Beware a speedy friend, the Arabian said,

And wisely was it he advised distrust :

The flower that blossoms earliest fades the first. Look at yon Oak that lifts its stately head, And dallies with the autumnal storm, whose rage

Tempests the ocean waves; slowly it rose,
Slowly its strength increased through many an age,

And timidly did its light leaves disclose,
As doubtful of the spring, their palest green.

They to the summer cautiously expand,

And by the warmer sun and season bland
Matured, their foliage in the grove is seen,
When the bare forest by the wintry blast
Is swept, still lingering on the boughs the last.


Farewell my home, my home no longer now,

Witness of many a calm and happy day; And thou fair eminence, upon whose brow

Dwells the last sunshine of the evening ray, Farewell! Mine eyes no longer shall pursue

The western sun beyond the utmost height,

When slowly he forsakes the fields of light.
No more the freshness of the falling dew,
Cool and delightful, here shall bathe my head,

As from this western wiudow dear, I lean,

Listening, the while I watch the placid scene, The martins Twittering underneath the shed. Farewell, my home! where many a day has past In joys whose loved remembrance long shall last.


If thou didst feed on western plains of yore;

Or waddle wide with flat and flabby feet
Over some Cambrian mountain's plashy moor;

Or find in farmer's yard a safe retreat

From gypsey thieves, and foxes sly and fleet; If thy grey quills, by lawyer guided, trace Deeds big with ruin to some wretched race,

Or love-sick poet's sonnet, sad and sweet,

Wailing the rigour of his lady fair;
Or if, the drudge of housemaid's daily toil,
Cobwebs and dust thy pinions white besoil,

Departed goose! I neither know nor care.
But this I know, that thou wert very fine,
Seasond with sage, and onions, and port wine.


PORLock, thy verdant vale so fair to sight,

Thy lofty bills with fern and furze so brown,

The walers that so musical roll down Thy woody glens, the traveller with delight

Recalls to memory, and the channel grey

Circling its surges in thy level bay;-Porlock, I also shall forget thee 10t,

Here by the unwelcome summer rain confined;

And often shall liercafter call to mind llow here, a patient prisoner, 't was my lot To wear the lonely, lingering close of day,

Making my Sonnet by the alehouse fire,

Whilst Idleness and Solitude inspire
Duil rhymes to pass the duller hours away.

August 9, 1799.

I MARVEL not, O sun! that unto thee
In adoration man should bow the knee,

his prayers of mingled awe and love;
For like a God thou art, and on thy way
Of glory sheddest with benignant ray,

Beauty, and life, and joyance from above.

No longer let these mists thy radiance shroud, These cold raw mists that chill the comfortless day; But shed thy splendour through the opening cloud

And cheer the carth once more. The languid flowers Lic odourless, bent down with heavy rain,

Earth asks thy presence, saturate with showers!
O Lord of Light! put forth thy beams again,
For damp and cheerless are the gloomy hours.


Stately yon vessel sails adown the tide,

To some far distant land adventurous bound;
The sailors' busy cries from side to side

Pealing among the echoing rocks resound:
A patient, thoughtless, much-enduring band,

Joyful they enter on their ocean way, With shouts exulting leave their native land,

And know no care beyond the present day. But is there no poor mourner left behind,

Who sorrows for a child or husbaud there? Who at the howling of the midnight wind

Will wake and tremble in her boding prayer! So may lier voice be lieard, and Heaven be kind! Go, gallant ship, and be thy fortune fair!


Fair be thy fortunes in the distant land,

Companion of my carlier years and friend! Go to the Eastern world, and may the hand

Of Heaven its blessing on thy labour send. And may I, if wc ever more should meel,

See thee with aftluence to thiy native shore Return'd;-I need not pray that I may greet

The same untainted goodness as before. Long years must intervene before that day;

And what the changes lleaven to each may send,

It boots not now to bode! Oh early friend ! Assured, no distance e'er can wear away Esteem long rooted, and no change remove The dear remembrance of the friend we love.


O Gop have mercy in this dreadful hour

On the poor mariner! in comfort here

Safe shelter'd as I am, I almost fear
The blast that rages with resistless power.

What were it now to toss upon the waves,
The madden'd waves, and know no succour near;
The howling of the storm alone to hear,

And the wild sea that to the tempest raves,
To gaze amid the horrors of the night
And only see the billow's gleaming light;

And in the dread of death to think of her
Who, as she listens sleepless to the gale,
Puts up a silent prayer and waxes pale?--
O God! have mercy on the mariner!


Heaven's vengeance on thy sin: Must thou be told

The CRIME it is to paint DIVINITY? Rash Painter! should the world her charms behold,

Dim and defiled, as there they needs must be,
They to their old idolatry would fall,

And bend before hier forin the pagan knee.

She comes majestic with her swelling sails,

The gallant back! along hier watery way Ilomeward she drives before the favouring gales;

Now tlirting at their length the streamers play, And now they ripple with the ruftling breeze,

Hark to the sailors' shouts! the rocks rebound,

Thundering in echoes to the joyful sound. Long have they voyaged o'er the distant seas,

And what a heart-delight they feel at last,

So many toils, so many dangers past, To view the port desired, he only knows

Who on the stormy deep for many a day

Hath tost, a weary of his ocean way, And watch'd, all anxious, every wind that blows.



A WRINKLED, crabbed man they picture thee,

Old Winter, with a rugged beard as grey
As the long moss upon the apple-tree;
Blue lipe, an ice-drop at thy sharp blue nose;

Close muftled up, and on thy dreary way,
Plodding alone through sleet and drifting snows.
They should have drawn thee by the high-lieapı heartlı,

Old Winter! seated in thy great-armd chair, Watching the children at their Christmas mirth,

Or circled by them as thy lips declare Some merry jest or tale of murder dire,

Or troubled spirit that disturbs the night, Pausing at times to rouse the mouldering fire, Or taste the old October brown and bright.



Some have denied a soul! THEY NEVER LOVED.
Far from my Delia now by fate removed,
At home, abroad, 1 view her


wlicre; Her ONLY in the FLOOD OF NOON I see.

My Godiless-Naid, my OMNIPRESENT FAIR,
For Love annihilates the world tu me!
And when the weary Sou around his bed

Closes the SARLE CURTAINS of the night,

SUN OF MY SLUMBERS, on my dazzled sight
She shines copfest. When every sound is dead,
The SPIRIT OF HER VOICE comes then to roll

The surge of music o'er my wavy brain.

Far, far from her my Body drags its chain, But sure with Delia I exist A SOUL!




I would I were that Reverend Gentleman
With gold-laced bat and golden-headed cane,

Who hangs in Delia's parlour! For whene'er
From book or needlework her looks arise,
On him converge the SUN-BEAMS of her eyes,
And he unblamed

may gize upon MY FAIR, And oft MY FAIR his favour'd form surveys. O HAPPY PICTURE! still on DER 10 gaze!

I envy lim! and jealous fear alarms,

Lest the strong glance of those divinest charms
WARM HIM TO LIFE, as in the ancient days,

When MARBLE MELTED in Pugmalion's arms.
I would I were that Reverend Gentleman
With gold-laced hat and golden-headed cane.

DELIA AT PLAY. Sue beld a Cup and Pall of Ivory white,

Less while the Ivory than ber snowy hand !

Enrapt I watchi'd her from my secret stand, As now, intent, in innocent delight,

ller taper fingers twirl'd the giddy ball, Now lost it, following still with Eagle sight,

Now on the pointed end infix'd its full. Marking her sport / mused, and musing sigh'd, Methought the ball she play'd with was my least! (Alas! that Sport like that should be ber pride!) And the keen point which stedfast still she eyed

Wherewith lo pierce it, that was Cupid's dart; Shall I not then the cruel Fair condeinn Who on that durt IMPALES my bosoM'S GEM?


DELIA'S POCKET-HANDKERCHIEF. 'T is mine! what accents can my joy declare?

Blest be the pressure of the thronging rout! Blest be the hand so lasty of my fair,

That left the tempting corner hanging out! I envy not the joy the pilgrim feels,

After long travel to some distant shrine, When at the relic of his saint he kueels,

For Delia's POCKET-HANDKERCHIEF IS MINE. When first will filching fingers I drew near,

Keen hope shot treinulous ibrongli every vein, And wben the finishil deed removed my fear,

Scarce could my bounding lieart its joy contain. Whai though the Einlied Cominandment rose to mind,

It only served a moment's qnalm to more; For thefis like this it could not be desigod, The Eigluh Commandment was NOT MADE FOR LOVE!


Rash Painter! canst thou give the orb OF DAY
Jo all its noontide glory? or portray

The DIAMOND, that athwart the taper'd hall
Flings the rich flashes of its dazzliny light?
Even if thise art could boast such magic might,

Yet if it strove to paint my Angel's Eye,
Here it perforce must fail. Cease! lest I call

[ocr errors]

Here when she took the macaroons from me,

She wiped her mouth to clean the crumbs so sweet! Dear napkin! yes,

she wiped her lips in thee! Lips sweeter than the macaroons she eat.

The rose-pomatum that the Friseur spreads

Sometimes with honour'd fingers for my fair,
No added perfume on her tresses sheds,

But borrows sweetness from her sweeter hair.

And when she took that pinch of Mocabaw,

That made my Love so delicately sneeze, Thee to her Roman nose applied I saw,

And thou art doubly dear for things like these.

Happy the Friseur who in Delia's hair

With licensed fingers uncontrould may rove!
And happy in his death the DANCING BEAR,

Who died to make pomatum for my love.

my fair,

No washerwoman's filthy hand shall e'er,

Oh could I hope that e'er my favour'd lays Sweet PockET-HANDKERCHIEF! thy worth profane; Might curl those lovely locks with conscious pride, For thou hast touchid the rubies of

Nor llammond, nor the Maoluan Shepherd's praise Aud I will kiss thee o'er and o'er again.

I'd envy uien, nor wish reward beside.

Cupid has strung from you, O tresses fine,
THE POET INVOKES THE SPIRITS OF THE The bow that in my breast impelld his dart;
ELEMENTS TO APPROACH DEL'A. HE DE- From you, sweet locks! he wove the subtile line

Wherewith the urchin angled for my HEART.
Ye Sylphs, who banquet on my Delia's blush,

Fine are my Delia's tresses as the threads
Who on her locks of FLOATING GOLD repose,

That from the silk-worin, self-interrd, proceed ; Dip in her cheek your GOSSAMERY BRUSI,

fine as the GLEAMY GossamER that spreads And with its bloom of beauty tinge TIE ROSE.

Its filmy web-work o'er the langled mead.

Hover around her lips on rainbow wing,

Load from her hopeyed breath your viewless feet, Bear thence a richer fragrance for the Spring,

And make the lily and the violet sweet.

Yet with these tresses Cupid's power elate

My captive heart has handcuff d in a chain,
Strong as the cables of some huge first-rate,


Ye GNOMES, whose toil through many a dateless year

Jis nurture to the infant gem supplies,
From central caverns bring your diamonds here,

To ripen in the Sun OF DELIA'S EYES.

The Sylpes that round her radiant locks repair,

In flowing lustre bathe their brightening wings : And ELFIN MINSTRELS with assiduous care

The ringlets rob for FAERY FIDDLE-STRINGS.

And ye who bathe in Etna's lava springs,
Spirits of fire! to see my love advance;


OF DELIA'S HAIR, AND HER ANGER. To wanton in my Delia's fiery glance.

On! be the day accurst that gave me birth!

Ye Seas, to swallow me in kindness rise !
She weeps, she weeps! her eye with anguish swells,
Some tale of sorrow melts my FEELING GIRL!

Fall on me, Mountains! and thou merciful Earth, Nympas! catch the tears, and in your lucid shells

Open, and hide me from my Delia's eyes! Enclose them, EMBRYOS OF THE ORIENT PEARL.

Let universal Chaos now return, She sings! the Nightingale with envy hears,

Now let the central fires their prison burst, The CHERUBIM bends from his starry throne,

And earth and neaven and air and OCEAN burn

For Delia FROWNS-SHE FROWNS, and I am curst! And motionless are stopt the attentive SPHERES, To hear more heavenly music than their own.

Oh! I could dare the fury of the fight,

Where hostile MILLIONS sought my single life;
Cease, Delia, cease! for all the ANGEL TIRONG,

Would storm VOLCANO BATTERIES with delight,
Listening to thee, let sleep their golden wires!
Cease, Delia, cease! that too surpassing song,

And grapple with GRIM DEATO in glorious strife. Lest, stung to envy, they should break their lyres.

Oh! I could brave the bolts of angry Jove,

When ceaseless lightnings fire the midnight skies; Cease, ere my senses are to madness driven

What is his wrath to that of her I love? By the strong joy! cease, Delia, lest soul


What is lois LIGHTNING to my Delia's EYES?
And burst the feeble Body's frail controul.

Go, fatal lock! I cast thee to the wind;

Ye serpent curls, ye poison-tendrils, co-
THE POET EXPATIATES ON THE BEAUTY OF Would I could tear thy memory from my mind,

ACCURSED LOCK,-thou cause of all my woe!
The comb between whose ivory teeth she strains Seize the cunst CURLs, ye Furies, as they tly!
The straitening curls of gold so beamy bright,

Demons of darkness, guard the infernal roll, Not spotless merely from the touch remaios,

That theore your cruel vengeance when I die, But issues forth more pure, more milky white.

May knit the KNOTS OF TORTURE for my soul.

[blocks in formation]

Brother, thou wert strong in youth!
Brother, thou wert brave in war!

Uohappy man was he
For whom thou hadst sharpen'd the tomabawk's edge!

Unhappy man was he
On whom thine angry eye was fix'd in fight!

And he who from thy hand

Received the calumet
Blest Heaven, and slept in peace.

When the Evil Spirits seized thee, Brother, we were sad at heart:

We bade the Jongler come

And briog his magic aid ; We circled thee in mystic dance, With songs and shouts and cries, To free thee from their power.

Brother, but in vain we strove, The number of thy days was full.



Rest in peace, my Father, rest! With danger and toil have I borne thy corpse

From the Stranger's field of death.

I bless thee, O Wife of the Sun,
For veiling thy beams willi a cloud,

While at the pious task

Thy votary toild in fear.
Thou badest the clouds of night
Enwrap thee, and hide thee from Man;

But didst thou not see my toil,
And put on the darkness to aid,

O Wife of the visible God?

Thou sittest amongst us on thy mat, The bear-skin from thy shoulder hangs, Thy feet are sandal'd ready for the way.

Those are the unfatiguable feet
That traversed the forest (rack!

Those are the lips that late

Thunder'd the yell of war;
And that is the strong right arm
Which never was lifted in vain.

Those lips are silent now,
The limbs that were active are stiff,
Loose hangs the strong right arm!

Wretched, my Father, thy life!
Wretched the life of the Slave!

All day for another he toils;

Overwearied at night he lies down.
And dreams of the freedom that once he enjoy'd.
Thou wert blest in the days of thy youth,

My Father! for then thou weri free.
In the fields of the nation thy hand

Bore its part of the general task ;
And when, with the song and the dance,

Ye brought the harvest home,

As all in the labour had shared,

Hark! hark! in the howl of the wind
So justly they shared in the fruits.

The shout of the battle, the clang of their drums,

The horsemen are met, and the shock of the fight Thou visible Lord of the Earth,

Is the blast that disbranches the wood. Thou God of my Fathers, thou God of my heart, ( Giver of light and of life!

Behold from the clouds of their power When the Strangers came to our shores, The lighting, the lightning is lanced at our sires! Why didst thou not put forth thy power?

And the thunder that shakes the broad pavement of

Heaven !
Thy ibunders should then have been burld,
Thy fires should in lightnings have flaslid !-

And the darkness that quenches the day!
Visible God of the Earth,
The Strangers mock at thy might!

Ye Souls of our Fathers, be brave!
To idols and beams of wood

Ye shrunk not before the invaders on carth,
Thicy force us to bow the knee!

Ye trembled not them at their weapons of fire,
They plunye us in caverns and dens,

Brave Spirits, ye tremble not now!
Where never thy blessed light
Shines on our poisonous toil!

We gaze on your warfare in hope,
But not in the caverns and dens,

We send up our shouts to encourage your arms!

Lift the lance of
O Sun, are we miodless of thee!

your vengeance, O Fathers! with force, For ebe wrongs

of We pine for the want of thy beams,

your country strike home! We adore thee with anynisha and groans.

Remember the land was your own

When the Sons of Destruction came over the seas;
My Father, rest in peace!

That the old fell asleep in the fullness of days,
Rest with the dust of thy Sires!

And their children wept over their graves,
They placed their Cross in thy dying grasp; -
They bore thee to their burial-place,

Till the Strangers came into the land
And over thy breathless fraine

With tongues of deceit and with weapons of fire :
Their bloody and merciless Priest

Then the strength of the people in youth was cut off,
Mumbled his mystery words.

And the father wept over his son.
Oh! could thy bones be at peace
In the fields where the Strangers are laid ?--

Jt thickens--the tumult of fight!
Alone, in danger and in pain,

Louder and louder the blast of the battle is heard! -
My Father, I bring thee here:

Remember the wrongs that your country endures !
So may our God, in reward,

Remember the fields of your fame!
Allow me one faithful friend
To lay me beside thee when I am released!

Joy! joy! for the Strangers recoil, --
So may be release me soon,

They give way,--they retreat to the land of their life!
That my Spirit may join thee there,

Pursue tbem! pursue tbem! remember your wrongs! Where the Strangers never shall come!

Let your lances be drunk with their wounds. 1799.

The Souls of your wives shall rejoice

As they welcome you back to your Islands of Bliss; SONG OF THE ARAUCANS

And the breeze that refreshes the toil-throbbing brow

Waft thither the song of your praise.

The storm-cloud grows deeper above;
Araucans! the tempest is ripe in the sky;
Our forefathers come from their Islands of Bliss,

SONG OF THE CHIKKASAH WIDOW. They come to the war of the winds.

'T was the voice of my husband that came on the gale.

The unappeased Spirit in anger complaias! The Souls of the Strangers are there,

Rest, rest Olianahta, be still! In their garments of darkness they ride through the

The day of revenge is at hand. heaven; Yon cloud that rolls luridly over the hill

The stake is made ready, the captives shall die; Is red with their weapons of fire.

To-morrow the song of their death shalt thou hear, Respecting storms, the people of Chili a e of opinion that, the

To-morrow thy widow shall wield departed souls are returning from their abode beyond the sea to as

The knife and the fire;- be at rest! sist their relations and friends. Accordingly, when it thunders over the mountains, tbey think that the souls of their forefathers are The vengeance of anguish shall soon have its course, taken in an engagement with those of the Spaniards. The roaring The fountains of grief and of fury shall flow.of the winds they take to be the noise of horsemen attacking one

I will think, Ollanahita! of thee, another, ibe howling of the tempest for the beating of drums, and the claps of thunder for the discharge of miskets and cannons.- Will remember the days of our love. When the wind drives ibe clouds towards the possessions of the Spaniards, they rejoice that the souls of their forefathers bave re- Ollanahta, all day by thy war-pole I sat, pulsed thoso of their enemies, and call out aloud to ibem 10 giva Where idly thy hatchet of battle is hung; ibem no quarter. When the contrary bappens, they are troubled and dejected, and encourage the yielding souls to rally their forces,

I gazed on the bow of thy strength and summon up the last remains of their strength. -- Jeunen.

As it waved on the stream of the wind.

« 前へ次へ »