Puslapio vaizdai

In our isle's enchanted hall',

Hands unseen' thy couch are strewing,
Fairy strains of music' fall,

Every sense in slumber' dewing.
Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er',
Dream of fighting fields no more';
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking',
Morn of toil', nor night of waking'.

No rude' sound shall reach thine ear,
Armour's clang', or war'-steed champing,
Trump nor pibroch summon here',

Mustering clan', or squadron' tramping.
Yet the lark's' shrill fife may come
At the daybreak from the fallow',
And the bittern' sound his drum,
Booming from the sedgy shallow'.
Ruder' sounds shall none' be near,
Guards nor warders challenge here',
Here's no war-steed's neigh and champing',
Shouting clans' or squadrons stamping'.

Huntsman, rest'! thy chase is done',
While our slumbrous spells assail' ye,

Dream not with the rising sun',

Bugles here shall sound reveillé.

Sleep'! the deer is in his den';

Sleep! thy hounds' are by thee lying;
Sleep! nor dream in yonder glen',

How thy gallant steed lay dying'.
Huntsman, rest'! thy chase is done',
Think not of the rising sun',

For at dawning to assail' ye,

Here no bugles sound reveillé.



Ir was a dread, yet spirit-stirring sight!
The billows foamed beneath a thousand oars,
Fast as they land the red-cross ranks unite,
Legions on legions brightening all the shores.
Then banners rise, and cannon-signal roars,
Then peals the warlike thunder of the drum,
Thrills the loud fife, the trumpet-flourish pours,

And patriot hopes awake, and doubts are dumb,
For, bold in Freedom's cause, the bands of Ocean come!

A various host they came-whose ranks display
Each mode in which the warrior meets the fight,
The deep battalion locks its firm array,
And meditates his aim the marksman light;
Far glance the lines of sabres flashing bright,
Where mounted squadrons shake the echoing mead,
Lacks not artillery breathing flame and night,
Nor the fleet ordnance whirled by rapid steed,
That rivals lightning's flash in ruin and in speed.
A various host-from kindred realms they came,
Brethren in arms, but rivals in renown-
For yon fair bands shall merry England claim,
And with their deeds of valour deck her crown.
Her's their bold port, and her's their martial frown,
And her's their scorn of death in Freedom's cause,
Their eyes of azure and their locks of brown,
And the blunt speech that bursts without a pause,

And free-born thoughts, which league the soldier with the laws.
And O! loved warriors of the Minstrel's land!
Yonder your bonnets nod, your tartans wave!
The rugged form may mark the mountain-band,
And harsher features, and a mien more grave;
But ne'er in battle-field throbbed heart so brave
As that which beats beneath the Scottish plaid,
And when the pibroch bids the battle rave,
And level for the charge your arms are laid,
Where lives the desperate foe, that for such onset staid !
Hark! from yon stately ranks what laughter rings,
Mingling wild mirth with war's stern minstrelsy,
His jest while each blithe comrade round him flings,
And moves to death with military glee :
Boast, Erin, boast them! tameless, frank, and free,
In kindness warm, and fierce in danger known,
Rough Nature's children, humorous as she :
And HE, yon Chieftain-strike the proudest tone
Of thy bold harp, green Isle !-the Hero is thine own.


KNOW ye the land where the cypress and myrtle
Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime,


Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle,
Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime?
Know ye the land of the cedar and vine,

Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine;
Where the light wings of zephyr, oppressed with perfume,
Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gul* in her bloom;
Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit,

And the voice of the nightingale never is mute;
Where the tints of the earth, and the hues of the sky,
In colour though varied, in beauty may vie,

And the purple of Ocean is deepest in dye;
Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine,

And all, save the spirit of man, is divine?

'Tis the clime of the East; 'tis the land of the Sun

Can he smile on such deeds as his children have done?+

Oh! wild as the accents of lovers' farewell

Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales which they tell.




CLIME of the unforgotten brave !

Whose land from plain to mountain-cave
Was Freedom's home or Glory's grave-
Shrine of the mighty! can it be,
That this is all remains of thee?
Approach, thou craven crouching slave-
Say, is not this Thermopyla?

These waters blue that round you lave,
Oh servile offspring of the free-
Pronounce what sea, what shore is this?
The gulf, the rock of Salamis !

These scenes-their story not unknown-
Arise, and make again your own;
Snatch from the ashes of your sires
The embers of their former fires,
And he who in the strife expires
Will add to theirs a name of fear,
That Tyranny shall quake to hear,
And leave his sons a hope, a fame,
They too will rather die than shame;

The Rose.

+"Souls made of fire, and children of the sun,
"With whom Revenge is virtue."

YOUNG'S Revenge.

For Freedom's battle once begun,
Bequeathed by bleeding Sire to Son,
Though baffled oft is ever won.
Bear witness, Greece, thy living page,
Attest it many a deathless age!
While kings, in dusty darkness hid,
Have left a nameless pyramid,

Thy heroes, though the general doom
Hath swept the column from their tomb,
A mightier monument command,
The mountains of their native land!
There points thy Muse to stranger's eye
The graves of those that cannot die!
'Twere long to tell, and sad to trace,
Each step from splendour to disgrace ;
Enough-no foreign foe could quell
Thy soul, till from itself it fell;
Yes! Self-abasement paved the way
To villain-bonds and despot-sway.

WHY boast we, Glaucus, our extended reign,
Where Xanthus' streams enrich the Lycian plain?
Our numerous herds that range the fruitful field,
And hills where vines their purpled harvest yield?
Our foaming bowls with purer nectar crowned,
Our feasts enhanced with music's sprightly sound?
Why on these shores are we with joy surveyed,
Admired as heroes and as gods obeyed ?
Unless great acts superior merit prove,
And vindicate the bounteous powers above:
That when with wondering eyes our martial bands
Behold our deeds transcending our commands,
Such, they may cry, deserve the sovereign state,
Whom those that envy dare not imitate.
Could all our care elude the gloomy grave,
Which claims no less the fearful than the brave,
For lust of fame I should not vainly dare
In fighting fields, nor urge thy soul to war:
But since, alas! ignoble age must come,
Disease, and death's inexorable doom,
The life which others pay let us bestow,
And give to fame what we to nature owe!
Brave though we fall, and honoured if we live,
Or let us glory gain, or glory give.


POPE'S Homer.


DISDAINING what his father won before,
Aspiring still, and restless after more,

He left his home; while fortune smoothed his way,
And o'er the fruitful East enlarged his sway.
Red Slaughter marked his progress as he past;
The guilty sword laid human nature waste,
Discoloured Ganges' and Euphrates' flood,
With Persian this, and that with Indian blood.
He seemed in terror to the nations sent,
The wrath of Heaven, a star of dire portent,
And shook, like thunder, all the continent!

Nor yet content, a navy he provides,
To seas remote his triumphs now he guides,
Nor winds nor waves his progress could withstand;
For Liby's scorching heat, and desert land,
Nor rolling mountains of collected sand.

Had Heaven but given him line, he had outrun
The farthest journey of the setting sun,

Marched round the poles, and drank discovered Nile
At his spring-head.-But winged Fate the while
Comes on with speed, the funeral hour draws near:
Death only could arrest his mad career,

Who to his grave the world's sole empire bore,
With the same envy 'twas acquired before;

And wanting a successor to his reign,

Left all to suffer conquest once again.




Ar the silence of twilight's contemplative hour,

I have mused in a sorrowful mood,

On the wind-shaken weeds that embosom the bower,

Where the home of my forefathers stood.

All ruined and wild is their roofless abode,

And lonely the dark raven's sheltering tree;
And travelled by few is the grass-covered road,
Where the hunter of deer and the warrior trode
To his hills that encircle the sea.

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