Obrazy na stronie
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And so the film comes o'er him--and the dizzy
Chamber swims round and round-and shadows busy
At which he vainly catches, flit and gleam,
Till the last rattle chokes the strangled scream,
And all is ice and blackness,--and the earth
That which it was the moment ere our birth.

II.
There is no hope for nations! Search the page
Of many thousand years-the daily scene,
The flow and ebb of each recurring age,

The everlasting to be which hath been,

Hath taught us nought or little still we lean
On things that rot beneath our weight, and wear
Our strength away in wrestling with the air;
For 't is our nature strikes us down the beasts
Slaughter'd in hourly hecatombs for feasts
Are of as high an order-they must go
Even where their driver goads them, though to slaughter.
Ye men, who pour your blood for kings as water,
What have they given your children in return?
A heritage of servitude and woes,

A blindfold bondage, where your hire is blows.
What? do no yet the red-hot ploughshares burn,
O'er which you stumble in a false ordeal,
And deem this proof of loyalty the real;
Kissing the hand that guides you to your scars,
And glorying as you tread the glowing bars?
All that your sires have left you, all that time
Bequeaths of free, and history of sublime,
Spring from a different theme!-Ye see and read,
Admire and sigh, and then succumb and bleed!
Save the few spirits, who despite of all,
And worse than all, the sudden crimes engender'd
By the down-thundering of the prison-wall,
And thirst to swallow the sweet waters tender'd,
Gushing from freedom's fountains-when the crowd,
Madden'd with centuries of drought, are loud,
And trample on each other to obtain
The cup which brings oblivion of a chain
Heavy and sore,-in which long yoked they plough'd
The sand,- -or if there sprung the yellow grain,
T was not for them, their necks were too much bow'd,
And their dead palates chew'd the cud of pain:-
Yes! the few spirits-who, despite of deeds
Which they abhor, confound not with the cause
Those momentary starts from nature's laws,
Which, like the pestilence and earthquake, smite
But for a term, then pass, and leave the earth
With all her seasons to repair the blight
With a few summers, and again put forth
Cities and generations-fair, when free-
For, tyranny, there blooms no bud for thee!

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Were of the softer order-born of love,
She drank no blood, nor fatten'd on the dead,
But gladden'd where her harmless conquests spread;
For these restored the cross, that from above
Hallow'd her sheltering banners, which incessant
Flew between earth and the unholy crescent,
Which, if it waned and dwindled, earth may thank
The city it has clothed in chains, which clank
Now, creaking in the ears of those who owe
The name of freedom to her glorious struggles;
Yet she but shares with them a common woe,
And call'd the « kingdom» of a conquering foe,-
But knows what all-and, most of all, we know-
With what set gilded terms a tyrant juggles!

IV.

The name of commonwealth is past and gone O'er the three fractions of the groaning globe; Venice is crush'd, and Holland deigns to own

A sceptre, and endures the purple robe; If the free Switzer yet bestrides alone His chainless mountains, 't is but for a time, For tyranny of late is cunning grown, And in its own good season tramples down The sparkles of our ashes. One great clime, Whose vigorous offspring by dividing ocean Are kept apart and nursed in the devotion Of freedom, which their fathers fought for, and Bequeath'd-a heritage of heart and hand, And proud distinction from each other land, Whose sons must bow them at a monarch's motion, As if his senseless sceptre were a wand Full of the magic of exploded scienceStill one great clime, in full and free defiance, Yet rears her crest, unconquer'd and sublime, Above the far Atlantic!-She has taught Her Esau-brethren that the haughty flag, The floating fence of Albion's feebler crag, May strike to those whose red right hands have bought Rights cheaply earn'd with blood. Still, still, for ever Better, though each man's life-blood were a river, That it should flow, and overflow, than creep Through thousand lazy channels in our veins, Damm'd like the dull canal with locks and chains, And moving, as a sick man in his sleep, Three paces, and then faltering; better be Where the extinguish'd Spartans still are free, In their proud charnel of Thermopylæ, Than stagnate in our marsh,—or o'er the deep Fly, and one current to the ocean add, One spirit to the souls our fathers had, One freeman more, America, to thee!

WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM.

As o'er the cold sepulchral stone

Some name arrests the passer-by, Thus, when thou view'st this page alone, May mine attract thy pensive eye!

And when by thee that name is read, Perchance in some succeeding year, Reflect on me as on the dead,

And think my heart is buried here. September 14th, 1809.

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Hombres, niños y mugeres,
Lloran tan grande pérdida.
Lloraban todas las damas
Cuantas en Granada habia.
Ay de mí, Alhama!

Por las calles y ventanas
Mucho luto parecia ;
Llora el Rey como fembra,
Qu'es mucho lo que perdia.
Ay de mí, Alhama!

SONETTO DI VITTORELLI.

PER MONACA.

Sonetto composto in nome di un genitore, a cui era morta poco innanzi una figlia appena maritata; e diretto al genitore della sacra

si osa.

Di due vaghe donzelle, oneste, accorte
Lieti e miseri padri il ciel ne feo;

Il ciel, che degne di più nobil sorte,
L'una e l'altra veggendo, ambo chiedco.
La mia fu tolta da veloce morte

A le fumanti tede d' Imeneo :

La tua, Francesco, in sugellate porte
Eterna prigioniera or si rendeo.
Ma tu almeno potrai de la gelosa

Irremeabil soglia, ove s' asconde
La sua tenera udir voce pictosa.
Io verso un fiume d' amarissim' onda,

Corro a quel marmo in cui la figlia or posa,
Batto e ribatto, ma nessun risponde.

STANZAS

WRITTEN IN PASSING THE AMBRACIAN GULPH,

NOVEMBER 14, 1809.

THROUGH cloudless skies, in silvery sheen,
Full beams the moon on Actium's coast,
And on these waves, for Egypt's queen,

The ancient world was won and lost.

And now upon the scene I look,

The azure grave of many a Roman;
Where stern Ambition once forsook

His wavering crown to follow woman.

Florence! whom I will love as well

As ever yet was said or sung
(Since Orpheus sang his spouse from hell),
Whilst thou art fair and I am young;

Sweet Florence! those were pleasant times,
When worlds were staked for ladies' eyes:
Had bards as many realms as rhymes,

Thy charms might raise new Anthonies.

Though Fate forbids such things to be,
Yet, by thine eyes and ringlets curl'd!

I cannot lose a world for thee,

But would not lose thee for a world.

And men and infants therein weep Their loss, so heavy and so deep; Granada's ladies, all she rears Within her walls, burst into tears. Woe is me, Alhama!

And from the windows o'er the walls
The sable web of mourning falls!
The king weeps as a woman o'er
His loss, for it is much and sore.
Woe is me, Allama!

TRANSLATION FROM VITTORELLI.

ON A NUN,

Sonnet composed in the name of a father, whose daughter had recently died shortly after her marriage; and addressed to the father of her who had lately taken the veil.

Of two fair virgins, modest though admired,
Heaven made us happy, and now, wretched sires;
Heaven for a nobler doom their worth desires,
And gazing upon either, both required.
Mine, while the torch of Hymen newly fired
Becomes extinguish'd, soon-too soon expires:
But thine, within the closing grate retired,
Eternal captive, to her God aspires:
But thou at least from out the jealous door,
Which shuts between your never-mecting eyes,
Mayst hear her sweet and pious voice once more:
I to the marble, where my daughter lies,
Rush, the swoln flood of bitterness I
And knock, and knock, and knock-but none replies.

pour,

STANZAS

Composed October 11th, 1809, during the night, in a thunder-storm, when the guides had lost the road to Zitza, near the range of moan tains formerly called Pindus, in Albania.

CHILL and mirk is the nightly blast,

Where Pindus' mountains rise, And angry clouds are pouring fast The vengeance of the skies.

Our guides are gone, our hope is lost,
And lightnings, as they play,

But show where rocks our path have crost,
Or gild the torrent's spray.

Is

yon a cot I saw, though low? When lightning broke the gloomHow welcome were its shade!-ah! no! T is but a Turkish tomb.

Through sounds of foaming waterfalls, I hear a voice exclaim

My way-worn countryman, who calls On distant England's name.

A shot is fired-by foe or friend? Another-t is to tell

The mountain peasants to descend, And lead us where they dwell.

Oh! who in such a night will dare
To tempt the wilderness?

And who 'mid thunder-peals can hear
Our signal of distress?

And who that heard our shouts would rise
To try the dubious road?

Nor rather deem from nightly cries
That outlaws were abroad.

Clouds burst, skies flash, oh, dreadful hour!
More fiercely pours the storm!

Yet here one thought has still the power
To keep my bosom warm.

While wandering through each broken path,
O'er brake and craggy brow:
While elements exhaust their wrath,
Sweet Florence! where art thou?

Not on the sea, not on the sea,

Thy bark hath long been gone: Oh may the storm that pours on me Bow down my head alone!

Full swiftly blew the swift Siroc
When last I press'd thy lip;

And long ere now, with foaming shock,
Impell'd thy gallant ship.

Now thou art safe; nay, long ere now Hast trod the shore of Spain:

T were hard if ought so fair as thou Should linger on the main.

And since I now remember thee,
In darkness and in dread,
As in those hours of revelry

Which mirth and music sped;
Do thou amidst the fair white walls,
If Cadiz yet be free,

At times from out her latticed halls Look o'er the dark blue sea;

Then think upon Calypso's isles,
Endear'd by days gone by;
To others give a thousand smiles,
To me a single sigh.

And when the admiring circle mark The paleness of thy face,

A half-form'd tear, a transient spark Of melancholy grace,

Again thou 'It smile, and blushing shun Some coxcomb's raillery;

Nor own for once thou thought'st of one, Who ever thinks on thee.

Though smile and sigh alike are vain,
When sever'd hearts repine;
My spirit flies o'er mount and main,
And mourns in search of thine.

TO ***.

Ou Lady! when I left the shore,

The distant shore which gave me birth, I hardly thought to grieve once more, To quit another spot on earth.

Yet here, amidst this barren isle,

Where panting nature droops the head, Where only thou art seen to smile,

I view my parting hour with dread. Though far from Albin's craggy shore,

Divided by the dark-blue main,

A few brief rolling seasons o'er,
Perchance I view her cliffs again.
But wheresoe'er I now may roam,

Through scorching clime and varied sea,
Though time restore me to my home,

I ne'er shall bend mine eyes on thee. On thee, in whom at once conspire

All charms which heedless hearts can move, Whom but to see is to admire,

And oh! forgive the word-to love. Forgive the word in one who ne'er

With such a word can more offend; And since thy heart I cannot share,

Believe me, what I am, thy friend. And who so cold as look on thee,

Thou lovely wanderer, and be less?
Nor be, what man should ever be,

The friend of Beauty in distress!
Ah! who would think that form had past
Through Danger's most destructive path,
Had braved the death-wing'd tempest's blast,
And 'scaped a tyrant's fiercer wrath?
Lady! when I shall view the walls

Where free Byzantium once arose;
And Stamboul's Oriental halls

The Turkish tyrants now enclose;
Though mightiest in the lists of fame
That glorious city still shall be,
On me 't will hold a dearer claim,
As spot of thy nativity.

And though I bid thee now farewell,

When I behold that wondrous scene,
Since where thou art I may not dwell,
'T will soothe to be where thou hast been.
September, 1809.

WRITTEN AT ATHENS,

JANUARY 16, 1810.

THE spell is broke, the charm is flown!
Thus is it with life's fitful fever;

We madly smile when we should groan-
Delirium is our best deceiver.

Each lucid interval of thought

Recals the woes of Nature's charter,
And he that acts as wise men ought,
But lives, as saints have died, a martyr,

WRITTEN BENEATH A PICTURE.
DEAR object of defeated care!

Though now of love and thee bereft, To reconcile me with despair

Thine image and my tears are left.

'Tis said with sorrow time can cope;
But this I feel can ne'er be true:

For by the death-blow of my hope
My memory immortal grew.

Cp. Tennyson, "The Lover's
"Tale', I. s.f. They said tha
Love w. die, ite.

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