Round the shore where loud Lofoden Howls his war-song to the gale; Deflow'ring nature's grassy robe, And trampling on her faded form:-Till light's returning lord assume The shaft that drives him to his polar field, Of power to pierce his raven plume, And crystal cover'd shield. Oh, sire of storms! whose savage ear Fast descending as thou art, Say, hath mortal invocation Spells to touch thy stony heart? Then sullen Winter hear my prayer, And gently rule the ruin'd year; Nor chill the wand'rer's bosom bare, Nor freeze the wretch's falling tear;To shuddering want's unmantled bed, Thy horror-breathing agues cease to lend, And gently on the orphan head Of innocence descend.- But chiefly spare, O king of clouds! When wrecks and beacons strew the steep, And spectres walk along the deep. Pour on yonder tented shores, Oh winds of winter! list ye there Or start, ye demons of the midnight air, At shrieks and thunders louder than your own. Alas! ev'n your unhallow'd breath May spare the victim, fallen low; But man will ask no truce to death, No bounds to human woe.* This ode was written in Germany, at the close of 1800, before the conclusion of hostilities. THE SOLDIER'S DREAM. OUR bugles sang truce-for the night-cloud had low'r'd, And the centinel stars set their watch in the sky; And thousands had sunk on the ground overpow'r'd, The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. When reposing that night on my pallet of straw, And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again. Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array, I flew to the pleasant fields travers'd so oft In life's morning march, when my bosom was young, I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung. Then pledg'd we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore From my home and my weeping friends never to part; My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er, And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart. Stay, stay with us-rest, thou art weary and worn- And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away. THE TURKISH LADY. "TWAS the hour when rites unboly Call'd each Paynim voice to pray'r, And the star that faded slowly Left to dews the freshen'd air. Day her sultry fires had wasted, Calm and sweet the moonlight rosa; Ev'n a captive's spirit tasted Half oblivion of his woes. Then 'twas from an Emir's palace She, in spite of tyrants jealous, Tell me, captive, why in anguish 'Foes have dragg'd thee here to dwell, 'Where poor Christians as they languish 'Hear no sound of sabbath bell?" |