‘TU MI CHAMAS’
THE DEVIL’S DRIVE: AN UNFINISHED RHAPSODY
WINDSOR POETICS
ODE TO NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE
I SPEAK NOT, I TRACE NOT, I BREATHE NOT THY NAME
ADDRESS INTENDED TO BE RECITED AT THE CALEDONIAN MEETING.
FRAGMENT OF AN EPISTLE TO THOMAS MOORE
CONDOLATORY ADDRESS TO SARAH
ELEGIAC STANZAS ON THE DEATH OF SIR PETER PARKER, BART.
TO BELSHAZZAR
THE ADIEU
Written Under The Impression That The Author Would Soon Die.
Spread roses o’er my brow;
Where Science seeks each loitering boy
With knowledge to endow.
Adieu, my youthful friends or foes,
Partners of former bliss or woes;
No more through Ida’s paths we stray;
Soon must I share the gloomy cell,
Whose ever-slumbering inmates dwell
Unconscious of the day.
Adieu, ye hoary Regal Fanes,
Ye spires of Granta’s vale,
Where Learning robed in sable reigns,
And Melancholy pale.
Ye comrades of the jovial hour,
Ye tenants of the classic bower,
On Cama’s verdant margin placed,
Adieu! while memory still is mine,
For, offerings on Oblivion’s shrine,
These scenes must be effaced.
Adieu, ye mountains of the clime
Where grew my youthful years;
Where Loch na Garr in snows sublime
His giant summit rears.
Why did my childhood wander forth
From you, ye regions of the North,
With sons of pride to roam?
Why did I quit my Highland cave,
Mar’s dusky heath, and Dee’s clear wave,
To seek a Sotheron home!
Hall of my Sires! a long farewell —
Yet why to thee adieu?
Thy vaults will echo back my knell,
Thy towers my tomb will view:
The faltering tongue which sung thy fall,
And former glories of thy Hall,
Forgets its wonted simple note —
But yet the Lyre retains the strings,
And sometimes, on Æolian wings,
In dying strains may float.
Fields which surround yon rustic cot,
While yet I linger here,
Adieu! you are not now forgot,
To retrospection dear.
Streamlet! along whose rippling surge
My youthful limbs were wont to urge,
At noontide heat, their pliant course;
Plunging with ardour from the shore,
Thy springs will lave these limbs no more,
Deprived of active force.
And shall I here forget the scene,
Still nearest to my breast?
Rocks rise and rivers roll between
The spot which passion blest;
Yet, Mary, all thy beauties seem
Fresh as in Love’s bewitching dream,
To me in smiles display’d;
Till slow disease resigns his prey
To Death, the parent of decay,
Thine image cannot fade.
And thou, my Friend! whose gentle love
Yet thrills my bosom’s chords,
How much thy friendship was above
Description’s power of words!
Still near my breast thy gift I wear
Which sparkled once with Feeling’s tear,
Of Love the pure, the sacred gem;
Our souls were equal, and our lot
In that dear moment quite forgot;
Let Pride alone condemn!
All, all is dark and cheerless now!
No smile of Love’s deceit
Can warm my veins with wonted glow,
Can bid Life’s pulses beat:
Not e’en the hope of future fame
Can wake my faint, exhausted frame,
Or crown with fancied wreaths my head.
Mine is a short inglorious race, —
To humble in the dust my face,
And mingle with the dead.
Oh Fame! thou goddess of my heart;
On him who gains thy praise,
Pointless must fall the Spectre’s dart,
Consumed in Glory’s blaze;
But me she beckons from the earth,
My name obscure, unmark’d my birth,
My life a short and vulgar dream:
Lost in the dull, ignoble crowd,
My hopes recline within a shroud,
My fate is Lathe’s stream.
When I repose beneath the sod,
Unheeded in the clay,
Where once my playful footsteps trod,
Where now my head must lay,
The weed of Pity will be shed
In dew-drops o’er my narrow bed,
By nightly skies, and storms alone;
No mortal eye will deign to steep
With tears the dark sepulchral deep
Which hides a name unknown.
Forget this world, my restless sprite,