Bows to thee-by thee forsaken,

And these, when all was lost beside, Even my soul forsakes me now:

Were found, and still are fixed, in theeBut 'tis done--all words are idle

And bearing still a breast so tried, Words from me are vainer still;

Earth is no desert-even to me. But the thoughts we cannot bridle

Force their way without the will.–
Fare thee well!- thus disnnited,

Torn from every nearer tie,
Sear’d in heart, and lone, and blighted

(FROM THE FRENCH.] More than this I scarce can die.

“All wept, but particularly Savary, and a Polet

officer who had been exalted from the rast by Buonaparte. He clung to his master's kner wrote a letter to Lord Keith, entreating per

mission to accompany him, even in the Best TO

menial capacity, which could not be admiited

Must thou go, my glorious Chief,
Wurn all around grew drear and dark,
And reason half withheld her ray-

Sever'd from thy faithful few ?
And hope but shed a dying spark

Who can tell thy warrior's grief,
Which more misled my lonely way;

Maddening o'er that long adien ?
Woman's love, and friendship’s zeal-

Dear as both have been to me
In that deep midnight of the mind,

What are they to all I feel,
And that internal strife of heart,

With a soldier's faith, for thee?
When dreading to be deem's too kind,
The weak despair, the cold depart;

Idol of the soldier's soul!
When fortune changed — and love fled far, Many could a world control;

First in fight, but mightiest now: And hatred's shafty flew thick and fast,

Thee alone no doom can bow. Thou wert the solitary star

By thy side for years I dared Which rose and set not to the last.

Death, and envied those who fell, Oh! blest be thine unbroken light!

When their dying shout was heard That watch'd me as a seraph's eye,

Blessing him they served so well. And stood between me and the night,

Would that I were cold with those, For ever shining sweetly nigh.

Since this hour I live to see;

When the doubts of coward foes And when the cloud upon us came,

Scarce dare trust a man with thee,
Which strove to blacken o'er thy ray- Dreading each should set thee free.
Then purer spread its gentle flame,
And dash'd the darkness all away.

Oh! although in dungeons pent,
All their chains were light to me,

Gazing on thy soul unbent.
Still may thy spirit dwell on mine,
And teach it what to brave or brook-

Would the sycophants of him
There's mi re in one soft word of thine,

Now so deaf to duty's prayer, Than in the world's defied rebuke.

Were his borrow'd glories dim,

In his native darkness share? Thou stood’st, as stands a lovely tree,

Were that world this hour bis owa, That still unbroke, though gently bent,

All thou calmly dost resign, Still waves with fond fidelity

Could he purchase with that throne Its boughs above a monument.

Hearts like those which still are thine!! The winds might rend_the skies might pour, My chief, my king, my friend, adieu !

But there thou wert- and still wouldst be Devoted in the stormiest hour

Never did I droop before ;

Never to my sovereign sue, To shed thy weeping leaves o'er me.

As his foes I now iinplore.

All I ask is to divide
But thou and thine shall know no blight,
Whatever fate on me may fall;

Every peril he must brave,
For heaven in sunshine will requite

Sharing by the hero's side

His fall, his exile, and his grave The kind- and thee the most of all.

Then let the ties of baffled love

(TRON THE PRETCH.] Be broken-thine will never break; Thy heart can feel-but will not move; We do not curse thee, Waterloo !

Thy soul, though soft, will never shake. I Though Freedom's blood thy plain bedes.

here 'twas shed, but is not sunk

Victory berming from her breast ?) ising from each gory trunk,

While the broken line enlarging like the water-spout from ocean,

Fell, or fled along the plain; ith a strong and growing motion - There be sure was Murat charging! soars, and wingles in the air,

There he ne'er shall charge again! ith that of lost LABEDOYERB — ith that of him whose honour'd grave

O’er glories gone the invadere march, ontains the “bravest of the brave.” crimson cloud it spreads and glows,

Weeps Triumph o'er each levell’d arch

But let Freedom rejoice, ut shall return to whence it rose;

With her heart in her voice; When 'tis full 'twill burst asunder

But, her hand on her sword, ever yet was heard such thunder -s then shall shake the world with wonder- France hath twice too well been taught

Doubly shall she be adored ; ever yet was seen such lightning,

The "moral lesson” dearly boughts o'er heaven shall then be brightning!

Her safety sits not on a throne, Like the Wormwood-Star foretold

With CAPET or NAPOLEON ! y the sainted Seer of old,

But in equal rights and laws, howering down a fiery flood,

Hearts and hands in one great causeFurning rivers into blood.

Freedom, such as God hath given

Unto all beneath his heaven The Chief has fallen, but not by you,

With their breath, and from their birth, 'anquishers of Waterloo !

Though Guilt would sweep it from the Vhen the soldier-citizen

earth; way'd not o'er his fellow-men

With a fierce and lavish hand Save in deeds that led them on

Scattering nations' wealth like sand : Where Glory smiled on Freedom's son

Pouring nations' blood like water,
Who, of all the despots banded,

In imperial seas of slaughter!
With that youthful chief competed ?
Who could boast o'er France defeated,
Till lone Tyranny commanded ?

But the heart and the mind,

And the voice of mankind,
Till, goaded by. Ambition's sting,
The Hero sunk into the King ?

Shall arise in communion-
Then he fell;--So perish all,

And who shall resist that proud union ? Who would mon by man enthral!

The time is past when swords subdued

Man may die - the soul's renew'd : And thou too of the snow-white plume! Even in this low world of care Whose realm refused thee even a tomb;

Freedom ne'er shall want an heir; Better hadst thou still been leading

Millions breathe but to inherit France o'er hosts of hirelings bleeding,

Her for ever bounding spiritThan sold thyself to death and shame

When once more her hosts assemble, For a meanly royal name,

Tyrants shall believe and trembleSuch as he of Naples wears,

Smile they at this idle threat?

Crimson tears will follow yet.
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 shiver'd fast around thee-

ON THE STAR OF THE LEGION OF 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;

STAR of the brave!- whose beam hath shed Through the smoke-created night

Such glory o'er the quick and deadOf the black and sulphurous fight,

Thou radiant and adored deceit! The soldier raised his seeking eye

Which millions rush'd in arms to groet, — To catch that crest's ascendancy, –

Wild meteor of immortal birth!
And as it onward rolling rose,

Why rise in Heaven to set on Earth?
So moved his heart upon our foes.
There, where death's brief pang was quickest, Souls of slain heroes form’d thy rays;
And the battle's wreck lay thickest, Eternity flash'd through thy blaze;
Strew'd beneath the advancing banner The music of thy martial sphere
of the eagle's burning crest-

Was fame on high and honour here; (There, with thunder-clouds to fan her, And thy light broke on human eyes Who could then her wing arrest

Like a Volcano of the skies.

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And Freedom hallows with her tread
The silent cities of the dead;

WRITTEN ON A BLANK LEAF OF For beautiful in death are they

“THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY.* Who proudly fall in her array ; And soon, oh Goddess ! may we be

ABSENT or present, still to thee, For evermore with them or thee!

My friend, what magic spells belong! As all can tell, who share, like me,

In turn, thy converse and thy song. But when the dreaded hour shall cou,

By Friendship ever deemd too nigh, NAPOLEON'S FAREWELL. And "MEMORY” o'er her Druid's tomb

Shall weep that aught of thee can die, (FBOM THB FRENCH.)

How fondly will She then repay

Thy homage offer'd at her shrine, FarewBLL to the Land where the gloom of And blend, while Ages roll away,

my Glory

Her name immortally with thine! Arose and v'ershadow'd the earth with her

April 19, 1812


my fame.

She abandons me now,- but the page of

her story, The brightest or blackest, is filld with

SONNET. I have warr'd with a world which van-RoussEAU— Voltaire- our Gibbon-and de quish'd me only

Stael When the meteor of Conquest allured me Leman! these names are worthy of thy too far;

shore, I have coped with the nations which dread Thy shore of names like these ; vert me thus lonely,

thou no more, The last single Captive to millions in war. Their memory thy remembrance would

recal : Farewell to thee, France !-when thy dia- To them thy banks were lovely as to all;

dem crown'd me But they have made them lovelier, fat I made thee the gem and the wonder of

the lore earth,

Of mighty minds doth hallow in the core But tly weakness decrees I should leave of human hearts the ruin of a wall

as I found thee, Where dwelt the wise and wondroos; bat Decay'd in thy glory and sunk in thy worth.

by thec

How much inore, Lake of Beauty! do we | In the desert a fountain is springing,


In the wide waste there still is a tree, In sweetly gliding o'er thy crystal sea, And a bird in the solitude singing, The wild glow of that not ungentle zeal, Which speaks to my spirit of thee. Which of the heirs of immortality Is proud, and makes the breath of glory real!



The effect of the original ballad (which existed Taough the day of my destiny's over, both in Spanish and Arabic) was such that it

And the star of my fate hath declined, was forbidden to be sung by the Moors, on Thy soft heart refused to discover

pain of death, within Granada.
The faults which so many could find ;
Though thy soul with my grief was ac- The Moorish King rides up and down

quainted, Through Granada's royal town;
It shrunk not to share it with me, I'rom Elvira's gates to those
And the love which my spirit hath painted Of Bivarambla on he goes.
It never hath found but in thee.

Woe is me, Alhama !

Then when nature around me is smiling Letters to the monarch tell

The last smile which answers to mine, How Alhama's city fell;
I do not believe it beguiling

In the fire the scroll he threw,
Because it reminds me of thine; And the messenger he slew.
And when winds are at war with the ocean,

Woe is me, Alhama !
As the breasts I believed in with me,
If their billows excite an emotion,

He quits his mule, and mounts his horse, It is that they bear me from thee.

And through the street directs his course; Thongh the rock of my last hope is shiver'd, To the Alhambra spurring in.

Through the street of Zacatin
And its fragments are sunk in the wave,

Woe is me, Alhama !
Though I feel that my soul is deliver'd
To pain- it shall not be its slave.
There is many a pang to pursue me:

When the Alhambra walls he gain'd,
They may crush , but they shall not on the moment he ordain'd


That the trumpet straight should sound
They may torture, but shall not subdue me- With the silver clarion round.
Tis of thee that I think-not of them.

Woe is me, Alhama!
Though human, thou didst not deceive me, And when the hollow drums of war
Though woman, thou didst not forsake, Beat the loud alarm afar,
Though loved, thou forborest to grieve me, That the Moors of town and plain
Though slander'd, thou never couldst Might answer to the martial strain,

Woe is me, Alhama!
Though trusted thou didst not disclaim me,
Though parted, it was not to fly,

Then the Moors by this aware
Thongh watchful, 'twas not to defame me, That bloody Mars recall'd them there,
Nor, mute, that the world might belie.

One by one, and two by two, Yet I blame not the world, nor despise it,

To a mighty squadron grew.

Woe is me, Alhama !
Nor the war of the many with one-
If my soul was not fitted to prize it,
'Twas folly not sooner to shun:

Out then spake an aged Moor
And if dearly that error hath cost me,

In these words the king before, And more than I once could foresee,

“Wherefore call on us, oh king ? I have found that, whatever it lost me,

What may mean this gathering?" It could not deprive me of thee.

Woe is me, Alhama! From the wreck of the past, which hath “Friends! ye have, alas! to know


Of a most disastrous blow,
Thus much I at least may recal, That the Christians, stern and bold,
It hath taught me that what I most cherish'd Have obtain'd Alhama's hold."
Deserved to be dearest of all:

Woe is me, Alhama!

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Fire flash'd from out the old Moor's eyes,
The Monarch's wrath began to rise,
Because he answer'd, and because
He spake exceeding well of laws.

Woe is me, Alhama !


“There is no law to say such things
As may disgust the ear of kings:
Thus, snorting with his choler, said
The Moorish King, and doom'd him dead.


me, Alhama!

Sonnet composed in the name of a father wbore

daughter had recently died shortly after bet marriage; and addressed to the father of ber who had lately taken the veil.

Moor Alfaqui! Moor Alfaqui!
Though thy beard so hoary be,
The King hath sent to have thee seized,
For Alhama's loss displeased.

Woe is me, Alhama !

And to fix thy head upon
High Alhambra's loftiest stone;
That this for thee should be the law,
And others tremble when they saw.

Woe me, Alhama !

Or two fair virgins, modest, though admired.
Heaven made us happy; and now, wretched

Heaven for a nobler doom their worth

And gazing upon either, both required.
Mine, while the torch of Hymen newly fired
Becomes extinguish’d, soon – too seca

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-meeting
Mayst hear her sweet and pious voice

once more:
I to the marble, where my daughter lies,
Rush,—the swoln flood of bitterness I poor,
And knock, and knock, and knock-bet

none replies.


“Cavalier! and man of worth !
Let these words of mine go forth;
Let the Moorish Monarch know,
That to him I nothing owe:

Woe is me, Alhama !

But on my soul Alhama weighs,
And on my inmost spirit preys;
And if the King his land hath lost,
Yet others may have lost the most.

Woe is me, Alhama !


Sires have lost their children, wives
Their lords, and valiant men their lives;
One what best his love might claim
Hath lost, another wealth or fame.

Woe is me, Alhama!

River, that rollest by the ancient walls
Where dwells the lady of my love, when she
Walks by thy brink, and there perchance

A faint and fleeti ag memory of ine:

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