With courteous courage and with loyal loves.
Upon his natal day, an acorn here
Was planted: it grew up a stately oak,
And in the beauty of its strength it stood
And flourished, when his perishable part
Had mouldered, dust to dust. That stately oak
Itself hath mouldered now, but Sidney's fame
Endureth in his own immortal works.
THIS to a mother's sacred memory
Her son hath hallowed. Absent many a year
Far over sea, his sweetest dreams were still
Of that dear voice which soothed his infancy;
And after many a fight against the Moor
And Malabar, or that fierce cavalry
Which he had seen covering the boundless plain,
Even to the utmost limits where the eye
Could pierce the far horizon, his first thought
In safety was of her, who, when she heard
The tale of that day's danger, would retire,
And pour her pious gratitude to Heaven
In prayers and tears of joy. The lingering hour
Of his return, long looked for, came at length,
And full of hope he reached his native shore.
Vain hope that puts its trust in human life!
For, ere he came, the number of her days. Was full. O Reader! what a world were this, How unendurable its weight, if they
Whom death hath sundered did not meet again!
HERE, in the fruitful vales of Somerset,
Was Emma born, and here the Maiden grew
To the sweet season of her womanhood,
Beloved and lovely, like a plant whose leaf
And bud and blossom all are beautiful.
In peacefulness her virgin years were passed;
And, when in prosperous wedlock she was given,
Amid the Cumbrian mountains far away
She had her summer bower. 'Twas like a dream
Of old romance to see her when she plied
Her little skiff on Derwent's glassy lake;
The roseate evening resting on the hills,
The lake returning back the hues of heaven,
Mountains and vales and waters, all imbued
With beauty, and in quietness; and she,
Nymph-like, amid that glorious solitude
A heavenly presence, gliding in her joy.
But soon a wasting malady began
To prey upon her, frequent in attack,
Yet with such flattering intervals as mock
The hopes of anxious love, and most of al
The sufferer, self-deceived. During those days
Of treacherous respite, many a time hath he,
Who leaves this record of his friend, drawn back
Into the shadow from her social board,
Because too surely in her cheek he saw
The insidious bloom of death; and then her smiles
And innocent mirth excited deeper grief
Than when long-looked-for tidings came at last,
That, all her sufferings ended, she was laid
Amid Madeira's orange groves to rest.
O gentle Emma! o'er a lovelier form
Than thine, earth never closed; nor e'er did heaven Receive a purer spirit from the world.
FOR A MONUMENT AT ROLISSA.
TIME has been when Rolissa was a name
Ignoble, by the passing traveller heard,
And then forthwith forgotten: now in war
It is renowned. For when to her ally,
In bondage by perfidious France oppressed,
England sent succor, first within this realm
The fated theatre of their long strife
Confronted, here the hostile nations met.
Laborde took here his stand; upon yon point
Of Mount Saint Anna was his Eagle fixed;
The veteran chief, disposing well all aid
Of height and glen, possessed the mountain straits,A post whose strength, thus manned and profited, Seemed to defy the enemy, and make
The vantage of assailing numbers vain.
Here, too, before the sun should bend his course
Adown the slope of heaven, so had their plans
Been timed, he looked for Loison's army, rich
With spoils from Evora and Beja sacked.
That hope the British knight, areeding well,
With prompt attack prevented; and nor strength
Of ground, nor leader's skill, nor discipline
Of soldiers practised in the ways of war,
Availed that day against the British arm.
Resisting long, but beaten from their stand,
The French fell back; they joined their greater host
To suffer fresh defeat, and Portugal
First for Sir Arthur wreathed her laurels here.
FOR A MONUMENT AT VIMEIRO.
THIS is Vimeiro; yonder stream, which flows
Westward through heathery highlands to the sea,
Is called Maceira, till of late a name,
Save to the dwellers of this peaceful vale,
Known only to the coasting mariner;
Now in the bloody page of war inscribed.
When, to the aid of injured Portugal
Struggling against the intolerable yoke
Of treacherous France, England, her old ally,
Long tried and always faithful found, went forth,
The embattled hosts, in equal strength arrayed
And equal discipline, encountered here.
Junot, the mock Abrantes, led the French,
And confident of skill so oft approved,
And vaunting many a victory, advanced
Against an untried foe. But when the ranks
Met in the shock of battle, man to man,
And bayonet to bayonet opposed,
The flower of France, cut down along their line,
Fell like ripe grass before the mower's scythe;
For the strong arm and rightful cause prevailed.
That day delivered Lisbon from the yoke,
And babes were taught to bless Sir Arthur's name.
WHEN from these shores the British army first
Boldly advanced into the heart of Spain,
The admiring people who beheld its march
Called it "the Beautiful." And surely well
Its proud array, its perfect discipline,
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