Of Hodney, to thine after-thoughts will rise More grateful, thus associate with the name Of David and the deeds of other days. Bath, 1798.
Had fill'd his senses with tranquillity, And ever soothed in spirit he return'd A happier, better man. Stranger! perchance, Therefore the stream more lovely to thine eye Will glide along, and to the summer gale [then The woods wave more melodious. Cleanse thou The weeds and mosses from this letter'd stone.
EPITAPH ON ALGERNON SYDNEY.
HERE Sydney lies, he whom perverted law, The pliant jury, and the bloody judge, Doom'd to a traitor's death. A tyrant King Required, an abject country saw and shared The crime. The noble cause of Liberty He loved in life, and to that noble cause In death bore witness. But his Country rose Like Samson from her sleep, and broke her chains, And proudly with her worthies she enroll'd Her murder'd Sydney's name. The voice of man Gives honor or destroys; but earthly power Gives not, nor takes away, the self-applause Which on the scaffold suffering virtue feels, Nor that which God appointed its reward. Westbury, 1798.
JOHN rests below. A man more infamous Never hath held the sceptre of these realms, And bruised beneath the iron rod of Power The oppressed men of England. Englishman! Curse not his memory. Murderer as he was, Coward and slave, yet he it was who sign'd
FOR A MONUMENT AT TORDESILLAS.
SPANIARD! if thou art one who bows the knee Before a despot's footstool, hie thee hence! This ground is holy here Padilla died, Martyr of Freedom. But if thou dost love Her cause, stand then as at an altar here, And thank the Almighty that thine honest heart, Full of a brother's feelings for mankind, Revolts against oppression. Not unheard Nor unavailing shall the grateful prayer Ascend; for honest impulses will rise, Such as may elevate and strengthen thee For virtuous action. Relics silver-shrined, And chaunted mass, would wake within the soul Thoughts valueless and cold compared with these. Bristol, 1796.
FOR A COLUMN AT TRUXILLO.
PIZARRO here was born; a greater name The list of Glory boasts not. Toil and Pain,
That Charter which should make thee morn and Famine and hostile Elements, and Hosts
Be thankful for thy birthplace: - Englishman! That holy Charter, which shouldst thou permit Force to destroy, or Fraud to undermine, Thy children's groans will persecute thy soul, For they must bear the burden of thy crime. Westbury, 1798.
STRANGER! whose steps have reach'd this solitude, Know that this lonely spot was dear to one Devoted with no unrequited zeal
To Nature. Here, delighted, he has heard The rustling of these woods, that now perchance Melodious to the gale of summer move;
And underneath their shade on yon smooth rock, With gray and yellow lichens overgrown, Often reclined; watching the silent flow Of this perspicuous rivulet, that steals Along its verdant course,- till all around
Embattled, fail'd to check him in his course, Not to be wearied, not to be deterr'd, Not to be overcome. A mighty realm He overran, and with relentless arm Slew or enslaved its unoffending sons, And wealth, and power, and fame, were his rewards. There is another world, beyond the Grave, According to their deeds where men are judged. O Reader! if thy daily bread be earn'd By daily labor, - yea, however low, However painful be thy lot assign'd,
Thank thou, with deepest gratitude, the God Who made thee, that thou art not such as he. Bristol, 1796.
FOR THE CELL OF HONORIUS, AT THE CORK CONVENT, NEAR CINTRA.
HERE, cavern'd like a beast, Honorius pass'd, In self-affliction, solitude, and prayer, Long years of penance. He had rooted out
All human feelings from his heart, and fled With fear and loathing from all human joys. Not thus in making known his will divine Hath Christ enjoin'd. To aid the fatherless, Comfort the sick, and be the poor man's friend, And in the wounded heart pour gospel-balm,— These are the injunctions of his holy law, Which whoso keeps shall have a joy on earth, Calm, constant, still increasing, preluding The eternal bliss of Heaven. Yet mock not thou, Stranger, the Anchorite's mistaken zeal! He painfully his painful duties kept, Sincere, though erring. Stranger, do thou keep Thy better and thine easier rule as well.
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 flourish'd, when his perishable part Had moulder'd, dust to dust. That stately oak Itself hath moulder'd now, but Sydney's fame Endureth in his own immortal works.
FOR A MONUMENT AT TAUNTON.
THIS to a mother's sacred memory
Her son hath hallow'd. 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
THEY suffer'd here whom Jefferies doom'd to death Which he had seen covering the boundless plain, In mockery of all justice, when the Judge Unjust, subservient to a cruel King,
Perform'd his work of blood. They suffer'd here, The victims of that Judge, and of that King; In mockery of all justice here they bled, Unheard. But not unpitied, nor of God Unseen, the innocent suffered; not unheard The innocent blood cried vengeance; for at length The indignant Nation in its power arose, Resistless. Then that wicked Judge took flight, Disguised in vain :-not always is the Lord Slow to revenge! A miserable man,
He fell beneath the people's rage, and still The children curse his memory. From the throne The obdurate bigot who commission'd him, Inhuman James, was driven. He lived to drag Long years of frustrate hope, he lived to load More blood upon his soul. Let tell the Boyne, Let Londonderry tell his guilt and shame; And that immortal day when on thy shores, La Hogue, the purple ocean dash'd the dead! Westbury, 1798.
FOR A TABLET AT PENSHURST.
ARE days of old familiar to thy mind,
O Reader? Hast thou let the midnight hour Pass unperceived, whilst thou in fancy lived With high-born beauties and enamor'd chiefs, Sharing their hopes, and with a breathless joy Whose expectation touch'd the verge of pain, Following their dangerous fortunes? If such lore Hath ever thrill'd thy bosom, thou wilt tread, As with a pilgrim's reverential thoughts, The groves of Penshurst. Sydney here was born, Sydney, than whom no gentler, braver man His own delightful genius ever feign'd, Illustrating the vales of Arcady
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-look'd-for, came at length, | And full of hope he reach'd 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 sunder'd 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 past; 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 all
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
Long tried and always faithful found, went forth, The embattled hosts in equal strength array'd And equal discipline, encountered here. Junot, the mock Abrantes, led the French, And, confident of skill so oft approved,
The insidious bloom of death; and then her smiles And vaunting many a victory, advanced And innocent mirth excited deeper grief
Than when long-look'd-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
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,
Than thine Earth never closed; nor e'er did Heaven For the strong arm and rightful cause prevail'd. Receive a purer spirit from the world.
That day deliver'd Lisbon from the yoke, And babes were taught to bless Sir Arthur's name.
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 renown'd. For when to her ally, In bondage by perfidious France oppress'd, 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 fix'd; The veteran chief, disposing well all aid Of height and glen, possess'd the mountain straits, A post whose strength thus mann'd and profited Seem'd 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 look'd for Loison's army, rich With spoils from Evora and Beja sack'd. 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, Avail'd that day against the British arm. Resisting long, but beaten from their stand, The French fell back; they join'd 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 call'd 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,
WHEN from these shores the British army first Boldly advanced into the heart of Spain, The admiring people who beheld its march Call'd it "the Beautiful." And surely well Its proud array, its perfect discipline, Its ample furniture of war complete, Its powerful horse, its men of British mould, All high in heart and hope, all of themselves Assured, and in their leaders confident, Deserved the title. Few short weeks elapsed Ere hither that disastrous host return'd, A fourth of all its gallant force consumed In hasty and precipitate retreat,
Stores, treasure, and artillery, in the wreck Left to the fierce pursuer, horse and man Founder'd, and stiffening on the mountain snows. But when the exulting enemy approach'd, Boasting that he would drive into the sea The remnant of the wretched fugitives, Here, ere they reach'd their ships, they turn'd at bay. Then was the proof of British courage seen; Against a foe far overnumbering them, An insolent foe, rejoicing in pursuit, Sure of the fruit of victory, whatsoe'er Might be the fate of battle, here they stood, And their safe embarkation—all they sought- Won manfully. That mournful day avenged Their sufferings, and redeem'd their country's And thus Coruña, which in this retreat [name; Had seen the else indelible reproach Of England, saw the stain effaced in blood.
He who in this unconsecrated ground Obtain'd a soldier's grave, hath left a name Which will endure in history: the remains Of Moore, the British General, rest below. His early prowess Corsica beheld,
When, at Mozello, bleeding, through the breach
He passed victorious; the Columbian isles Then saw him tried; upon the sandy downs Of Holland was his riper worth approved; And leaving on the Egyptian shores his blood, He gathered there fresh palms. High in repute A gallant army last he led to Spain, In arduous times; for moving in his strength, With all his mighty means of war complete, The Tyrant Bonaparte bore down all Before him; and the British Chief beheld, Where'er he look'd, rout, treason, and dismay, All sides with all embarrassments beset, And danger pressing on. Hither he came Before the far outnumbering hosts of France Retreating to her ships, and close pursued; Nor were there wanting men who counsell'd him To offer terms, and from the enemy Purchase a respite to embark in peace, At price of such abasement, -even to this, Brave as they were, by hopelessness subdued. That shameful counsel Moore, in happy hour Remembering what was due to England's name, Refused: he fought, he conquer'd, and he fell.
MORTALLY WOUNDED IN THE BATTLE OF CORUÑA.
MYSTERIOUS are the ways of Providence !
Paul Burrard on Coruña's fatal field Received his mortal hurt. Not unprepared The heroic youth was found; for in the ways Of piety had he been trained; and what The dutiful child upon his mother's knees Had learnt, the soldier faithfully observed. In chamber or in tent, the Book of God Was his beloved manual; and his life Beseem'd the lessons which from thence he drew. For, gallant as he was, and blithe of heart, Expert of hand, and keen of eye, and prompt In intellect, religion was the crown Of all his noble properties. When Paul Was by, the scoffer, self-abased, restrain'd The license of his speech; and ribaldry Before his virtuous presence sate rebuked. And yet so frank and affable a form His virtue wore, that wheresoe'er he moved, A sunshine of good-will and cheerfulness Enliven'd all around. Oh! marvel not, If, in the morning of his fair career, Which promised all that honor could bestow On high desert, the youth was summon'd hence! His soul required no further discipline,
Pure as it was, and capable of Heaven.
Upon the spot from whence he just had seen His General borne away, the appointed ball Reach'd him. But not on that Gallician ground Was it his fate, like many a British heart, To mingle with the soil; the sea received His mortal relics, - to a watery grave
Consign'd so near his native shore, so near His father's house, that they who loved him best, Unconscious of its import, heard the gun Which fired his knell.- Alas! if it were known,
Old men, who have grown gray in camps, and When, in the strife of nations, dreadful Death wish'd,
And pray'd, and sought in battle to lay down The burden of their age, have seen the young Fall round, themselves untouch'd; and balls beside The graceless and the unblest head have past, Harmless as hail, to reach some precious life, For which clasp'd hands, and supplicating eyes, Duly at morn and eve were raised to Heaven; And, in the depth and loneness of the soul, (Then boding all too truly,) midnight prayers Breathed from an anxious pillow wet with tears. But blessed, even amid their grief, are they Who, in the hour of visitation, bow Beneath the unerring will, and look toward Their Heavenly Father, merciful as just!
They, while they own his goodness, feel that whom He chastens, them he loves. The cup he gives,
Mows down with indiscriminating sweep His thousands ten times told,—if it were known What ties are sever'd then, what ripening hopes Blasted, what virtues in their bloom cut off; How far the desolating scourge extends; How wide the misery spreads; what hearts beneath Their grief are broken, or survive to feel Always the irremediable loss, -
Oh! who of woman born could bear the thought? Who but would join with fervent piety The prayer that asketh in our time for peace? Nor in our time alone! - Enable us,
Father which art in heaven! but to receive And keep thy word: thy kingdom then should
Thy will be done on earth; the victory Accomplished over Sin as well as Death,
Shall they not drink it? Therefore doth the draught | And the great scheme of Providence fulfill'd. Resent of comfort in its bitterness,
And carry healing with it. What but this
Could have sustain'd the mourners who were left, With life-long yearnings, to remember him Whose early death this monumental verse Records? For never more auspicious hopes Were nipp'd in flower, nor finer qualities From goodliest fabric of mortality Divorced, nor virtues worthier to adorn The world transferr'd to heaven, than when, ere Had measured him the space of nineteen years,
FOR THE BANKS OF THE DOURO. CROSSING in unexampled enterprise This great and perilous stream, the English host Effected here their landing, on the day When Soult from Porto with his troops was driven.
No sight so joyful ever had been seen From Douro's banks,- not when the mountains Their generous produce down, or homeward fleets Entered from distant seas their port desired; Nor e'er were shouts of such glad mariners So gladly heard, as then the cannon's peal, And short, sharp strokes of frequent musketry, By the delivered habitants that hour.
[sent | Before the bayonet driven. Again at morn They made their fiery onset, and again Repell'd, again at noon renew'd the strife. Yet was their desperate perseverance vain, Where skill by equal skill was countervail'd, And numbers by superior courage foil'd; And when the second night drew over them Its sheltering cope, in darkness they retired, At all points beaten. Long in the red page Of war shall Talavera's famous name Stand forth conspicuous. While that name endures, Bear in thy soul, O Spain, the memory Of all thou suffered'st from perfidious France, Of all that England in thy cause achieved.
For they who, beaten then and routed, fled Before victorious England, in their day Of triumph, had, like fiends let loose from hell, Fill'd yon devoted city with all forms
Of horror, all unutterable crimes;
And vengeance now had reach'd the inhuman race Accurs'd. Oh, what a scene did Night behold Within those rescued walls, when festal fires, And torches, blazing through the bloody streets, Stream'd their broad light where horse and man
Unheeded lay outstretch'd! Eyes which had wept In bitterness so long, shed tears of joy,
And from the broken heart thanksgiving, mix'd With anguish, rose to Heaven. Sir Arthur then Might feel how precious in a righteous cause Is victory, how divine the soldier's meed When grateful nations bless the avenging sword!
FOR THE DESERTO DE BUSACO.
READER, thou standest upon holy ground, Which Penitence hath chosen for itself, And war, disturbing the deep solitude, Hath left it doubly sacred. On these heights The host of Portugal and England stood, Arrayed against Massena, when the chief, Proud of Rodrigoo and Almeida won, Press'd forward, thinking the devoted realm Full sure should fall a prey. He in his pride Scorn'd the poor numbers of the English foe, And thought the children of the land would fly From his advance, like sheep before the wolf, Scattering, and lost in terror. Ill he knew The Lusitanian spirit! Ill he knew
YON wide-extended town, whose roofs, and towers, The arm, the heart of England! Ill he knew
And poplar avenues are seen far off, In goodly prospect over scatter'd woods Of dusky ilex, boasts among its sons Of Mariana's name, he who hath made The splendid story of his country's wars Through all the European kingdoms known. Yet in his ample annals thou canst find No braver battle chronicled, than here Was waged, when Joseph, of the stolen crown, Against the hosts of England and of Spain His veteran armies brought. By veteran chiefs Captain'd, a formidable force they came, Full fifty thousand. Victor led them on, A man grown gray in arms, nor e'er in aught Dishonored, till by this opprobrious cause. He, over rude Alverche's summer stream Winning his way, made first upon the right His hot attack, where Spain's raw levies, ranged In double line, had taken their strong stand
In yonder broken ground, by olive groves
Her Wellington! He learnt to know them here, That spirit and that arm, that heart, that mind, Here on Busaco gloriously display'd, When hence repulsed the beaten boaster wound Below his course circuitous, and left His thousands for the beasts and ravenous fowl. The Carmelite who in his cell recluse Was wont to sit, and from a skull receive Death's silent lesson, wheresoe'er he walk, Henceforth may find his teachers. He shall find The Frenchmen's bones in glen and grove, on rock And height, where'er the wolves and carrion birds Have strewn them, wash'd in torrents, bare and bleach'd
By sun and rain, and by the winds of heaven.
Cover'd and flank'd by Tagus. Soon from thence, FOR THE LINES OF TORRES VEDRAS.
As one whose practised eye could apprehend
All vantages in war, his troops he drew;
And on this hill, the battle's vital point, Bore with collected power, outnumbering The British ranks twice told. Such fearful odds Were balanced by Sir Arthur's master mind And by the British heart. Twice during night The fatal spot they storm'd, and twice fell back,
THROUGH all Iberia, from the Atlantic shores To far Pyrene, Wellington hath left His trophies; but no monument records To after-time a more enduring praise,
Than this which marks his triumph here attain'd By intellect, and patience to the end Holding through good and ill its course assign'd,
« 前へ次へ » |