LOVE AND MADNESS. AN ELEGY, WRITTEN IN 1795. HARK! from the battlements of yonder tower' The solemn bell has toll'd the midnight hour! Roused from drear visions of distemper'd sleep, Poor B -k wakes-in solitude to weep! "Cease, Memory, cease, (the friendless mourner cried) Oh! ever cease, my pensive thoughts, to stray "Yet, can I cease, while glows this trembling frame, "Demons of Vengeance! ye at whose command "Yes; let the clay-cold breast that never knew "And ye, proud fair, whose soul no gladness warms, Ill can your blunter feelings guess the pain, "Say, then, did pitying Heaven condemn the deed, Why does my soul this gush of fondness feel? Unhappy youth, while yon pale crescent glows "Soon may this fluttering spark of vital flame SONG. On, how hard it is to find And if that one should be And sing Woe's me-Woe's me! Love's a boundless burning waste, STANZAS ON THE THREATENED INVASION, 1803. Then rise, fellow-freemen, and stretch the right hand, "Oh! righteous Heaven! 'twas then my tortured soul "Tis the home we hold sacred is laid to our trust— First gave to wrath unlimited control! Adieu the silent look! the streaming eye! And pale in blood he sleeps, to wake no more! 1 Warwick Castle. God bless the green Isle of the brave! In a Briton's sweet home shall a spoiler abide- 168 Shall a tyrant enslave us, my countrymen!-No! SONG. WITHDRAW not yet those lips and fingers, Whose touch to mine is rapture's spell! Life's joy for us a moment lingers, And death seems in the word-farewell, Time, whilst I gaze upon thy sweetness, When thou art parted from my soul? Our hearts shall heat, our tears shall flow, But not together, no, no, no! Is 't death to fall for Freedom's right? Give that! and welcome War to brace The charging cheer, Though Death's pale horse lead on the chase, Shall still be dear. And place our trophies where men kneel O God above! Transfer it from the sword's appeal To Peace and Love. What's hallow'd ground? "Tis what gives birth And your high-priesthood shall make earth CAROLINE. PART I. I'LL bid the hyacinth to blow, The holly bower and myrtle-tree. There all his wild-wood sweets to bring, The sweet south wind shall wander by, And with the music of his wing Delight my rustling canopy. Come to my close and clustering bower, Thou spirit of a milder clime, Fresh with the dews of fruit and flower, Of mountain-heath, and moory thyme. With all thy rural echoes come, Sweet comrade of the rosy day, Wafting the wild bee's gentle hum, Or cuckoo's plaintive roundelay. Where'er thy morning breath has play'd, Thou wandering wind of fairy-land. For sure from some enchanted isle, Where Heaven and Love their sabbath holds, Where pure and happy spirits smile, Of beauty's fairest, brightest mould; From some green Eden of the deep, Where Pleasure's sigh alone is heaved, Where tears of rapture lovers weep, Endear'd, uhdoubting, undeceived; From some sweet paradise afar, Thy music wanders, distant, lostWhere Nature lights her leading star, And love is never cross'd. Oh gentle gale of Eden bowers, If back thy rosy feet should roam, To revel with the cloudless Hours In Nature's more propitious home. Name to thy loved Elysian groves, That o'er enchanted spirits twine, A fairer form than cherub loves, And let the name be Caroline. PART II. TO THE EVENING STAR. GEM of the crimson-color'd Even, So fair thy pensile beauty burns, To chambers brighter than the rose; To Peace, to Pleasure, and to Love, Descends and burns to meet with thee. Thine is the breathing, blushing hour, O! sacred to the fall of day, When Caroline herself is here! Shine on her chosen green resort, Whose trees the sunward summit crown, And wanton flowers, that well may court An Angel's feet to tread them down. Shine on her sweetly-scented road, Thou star of evening's purple dome, That lead'st the nightingale abroad, And guidest the pilgrim to his home. Shine, where my charmer's sweeter breath Where, winnow'd by the gentle air, Like shadows on the mountain snow. Thus, ever thus, at day's decline, FIELD FLOWERS. YE field flowers! the gardens eclipse you, 'tis true, Yet, wildings of Nature, I dote upon you, For ye waft me to summers of old, I love you for lulling me back into dreams Not a pastoral song has a pleasanter tune Where I thought it delightful your beauties to find, Earth's cultureless buds, to my heart ye were dear, Ere the fever of passion, or ague of fear Had scathed my existence's bloom; Once I welcome you more, in life's passionless stage, With the visions of youth to revisit my age, And I wish you to grow on my tomb. STANZAS ON THE BATTLE OF NAVARINO. For the guerdon ye sought with your bloodshed and toil, When he tore the last remnant of food from her soil, Yet, Navarin's heroes! does Christendom breed The base hearts that will question the fame of your deed? Are they men?-let ineffable scorn be their meed, And oblivion shadow their graves!— Are they women?-to Turkish serails let them speed! And be mothers of Mussulman slaves. Abettors of massacre! dare ye deplore That the death-shriek is silenced on Hellas's shore? That the mother aghast sees her offspring no more By the hand of Infanticide grasp'd? And that stretch'd on yon billows distain'd by their gore Missolonghi's assassins have gasp'd? Prouder scene never hallow'd war's pomp to the mind, Than when Christendom's pennons woo'd social the wind, And the flower of her brave for the combat combined, Their watch-word, humanity's vow ;— Not a sea-boy that fought in that cause, but mankind Nor grudge, by our side, that to conquer or fall, In its fast flushing morning thy Muses shall speak LINES ON LEAVING A SCENE IN BAVARIA. The rocks abrupt, and grassy plain! For pallid Autumn once again Hath swell'd each torrent of the hill; Her clouds collect, her shadows sail, And watery winds, that sweep the vale Grow loud and louder still. But not the storm, dethroning fast Yon monarch oak of massy pile; Nor river roaring to the blast Around its dark and desert isle; Nor church-bell tolling to beguile The cloud-born thunder passing by, Can sound in discord to my soul: Roll on, ye mighty waters, roll! And rage, thou darken'd sky! Thy blossoms, now no longer bright; And plow'd, as with a swelling sail, The visitant of Eldurn's shore, On such a moonlight mountain stray'd As echo'd to the music made By Druid harps of yore. Around thy savage hills of oak, Around thy waters bright and blue, No hunter's horn the silence broke, No dying shriek thine echo knew; But safe, sweet Eldurn woods, to you The wounded wild deer ever ran, Whose myrtle bound their grassy cave, Whose very rocks a shelter gave From blood-pursuing man. Oh, heart effusions, that arose From nightly wanderings cherish'd here; Of those that own no earthly home, Yes! I have loved thy wild abode, Unknown, unplow'd, untrodden shore, Where scarce the woodman finds a road, And scarce the fisher plies an dar: For man's neglect I love thee more; That art nor avarice intrude To tame thy torrent's thunder-shock, Or prune thy vintage of the rock Magnificently rude. 1 In Catholic countries you often hear the church-belle rung to propitiate Heaven during thunder-storms. |