And, smiling in the arms of death,
She blessed me with her latest breath.
A secret hand to me conveyed
The thoughts of that inspiring maid;
They came like voices on the wind,
Heard in the stillness of the mind,
When round the poet's twilight walk
Aërial beings seem to talk.
Not the twin stars of Leda shine
With vernal influence more benign,
Nor sweeter, in the sylvan vale,
Sings the lone-warbling nightingale,
Than through my shades her lustre broke,
Than to my griefs her spirit spoke.
My fancy formed her young and fair,
Pure as her sister lilies were,
Adorned with meekest maiden grace,
With every charm of soul and face
That Virtue's awful eye approves,
And fond Affection dearly loves;
Heaven in her open aspect seen,
Her Maker's image in her mien.
Such was the picture fancy drew,
In lineaments divinely true;
The muse, by her mysterious art,
Had shown her likeness to my heart,
And every faithful feature brought
O'er the clear mirror of my thought.
-But she was waning to the tomb;
The worm of death was in her bloom;
Yet as the mortal frame declined,
Strong through the ruins rose the mind:
As the dim moon, when night ascends,
Slow in the east the darkness rends,
Through melting clouds, by gradual gleams,
Pours the mild splendour of her beams,
Then bursts in triumph o'er the pole,
Free as a disembodied soul!
Thus, while the veil of flesh decayed,
Her beauties brightened through the shade;
Charms which her lowly heart concealed
In nature's weakness were revealed;
And still the unrobing spirit cast
Diviner glories to the last,
Dissolved its bonds, and cleared its flight, Emerging into perfect light.
Yet shall the friends who loved her weep,
Though shrined in peace the sufferer sleep,
Though rapt to heaven the saint aspire,
With Seraph guards, on wings of fire;
Yet shall they weep;-for oft and well
Remembrance shall her story tell,
Affection of her virtues speak,
With beaming eye and burning cheek,
Each action, word, and look recall;
The last, the loveliest of all,
When on the lap of death she lay,
Serenely smiled her soul away,
And left surviving Friendship's breast
Warm with the sunset of her rest.
O thou, who wert on earth unknown,
Companion of my thought alone,
Unchanged in heaven to me thou art,
Still hold communion with my heart;
Cheer thou my hopes, exalt my views,
Be the good angel of my muse ;-
And if to thine approving ear
My plaintive numbers once were dear;
If, falling round thy dying hours,
Like evening dews on closing flowers,
They soothed thy pains, and through thy soul
With melancholy sweetness stole,
Hear me :-When slumber from mine eyes,
That roll in irksome darkness, flies;
When the lorn spectre of unrest
At conscious midnight haunts my breast;
When former joys, and present woes,
And future fears are all my foes;
Spirit of my departed friend,
Calm through the troubled gloom descend,
With strains of triumph on thy tongue,
Such as to dying saints are sung;
Such as in Paradise the ear
Of God Himself delights to hear:
Come all unseen; be only known
By Zion's harp of higher tone,
Warbling to thy mysterious voice;
Bid my desponding powers rejoice;
And I will listen to thy lay,
Till night and sorrow flee away,
Till gladness o'er my bosom rise,
And morning kindle round the skies.
If thus to me, sweet saint, be given
To learn from thee the hymns of heaven,
Thine inspiration will impart
Seraphic ardours to my heart ;
My voice thy music shall prolong,
And echo thy entrancing song;
My lyre, with sympathy divine,
Shall answer every chord of thine,
Till their consenting tones give birth
To harmonies unknown on earth.
Then shall my thoughts, in living fire
Sent down from heaven, to heaven aspire,
My verse through lofty measures rise,
A scale of glory to the skies,
Resembling, on each hallowed theme,
The ladder of the patriarch's dream,
O'er which descending angels shone,
On earthly missions from the throne,
Returning by the steps they trod,
Up to the Paradise of GOD.
THRICE welcome, little English flower!
My mother-country's white and red,
In rose or lily, till this hour,
Never to me such beauty spread:
Transplanted from thine island bed,
A treasure in a grain of earth,
Strange as a spirit from the dead,
Thine embryo sprang to birth.
Thrice welcome, little English flower!
Whose tribes, beneath our natal skies,
Shut close their leaves while vapours lower;
But, when the sun's gay beams arise,
With unabashed but modest eyes,
Follow his motion to the west,
Nor cease to gaze till daylight dies,
Then fold themselves to rest.
Thrice welcome, little English flower!
To this resplendent hemisphere,
Where Flora's giant offspring tower
In gorgeous liveries all the year:
Thou, only thou, art little here,
Like worth unfriended and unknown,
Yet to my British heart more dear
Than all the torrid zone.
Thrice welcome, little English flower!
Of early scenes beloved by me,
While happy in my father's bower,
Thou shalt the blithe memorial be;
The fairy sports of infancy,
Youth's golden age, and manhood's prime,
Home, country, kindred, friends, with thee
I find in this far clime.
Thrice welcome, little English flower!
I'll rear thee with a trembling hand:
Oh for the April sun and shower,
The sweet May dews, of that fair land
Where daisies, thick as starlight, stand
In every walk!-that here may shoot
Thy scions, and thy buds expand,
A hundred from one root.
Thrice welcome, little English flower!
To me the pledge of hope unseen:
When sorrow would my soul o'erpower,
For joys that were, or might have been,
I'll call to mind, how, fresh and green,
I saw thee waking from the dust;
Then turn to heaven with brow serene,
And place in GOD my trust.
ODE TO THE VOLUNTEERS OF BRITAIN,
ON THE PROSPECT OF INVASION.
OH, the death of those
Who for their country die,-
Sink on her bosom to repose,
And triumph where they lie!
How beautiful in death
The Warrior's corse appears, Embalmed by fond Affection's breath, And bathed in Woman's tears!
Their loveliest native earth
Enshrines the fallen brave;
In the dear land that gave them birth
They find their tranquil grave.
But the wild waves shall sweep
Britannia's foes away,
And the blue monsters of the deep
Be surfeited with prey!
No! they have 'scaped the waves,
'Scaped the sea-monsters' maws;
They come! but oh, shall Gallic slaves
Give English freemen laws?
By Alfred's spirit, No!—
Ring, ring the loud alarms;
Ye drums awake, ye clarions blow,
Ye heralds, shout "To arms!"
To arms our heroes fly;
And, leading on their lines, The British banner in the sky,
The star of conquest shines.
The lowering battle forms
Its terrible array;
Like clashing clouds in mountain storms, That thunder on their way.
The rushing armies meet;
And while they pour their breath,
The strong earth shudders at their feet, The day grows dim with death.
Ghosts of the mighty dead,
Your children's hearts inspire;
And while they on your ashes tread,
Rekindle all your fire.
|