For thine her evening prayer is said
At palace couch, and cottage bed;
Her soldier, closing with the foe,
Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow;
His plighted maiden, when she fears
For him, the joy of her young years,
Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears:
And she, the mother of thy boys,
Though in her eye and faded cheek
Is read the grief she will not speak,
The memory of her buried joys,
And even she who gave thee birth,
Will, by their pilgrim-circled hearth,
Talk of thy doom without a sigh:
For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's,
One of the few, the immortal names,
That were not born to die.
MANY a sad, sweet thought have I,
Many a passing, sunny gleam,
Many a bright tear in mine eye,
Many a wild and wandering dream,
Stolen from hours, I should have tied
To musty volumes by my side,
Given to hours that sweetly wooed
My heart from its study's solitude.
Oft when the south wind's dancing free
Over the earth and in the sky,
And the flowers peep softly out to see
The frolic Spring as she wantons by,
When the breeze and beam, like thieves come in,
To steal me away, I deem it sin
To slight their voice, and away I'm straying,
Over the hills and vales a Maying.
Then can I hear the earth rejoice,
Happier than man may ever be,
Every fountain hath then a voice
That sings of its glad festivity;
For it hath burst the chains, that bound
Its currents dead in the frozen ground,
And flashing away in the sun has gone,
Singing, and singing, and singing on.
Autumn hath sunset hours, and then
Many a musing mood I cherish,
Many a hue of fancy, when
The hues of earth are about to perish;
Clouds are there, and brighter, I ween,
Hath real sunset never seen,
Sad as the faces of friends that die,
And beautiful as their memory.
Love hath its thoughts, we cannot keep,
Visions the mind may not control,
Waking as fancy does in sleep
The secret transports of the soul.
Faces and forms are strangely mingled,
Till one by one they're slowly singled,
To the voice and lip, and eye of her
I worship like an idolater.
Many a big, proud tear have I,
When from my sweet and roaming track
From the green earth and misty sky,
And spring and love, I hurry back;
Then what a dismal, dreary gloom
Settles upon my loathed room,
Darker to every thought and sense
Than if they had never travelled thence.
Yet I have other thoughts that cheer
The toilsome day, and lonely night,
And many a scene and hope appear,
And almost make me gay and bright.
Honour and fame that I would win,
Though every toil that yet hath been
Were doubly borne, and not an hour
Were brightly hued by Fancy's power.
And though I may sometimes sigh to think
Of earth and heaven, and wind and sea,
And know that the cup which others drink
Shall never be brimmed by me;
That many a joy must be untasted,
And many a glorious breeze be wasted,
Yet would I not, if I dared, repine,
That toil and study and care are mine.
GIVE me the boon of Love!
I ask no more for Fame;
Far better one unpurchased heart
Than Glory's proudest name.
Why wake a feyer in the blood,
Or damp the spirit now,
To gain a wreath whose leaves shall wave Above a withered brow?
Give me the boon of Love!
Ambition's meed is vain;
Dearer Affection's earnest smile
Than Honour's richest train.
I'd rather lean upon a breast
Responsive to my own,
Than sit pavilioned gorgeously
Upon a kingly throne.
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