Imatges de pÓgina
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To a Highland Girl.

191

What hand but would a garland cull
For thee who art so beautiful!
O happy pleasure ! here to dwell
Beside thee in some heathy dell ;
Adopt your homely ways and dress-
A shepherd, thou a shepherdess !
But I could frame a wish for thee
More like a grave reality :
Thou art to me but as a wave
Of the wild sea; and I would have
Some claim upon thee if I could,
Though but of common neighbourhood.
What joy to hear thee, and to see !
Thy elder brother I would be,
Thy father-any thing to thee!

Now thanks to Heaven, that of its grace
Hath led me to this lonely place!
Joy have I had, and, going hence,
I bear away my recompense.
In spots like these it is we prize
Our memory, feel that she hath eyes :
Then why should I be loath to stir?
I feel this place was made for her ;
To give new pleasure like the past,
Continued long as life shall last :
Nor am I loath, though pleased at heart,
Sweet Highland girl! from thee to part;
For I, methinks, till I grow old,
As fair before me shall behold
As I do now—the cabin small,
The lake, the bay, the waterfall-
And thee, the spirit of them all!

Crescentius.

BY MISS LANDON, (L. E. L.)

I

LOOK'D upon his brow-no sign

Of guilt or fear was there;
He stood as proud by that death-shrine

As even o'er despair
He had a power ; in his eye
There was a quenchless energy-

A spirit that could dare
The deadliest form that death could take,
And dare it for the daring's sake.

He stood, the fetters on his hand

He raised them haughtily; And had that grasp been on the brand,

It could not wave on high With freer pride than it waved now. Around he look'd with changeless brow

On many a torture nighThe rack, the chain, the axe, the wheel, And, worst of all, his own red steel.

I saw him once before : he rode

Upon a coal-black steed,
And tens of thousands throng’d the road,

And bade their warrior speed.
His helm, his breastplate were of gold,
And graved with many a dent that told

Of many a soldier's deed ;
The sun shone on his sparkling mail,
And danced his snow-plume on the gale.

To an Indian Gold Coin.

193

But now he stood, chain'd and alone,

The headsman by his side;
The plume, the helm, the charger gone;

The sword, that had defied
The mightiest, lay broken near ;
And yet no sign or sound of fear

Came from that lip of pride;
And never king or conqueror's brow
Wore higher look than his did now.

He bent beneath the headsman's stroke

With an uncover'd eye;
A wild shout from the numbers broke

Who throng'd to see him die:
It was a people's loud acclaim,
The voice of anger and of shame,

A nation's funeral-cry-
Rome's wail above her only son,
Her patriot-and her latest one.

To an Indian Gald Cain.

WRITTEN IN CHERICAL, MALABAR.

BY JOHN LEYDEN.

SA

LAVE of the dark and dirty mine!

What vanity has brought thee here? How can I love to see thee shine

So bright whom I have bought so dear?

The tent-ropes flapping lone I hear, For twilight converse, arm in arm;

The jackal's shriek bursts on mine ear When mirth and music wont to charm.

N

By Cherical's dark wandering streams,

Where cane-tufts shadow all the wild, Sweet visions haunt my waking dreams

Of Teviot loved while still a child

Of castled rocks, stupendous piled By Esk or Eden's classic wave,

Where loves of youth and friendship smiled, Uncursed by thee, vile yellow slave.

Fade day-dreams sweet, from memory fade !

The perish'd bliss of youth's first prime, That once so bright on fancy play'd,

Revives no more in after-time.

Far from my sacred natal clime, I haste to an untimely grave;

The daring thoughts, that soar'd sublime, Are sunk in ocean's southern wave.

Slave of the mine! thy yellow light

Gleams baleful as the tomb-fire drear.A gentle vision comes by night

My lonely widow'd heart to cheer ;

Her eyes are dim with many a tear, That once were guiding stars to mine :

Her fond heart throbs with many a fear !I cannot bear to see thee shine.

For thee, for thee, vile yellow slave!

I left a heart that loved me true; I cross'd the tedious ocean wave

To roam in climes unkind and new,

The cold wind of the stranger blew Chill on my wither'd heart;—the grave

Dark and untimely met my view And all for thee, vile yellow slave !

England's Dead.

195

Ha! com'st thou now so late to mock

A wanderer's banish'd heart forlorn, Now that his frame the lightning shock

Of sun-rays tipp'd with death has borne ?

From love, from friendship, country, torn, To Memory's fond regrets the prey,

Vile slave! thy yellow dross I scorn! Go mix thee with thy kindred clay!

England's Bead.

BY MRS HEMANS,

SON

ON of the Ocean-isle !

Where sleep your mighty Dead ? Show me what high and holy pile

Is rear'd o'er Glory's bed.

?

Go, stranger! track the deep,

Free, free the white sail spread!
Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep,

Where rest not England's Dead.

On Egypt's burning plains,

By the pyramid o'ersway'd,
With fearful power the noonday reigns,

And the palm-trees yield no shade:

But let the angry sun

From Heaven look fiercely red, Unfelt by those whose fight is done!

There slumber England's Dead.

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