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Dear to my breast, beyond conception dear,
* * * *
Man, at whose birth the Almighty hand stood still,
ODE TO LIBERTY.
THE harp is still! Weak though the spirit were HENCE to thy darkest shades, dire Slavery, hence ! That whisper'd in its rising harmonies;
Thine icy touch can freeze, Yet Mem'ry, with her sister, fond Regret,
Swift as the Polar breeze, Loves to recall the wild and wandering airs
The proud defying port of human sense. That cheer'd the long-fled hours, when o'er the strings Hence to thine Indian cave, That spirit hover'd. Weak and though it were To where the tall canes whisper o'er thy rest, To pour the torrent of impetuous song,
Like the murmuring wave It was not weak to touch the sacred chords Swept by the dank wing of the rapid west: Of pity, or to summon with dark spell
And at the night's still noon, Of witching rhymes, the spirits of the deep
The lash'd Angolan, in his grated cell,
Mix'd with the tiger's yell,
But come, thou goddess, blithe and free,
Thy tresses floating in the air;
Come,--and treading on thy feet, We'll linger till the shower be past;
Independence let me meet, Where the hawthorn's branches spread
Thy giant mate, whose awful form A fragrant covert o'er the head.
Has often braved the bellowing storm, And list the rain-drops beat the leaves,
And heard its angry spirit shriek, Or smoke upon the cottage eaves ;
Rear'd on some promontory's peak, Or, silent dimpling on the stream,
Seen by the lonely fisher far,
By the glimpse of fitting star.
His awful bulk, in dusky shroud,
Commixing with the pitchy cloud; Where we may hear the tempests beat,
While at his feet the lightnings play, Secure and fearless,--and provide
And the deep thunders die away.
Goddess! come, and let us sail
O'er dewy lawns, and forests lone,
Till lighting on some mountain stone, Whose lucid lamp on evening's twilight zone,
That scales the circumambient sky, Sheds a soft lustre o'er the gloom serene,
We see a thousand nations lie, Only by Cynthia's silver beam outshone :
From Zembla's snows to Afric's heat,
Prostrate beneath our frolic feet.
From Italy's luxurious plains,
Where everlasting summer reigns, No midnight murderer asks thy guilty aid,
Why, goddess, dost thou turn away! No nightly robber*
Didst thou never sojourn there? I am alone, by silly love betray'd.
Oh, yes, thou didst—but fallen is Rome : To woo the star of Venus ***
The pilgrim weeps her silent doom,
He hears the desolate wind career,
While the rank ivy whispers near.
III-fated Gaul! ambitious grasp
Bids thee again in slavery gasp Lion with lion herds, and pard with pard,
Again the dungeon-walls resound Instinct's first law, their covenant and guard.
The hopeless shriek, the groan profound: But man alone, the lord of ev'ry clime,
But, lo, in yonder happy skies, Whose post is godlike, and whose pow'rs sublime, Helvetia's airy mountains rise,
And, oh! on her tall cliffs reclined,
How beautiful upon the element Gay Fancy, whispering to the mind :
The Egyptian moonlight sleeps! As the wild herdsman's call is heard,
The Arab on the bank hath pitch'd his tent; Tells me, that she, o'er all preferr’d,
The light wave dances, sparkling, o'er the deeps; In every clime, in every zone,
The tall reeds whisper in the gale, Is Liberty's divinest throne.
And o'er the distant tide moves slow the silent sail. Yet, whence that sigh? O goddess ! say,
Thou mighty Nile! and thou receding main, Has the tyrant's thirsty sway
How peacefully ye rest upon your shores, Dared profane the sacred seat,
Tainted no more, as when from Cairo's towers, Thy long high-favor'd, best retreat ?
Rollid the swoln corse, by plague! the monster! slain. It has! it has ! away, away
Far as the eye can see around, To where the green isles woo the day!
Upon the solitude of waters wide, Where thou art still supreme, and where
There is no sight, save of the restless tideThy Pæans fill the floating air.
Save of the winds, and waves, there is no sound.
Il-fated land, upon thy rest they come
Bears on her farthest verge a dusky gloomWho is it leads the planets on their dance
And now they rise, the masted forests rise, The mighty sisterhood? who is it strikes
And gallants, through the foam, their way they make. The harp of universal harmony?
Stern Genius of the Memphian shores, awake
The foeman in thy inmost harbor lies, Iark! 't is the voice of planets on their dance,
And ruin o'er thy land with brooding pennon flies. Led by the arch-contriver. Beautiful Che harmony of order! How they sing, The regulated orbs, upon their path Chrough the wide trackless ether! sing as though
Ghosts of the dead, in grim array, syren sat upon each glitt'ring gem,
Surround the tyrant's nightly bed! And made fair music-such as mortal hand
And in the still, distinctly say, Ne'er raised on the responding chords; more like
I by thy treachery bled.
And I, and I, ten thousands cry; The mystic melody that oft the bard
From Jaffa's plains, from Egypt's sands, lears in the strings of the suspended harp, l'ouch'd by some unknown beings that reside
They come, they raise the chorus high, n evening breezes, or, at dead of night,
And whirl around in shrieking bands. Wake in the long, shrill pauses of the wind.
Loud, and more loud, the clamors rise,
“Lo! there the traitor! murderer! lies." This is the music which, in ages hushid,
He murder'd me, he murder'd thee, Cre the Assyrian quaff'd his cups of blood,
And now his bed his rack shall be. Sept the lone Chald awake, when through the night le watch'd his herds. The solitary man,
As when a thousand torrents roar,
Around his head their yells they pour. By frequent meditation, learnt to spell
The sweat-drops start, convulsion's hand l'on sacred volume of high mystery.
Binds every nerve in iron band. le could arrange the wandering passengers,
'Tis done! they fly, the clamors die, From the pale star, first on the silent brow
The moon is up, the night is calm. f the meek-tressed Eve, to him who shines,
Man's busy broods in slumbers lie; Son of the morning, orient Lucifer ;
But horrors still the tyrant's soul alarm, Sweet were to him, in that unletter'd age,
And ever and anon, serenely clear, The openings of wonder-He could gaze
Have mercy, mercy, heaven! strikes on dull midBill his whole soul was fill'd with mystery,
night's ear. And every night-wind was a spirit's voice, And every far-off mist, a spirit's form: bo with fables, and wild romantic dreams, le mix'd his truth, and couch'd in symbols dark.
ODE lence, blind idolatry arose, and men
ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE D'ENGHIEN. (nelt to the sun, or at the dead of night Pour'd their orisons to the cloud-wrapt moon.
What means yon trampling! what that light lence, also, after ages into stars
That glimmers in the inmost wood; Transform'd their heroes; and the warlike chief, As though beneath the felon night, Vith fond eye fix'd on some resplendent gem,
It mark'd some deed of blood; leld converse with the spirits of his sires :
Behold yon figures, dim descried Vith other eyes than these did Plato view
In dark array; they speechless glide. The heavens, and, fillid with reasonings sublime, The forest moans; the raven's scream Lalf-pierced, at intervals, the mystery,
Swells slowly o'er the moated stream,
It chants its boding song alone :
Tidings, that in some grey domestic's ear Oh! 't is not long since, George, with thee I wed Will on his wakeful bed strike deep mysterious fear. The maid of musings by yon moaning ware,
And hail'd the moon's mild beam, which now reneu'd And, hark, that loud report ! 't is done ;
| Seems sweetly sleeping on thy silent grave! There's murder couch'd in yonder gloom;
The busy world pursues its boisterous way, "T is done, 't is done! the prize is won,
The noise of revelry still echoes round, Another rival meets his doom.
Yet I am sad while all beside is gay; The tyrant smiles,--with fell delight
Yet still I weep o'er thy deserted mound. He dwells upon the * * * *
Oh! that, like thee, I might bid sorrow cease, The tyrant smiles ; from terror freed,
And 'neath the green-sward sleep the sleep aí pes. Exulting in the foul misdeed, And sternly in his secret breast Marks out the victims next to fall. His purpose fix'd; their moments fly no more,
SONNET. He points,—the poniard knows its own;
SWEET to the gay of heart is summer's smile, Unseen it strikes,-unseen they die,
| Sweet the wild music of the laughing Spring: Foul midnight only hears, and shudders at the groan. But ah! my soul far other scenes beguile, But justice yet shall lift her arm on high,
Where gloomy storms their sullen shadows fing. And Bourbon's blood no more ask vengeance from
Is it for me to strike the Idalian string-
Raise the soft music of the warbling wire,
And melancholy wastes the vital fire !
Away with thoughts like these! to some lone case.
Where howls the shrill blast, and where sweeps
the wave, LOFFT, unto thee one tributary song
Direct my steps; there, in the lonely drear, The simple Muse, admiring, fain would bring ;
I'll sit remote from worldly noise, and muse She longs to lisp thee to the listening throng,
Till through my soul shall Peace her balm infuse,
And whisper sounds of comfort in mine ear.
Upright, and learned, as the Pylian sire, Poor little one! most bitterly did pain, Would say how sweetly thou couldst sweep the lyre, And life's worst ills, assail thine early age; And show thy labors for the public weal.
And, quickly tired with this pugh pilgrimage,
Thou laid'st thine aching head, and thou didst sigh
| Thy soul return'd, to taste no more of strife!
| Thy lot was happy, little sojourner! TO THE MOON-WRITTEN IN NOVEMBER.
Thou hadst no mother to direct thy ways;
And fortune frown'd most darkly on thy days, SUBLIME, emerging from the misty verge
Short as they were. Now, far from the low stir Of the horizon dim, thee, Moon, I hail,
of this dim spot, in heaven thou dost repose, As, sweeping o'er the leafless grove, the gale
And look'st and smilest on this world's transient woes. Seems to repeat the year's funereal dirge. Now Autumn sickens on the languid sight,
And leaves bestrew the wanderer's lonely way, Now unto thee, pale arbitress of night!
Clad in thy mournful tunic, to repeat
And, still unchanged, back to the memory bring The solemn requiem of the dying year;
Not undelightful to my list’ning ear
Sound thy dull showers, as o'er my woodland sest,
Dismal, and drear, the leafless trees they beat:
Not undelightful, in their wild career,
Is the wild music of thy howling blasts,
| Sweeping the groves' long aisle, while sallen Time Fast from the West the fading day-streaks fly, Thy stormy mantle o'er his shoulder casts, And ebon Night assumes her solemn sway,
And, rock'd upon his throne, with chant sublime. Yet here alone, unheeding time, I lie,
Joins the full-pealing dirge, and winter weaves And o'er my friend still pour the plaintive lay. Her dark sepulchral wreath of faded leaves.
For he was wont to love your madrigals;
And often by the haunted stream, that laves
The dark sequester'd woodland's inmost caves, . MISFORTUNE! I am young, my chin is bare;
Would sit and listen to the dying falls, And I have wonder'd much when men have told Till the full tear would quiver in his eye, How youth was free from sorrow and from care,
And his big heart would heave with mournful ecstacy. That thou shouldst dwell with me, and leave the old Sure dost not like me!-Shriveli'd hag of hate, My phiz, and thanks to thee, is sadly long;
SONNET. I am not either, Beldame, over strong ;
TO A TAPER. Nor do I wish at all to be thy mate,
"T is midnight.-On the globe dead slumber sits, For thou, sweet fury, art my utter hate!
And all is silence--in the hour of sleep; Nay, shake not thus thy miserable pate,
Save when the hollow gust, that swells by fits, I am yet young, and do not like thy face; And, lest thou shouldst resume the wild-goose chase, I wake alone to listen and to weep,
In the dark wood roars fearfully and deep, I'll tell thee something all thy heat to assuage,
To watch, my taper, thy pale beacon burn; -Thou wilt not hit my fancy in my age.
And, as still Memory does her vigils keep,
To think of days that never can return.
By thy pale ray I raise my languid head,
| My eye surveys the solitary gloom;
And the sad meaning tear, unmixt with dread, As thus oppress'd with many a heavy care | Tells thou dost light me to the silent tomb.
(Though young yet sorrowful), I turn my feet Like thee I wane; like thine, my life's last ray
To the dark woodland, longing much to greet Will fade in loneliness, unwept away.
TO MY MOTHER, And as amid the leaves the evening air
AND canst thou, Mother, for a moment think, Whispers still melody,– I think ere long,
That we, thy children, when old age shall shed When I no more can hear, these woods will speak;
Its blanching honors on thy weary head, And then a sad smile plays upon my cheek,
Could from our best of duties ever shrink? And mournful phantasies upon me throng,
Sooner the sun from his high sphere should sink And I do ponder with most strange delight
Than we, ungrateful, leave thee in that day,
To pine in solitude thy life away,
Banish the thought where'er our steps may roam,
O'er smiling plains, or wastes without a tree,
Still will fond memory point our hearts to thee, EMBLEM of life! see changeful April sail
And paint the pleasures of thy peaceful home; In varying vest along the shadowy skies, While duty bids us all thy griefs assunge,
Now bidding summer's softest zephyrs rise, And smooth the pillow of thy sinking age,
YES, 't will be over soon-This sickly dream
Of life will vanish from my feverish brain; So to us, sojourners in Life's low vale,
And death my wearied spirit will redeem
From this wild region of unvaried nain.
Yon landscape smile,yon golden harvest grow,-
When Henry's name is heard no more below. I sigh when all my youthful friends caress,
They laugh in health, and future evils brave;
Them shall a wife and smiling children bless,
While I am mouldering in my silent grave.
God of the just Thou gavest the bitter cup;
I bow to thy behest, and drink it up,
GENTLY, most gently, on thy victim's head, And chant a dirge to his reposing shade! | Consumption, lay thine hand let me decay,
Like the expiring lamp, unseen, away,
Yes, thou didst wrong me, * * *; I fondly thought And softly go to slumber with the dead.
In thee I'd found the friend my heart had sought! And if 't is true, what holy men have said, I fondly thought, that thou couldst pierce the guise, That strains angelic oft foretell the day
And read the truth that in my bosom lies; of death to those good men who fall ihy prey, I fondly thought, ere Time's last days were gole, O let the aërial music round my bed,
| Thy heart and mine had mingled into one! Dissolving sad in dying symphony,
Yes,—and they yet will mingle. Days and years Whisper the solemn warning in mine ear! Will fly, and leave us partners in our tears: That I may bid my weeping friends good bye We then shall feel that friendship has a porer Ere I depart upon my journey drear :
To soothe affliction in her darkest hour; And, smiling faintly on the painful past,
Time's trial o'er, shall clasp each other's hand, Compose my decent head, and breathe my last. And wait the passport to a better land.
H. &. WANTE
Half-past Eleven o'Clock at Night.
CHRISTMAS DAY, 1804.
From silence and neglect-one lofty strain, Yes, oh my God such crimes as mine, so dread, Lofty, yet wilder than the winds of Heaven,
Leave but the choice of punishment to thee; And speaking mysteries more than words can tell, Thy interest calls for judgment on my head, I ask of thee; for I, with hymnings high,
And even thy mercy dares not plead for me! Would join the dirge of the departing year.
Yet with no wintry garland from the woods,
Wrought of the leafless branch of ivy sear, I bless the avenging hand that lays me low.
Wreathe I thy tresses, dark December! now; But on what spot shall fall thine anger's flood,
Me higher quarrel calls, with loudest song, That has not first been drench'd in Christ's atoning
And fearful joy, to celebrate the day
Of the Redeemer.- Near two thousand suns
Tof generations, since the day-spring first
Of that increasing aggregate, we add
One unit more. Space, in comparison "if he did not feel for him ?”
How small, yet mark'd with how much misery! : "Do I not feel ?” The doubt is keen as steel. Wars, famines, and the fury, Pestilence, Yea, I do feel-most exquisitely feel ;
Over the nations hanging her dread scowge;
Weeping their sufferance; and the arm of wrong,
So has the year been character'd with woe 'Tis magnanimity to hide the wound!
In Christian land, and mark'd with wrongs and crimes When all was new, and life was in its spring, Yet 't was not thus He taught—not thus He lived, I lived an unloved solitary thing;
Whose birth we this day celebrate with prayer Even then I learnt to bury deep from day,
And much thanksgiving-He, a man of woes, The piercing cares that wore my youth away: Went on the way appointed, -path, though rude, Even then I learnt for others' cares to feel :
Yet borne with patience still :-He came to cheer Even then I wept I had not power to heal :
The broken-hearted, to raise up the sick, Even then, deep-sounding through the nightly gloom, And on the wandering and benighted mind I heard the wretched's groan, and mourn'd the To pour the light of truth. O task divine ! wretched's doom.
O more than angel teacher! He had words Who were my friends in youth?—The midnight fire To soothe the barking waves, and hush the winds; The silent moonbeam, or the starry choir;
And when the soul was toss'd in troubled seas, To these I 'plain'd, or turn'd from outer sight, Wrapt in thick darkness and the howling storte, To bless my lonely taper's friendly light;
He, pointing to the star of peace on high. I never yet could ask, howe'er forlorn,
Arm'd it with holy fortitude, and bade it smile For vulgar pity mixt with vulgar scorn;
At the surrounding wreck The sacred source of woe I never ope,
When with deep agony his heart was rackd. My breast 's my coffer, and my God's my hope. Not for himself the tear-drop dew'd his cheek, But that I do feel, Time, my friend, will show, | For them He wept, for them to Heaven He pray'd, Though the cold crowd the secret never know; His persecutors—" Father, pardon them, With them I laugh-yet when no eye can see, They know not what they do." I weep for nature, and I weep for thee.
Angels of heaven.