| |
| | And mark the wretch, whose wanderings never knew |
| The world’s regard, that soothes, though half untrue; |
| Whose erring heart the lash of sorrow bore, |
| But found not pity when it err’d no more. |
| Yon friendless man, at whose dejected eye |
| Th’ unfeeling proud one looks, and passes by; |
| Condemn’d on penury’s barren path to roam, |
| Scorn’d by the world, and left without a home. |
| 1 |
| | Auspicious Hope! in thy sweet garden grow |
| Wreaths for each toil, a charm for every woe. |
| 2 |
| | But can the noble mind for ever brood, |
| The willing victim of a weary mood, |
| On heartless cares that squander life away, |
| And cloud young Genius bright’ning into day? |
| 3 |
| | Cease, every joy, to glimmer in my mind, |
| But leave,—oh! leave the light of Hope behind! |
| What though my winged hours of bliss have been, |
| Like angel-visits, few and far between. |
| 4 |
| | He, with delirious laugh, the dagger hurl’d, |
| And burst the ties that bound him to the world! |
| 5 |
| | I alone am left on earth! |
| To whom nor relative nor blood remains, |
| No! not a kindred drop that runs in human veins. |
| 6 |
| | In yonder pensile orb, and every sphere |
| That gems the starry girdle of the year. |
| 7 |
| | Lochiel, Lochiel! beware of the day; |
| For, dark and despairing, my sight I may seal |
| But man cannot cover what God would reveal; |
| ’Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore, |
| And coming events cast their shadows before. |
| 8 |
| | Melt, and dispel, ye spectre doubts that roll |
| Cimmerian darkness o’er the parting soul. |
| 9 |
| | Never wedding, ever wooing, |
| Still a love-lorn heart pursuing, |
| Read you not the wrong you’re doing, |
| In my cheek’s pale hue? |
| All my life with sorrow strewing, |
| Wed, or cease to woo. |
| 10 |
| | O star-eyed Science, hast thou wander’d there, |
| To waft us home the message of despair? |
| 11 |
| | Oh! lives there, Heaven! beneath thy dread expanse, |
| One hopeless, dark idolater of chance, |
| Content to feed with pleasures unrefin’d, |
| The lukewarm passions of a lowly mind; |
| Who mouldering earthward, ’reft of every trust, |
| In joyless union wedded to the dust, |
| Could all his parting energy dismiss, |
| And call this barren world sufficient, bliss? |
| 12 |
| | Out spoke the victor then, |
| As he hail’d them o’er the wave, |
| Ye are brothers! ye are men! |
| And we conquer but to save; |
| So peace instead of death let us bring; |
| But yield, proud foe, thy fleet, |
| With the crews, at England’s feet, |
| And make submission meet |
| To our King. |
| 13 |
| | Poor child of danger, nursling of the storm, |
| Sad are the woes that wreck thy manly form! |
| Rocks, waves, and winds, the shatter’d bark delay, |
| Thy heart is sad, thy home is far away. |
| 14 |
| | The combat deepens. On, ye brave, |
| Who rush to glory, or the grave! |
| Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave, |
| And charge with all thy chivalry. |
| 15 |
| | The more we live, more brief appear |
| Our life’s succeeding stages; |
| A day to childhood seems a year, |
| And years like passing ages. |
| 16 |
| | The prophet’s mantle, ere his flight began, |
| Dropt on the world—a sacred gift to man. |
| 17 |
| | The world was sad!—the garden was a wild! |
| And man, the hermit, sigh’d—till woman smiled. |
| 18 |
| | There came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin; |
| The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill! |
| For his country he sighed, when at twilight repairing, |
| To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill. |
| 19 |
| | ’Tis distance lends enchantment to the view, |
| And robes the mountain in its azure hue. |
| 20 |
| |
|
|
| |
| | ’Tis the sunset of life gives us mystical lore, |
| And coming events cast their shadows before. |
| 21 |
| | ’Twas sung, how they were lovely in their lives, |
| And in their deaths had not divided been. |
| 22 |
| | To live in hearts we leave behind, |
| Is not to die. |
| 23 |
| | To prevail in the cause that is dearer than life, |
| Or, crush’d in its ruins, to die! |
| 24 |
| | Who hath not own’d, with rapture-smitten frame, |
| The power of grace, the magic of a name. |
| 25 |
| | Without our hopes, without our fears, |
| Without the home that plighted love endears, |
| Without the smile from partial beauty won, |
| O! what were man?—a world without a sun. |
| 26 |
| | Without the smile from partial beauty won, |
| O, what were man! a world without a sun! |
| 27 |
| | Ye mariners of England! |
| That guard our native seas; |
| Whose flag has braved a thousand years, |
| The battle and the breeze. |
| 28 |
| A stoic of the woods,—a man without a tear. | 29 |
| And rival all but Shakespear’s name below. | 30 |
| And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky. | 31 |
| Angels for the good man’s sin wept to record, and blushed to give it in. | 32 |
| Beauty is a beam from heaven that dazzles blind our reason. | 33 |
| Beauty’s tears are lovelier than her smiles. | 34 |
| Cold in the dust this perished heart may lie, but that which warmed it once shall never die. | 35 |
| Coming events cast their shadows before. | 36 |
| Faithful to its sacred page, Heaven still rebuilds thy span. | 37 |
| For Beauty’s tears are lovelier than her smile. | 38 |
| He scorns his own who feels another’s woe. | 39 |
| Hope for a season bade the world farewell, and Freedom shrieked as Kosciusko fell. | 40 |
| I am convinced that there is no man that knows life well, and remembers all the incidents of his past experience who would accept it again; we are certainly here to punish precedent sins. | 41 |
| In the human breast two master-passions cannot coexist. | 42 |
| Let us do or die. | 43 |
| Like angel visits, few and far between. | 44 |
| One could take down a book from a shelf ten times more wise and witty than almost any man’s conversation. Bacon is wiser, Swift more humorous, than any person one is likely to meet with; but they cannot chime in with the exact frame of thought in which we happen to take them down from our shelves. Therein lies the luxury of conversation; and when a living speaker does not yield us that luxury, he becomes only a book on two legs. | 45 |
| Sorrow returned with the dawning of morn, and the voice in my dreaming ear melted away. | 46 |
| Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree! | 47 |
| The meteor flag of England. | 48 |
| The stormy music of the drum. | 49 |
| ’T is the sunset of life gives us mystical lore. | 50 |
| To bear is to conquer our fate. | 51 |
| Triumphant arch, that fill’st the sky when storms prepare to part! | 52 |
| What millions died that Cæsar might be great! | 53 |
| When love came first to earth, the spring spread rose-beds to receive him. | 54 |
| While memory watches o’er the sad review of joys that faded like the morning dew. | 55 |
| Whose sun-bright summit mingles with the sky. | 56 |
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