But, Oh! where'er she turns the ground,

My kindred earth I see;
Once, every atom of this mound

Lived, breathed, and felt, like me.

Like me, these elder-born of clay

Enjoy'd the cheerful light,
Bore the brief burthen of a day,
And went to rest at night.

Far in the regions of the morn
The rising sun surveys
Palmyra's palaces forlorn
Empurpled with his rays.

The spirits of the desert dwell
Where eastern grandeur shone,
And vultures scream, hyenas yell
Round Beauty's mouldering throne.
There the pale pilgrim, as he stands,
Sees, from the broken wall,
The shadow tottering on the sands,
Ere the loose fragment fall.

Destruction joys, amid those scenes,
To watch the sport of Fate,
While Time between the pillars leans,
And bows them with his weight.

But towers and temples crush'd by Time,
Stupendous wrecks! appear
To me less mournfully sublime

Than the poor Mole-hill here.

Through all this hillock's crumbling mould
Once the warm life-blood ran;
-Here thine original behold,

And here thy ruins, Man!

Methinks this dust yet heaves with breath;
Ten thousand pulses beat:

Tell me,-in this small hill of death,
How many mortals meet?

By wafting winds and flooding rains,
From ocean, earth, and sky,
Collected here, the frail remains
Of slumbering millions lie.

What scene of terror and amaze
Breaks through the twilight gloom?
What hand invisible displays

The secrets of the tomb?

All ages and all nations rise,

And every grain of earth Beneath my feet, before mine eyes, Is startled into birth.

Like gliding mists the shadowy forms Through the deep valley spread, And like descending clouds in storms

Lower round the mountain's head.

O'er the wide champaign while they pass,
Their footsteps yield no sound,
Nor shake from the light trembling grass
A dew-drop to the ground.

Among the undistinguish'd hosts

My wondering eyes explore
Awful, sublime, terrific ghosts,
Heroes and kings of yore:

Tyrants, the comets of their kind,
Whose withering influence ran
Through all the promise of the mind,
And smote and mildew'd man-

Sages, the Pleiades of earth,
Whose genial aspects smiled,

And flowers and fruitage sprang to birth
O'er all the human wild.

Yon gloomy ruffian, gash'd and gored,
Was he, whose fatal skill

First beat the plowshare to a sword,
And taught the art to kill.

Behind him skulks a shade, bereft
Of fondly-worshipp'd fame;
He built the Pyramids, but left
No stone to tell his name.

Who is the chief, with visage dark
As tempests when they roar?
-The first who push'd his daring bark
Beyond the timid shore.

Through storms of death and seas of graves
He steer'd with stedfast eye;

His path was on the desert waves,
His compass in the sky.

The youth who lifts his graceful hand.
Struck the unshapen block,
And beauty leap'd, at his command,
A Venus from the rock.

Trembling with ecstacy of thought,
Behold the Grecian maid,
Whom love's enchanting impulse taught
To trace a slumberer's shade.

Sweet are the thefts of love;-she stole
His image while he lay,
Kindled the shadow to a soul,

And breathed that soul through clay.

Yon listening nymph, who looks behind
With countenance of fire,
Heard midnight music in the wind,—
And framed the Æolian lyre.

All hail!-The Sire of Song appears,
The Muse's eldest-born;

The sky-lark in the dawn of years,
The poet of the morn.

He from the depth of cavern'd woods,
That echoed to his voice,

Bade mountains, valleys, winds, and floods,
And earth and heaven rejoice.

Though charm'd to meekness while he sung,
The wild beasts round him ran;
This was the triumph of his tongue,—
It tamed the heart of man.

Dim through the mist of twilight times
The ghost of Cyrus walks;
Behind him, red with glorious crimes,

The son of Ammon stalks.

Relentless Hannibal, in pride
Of sworn, fix'd hatred, lowers;
Cæsar, 't is Brutus at his side,-

In peerless grandeur towers.

With moonlight softness Helen's charms
Dissolve the spectred gloom,

The leading star of Greece in arms,
Portending Ilion's doom.

But Homer; see the bard arise!

And hark! he strikes the lyre; The Dardan warriors lift their eyes, The Argive Chiefs respire,

And while his music rolls along,

The towers of Troy sublime,
Raised by the magic breath of song,
Mock the destroyer, Time.

For still around the eternal walls
The storms of battle rage;
And Hector conquers, Hector falls,
Bewept in every age.

Genius of Homer! were it mine
To track thy fiery car,

And in thy sun-set course to shine
A radiant evening star,-

What theme, what laurel might the Muse Reclaim from ages fled?

What realm-restoring hero choose

To summon from the dead?

Yonder his shadow flits away:

-Thou shalt not thus depart; Stay, thou transcendent spirit, stay, And tell me who thou art!

"Tis Alfred!-In the rolls of Fame,
And on a midnight page,
Blazes his broad refulgent name,
The watch-light of his age.

A Danish winter, from the north,

Howl'd o'er the British wild,

But Alfred, like the spring, brake forth, And all the desert smiled.

Back to the deep he roll'd the waves,
By mad invasion hurl'd;
His voice was liberty to slaves,
Defiance to the world.

And still that voice o'er land and sea
Shall Albion's foes appal;
The race of Alfred will be free ;-
Hear it, and tremble, Gaul!

But lo! the phantoms fade in flight,
Like fears that cross the mind,
Like meteors gleaming through the night,
Like thunders on the wind.

The vision of the tomb is past;

Beyond it who can tell
In what mysterious region cast
Immortal spirits dwell?

I know not, but I soon shall know,
When life's sore conflicts cease,
When this desponding heart lies low,
And I shall rest in peace.

For see, on Death's bewildering wave,
The rainbow Hope arise,

A bridge of glory o'er the grave,
That bends beyond the skies.

From earth to heaven it swells and shines,
The pledge of bliss to Man;
Time with Eternity combines,
And grasps them in a span.

THE CAST-AWAY SHIP.

The subjects of the two following poems were suggested by the loss of the Blenheim, commanded by Sir Thomas Trowbridge, which was separated from the vessels under its convoy, during a storm in the Indian Ocean.-The Admiral's son afterwards made a voyage, without success, in search of his father.-Trowbridge was one of Nelson's captains at the Battle of the Nile, but his ship unfortunately ran aground as he was bearing down on the enemy.

A VESSEL sail'd from Albion's shore,
To utmost India bound,
Its crest a hero's pendant bore,

With broad sea-laurels crown'd
In many a fierce and noble fight,
Though foil'd on that Egyptian night
When Gallia's host was drown'd,
And Nelson, o'er his country's foes,
Like the destroying angel rose.

A gay and gallant company,

With shouts that rend the air,
For warrior-wreaths upon the sea,
Their joyful brows prepare:
But many a maiden's sigh was sent,
And many a mother's blessing went,
And many a father's prayer,
With that exulting ship to sea,
With that undaunted company.

The deep that, like a cradled child,

In breathing slumber lay,

More warmly blush'd, more sweetly smiled,
As rose the kindling day:

Through ocean's mirror, dark and clear,
Reflected clouds and skies appear

In morning's rich array:
The land is lost, the waters glow,
"Tis heaven above, around, below.

Majestic o'er the sparkling tide,

See the tall vessel sail,

With swelling wings and shadowy pride,
A swan before the gale;
Deep-laden merchants rode behind :
-But, fearful of the fickle wind,
Britannia's cheek grew pale,

When, lessening through the flood of light, Their leader vanish'd from her sight.

Oft had she hail'd its trophied prow,
Victorious from the war,

And banner'd masts, that would not bow,
Though riven with many a scar;
Oft had her oaks their tribute brought,
To rib its flanks, with thunder fraught;
But late her evil star

Had cursed it on its homeward way,
-"The spoiler shall become the prey."

Thus warn'd, Britannia's anxious heart
Throbb'd with prophetic woe,
When she beheld that ship depart,
A fair ill-omen'd show!

So views the mother, through her tears,
The daughter of her hopes and fears,

When hectic beauties glow

On the frail cheek, where sweetly bloom The roses of an early tomb.

No fears the brave adventurers knew,
Peril and death they spurn'd:
Like full-fledged eagles forth they flew;
Jove's birds, that proudly burn'd,

In battle-hurricanes to wield
His lightnings on the billowy field;
And many a look they turn'd
O'er the blue waste of waves, to spy
A Gallic ensign in the sky.

But not to crush the vaunting foe,
In combat on the main,
Nor perish by a glorious blow,
In mortal triumph slain,
Was their unutterable fate:
-That story would the Muse relate,
The song might rise in vain;
In ocean's deepest, darkest bed,
The secret slumbers with the dead.

On India's long-expecting strand

Their sails were never furl'dNever on known or friendly land

By storms their keel was hurl'd; Their native soil no more they trod, They rest beneath no hallow'd sod; Throughout the living world This sole memorial of their lot Remains, they were, and they are not.

The spirit of the Cape' pursued
Their long and toilsome way;
At length, in ocean-solitude,

He sprang upon his prey:
Havoc!' the shipwreck-demon cried,
Loosed all his tempests on the tide,

Gave all his lightnings play; The abyss recoil'd before the blast, Firm stood the seamen to the last.

1 The Cape of Good Hope, formerly called the Cape of Storms.-See Camoens' Lusiad, Book V.

Like shooting stars, athwart the gloom
The merchant-sails were sped;
Yet oft, before its midnight doom,

They mark'd the high mast-head

Of that devoted vessel, tost

By winds and floods, now seen, now lost;
While every gun-fire spread

A dimmer flash, a fainter roar:
-At length they saw, they heard no more.

There are to whom that ship was dear,
For love and kindred's sake;
When these the voice of Rumor hear,
Their inmost heart shall quake,
Shall doubt, and fear, and wish, and grieve,
Believe, and long to unbelieve,

But never cease to ache;

Still doom'd, in sad suspense, to bear
The Hope that keeps alive Despair.

THE SEQUEL

He sought his sire from shore to shore,
He sought him day by day;
The prow he track'd was seen no more,
Breasting the ocean-spray :
Yet, as the winds his voyage sped,
He sail'd above his father's head,
Unconscious where it lay,

Deep, deep beneath the rolling main;
-He sought his sire; he sought in vain.

Son of the brave! no longer weep;
Still with affection true,
Along the wild disastrous deep,

Thy father's course pursue;
Full in his wake of glory steer,
His spirit prompts thy bold career,

His compass guides thee through; So, while thy thunders awe the sea, Britain shall find thy sire in thee.

M. S.

To the Memory of "A Female whom Sickness had reconciled to the Notes of Sorrow," who corresponded with the Author under this signature, on the first publication of his poems, in 1806, but died soon after; when her real name and merits were disclosed to him by one of her surviving friends.

My Song of Sorrow reach'd her ear; She raised her languid head to hear, And, smiling in the arms of Death, Consoled me with her latest breath.

What is the Poet's highest aim, His richest heritage of fame? -To track the warrior's fiery road, With havoc, spoil, destruction strow'd, While nations bleed along the plains, Dragg'd at his chariot-wheels in chains! -With fawning hand to woo the lyre, Profanely steal celestial fire, And bid an idol's altar blaze With incense of unhallow'd praise?

-With syren strains, Circean art,
To win the ear, beguile the heart,
Wake the wild passions into rage,
And please and prostitute the age?

No! to the generous Bard belong
Diviner themes and purer song:
-To hail Religion from above,
Descending in the form of Love,
And pointing through a world of strife
The narrow way that leads to life:
-To pour the balm of heavenly rest
Through Sorrow's agonizing breast;
With Pity's tender arms embrace
The orphans of a kindred race;
And in one zone of concord bind
The lawless spoilers of mankind :
-To sing in numbers boldly free
The wars and woes of liberty;
The glory of her triumphs tell,
Her nobler suffering when she fell,'
Girt with the phalanx of the brave,
Or widow'd on the patriot's grave,
Which tyrants tremble to pass by,
Ev'n on the car of Victory.

These are the Bard's sublimest views,

The angel-visions of the Muse,

That o'er his morning slumbers shine;

These are his themes,-and these were mine.

But pale Despondency, that stole
The light of gladness from my soul,
While youth and folly blindfold ran
The giddy circle up to Man,
Breathed a dark spirit through my lyre,
Dimm'd the noon radiance of my fire,
And cast a mournful evening hue
O'er every scene my fancy drew.
Then though the proud despised my strain,
It flow'd not from my heart in vain;
The lay of freedom, fervor, truth,
Was dear to undissembling youth,
From manly breasts drew generous sighs,
And Virtue's tears from Beauty's eyes.

My Song of Sorrow reach'd HER ear;
She raised her languid head to hear,
And, smiling in the arms of Death,
She bless'd me with her latest breath.

A secret hand to me convey'd
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
Aerial 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 form'd her young and fair,
Pure as her sister-lilies were,

1 Piu val d'ogni vittoria un bel soffrire.

Gaetana Passerini.

Adorn'd 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 splendor of her beams,
Then bursts in triumph o'er the pole,
Free as a disembodied soul!

Thus, while the veil of flesh decay'd,
Her beauties brighten'd through the shade;
Charms which her lowly heart conceal'd
In nature's weakness were reveal'd:
And still the unrobing spirit cast
Diviner glories to the last.
Dissolved its bonds, and clear'd 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 sun-set 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 car
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,