I beheld two hands a space
Slow unshroud a spectre's face;
And my flesh's hair upstood-
'Twas mine own similitude.
But my soul revived at seeing
Ocean, like an emerald spark,
Kindle, while an air-dropt being
Smiling steered my bark.
Heaven-like-yet he looked as human
As supernal beauty can,
More compassionate than woman,
Lordly more than man.
And as some sweet clarion's breath
Stirs the soldier's scorn of death-
So his accents bade me brook
The spectre's eyes of icy look,
Till it shut them-turned its head,
Like a beaten foe, and fled.
"Types not this," I said, "fair spirit!
That my death-hour is not come ?
Say, what days shall I inherit ?—
Tell my soul their sum."
"No,"
," he said, "yon phantom's aspect,
Trust me, would appal thee worse,
Held in clearly measured prospect :-
Ask not for a curse!
Make not, for I overhear
Thine unspoken thoughts as clear
As thy mortal ear could catch
The close-brought tickings of a watch
Make not the untold request
That's now revolving in thy breast.
"'Tis to live again, remeasuring
Youth's years, like a scene rehearsed,
In thy second life-time treasuring
Knowledge from the first.
Hast thou felt, poor self-deceiver !
Life's career so void of pain,
As to wish its fitful fever
New begun again?
Could experience, ten times thine,
Pain from Being disentwine-
Threads by Fate together spun ?
Could thy flight Heaven's lightning shun?
No; nor could thy foresight's glance
'Scape the myriad shafts of Chance.
"Wouldst thou bear again Love's trouble—
Friendship's death-dissevered ties;
Toil to grasp or miss the bubble
Of Ambition's prize?
Say thy life's new guided action
Flowed from Virtue's fairest springs
Still would Envy and Detraction
Double not their stings?
Worth itself is but a charter
To be mankind's distinguished martyr."—
I caught the moral, and cried, "Hail!
Spirit! let us onward sail,
Envying, fearing, hating none-
Guardian Spirit, steer me on!"
TO THE MEMORY OF THE SPANISH PATRIOTS LATEST KILLED IN RESISTING THE REGENCY AND THE DUKE OF ANGOULÈME.
BRAVE men who at the Trocadero fell
Beside your cannons conquered not, though slain,
There is a victory in dying well
For Freedom,-and ye have not died in vain;
For come what may, there shall be hearts in Spain
To honour, ay, embrace your martyred lot,
Cursing the Bigot's and the Bourbon's chain,
And looking on your graves, though trophied not,
As holier hallowed ground than priests could make the spot!
What though your cause be baffled-freemen cast
In dungeons-dragged to death, or forced to flee?
Hope is not withered in affliction's blast-
The patriot's blood's the seed of Freedom's tree;
And short your orgies of revenge shall be,
Cowled Demons of the Inquisitorial cell!
Earth shudders at your victory,—for ye
Are worse than common fiends from Heaven that fell,
The baser, ranker sprung, Autochthones of Hell!
Go to your bloody rites again-bring back
The hall of horrors and the assessor's pen,
Recording answers shrieked upon the rack;
Smile o'er the gaspings of spine-broken men ;-
Preach, perpetrate damnation in your den ;-
Then let your altars, ye blasphemers! peal
With thanks to Heaven, that let you loose again,
To practise deeds with torturing fire and steel
No eye may search- -no tongue may challenge or reveal!
Yet laugh not in your carnival of crime
Too proudly, ye oppressors ?-Spain was free,
Her soil has felt the foot-prints, and her clime
Been winnowed by the wings of Liberty;
And these even parting scatter as they flee
Thoughts-influences, to live in hearts unborn,
Opinions that shall wrench the prison-key
From Persecution-show her mask off-torn,
And tramp her bloated head beneath the foot of Scorn.
Glory to them that die in this great cause;
Kings, Bigots, can inflict no brand of shame,
Or shape of death, to shroud them from applause :-
No!-manglers of the martyr's earthly frame !
Your hangmen fingers cannot touch his fame.
Still in your prostrate land there shall be some
Proud hearts, the shrines of Freedom's vestal flame.
Long trains of ill may pass unheeded, dumb,
But vengeance is behind, and justice is to come.
WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF THE HIGHLAND SOCIETY IN LONDON, WHEN MET TO COMMEMORATE THE 21ST OF MARCH,
THE DAY OF VICTORY IN EGYPT.
PLEDGE to the much-loved land that gave us birth!
Invincible, romantic Scotia's shore !
Pledge to the memory of her parted worth!
And first, amidst the brave, remember Moore !
And be it deemed not wrong that name to give,
In festive hours, which prompts the patriot's sigh!
Who would not envy such as Moore to live?
And died he not as heroes wish to die.
Yes; though too soon attaining glory's goal,
To us his bright career too short was given;
Yet in a mighty cause his phoenix soul
Rose on the flames of victory to Heaven!
How oft (if beats in subjugated Spain
One patriot heart) in secret shall it mourn
For him!-How oft on far Corunna's plain
Shall British exiles weep upon his urn!
Peace to the mighty dead!-our bosom thanks
In sprightlier strains the living may inspire!
Joy to the chiefs that lead old Scotia's ranks,
Of Roman garb and more than Roman fire!
Triumphant be the thistle still unfurled,
Dear symbol wild! on Freedom's hills it grows, Where Fingal stemmed the tyrants of the world,
And Roman eagles found unconquered foes.
Joy to the band* this day on Egypt's coast,
Whose valour tamed proud France's tricolor,
And wrenched the banner from her bravest host,
Baptized Invincible in Austria's gore!
Joy for the day on red Vimiera's strand,
When, bayonet to bayonet opposed,
First of Britannia's host her Highland band
Gave but the death-shot once, and foremost closed!
Is there a son of generous England here,
Or fervid Erin?-he with us shall join,
To pray that in eternal union dear,
The rose, the shamrock, and the thistle twine!
Types of a race who shall the invader scorn,
As rocks resist the billows round their shore;
Types of a race who shall to time unborn
Their country leave unconquered as of yore!
SPOKEN BY MRS. BARTLEY AT DRURY-LANE THEATRE, ON THE
FIRST OPENING OF THE HOUSE AFTER THE DEATH OF
THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE, 1817.
BRITONS! although our task is but to show
The scenes and passions of fictitious woe,
Think not we come this night without a part
In that deep sorrow of the public heart,
Which like a shade hath darkened every place,
And moistened with a tear the manliest face!
The bell is scarcely hushed in Windsor's piles,
That tolled a requiem from the solemn aisles,
For her, the royal flower, low laid in dust,
That was your fairest hope, your fondest trust.
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