« PoprzedniaDalej »
The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of woe,
Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat,
Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit!
Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame.
I never knew but one, and here he lies.
Newstead Abbey, Oct. 30, 1808.
FAREWELL! if ever fondest prayer For other's weal avail'd on high, Mine will not all be lost in air,
But waft thy name beyond the sky. "T were vain to speak, to weep, to sigh: Oh! more than tears of blood can tell, When wrung from guilt's expiring eye,
Are in that word-Farewell!-Farewell! These lips are mute, these eyes are dry;
But in my breast, and in my brain, Awake the pangs that pass not by,
The thought that ne'er shall sleep again. My soul nor deigns nor dares complain, Though grief and passion there rebel; I only know we loved in vain
I only feel-Farewell!--Farewell!
BRIGHT be the place of thy soul!
No lovelier spirit than thine Eer burst from its mortal control,
In the orbs of the blessed to shine. On earth thou wert all but divine,
As thy soul shall immortally be; And our sorrow may cease to repine, When we know that thy God is with thee. Light be the turf of thy tomb!
May its verdure like emeralds be: There should not be the shadow of gloom In aught that reminds us of thee. Young flowers and an evergreen tree
May spring from the spot of thy rest: But nor cypress nor yew let us see;
For why should we mourn for the blest?
WHEN We two parted
grew thy cheek and cold, Colder thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold Sorrow to this.
The dew of the morning Sunk chill on my browIt felt like the warning
Of what I feel now. Thy vows are all broken, And light is thy fame; I hear thy name spoken, And share in its shame.
They name thee before me,
Who knew thee too well;Long, long shall I rue thee, Too deeply to tell.
In secret we met-
STANZAS FOR MUSIC.'
O Lacrymarum fons, tenero sacros
THERE'S not a joy the world can give like that it takes away,
When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's dull decay;
'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, which fades so fast,
But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself be past.
Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of happiness,
Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt or ocean of excess : The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in
The shore to which their shiver'd sail shall never stretch again.
Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself comes down;
It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its own;
'These Verses were given by Lord Byron to Mr Power, Strand, who has published them, with very beautiful music by Sir John Stevenson,
While that placid sleep came o'er thee
Which thou ne'er canst know again: Would that breast, by thee glanced over, Every inmost thought could show! Then thou wouldst at last discover 'T was not well to spurn it so.
Though the world for this commend thee-
Even its praises must offend thee,
Though my many faults defaced me, Could no other arm be found
Than the one which once embraced me, To inflict a cureless wound?
Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not,
But by sudden wrench, believe not
Still thine own its life retaineth
Still must mine, though bleeding, beat;
Than the wail above the dead;
Though his care she must forego?
Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee, Think of him thy love had bless'd! Should her lineaments resemble
Those thou never more mayst see, Then thy heart will softly tremble
With a pulse yet true to me.
All my faults perchance thou knowest,
Pride, which not a world could bow, Bows to thee-by thee forsaken,
Even my soul forsakes me now. But 't is done-all words are idle
Words from me are vainer still; But the thoughts we cannot bridle
Force their way without the will.Fare thee well!-thus disunited, Torn from every nearer tie, Sear'd in heart, and lone, and blightedMore than this I scarce can die.
WHEN all around grew drear and dark, And reason half withheld her ray, And hope but shed a dying spark Which more misled my louely way;
In that deep midnight of the mind,
When fortune, changed-and love fled far, And hatred's shafts flew thick and fast, Thou wert the solitary star
Which rose and set not to the last.
Oh! blest be thine unbroken light! That watch'd me as a seraph's eye, And stood between me and the night, For ever shining sweetly nigh.
And when the cloud upon us came, Which strove to blacken o'er thy rayThen purer spread its gentle flame,
And dash'd the darkness all away.
Still may thy spirit dwell on mine,
And teach it what to brave or brookThere's more in one soft word of thine, Than in the world's defied rebuke.
Thou stood'st, as stands a lovely tree, That still unbroke, though gently bent, Still waves with fond fidelity
Its boughs above a monument.
The winds might rend-the skies might pour,
To shed thy weeping leaves o'er me.
The kind-and thee the most of all.
Be broken-thine will never break; Thy heart can feel-but will not move; Thy soul, though soft, will never shake. And these, when all was lost beside,
Were found, and still are fixed, in theeAnd bearing still a breast so tried, Earth is no desert-even to me.
[FROM THE FRENCH.]
We do not curse thee, Waterloo!
As then shall shake the world with wonder-
Showering down a fiery flood, Turning rivers into blood.
The chief has fallen, but not by you,
When the soldier citizen
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!
And thou too of the snow-white plume!
On thy war-horse through the ranks, Like a stream which burst its banks, While helmets cleft, and sabres clashing, Shone and shiver'd fast around theeOf 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 roll'd 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, Strew'd 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!.
See Rev. chap. viii, verse 7, etc. The first angel sounded, and there followed bail and fire mingled with blood, etc.
Verse 8. And the second angel sounded, and as it were a great mountain burning with fire was cast into the sea; and the third part of the sea became blood, etc.
Verse 10. And the third angel sounded, and there fell a great star from heaven, burning as it were a lamp; and it fell upon a third part of the rivers, and upon the fountains of waters."
Verse 11. And the name of the star is called Wormwood; and the third part of the waters became wormwood; and many men died of the waters, because they were made bitter."
* Murat's remains are said to have been torn from the grave and burnt.