Whose love around thee still its offerings shed, Though vainly sweet, as flowers, grief's tribute to the dead. But if th' ascending, disembodied mind, Borne, on the wings of morning, to the skies, May cast one glance of tenderness behind On scenes once hallow'd by its mortal ties, How much hast thou to gaze on! all that lay By the dark mantle of thy soul conceal'd, The might, the majesty, the proud array Of England's march o'er many a noble field, All spread beneath thee, in a blaze of light, Shine like some glorious land, view'd from an Alpine height. Away, presumptuous thought!-departed saint! Seen from the birth-place of celestial day? On the bright cloud that fills the mercy-seat! And thou may'st view, from thy divine abode, The dust of empires flit before a breath of God. And yet we mourn thee! Yes! thy place is void Within our hearts-there veil'd thine image dwelt, But cherish'd still; and o'er that tie destroy'd, Though faith rejoice, fond nature still must melt. VOL. III. - 13 Beneath the long-loved sceptre of thy sway, Thousands were born, who now in dust repose, And many a head, with years and sorrows grey, Wore youth's bright tresses, when thy star arose; And many a glorious mind, since that fair dawn, Hath fill'd our sphere with light, now to its source withdrawn. Earthquakes have rock'd the nations:-things revered, But when the fires that long had slumber'd, pent And swept each holy barrier from their course, Firm and unmoved, amidst that lava-flood, Still, by thine arm upheld, our ancient landmarks stood. Be they eternal!-Be thy children found Still to their country's altars true like thee! And, while "the name of Briton" is a sound Of rallying music to the brave and free, With the high feelings, at the word which swell, To make the breast a shrine for Freedom's flame, Be mingled thoughts of him, who loved so well, Who left so pure, its heritage of fame! Let earth with trophies guard the conqueror's dust, Heaven in our souls embalms the memory of the just. All else shall pass away-the thrones of kings, The holy records Virtue leaves the heart, Heir-looms from race to race!—and oh! in days, When, by the yet unborn, thy deeds are blest, When our sons learn, "as household words," thy praise, Still on thine offspring, may thy spirit rest! And many a name of that imperial line, Father and patriot! blend, in England's songs, with thine! A TALE OF THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY. A FRAGMENT. THE moonbeam, quivering o'er the wave, And heaven is cloudless-earth is still! Its massy towers half lost in shade, Soft mingling on its dark-grey stone, And far beyond, where wild and high, But darting from its side, How swiftly does its boat design No sound is on the summer seas, Through woods that fringe the rocky shore. And midnight spreads o'er earth and main It is the hour for thought to soar, High o'er the cloud of earthly woes; For rapt devotion to adore, For passion to repose; And virtue to forget her tears, In visions of sublimer spheres! For oh! those transient gleams of heaven, Children of hallow'd peace, are known Like flowers that shun the blaze of noon, |