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And so the film comes o'er him--and the dizzy
The everlasting to be which hath been,
Hath taught us nought or little still we lean
A blindfold bondage, where your hire is blows.
Were of the softer order-born of love,
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.
Hombres, niños y mugeres,
Por las calles y ventanas
SONETTO DI VITTORELLI.
Sonetto composto in nome di un genitore, a cui era morta poco innanzi una figlia appena maritata; e diretto al genitore della sacra
Di due vaghe donzelle, oneste, accorte
Il ciel, che degne di più nobil sorte,
A le fumanti tede d' Imeneo :
La tua, Francesco, in sugellate porte
Irremeabil soglia, ove s' asconde
Corro a quel marmo in cui la figlia or posa,
WRITTEN IN PASSING THE AMBRACIAN GULPH,
NOVEMBER 14, 1809.
THROUGH cloudless skies, in silvery sheen,
The ancient world was won and lost.
And now upon the scene I look,
The azure grave of many a Roman;
His wavering crown to follow woman.
Florence! whom I will love as well
As ever yet was said or sung
Sweet Florence! those were pleasant times,
Thy charms might raise new Anthonies.
Though Fate forbids such things to be,
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
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,
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,
But show where rocks our path have crost,
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
And who 'mid thunder-peals can hear
And who that heard our shouts would rise
Nor rather deem from nightly cries
Clouds burst, skies flash, oh, dreadful hour!
Yet here one thought has still the power
While wandering through each broken path,
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
And long ere now, with foaming shock,
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,
Which mirth and music sped;
At times from out her latticed halls Look o'er the dark blue sea;
Then think upon Calypso's isles,
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,
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,
Through scorching clime and varied sea,
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?
The friend of Beauty in distress!
Where free Byzantium once arose;
The Turkish tyrants now enclose;
And though I bid thee now farewell,
When I behold that wondrous scene,
WRITTEN AT ATHENS,
JANUARY 16, 1810.
THE spell is broke, the charm is flown!
We madly smile when we should groan-
Each lucid interval of thought
Recals the woes of Nature's charter,
WRITTEN BENEATH A PICTURE.
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;
For by the death-blow of my hope
Cp. Tennyson, "The Lover's