Is Fame thy passion? Fame is idle breath ;-
For who can hear the praises of his death?
Say, if thou knowest, on what dreary coast
Shall stalk thy silent, melancholy ghost?
Thou dost not fondly trust what priests recount
Of a new world behind yon cloud-topt mount,
Where our forefathers still their sports pursue,
Urge the swift chase and guide the light canoe!
Nature and Reason cry, They judge amiss;
Yon mountain's other side must be like this."
He scarce had ended parley, when on high
A musquet bullet sung along the sky;
O'er Atacullaculla's head it flew,
And smote the Raven King of Toogaloo;
Deep in his forehead sunk the fatal ball:
See the dire chance of being made too tall!
The giant prone, o'er fourscore inches spread,
Fell, and lay number'd with the mighty dead:
His fate unmov'd his bold compeer beheld,
Rush'd dreadful to the fight, and loudly yell'd.
Then, then began a direful bloody battle,
Swords clash, drums beat, men shout, and cannons rattle.
To arms! to arms! see where the enemy sits!
Advance, present, fire; fix your bayonets!
How soon is quench'd the sun's immortal light!
Each army stands conceal'd from t'other's sight,
In sulphury clouds of all-involving smoke,
And darkness is around them as a cloke.
Behold, the murderous Fiends of Hell rejoice
At the dread thunder of the cannon's voice!
The trumpets' clang, the soldiers' piercing cries,
Rock the firm earth, and rend the echoing skies.
Charge! charge! the broken Gallic squadrons run,
Nor dare to face the sulphur-belching gun:
They fly, they fly, in wild disorder fly
Huzza! the day's our own! St. George and Victory!
But e'er I rein the Muse's furious force,
Soft let her weep o'er Wolfe's still bleeding corse.
In manhood's prime, alas! the Hero falls:
Who could withstand three whizzing musquet balls?
Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless lead
Pierc'd his brave breast-and made your Hero bleed?
He long had boasted your peculiar care;
But ye were daunted at the din of war,
And trembling fled beneath your oozy caves,
Beneath old Lawrence' flood, and Montmorenci's waves !
For Thee the hardy Veteran wept, for Thee
Check'd the strong course of Joy for Victory.
'Twas Fate (and who almighty Fate shall blame?)
Took from his Life-and added to his Fame.
Unconquer'd he resign'd his glorious breath,
And Victory soothed him in the arms of Death.
Ill-fated Chief! his mighty valour gave
A Realm to Britain-to himself a Grave.
No more!-His fame Envy nor Time shall waste—
Tho' on his precious limbs the worms must feast.
Fresh shall his memory live to latest times,
Fresh and immortal as the Muse's Rhimes.
From the dim lattice, ivy-twin'd,
Her eyes explore the darken'd plain :
"Can Albert's heart become unkind?
Or what can thus his steps detain?
Why do these shadowy forms decay?
Why do yon orient fields of air
No more the misy shapes display,
That fear-struck Fancy painted there?
"Is it the day-star meets my eye,
And shoots afar these lines of light?
Thou leav'st thy palace in the sky,
And toilest up the aerial height!
"Ah, 'twill be long ere thy last beam
On yonder western cliffs shall shine,
And loose the ploughman's weary team,
And light the billows of the Rhine.
"Come, balmy Sleep! in poppies drest,
And thy delightful visions shed,
And sooth this throbbing pulse to rest,
Till night the clouds of darkness spread.
"And visit thou my dream the while,
Fair semblance of the man I love,
With such a look and such a smile
As first my eyes beheld him prove.
“Thank Heaven! the sun has now withdrawn
To the bright chambers of his rest,
And twilight, stealing o'er the lawn,
Draws the dim curtains of the west."
'Tis gloom and silence all around,
And thicker still the shadows fall,-
"A flame illumes the Convent's bound,
And glimmers on the ivy'd wall !
"Or was it but the meteor's light,
Or was it but the moon's pale beam, That broke the darkness of the night And shot afar its trembling gleam?
She hastens on with silent step,
Her bosom fill'd with wild alarms, "O let us from these walls escape !" And sinks into the stranger's arms.
Away they dart-their courser's feet
Are quick to scour the printless sand.
The lightning, on its pinion fleet,
Not swifter travels o'er the land.
"The wind is up! the torrent roars,
The floods the trackless heath deform,
The Rhine's dark billows smite the shores;
Loud yells the demon of the storm!
Where now for shelter shalt thou flee?
Ah, lady! thee what woe betides?
It is not Albert rides with thee;
It is a ruthless robber rides!'
To Mercy vain is now thy claim;
Heaven pardons not such guilt as thine;
In vain thou call'st on Albert's name,
His bed is now the rolling Rhine.
They rode, rode on, by haunted stream,
By precipice and cavern hoar,
Where horror dims the noon-tide beam,
Where darkness dwells for evermore.
But to what forest's lonely bound
He bore her, ere the break of day,
Or to what castle's darksome round,
No one, with truth, could ever say.
In Convents still the tale is told;
And oft, to hear the moral true,
Down many a virgin's cheek has roll'd
The tear to love and pity due.
And oft as Fancy lends her aid
To light the faded flame once more,
Full many a forceful prayer is said,
And many a bead is number'd o'er.
E'en thou, for whom I strive to sing
In numbers thou hast taught to flow,
And suited to the sounding string
The hapless lovers' tale of woe
E'en thou shalt feel thy bosom prove
The overwhelming tide of fears,
And glow with all a sister's love,
And weep with all a sister's tears.
The HERMIT of the CLIFFS.
PROMISED you, mie Winifred,
What time you blam'd mie am'rous lay,
A storie that might reach thie heart,
Where love's fond ardours helde no part,
As true, though not so sweet, as they.
Hearre thenne hys solitarie tale,
Whom longe experience render'd sage, To wooddes and mountains wyld who ran, Far from the bloode-stain'd haunts of man, And scoop'd hys blameless hermitage,
A trav❜llerre sadde, from distante lande,
Reclyn'd beneathe the spreadinge tree,
Ande blest the gales, thatt, breathinge blande,
Hys fyre-inflated temples fann'd,
Ande strove to chase hys agonie.
'Twas where yon verdante clyff aspyres,
And overlookes the ocean tyde;
Where waves the pine-tree to the breeze
Thatt wanderres wylde o'er summerre seas,
And swelles the sail wyth conscious pride.
The strangerre felt his heart revive,
Whyle oft before hys eyes would passe The painted bark, for pleasure made, Wyth pennons gaie, and sails display'd, Reflected yn the waterie glasse.
'Twas such a scene as grieffe might seeke,
Ande rest ande consolation fynd,
For there each object mette hys eyes
Thatt lends ytts aide to harmonize
The jarringe tumults of the mynd.
The wandererre felt their lenient powerre,
Hee rais'd hys eyes and breath'd a prayer ;
Ande vow'd he never would departe
From scenes so gratefulle to hys hearte,
From haunts so holie ande so fair.
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