Зображення сторінки


Foul parent of fair child, swollen Bread-tax ! Thou,
On plunder'd commerce, didst beget Reform:
We see a bright to-morrow on her brow,
And make our hope thy nursling of the storm.
But many a fanged worm, and biped brute,
On whose dark heart the eye of love ne'er smiled,
Would fain the promise of her morn refute.
Die then, dread power! and have no other child;
For it is written that thy second-born,
If second-born thou have, will thunder-strike
Temple and tower, of strength and splendour shorn
By hands with famine lean; and, Sampson-like,
Shaking the pillars of the gold-roofd state,
Whelm high, and low, and all, in one remorseless fate.


“COME, at last ?” said Horns to Eldon

“ Better late than never :
My Depute! Thou long hast well done;

Keep my seals for ever."


Ye living gems of cold and fragrant fire !
Die ye for ever, when ye die, ye flowers ?
Take ye, when in your beauty ye expire,
An everlasting farewell of your bowers ?
No more to listen for the wooing air,
And song-brought morn, the cloud-tinged woodlands

No more to June's soft lip your breasts to bare,
And drink fond evening's dewy breath no more !
Soon fades the sweetest, first the fairest dies,
For frail and fair are sisters; but the heart,
Filld with deep love, death's power to kill denies,
And sobs e'en o'er the dead, “We cannot part !”
Have I not seen thee, Wild Rose, in my dreams,
Like a pure spirit-beauteous as the skies,
When the clear blue is brightest, and the streams
Dance down the hills, reflecting the rich dyes
Of morning clouds, and cistus woodbine-twined ? —
Didst thou not wake me from a dream of death ?
Yea, and thy voice was sweeter than the wind
When it inhales the love-sick violet's breath,
Bending it down with kisses, where the bee
Hums over golden gorse, and sunny broom. .
Soul of the Rose! What saidst thou then to me?

“We meet,” thou saidst," though sever'd by the

tomb : Lo, brother, this is heav'n! And, thus the just shall



O'ER Byron's dust our sorrows should be steeld,
Or sternly burn, as, burning slow, he died --
Till one long groan from shuddering Greece reveal'd
That fate had done her worst; and o'er the tide
Loud yell’d the Turk his triumph-howl of pride.
Yet will they flow, these woman's drops; for thou
Didst die for woman, though her hand applied

No gentle pressure to thy fever'd brow :
O Byron, “thou, within, hadst that which passeth

show !”


Thou, Byron, wast—like him, the iron-crown'd-
Thought-stricken, scorch’d, and “old in middle age.”
"All-naked feeling's" restless victims bound,
Ill could renown your secret pangs assuage.

Two names of glory in one deathless page !
Both unbeloved, both peerless, both exil'd,
And prison'd both, though one could choose his

cage ; Dying, he call'd, in vain, on wife and child ; And in your living hearts, the worm was domiciled.




We thank Thee, Lord of earth and heav'n,
For hope, and strength, and triumph given !
We thank Thee that the fight is won,
Although our work is but begun.

We met, we crush'd the evil powers;
A nobler task must now be ours-
Their victims maim'd and poor to feed,
And bind the bruised and broken reed.

O let not Ruin's will be done,
When Freedom's fight is fought and won !
The deed of Brougham, Russell, Grey,
Outlives the night! Lord, give us day!

Grant time, grant patience, to renew,
What England's foes and thine o'erthrew;
If they destroy'd, let us restore,
And say to Misery, mourn no more.

Lord, let the human storm be still'd !
Lord, let the million mouths be fill'd!
Let labour cease to toil in vain !
Let England be herself again !

Then shall this land her arms stretch forth,
To bless the East, and tame the North;
On tyrants' hearths wake buried souls,
And call to life the murder'd Poles.

Sing, Britons, sing! The sound shall go
Wherever Freedom finds a foe:
This day a trumpet's voice is blown
O’er every despot's heart and throne.

« НазадПродовжити »