At length they rose, the people in their power,
Resistless. Then in vain that bloody judge
Disguised, sought flight: not always is the Lord
Slow to revenge! a miserable man
He fell beneath the people's rage, and still
The children curse his memory. From his throne
The sullen bigot who commission'd him,
The tyrant James was driven. He lived to drag
Long years of frustrate hope, he lived to load
More blood upon his soul. Let tell the Boyne,
Let Londonderry tell his guilt and shame,
And that immortal day when on thy shores,
La Hogue, the purple ocean dash'd the dead!
FOR A TABLET AT PENSHURST.
ARE days of old familiar to thy mind,
O reader? hast thou let the midnight hour
Pass unperceived, whilst thy young fancy lived
With high-born beauties and enamour'd chiefs,
Shared all their hopes, and with a breathless joy
Whose eager expectation almost pain'd,
Follow'd their dangerous fortunes? if such lore
Has ever thrill'd thy bosom, thou wilt tread
As with a pilgrim's reverential thoughts
The groves of Penshurst. Sidney here was born,
Sidney, than whom no gentler, braver man
His own delightful genius ever feign'd
Illustrating the vales of Arcady
With courteous courage and with loyal loves.
Upon his natal day the acorn here
Was planted. It grew up a stately oak,
And in the beauty of its strength it stood
And flourish'd, when his perishable part
Had moulder'd dust to dust. That stately oak
Itself hath moulder'd now, but Sidney's fame
Lives and shall live, immortalized in song.
FOR A TABLET AT GODSTOW NUNNERY.
HERE, stranger, rest thee! from the neighbouring towers
Of Oxford, haply thou hast forced thy bark
Up this strong stream, whose broken waters here
Send pleasant murmurs to the listening sense:
Rest thee beneath this hazel; its green boughs
Afford a grateful shade, and to the eye
Fair is its fruit: stranger! the seemly fruit
Is worthless, all is hollowness within,
For on the grave of Rosamund it grows!
Young, lovely, and beloved, she fell seduced,
And here retired to wear her wretched age
In earnest prayer and bitter penitence,
Despised and self-despising: think of her,
Young man, and learn to reverence womankind!
HERE, traveller! pause awhile. This ancient oak
Will parasol thee if the sun ride high,
Or should the sudden shower be falling fast,
Here mayst thou rest umbrella'd. All around
Is good and lovely: hard by yonder wall
The kennel stands; the horse-flesh hanging near
Perchance with scent unsavoury may offend
Thy delicate nostrils, but remember thou
How sweet a perfume to the hound it yields,
And sure its useful odours will regale
More gratefully thy philosophic nose,
Than what the unprofitable violet
Wastes on the wandering wind. Nor wilt thou want
Such music as benevolence will love,
For from these fruitful boughs the acorns fall
Abundant, and the swine that grub around,
Shaking with restless pleasure their brief tails
That like the tendrils of the vine curl up,
Will grunt their greedy joy. Dost thou not love
The sounds that speak enjoyment? oh if not,
If thou wouldst rather with inhuman ear
Hark to the warblings of some wretched bird
Bereft of freedom, sure thine heart is dead
To each good feeling, and thy spirit void
Of all that softens or ennobles man.
FOR A MONUMENT AT OLD SARUM.
READER, if thou canst boast the noble name
Of Englishman, it is enough to know
Thou standest in Old Sarum. But if chance
'Twas thy misfortune in some other land,
Inheritor of slavery, to be born,
Read and be envious! dost thou see yon hut,
Its old mud mossy walls with many a patch
Spotted? know, foreigner! so wisely well
In England it is ordered, that the laws
Which bind the people, from themselves should spring;
Know that the dweller in that little hut,
That wretched hovel, to the senate sends
Two delegates. Think, foreigner, where such
An individual's rights, how happy all!
FOR A MONUMENT AT TORDESILLAS.
SPANIARD! if thou art one who bows the knee
Before a despot's footstool, hie thee hence!
This ground is holy: here Padilla died,
Martyr of freedom. But if thou dost love
Her cause, stand then as at an altar here,
And thank the Almighty that thine honest heart,
Full of a brother's feelings for mankind,
Rebels against oppression. Not unheard
Nor unavailing shall the grateful prayer
Ascend; for loftiest impulses will rise
To elevate and strengthen thee, and prompt
To virtuous action. Relics silver-shrined,
And chanted mass, would wake within the soul
Thoughts valueless and cold compared with these.
SHE held a cup and ball of ivory white,
Less white the ivory than her snowy hand!
Enrapt I watch'd her from my secret stand,
As now, intent, in innocent delight,
Her taper fingers twirl'd the giddy ball,
Now tost it, following still with eagle sight,
Now on the pointed end infix'd its fall.
Marking her sport I mused, and musing sigh'd,
Methought the ball she play'd with was my heart!
(Alas! that sport like that should be her pride!)
And the keen point which steadfast still she eyed
Wherewith to pierce it, that was Cupid's dart;
Shall I not then the cruel fair condemn
Who on that dart impales my bosom's gem?
TO A PAINTER ATTEMPTING DELIA'S PORTRAIT.
RASH painter! canst thou give the orb of day
In all his noontide glory? or portray
The diamond, that athwart the taper'd hall
Flings the rich flashes of its dazzling light?
Even if thine art could boast such magic might,
Yet if it strove to paint my angel's eye,
Here it perforce must fail. Cease! lest I call
Heaven's vengeance on thy sin: must thou be told
The crime it is to paint divinity?
Rash painter! should the world her charms behold,
Dim and defiled, as there they needs must be,
They to their old idolatry would fall,
And bend before her form the
Fairer than Venus, daughter of the sea.
HE PROVES THE EXISTENCE OF A SOUL FROM HIS LOVE
FOR DELIA.
SOME have denied a soul! they never loved.
Far from my Delia now by fate removed,
At home, abroad, I view her everywhere;
Her only in the flood of noon I see.
My goddess-maid, my omnipresent fair,
For love annihilates the world to me!
And when the weary Sol around his bed
Closes the sable curtains of the night,
Sun of my slumbers, on my dazzled sight
She shines confest. When every sound is dead,
The spirit of her voice comes then to roll
The surge
of music o'er my wavy brain.
Far, far from her my body drags its chain,
But sure with Delia I exist a soul!
THE POET EXPRESSES HIS FEELINGS RESPECTING A PORTRAIT
IN DELIA'S PARLOUR.
I WOULD I were that reverend gentleman,
With gold-laced hat and golden-headed cane,
Who hangs in Delia's parlour! For whene'er
From book or needlework her looks arise,
On him converge the sunbeams of her eyes,
And he unblamed may gaze upon my fair,
And oft my fair his favour'd form surveys.
O happy picture! still on her to
gaze!
I envy him! and jealous fear alarms,
Lest the strong glance of those divinest charms
Warm him to life, as in the ancient days,
When marble melted in Pygmalion's arms.
I would I were that reverend gentleman
With gold-laced hat and golden-headed cane!
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