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Like lava roll'd thy stream of blood,
And swept down empires with its flood;
Earth rock'd beneath thee to her base,
As thou didst lighten through all space;
And the shorn Sun grew dim in air,
And set while thou wert dwelling there.
Before thee rose, and with thee grew,
A rainbow of the loveliest hue
Of three bright colours, each divine,
And fit for that celestial sign;
For Freedom's hand had blended them
Like tints in an immortal gem.

One tint was of the sunbeam's dyes;
One, the blue depth of Seraph's eyes;
One, the pure Spirit's veil of white
Had robed in radiance of its light:
The three so mingled did beseen
The texture of a heavenly dream.

Star of the brave! thy ray is pale,
And darkness must again prevail!
But, oh thou Rainbow of the free!
Our tears and blood must flow for thee.
When thy bright promise fades away,
Our life is but a load of clay.

And Freedom hallows with her tread
The silent cities of the dead;
For beautiful in death are they
Who proudly fall in her array;
And soon, oh Goddess! may we be
For evermore with them or thee!

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ABSENT or present, still to thee,

My friend, what magic spells belong! As all can tell, who share, like me, In turn, thy converse and thy song. But when the dreaded hour shall come, By Friendship ever deem'd too nigh, And "MEMORY" o'er her Druid's tomb Shall weep that aught of thee can die, How fondly will She then repay

Thy homage offer'd at her shrine, And blend, while Ages roll away, Her name immortally with thine! April 19, 1812.

SONNET.

I have warr'd with a world which van-ROUSSEAU-Voltaire-our Gibbon-and de

my fame.

quish'd me only

too far;

Stael

When the meteor of Conquest allured me Leman! these names are worthy of thy

I have coped with the nations which dread Thy shore of

me thus lonely,

The last single Captive to millions in war. Their memory

shore,

names like these; wert

thou no more,

thy remembrance would

recal:

Farewell to thee, France!-when thy dia-To them thy banks were lovely as to all; But they have made them lovelier, for the lore

dem crown'd me I made thee the gem and the wonder of earth, --But thy weakness decrees I should leave as I found thee, Decay'd in thy glory and sunk in thy worth.

Of mighty minds doth hallow in the core Of human hearts the ruin of a wall Where dwelt the wise and wondrous; but by thee

How much more, Lake of Beauty! do we ] In the desert a fountain is springing,

feel,

In sweetly gliding o'er thy crystal sea, The wild glow of that not ungentle zeal, Which of the heirs of immortality

Is proud, and makes the breath of glory real!

STANZAS TO··

THOUGH the day of my destiny's over, And the star of my fate hath declined, Thy soft heart refused to discover

The faults which so many could find; Though thy soul with my grief was acquainted,

It shrunk not to share it with me, And the love which my spirit hath painted It never hath found but in thee.

Then when nature around me is smiling The last smile which answers to mine,

I do not believe it beguiling

Because it reminds me of thine;

And when winds are at war with the ocean, As the breasts I believed in with me, If their billows excite an emotion,

It is that they bear me from thee.

Though the rock of my last hope is shiver'd, And its fragments are sunk in the wave, Though I feel that my soul is deliver’d

To pain-it shall not be its slave. There is many a pang to pursue me: They may crush, but they shall not

contemn

They may torture, but shall not subdue me'Tis of thee that I think-not of them.

Though human, thou didst not deceive me, Though woman, thou didst not forsake, Though loved, thou forborest to grieve me, Though slander'd, thou never couldst shake,

Though trusted thou didst not disclaim me,
Though parted, it was not to fly,
Though watchful, 'twas not to defame me,
Nor, mute, that the world might belie.

Yet I blame not the world, nor despise it,
Nor the war of the many with one—
If my soul was not fitted to prize it,

'Twas folly not sooner to shun :
And if dearly that error hath cost me,
And more than I once could foresee,
I have found that, whatever it lost me,
It could not deprive me of thee.

In the wide waste there still is a tree, And a bird in the solitude singing, Which speaks to my spirit of thee.

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From the wreck of the past, which hath "Friends! ye have, alas! to know

perish'd,

Thus much I at least may recal,

It hath taught me that what I most cherish'd Deserved to be dearest of all:

Of a most disastrous blow,
That the Christians, stern and bold,
Have obtain'd Alhama's hold."

Woe is me, Alhama!

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What if thy deep and ample stream should be | "Tis vain to struggle-let me perish youngLive as I lived, and love as I have loved: To dust if I return, from dust I sprung, And then at least my heart can ne'er be moved.

A mirror of my heart, where she may read The thousand thoughts I now betray to thee, Wild as thy wave,and headlong as thy speed? What do I say-a mirror of my heart? Are not thy waters sweeping, dark and strong?

Such as my feelings were and are, thou art; And such as thou art, were my passions long.

Time may have somewhat tamed them, not for ever:

Thou overflowst thy banks, and not for aye; Thy bosom overboils, congenial river! Thy floods subside; and mine have sunk

away

But left long wrecks behind them, and again Borne on our old unchanged career, we move; Thou tendest wildly onward to the main, And I to loving one I should not love.

DRINKING-SONG.

Fill the goblet again, for I never before Felt the glow that now gladdens my heart to its core:

Let us drink-who would not? since, thro' life's varied round,

In the goblet alone no deception is found.

I have tried in its turn all that life can supply; I have bask'd in the beams of a dark rolling

eye;

I have lov'd-who has not? but what tongue will declare

That pleasure existed while passion was there?

The current I behold will sweep beneath
Her native walls, and murmur at her feet; In the days of our youth, when the heart's
Her eyes will look on thee, when she shall

breathe

The twilight-air, unharm'd by summer's heat.

She will look on thee: I have look'd on thee, Full of that thought, and from that

moment ne'er

in its spring,

And dreams that affection can never take wing,

I had friends,-who has not? but what tongue will avow That friends, rosy wine, are so faithful as

thou?

Thy waters could I dream of, name or see, The breast of a mistress some boy may Without the inseparable sigh for her.

Her bright eyes will be imaged in thy

stream;

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estrange;

Friendship shifts with the sun-beam,—thou
Thou growst
Whose virtues,

never canst change.
old-who does not? but on
earth what appears,
like thine, but increase
with our years?

Yet if blest to the utmost that love can bestow,

Should a rival bow down to our idol below, We are jealous-who's not? thou hast no such alloy,

For the more that enjoy thee, the more they enjoy.

When, the season of youth and its jollities past,

For refuge we fly to the goblet at last,
Then we find-who does not? in the flow
of the soul,
That truth, as of yore, is confin'd to the bowl.

When the box of Pandora was opened on earth,

And Memory's triumph commenced over Mirth,

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Long life to the grape! and when summer | Few and short were the prayers we said, is flown, And we spoke not a word of sorrow; The age of our nectar shall gladden my own. But we stedfastly gazed on the face of the We must die--who does not? may our sins dead, be forgiven! And Hebe shall never be idle in Heaven.

ON SIR JOHN MOORE'S BURIAL. Not a drum was heard, nor a funeral note,

As his corse to the ramparts we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning,-
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin confined his breast,
Nor in sheet nor in shrouds we bound him,
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.

And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we heap'd his narrow bed,
And smooth'd down his lonely pillow,
That the foe and the stranger would tread
o'er his head
And we far away on the billow!
Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him;
But nothing he'll reck, if they let him
sleep on

In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
But half of our heavy task was done,
When the clock told the hour for retiring;
And we heard by the distant and random gun,
That the foe was suddenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, we raised not a stone, But we left him alone with his glory.

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