English

PART THIRD

The buoyant fires of youth were o'er,
And fame and finery pleased no more,
Productive of that general stare,
Which cool reflection ill can bear!
And, crowds commencing mere vexation,
Retirement sent its invitation.
Romantic scenes of pendent hills,
And verdant vales, and falling rills,
And mossy banks the fields adorn,
Where Damon, simple swain! was born.
The Dryads rear'd a shady grove,
Where such as think, and such as love,

PART SECOND

How happy once was Damon's lot,
While yet romantic schemes were not,
Ere yet he sent his weakly eyes,
To plan frail castles in the skies!
Forsaking pleasures cheap and common,
To court a blaze, still flitting from one.
Ah! happy Damon! thrice and more,
Had Taste ne'er touch'd thy tranquil shore.
Oh days! when to a girdle tied
The couples jingled at his side,
And Damon swore he would not barter

PART FIRST .

Perhaps some cloud eclipsed the day,
When thus I tuned my pensive lay;
" The ship is launch'd — we catch the gale —
On life's extended ocean sail:
For happiness our course we bend,
Our ardent cry, our general end!
Yet, ah! the scenes which tempt our care
Are, like the forms dispersed in air,
Still dancing near disorder'd eyes,
And weakest his who best descries! "
Yet let me not my birthright barter,
(For wishing is the poet's charter;

PART TWO

Moaning branches of the midnight! ... He hath passed beyond their dirge;
Lying strangely on the foot-forgotten floor:
For the Genius of Creation bade his infant soul emerge
From the womb of Life and creep to Heaven's door.
Does it matter if the call
Comes amidst the fires of Java;
Or speaks weirdly through the hall
Of the winter-washed Ungava?
Lifted from the creeping lava and the thunders that appal,
Through the portal of Uranus, shades of Pompeii shall greet

TO AN IDEAL OBJECT .

Though far away, I still shall see thee here,
Shall see thy eyes so deep, thy modest mien,
And hear that fairy laughter, which yestreen
Fell like sweet music on my spell-bound ear.

Though far away, in truth thou dwell'st as near
As wert thou daily, hourly to be seen,
Nor of thy truthfulness have I a fear,
What is with thee stands fast and shows serene.

Would thou wert real, creature of my brain!
Thy voice and laughter, and those deep, still eyes,

Oh, France! oh, People! sleeping unabashed!
Liest thou like a hound when it was lashed?
Thou liest! thine own blood fouling both thy hands,
And on thy limbs the rust of iron bands,
And round thy wrists the cut where cords went deep.
Say did they numb thy soul, that thou didst sleep?
Alas! sad France is grown a cave for sleeping,
Which a worse night than Midnight holds in keeping,
Thou sleepest sottish — lost to life and fame —
While the stars stare on thee, and pale for shame.
Stir! rouse thee! Sit! if thou know'st not to rise;

And meanwhile this death-odour — this corpse-scent
Which makes the priestly incense redolent
Of rotting men, and the Te Deums stink —
Reeks through the forests — past the river's brink,
O'er wood and plain and mountain, till it fouls
Fair Paris in her pleasures; then it prowls,
A deadly stench, to Crete, to Mexico,
To Poland — wheresoe'er kings' armies go:
And Earth one Upas-tree of bitter sadness,
Opening vast blossoms of a bloody madness.
Throats cut by thousands — slain men by the ton!

But the crime's wrought! Who wrought it?
Honest Man —
Priest Pius? No! Each does but what he can.
Yonder's the criminal! The warlike wight
Who hides behind the ranks of France to fight,
Greek Sinon's blood crossed thick with Judas-Jew's,
The Traitor who with smile which true men woos,
Lip mouthing pledges — hand grasping the knife —
Waylaid French Liberty, and took her life.
Kings, he is of you! fit companion! one
Whom day by day the lightning looks upon
Keen; while the sentenced man triples his guard

Oh, Italy! hail your Deliverer,
Oh, Nations! almost he gave Rome to her!
Strong-arm and prophet heart had all but come
To win the city, and to make it " Rome. "
Calm, of the antique grandeur, ripe to be
Named with the noblest of her history.
He would have Romanized your Rome — controlled
Her glory, lordships, Gods, in a new mould.
Her spirits' fervour would have melted in
The hundred cities with her; made a twin
Vesuvius and the Capitol; and blended
Strong Juvenal's with the soul, tender and splendid,

But thou, our Hero, baffled, foiled,
The Glorious Chief who vainly bled and toiled.
The trust of all the Peoples — Freedom's Knight!
The Paladin unstained — the Sword of Right!
What wilt thou do, whose land finds thee but gaols!
The banished claim the banished! deign to cheer
The refuge of the homeless — enter here,
And light upon our households dark will fall
Even as thou enterest. Oh, Brother, all,
Each one of us — hurt with thy sorrows' proof,
Will make a country for thee of his roof.