Зображення сторінки

Had he then fall’n as warriors fall,

Where spear strikes fire with spear ? Was there a banner for his pall,

A buckler for his bier ?

Not so ;—nor cloven shields nor helms

Had strewn the bloody sod,
Where he, the helpless lord of realms,

Yielded his soul to God.

Were there not friends with words of cheer,

And princely vassals nigh?
And priests, the crucifix to rear

Before the glazing eye?
A peasant girl that royal head

Upon her bosom laid,
And, shrinking not for woman's dread,

The face of death survey'd.

Alone she sat :-- from hill and wood

Red sank the mournful sun;

Fast gush'd the fount of noble blood,

Treason its worst had done!

With her long hair she vainly press'd

The wounds to staunch their tideUnknown, on that meek humble breast,

Imperial Albert died !


Umile in tanta gloria.—PETRARCH

If it be sad to speak of treasures gone,

Of sainted genius called too soon away,
Of light, from this world taken, while it shone

Yet kindling onward to the perfect day;
How shall our grief, if mournful these things be,
Flow forth, oh, Thou of many gifts! for thee?

Hath not thy voice been here among us heard ?

And that deep soul of gentleness and power, Have we not felt its breath in every word,

Wont from thy lip, as Hermon's dew, to shower ? Yes ! in our hearts thy fervent thoughts have burn'd, Of Heaven they were, and thither have return'd.

How shall we mourn thee ?-With a lofty trust,

Our life's immortal birthright from above!

With a glad faith, whose eye, to track the just,

Thro' shades and mysteries lifts a glance of love, And yet can weep !—for nature thus deplores The friend that leaves us, tho’ for happier shores.

And one high tone of triumph o'er thy bier,

One strain of solemn rapture be allow'd !
Thou, that rejoicing on thy mid career,

Not to decay, but unto death, hast bow'd ;
In those bright regions of the rising sun,
Where victory ne'er a crown like thine had won.

Praise! for yet one more name with power

endow'd, To cheer and guide us, onward as we press ; Yet one more image on the heart bestow'd,

To dwell there, beautiful in holiness! Thine, Heber, thine! whose memory from the dead,

Shines as the star which to the Saviour led.

ST. ASAPħ, Sept. 1826.


“ Why wouldst thou leave me, oh! gentle child ?
Thy home on the mountain is bleak and wild,
A straw-roof'd cabin with lowly wall-
Mine is a fair and a pillard hall,
Where many an image of marble gleams,
And the sunshine of picture for ever streams.”

" Oh! green is the turf where my brothers play, Thro' the long bright hours of the summer-day, They fiud the red cup-moss where they climb,

And they chase the bee o’er the scented thyme,
And the rocks where the heath-flower blooms they


Lady, kind lady! oh! let me go,"

« НазадПродовжити »