AFTER THE HUNGARIAN WAR.

"The shadows of our martyrs pass before my eyes."*

THE LIVING.

SLEEP, dead Hungarians, sleep in peace! Would we might sleep so! Your release, By shameful halter or the sword,

Was soft compassion of the Lord.

You do not break your hearts, or shed
Bitter tears;

Your sons are not in exile led;

You eat no begged, no stranger bread :
Would we, too, pressed our biers !

THE DEAD.

Living Hungarians, watch and pray!
And wait the breaking of the day.
The Lord yet liveth. Baneful night
Lies thick on justice and on right;
But the day-spring, slow yet sure,
Lies behind.

Wait! In the Lord's appointed hour,
High o'er these shades his sun shall tower,
And strike the oppressor blind.

* Kossuth's speech at Birmingham in 1851.

THE LIVING.

O dead! we hear your voice and wait :
The Lord yet liveth, and is great!
We will take patience in one hand,

And in the right a sword. O Land!
Ancestral, honourable, grave,

Abide the wrong!

Thy children, thrust from forth thy door, Shall repossess the ancient floor.

1851.

How long, O Lord, how long?

OPPORTUNITY.

O OPPORTUNITY, thou gull o' the world!

That, being present, winnest but disdain,

So small thou seem'st; but once behind us whirled, A grim phantasma, shadowest all the plain.

Thou Parthian! that shoot'st thine arrows back,
Meeting our front with terror-feigning doles ;
But often, turning on thy flying track,

With memory-winged shafts dost wound our souls.

Thou air! which breathing we do scarce perceive,
And think it little to enjoy the light;

But when the unvalued sun hath taken leave,
Darkly thou showest in the expanse of night.

Thou all men's torment, no man's comforter,-
Lost Opportunity! that shut'st the door

On all unworked intentions, and dost stir

Their fretting ghosts to plague our heart's deep core.

Thou sword of sharp Remorse, and sting of Time!
Passionate empoisoner of mortal tears !

Thou blaster of fresh Hope's recurring prime!
Crutch of Despair, and sustenance of fears!

But oh, to those that have the wit to use thee,

Thou glorious angel, clasped with golden wings, Whereon he climbing that did rightly choose thee Sees wondrous sights of unexpected things.

Thou instrument of never-dying fame

To those that snatch thy often-offered hilt; To those that on the door can read thy name, Thou residence of glory ready-built.

Used Opportunity! thou torch of Act,
And planted ladder to a high desire;
Thou one thing needful, making nothing lacked;
Thou spark unto a laid, unlighted, fire.

Thou double-faced god and double-souled!

They that look on thy front find thee most true; But most remorseless, pitiless, and cold,

Who on thy backward visage bend their view.

1846.

LINES AFTER MY FATHER'S DEATH.

(Written in his accustomed walk.*)

ANOTHER Sabbath-day

Now wraps the meads in mist;
Another sun's declined autumnal ray

Now shines upon these pastures hoar and gray,
That long thy steps have missed.

* In his father's poems, a small volume published in 1834 by Mr. Pickering, the following lines will be found, by which the above were suggested:

WRITTEN ON A SUNDAY IN AUTUMN.

Sweet is the autumnal day,

The Sabbath of the year,

When the sun sheds a soft and farewell ra

And journeys slowly on his silent way,
And wintry storms are near.

Sweet is the autumnal rose,

That lingers late in bloom,

And while the north-wind on its bosom blows,

Upon the chill and misty air bestows

A cherishing perfume.

Sweet is life's setting ray,

While Hope stands smiling near;

When the soul muses on the future day,

And through the clouds that shade her homeward way

Heaven's azure skies appear.