Say of him to your children, "he was one
Who bravely bore misfortune; who when life
Became dishonour, shook his body off,
And join'd the spirits of the heroes dead."
Yes! not in Miclanteuctli's* dark abode
With cowards shall your king receive his doom;
Not in the icy caverns of the north
Suffer through endless ages! he shall join
The spirits of the brave, with them at morn
Shall issue from the eastern gate of heaven,
And follow through his fields of light the sun,
With them shall raise the song and weave the dance,
Sport in the stream of splendour, company
Down to the western palace of his rest
The prince of glory, and with equal eye
Endure his centered radiance. Not of you
Forgetful, O my people, even then,
But often in the amber cloud of noon
Diffused, will I o'erspread your summer fields,
And on the freshened maize and brightening meads
Shower plenty.
Spirits of my valiant sires,
I come! Mexitli, never at thy shrine
Flow'd braver blood! never a nobler heart
Steam'd up its life to thee! priests of the god,
Perform your office!
LINES WRITTEN IN THE 16TH CENTURY.
FOR aye be hynce ye vayne delyghts
So short as seeme the guiltie nyghtes
Yatte men forweare inne folie!
This lowlie world hath nothyng swote
Hadde mortals onlie wytte to know yt
But halie melancholie.
Then welcome armes yatte folded lye
From heavie breste the long-drawn sye,
The purses of the browe,
The loke yrooted to the growne,
The tong ychaynde withouten sowne,
Unguided steps and slowe.
The moonlight walk in pathless grove
Where aye pale passion yearnes to rove,
The well hede-kele and still.
The midnyghte howre when all the fowles
Are housde and hushte save battes and owles
Yatte screche theyre bodynges shrille.
The fadyng clink of dystaunt bell
Whose knell the tale of dethe doth tell,
The grone of partyng ghoste,
These sownes aleyne the sowle doth feede
Yatte of a higher world hath hede,
Forlettying erthlie loste.
PARODIED IN THE 18th CENTURY.
HITHER frolics and delights!
Day is dying, and by nights
my years would number;
What have earth and time to give
But the when that pleasures live
Toil and trouble slumber?
Welcome arms asunder thrown,
Lifted chin, and locks adown
The forehead sleek and free,
Crimson cheek and glancing eye,
Lips where smiles aye lurking lie,
The tiptoe tread of glee.
The taper'd hall that music haunts, Where sparkles wine, where beauty pants, And feast and dance abound; The midnight hour when sages sour Are hush'd abed or hous'd in bower, But wit runs giggling round.
The clink of an unheeded clock,
That vainly gives a threefold knock,
The toast that glows the breast,
The jolly-chorused roundelay,
The curtain that keeps out the day,
Let angels have the rest.
FOR THE APARTMENT IN CHEPSTOW CASTLE WHERE HENRY MARTEN THE REGICIDE WAS IMPRISONED
FOR thirty years secluded from mankind,
Here Marten linger'd. Often have these walls
Echoed his footsteps, as with even tread
He paced around his prison: not to him
Did nature's fair varieties exist:
He never saw the sun's delightful beams,
Save when through yon high bars it pour'd a sad
And broken splendour. Dost thou ask his crime?
He had rebell'd against the king, and sat
In judgment on him; for his ardent mind
Shaped goodliest plans of happiness on earth,
And peace and liberty. Wild dreams! but such
As Plato loved; such as, with holy zeal
Our Milton worshipp'd. Blessed hopes! awhile
From man withheld, even to the latter days,
When Christ shall come and all things be fulfilled.
Go, Valentine, and tell that lovely maid
Whom fancy still will portray to my sight,
How here I linger in this sullen shade,
This dreary gloom of dull monastic night.
Say, that from every joy of life remote
At evening's closing hour I quit the throng,
Listening in solitude the ring-dove's note,
Who pours like me her solitary song.
Say, that her absence calls the sorrowing sigh;
Say, that of all her charms I love to speak,
In fancy feel the magic of her eye,
In fancy view the smile illume her cheek,
Court the lone hour when silence stills the grove,
And heave the sigh of memory and of love.
THINK, Valentine, as speeding on thy way
Homeward, thou hastest light of heart along,
If heavily creep on one little day
The medley crew of travellers among,
Think on thine absent friend: reflect that here
On life's sad journey comfortless he roves,
Remote from every scene his heart holds dear
From him he values, and from her he loves.
And when, disgusted with the vain and dull
Whom chance companions of thy way may doom,
Thy mind, of each domestic comfort full,
Turns to itself and meditates on home, Ah, think what cares must ache within his breast Who loathes the lingering road, yet has no home of rest!
NOT to thee, Bedford! mournful is the tale Of days departed. Time in his career Arraigns not thee that the neglected year Hath past unheeded onward. To the vale Of years thou journeyest; may the future road Be pleasant as the past! and on my friend Friendship and love, best blessings! still attend, Till full of days he reach the calm abode Where nature slumbers. Lovely is the age Of virtue: with such reverence we behold The silver hairs, as some gray oak grown old That whilom mocked the rushing tempest's rage, Now like the monument of strength decayed, With rarely-sprinkled leaves, casting a trembling shade.
WHAT though no sculptured monument proclaim
Thy fate-yet, Albert, in my breast I bear
Inshrined the sad remembrance: yet thy name
Will fill my throbbing bosom. When despair,
The child of murdered hope, fed on thy heart,
Loved, honoured friend, I saw thee sink forlorn,
Pierced to the soul by cold neglect's keen dart,
And penury's hard ills, and pitying scorn,
And the dark spectre of departed joy,
Inhuman memory. Often on thy grave
Love I the solitary hour to employ
Thinking on other days; and heave the sigh
Responsive, when I mark the high grass wave
Sad sounding as the cold breeze rustles by.
HARD by the road, where on that little mound
The high grass rustles to the passing breeze,
The child of misery rests her head in peace.
Pause there in sadness: that unhallowed ground
Inshrines what once was Isabel. Sleep on,
Sleep on, poor outcast! lovely was thy cheek,
And thy mild eye was eloquent to speak
The soul of pity. Pale and woe-begone,
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