Verses Addressed To My Two Nephews

ON SAINT HELEN'S DAY, 1809.


DEAR Boys!--dismiss'd awhile from school,
From sober learning's thorny rule,--
The annual race of glory run,
The prize bestow'd, the laurels won,--
Ye leave the scientific dome,
While noisy rapture hails your home:
Home--cherish'd spot! whose magic power
Can charm with hope the studious hour;
And where the heart--however far--
Points, like the needle to its star!

And now, with many a fond oration,
Ye ask, to crown this dear vacation,
Saturnian time of sport and play,
A FÊTE !--to grace SAINT HELEN'S DAY !
But will the Saint propitious see
A Fête dear Boys! prepar'd for me?
I!--who her altar never sought,
An heretic! who idly thought
She liv'd alone in pagan fame,
And half forgot her sainted name!
But--since that name, entwin'd with palms,
The legend's deathless page embalms,
And since historic truth must own
Her crested votary fill'd a throne--
We'll lay our offerings at her shrine,
And call her, as she is, divine!
Then haste, dear Boys! and deck the bowers,
This chosen day, with festive flowers!
The votive bouquet joyful bring;
And bid your muse, on lofty wing,

The steep Parnassian summits climb,
And weave the tributary rhyme.
The soothing song which ye rehearse--
Though form'd of perishable verse,
And, like the bouquet , born to die--
Shall fill with tears affection's eye;
Shall touch, with eloquence confest,
The chords which vibrate in her breast!
Then hither bring the early friend,
With whom your bounding hearts unbend;
Till then, in vain the Fête prepared--
What Fête, unless by friendship shar'd?
Together, happy band! advance;
Together frame the sportive dance;
Together tread the mimic stage,
The TALMAS of another age;
And then, to crown this favor'd night,
Unquestion'd symbol of delight,
The soaring rocket swift shall rise,
And, sweeping, gild the midnight skies;

Bright wheels of fire shall rapid turn;
And suns, that soon must set, shall burn;
SAINT HELEN , with a smile, shall view
Her rites all paid in order due.
The Saint, become my patron now,
To her and you I breathe my vow:
Listen, dear Boys! nor take amiss
A lesson, with a parting kiss--
Your life has clos'd its baby span,
And childhood ripens into man:
On youth's gay threshold now ye tread;
The path unfolds, with roses spread,
That leads the unsuspecting guest
Where Pleasure holds her Circean feast;
With bosoms yet from evil free,
Now promise to the Saint and me,
Oft as the years, on circling wing,
This fond returning day shall bring,
While o'er the world ye lightly roam,
Far from the long-lost scene of home,

This day in Pleasure's course to pause,
This day let Reason plead her cause!
When come the years--for come they must--
When her ye love is laid in dust;
Her who for you has learn'd to prove
A mother's care--a mother's love!
From you all ill has sought to chase,
And fill a mother's vacant place:
Still on this day, to duty true,
Remember that she liv'd for you!
Ah! give her one recording sigh,
Nor pass this day with tearless eye!
Still may its chosen hours impart
The throb of virtue to the heart,
And be the talisman whose spell
Shall Passion's wild delirium quell;
Controul, with some good angel's power,
Seduction in her smiling hour.
This day, from all her wiles secure,
With nobler hopes, with purpose pure,

Resolve to feel that best delight
Reserv'd for those who live aright:
And thus, dear Boys! your tribute pay;
Thus consecrate SAINT HELEN'S DAY!

An American Tale

"Ah! pity all the pangs I feel,
If pity e'er ye knew;--
An aged father's wounds to heal,
Through scenes of death I flew.

"Perhaps my hast'ning steps are vain,
Perhaps the warrior dies!--
Yet let me soothe each parting pain--
Yet lead me where he lies."

Thus to the list'ning band she calls,
Nor fruitless her desire,
They lead her, panting, to the walls
That hold her captive sire.

"And is a daughter come to bless
These aged eyes once more?
Thy father's pains will now be less--
His pains will now be o'er!"

"My father! by this waning lamp
Thy form I faintly trace:--
Yet sure thy brow is cold and damp,
And pale thy honour'd face!

"In vain thy wretched child is come,
She comes too late to save!
And only now can share thy doom,
And share thy peaceful grave!"

Soft, as amid the lunar beams
The falling shadows bend,
Upon the bosom of the streams,
So soft her tears descend.

"Those tears a father ill can bear,
He lives, my child, for thee!
A gentle youth, with pitying care,
Has lent his aid to me.

"Born in the western world, his hand
Maintains its hostile cause,
And fierce against Britannia's band
His erring sword he draws;

"Yet feels the captive Briton's woe;
For his ennobled mind
Forgets the name of Britain's foe,
In love of human kind!

"Yet know, my child, a dearer tie
Has link'd his heart to mine:
He mourns with Friendship's holy sigh,
The youth belov'd of thine!

"But hark! his welcome feet are near--
Thy rising grief suppress:
By darkness veil'd, he hastens here
To comfort and to bless."

"Stranger! for that dear father's sake,"
She cried, in accents mild,
"Who lives by thy kind pity, take
The blessings of his child!

"O, if in heaven, my EDWARD'S breast
This deed of mercy knew,
That gives my tortur'd bosom rest,
He sure would bless thee too!

"Ah, tell me where my lover fell?
The fatal scene recall;
His last, dear accents, stranger, tell,
O, haste and tell me all!

"Say, if he gave to love the sigh,
That set his spirit free?
Say, did he raise his closing eye,
As if it sought for me?"

"Ask not," her father cried, "to know
What, known, were added pain;
Nor think, my child, the tale of woe
Thy softness can sustain."

"Though every joy with EDWARD fled,
When EDWARD'S friend is near
It soothes my breaking heart," she said,
"To tell those joys were dear.

"The western ocean roll'd in vain
Its parting waves between,
My EDWARD brav'd the dang'rous main,
And bless'd our native scene.

"Soft Isis heard his artless tale,
Ah, stream for ever dear!
Whose waters, as they pass'd the vale,
Receiv'd a lover's tear.

"How could a heart that virtue lov'd,
(And sure that heart is mine)
Lamented youth! behold unmov'd,
The virtues that were thine?

"Calm, as the surface of the lake,
When all the winds are still;
Mild, as the beams of morning break,
When first they light the hill;

"So calm was his unruffled soul,
Where no rude passion strove;
So mild his soothing accents stole,
Upon the ear of love.

"Where are the dear illusions fled
Which sooth'd my former hours?
Where is the path that fancy spread,
Ah, vainly spread with flowers?

"I heard the battle's fearful sounds,
They seem'd my lover's knell--
I heard that, pierc'd with ghastly wounds,
My vent'rous lover fell!--

"My sorrows shall with life endure,
For he I lov'd is gone;
But something tells my heart, that sure
My life will not be long."

"My panting soul can bear no more,"
The youth impatient cried;
" 'Tis EDWARD bids thy griefs be o'er,
My love! my destin'd bride!

"The life which Heav'n preserv'd, how blest,
How fondly priz'd by me!
Since dear to my AMELIA'S breast,
Since valued still by thee!

"My father saw my constant pain
When thee I left behind,
Nor longer will his power restrain
The ties my soul would bind.

"And soon thy honor'd sire shall cease
The captive's lot to bear;
And we, my love, will soothe to peace
His griefs, with filial care.

"Then come for ever to my soul!
AMELIA come, and prove
How calm our blissful years will roll
Along, a life of love!"

An Ode On The Piece

I.
As wand'ring late on Albion's shore
That chains the rude tempestuous deep,
I heard the hollow surges roar
And vainly beat her guardian steep;
I heard the rising sounds of woe
Loud on the storm's wild pinion flow;
And still they vibrate on the mournful lyre,
That tunes to grief its sympathetic wire.

II.
From shores the wide Atlantic laves,
The spirit of the ocean bears
In moans, along his western waves,
Afflicted nature's hopeless cares:
Enchanting scenes of young delight,
How chang'd since first ye rose to sight;
Since first ye rose in infant glories drest
Fresh from the wave, and rear'd your ample breast.

III.
Her crested serpents, discord throws
O'er scenes which love with roses grac'd;
The flow'ry chain his hands compose,
She wildly scatters o'er the waste:
Her glance his playful smile deforms,
Her frantic voice awakes the storms,
From land to land, her torches spread their fires,
While love's pure flame in streams of blood expires.

IV.
Now burns the savage soul of war,
While terror flashes from his eyes,
Lo! waving o'er his fiery car
Aloft his bloody banner flies:
The battle wakes—with awful sound
He thunders o'er the echoing ground,
He grasps his reeking blade, while streams of blood
Tinge the vast plain, and swell the purple flood.

V.
But softer sounds of sorrow flow;
On drooping wing the murm'ring gales
Have borne the deep complaints of woe
That rose along the lonely vales—
Those breezes waft the orphan's cries,
They tremble to parental sighs,
And drink a tear for keener anguish shed,
The tear of faithful love when hope is fled.

VI.
The object of her anxious fear
Lies pale on earth, expiring, cold,
Ere, wing'd by happy love, one year
Too rapid in its course, has roll'd;
In vain the dying hand she grasps,
Hangs on the quiv'ring lip, and clasps
The fainting form, that slowly sinks in death,
To catch the parting glance, the fleeting breath.

VII.
Pale as the livid corse her cheek,
Her tresses torn, her glances wild,—
How fearful was her frantic shriek!
She wept—and then in horrors smil'd:
She gazes now with wild affright,
Lo! bleeding phantoms rush in sight—
Hark! on yon mangled form the mourner calls,
Then on the earth a senseless weight she falls.

VIII.
And see! o'er gentle Andre's tomb,
The victim of his own despair,
Who fell in life's exulting bloom,
Nor deem'd that life deserv'd a care;
O'er the cold earth his relicks prest,
Lo! Britain's drooping legions rest;
For him the swords they sternly grasp, appear
Dim with a sigh, and sullied with a tear.

IX.
While Seward sweeps her plaintive strings,
While pensive round his sable shrine,
A radiant zone she graceful flings,
Where full emblaz'd his virtues shine;
The mournful loves that tremble nigh
Shall catch her warm melodious sigh;
The mournful loves shall drink the tears that flow
From Pity's hov'ring soul, dissolv'd in woe.

X.
And hark, in Albion's flow'ry vale
A parent's deep complaint I hear!
A sister calls the western gale
To waft her soul-expressive tear;
'Tis Asgill claims that piercing sigh,
That dropp which dims the beauteous eye,
While on the rack of Doubt Affection proves
How strong the force which binds the ties she loves.

XI.
How oft in every dawning grace
That blossom'd in his early hours,
Her soul some comfort lov'd to trace,
And deck'd futurity in flowers!
But lo! in Fancy's troubled sight
The dear illusions sink in night;
She views the murder'd form—the quiv'ring breath,
The rising virtues chill'd in shades of death.

XII.
Cease, cease ye throbs of hopeless woe;
He lives the future hours to bless,
He lives, the purest joy to know,
Parental transports fond excess;
His sight a father's eye shall chear,
A sister's drooping charms endear:—
The private pang was Albion's gen'rous care,
For him she breath'd a warm accepted prayer.

XIII.
And lo! a radiant stream of light
Defending, gilds the murky cloud,
Where Desolation's gloomy night
Retiring, folds her sable shroud;
It flashes o'er the bright'ning deep,
It softens Britain's frowning steep—
'Tis mild benignant Peace, enchanting form!
That gilds the black abyss, that lulls the storm.

XIV.
So thro' the dark, impending sky,
Where clouds, and fallen vapours roll'd,
Their curling wreaths dissolving fly
As the faint hues of light unfold—
The air with spreading azure streams,
The sun now darts his orient beams—
And now the mountains glow—the woods are bright—
While nature hails the season of delight.

XV.
Mild Peace! from Albion's fairest bowers
Pure spirit! cull with snowy hands,
The buds that drink the morning showers,
And bind the realms in flow'ry bands:
Thy smiles the angry passions chase,
Thy glance is pleasure's native grace;
Around thy form th' exulting virtues move,
And thy soft call awakes the strain of love.

XVI.
Bless, all ye powers! the patriot name
That courts fair Peace, thy gentle stay;
Ah! gild with glory's light, his fame,
And glad his life with pleasure's ray!
While, like th' affrighted dove, thy form
Still shrinks, and fears some latent storm,
His cares shall sooth thy panting soul to rest,
And spread thy vernal couch on Albion's breast.

XVII.
Ye, who have mourn'd the parting hour,
Which love in darker horrors drew,
Ye, who have vainly tried to pour
With falt'ring voice the last adieu!
When the pale cheek, the bursting sigh,
The soul that hov'ring in the eye,
Express'd the pains it felt, the pains it fear'd—
Ah! paint the youth's return, by grief endear'd.

XVIII.
Yon hoary form, with aspect mild,
Deserted kneels by anguish prest,
And seeks from Heav'n his long-lost child,
To smooth the path that leads to rest!—
He comes!—to close the sinking eye,
To catch the faint, expiring sigh;
A moment's transport stays the fleeting breath,
And sooths the soul on the pale verge of death.

XIX.
No more the sanguine wreath shall twine
On the lost hero's early tomb,
But hung around thy simple shrine
Fair Peace! shall milder glories bloom.
Lo! commerce lifts her drooping head
Triumphal, Thames! from thy deep bed;
And bears to Albion, on her sail sublime,
The riches Nature gives each happier clime.

XX.
She fearless prints the polar snows,
Mid' horrors that reject the day;
Along the burning line she glows,
Nor shrinks beneath the torrid ray:
She opens India's glitt'ring mine,
Where streams of light reflected shine;
Wafts the bright gems to Britain's temp'rate vale,
And breathes her odours on the northern gale.

XXI.
While from the far-divided shore
Where liberty unconquer'd roves,
Her ardent glance shall oft' explore
The parent isle her spirit loves;
Shall spread upon the western main
—Harmonious concord's golden chain,
While stern on Gallia's ever hostile strand
From Albion's cliff she pours her daring band.

XXII.
Yet hide the sabre's hideous glare
Whose edge is bath'd in streams of blood,
The lance that quivers high in air,
And falling drinks a purple flood;
For Britain! fear shall seize thy foes,
While freedom in thy senate glows,
While peace shall smile upon thy cultur'd plain,
With grace and beauty her attendant train.

XXIII.
Enchanting visions sooth my sight—
The finer arts no more oppress'd,
Benignant source of pure delight!
On her soft bosom love to rest.
While each discordant sound expires,
Strike harmony! strike all thy wires;
The fine vibrations of the spirit move
And touch the springs of rapture and of love.

XXIV.
Bright painting's living forms shall rise;
And wrapt in Ugolino's woe,
Shall Reynolds wake unbidden sighs;
And Romney's graceful pencil flow,
That Nature's look benign pourtrays,
When to her infant Shakspeare's gaze
The partial nymph 'unveil'd her awful face,'
And bade his 'colours clear' her features trace.

XXV.
And poesy! thy deep-ton'd shell
The heart shall sooth, the spirit fire,
And all the passion sink, or swell,
In true accordance to the lyre.
Oh! ever wake its heav'nly sound,
Oh! call thy lovely visions round;
Strew the soft path of peace with fancy's flowers,
With raptures bless the soul that feels thy powers.

XXVI.
While Hayley wakes thy magic string,
His shades shall no rude sound profane,
But stillness on her folded wing,
Enamour'd catch his soothing strain:
Tho' genius breathe its purest flame
—Around his lyre's enchanting frame;
Tho' music there in every period roll,
More warm his friendship, and more pure his soul.

XXVII.
While taste refines a polish'd age,
While her own Hurd shall bid us trace
The lustre of the finish'd page
Where symmetry sheds perfect grace;
With sober and collected ray
To fancy, judgment shall display
The faultless model, where accomplish'd art
From nature draws a charm that leads the heart.

XXVIII.
Th' historic Muse illumes the maze
For ages veil'd in gloomy night,
Where empire with meridian blaze
Once trod ambition's giddy height:
Tho' headlong from the dang'rous steep
Its pageants roll'd with wasteful sweep,
Her tablet still records the deeds of fame
And wakes the patriot's, and the hero's flame.

XXIX.
While meek philosophy explores
Creation's vast stupendous round;
Sublime her piercing vision soars,
And bursts the system's distant bound.
Lo! mid' the dark deep void of space
A rushing world her eye can trace!—
It moves majestic in its ample sphere,
Sheds its long light, and rolls its ling'ring year.

XXX.
Ah! still diffuse thy genial ray,
Fair Science, on my Albion's plain!
And still thy grateful homage pay
Where Montagu has rear'd her fane;
Where eloquence and wit entwine
Their attic wreath around her shrine;
And still, while Learning shall unfold her store,
With their bright signet stamp the classic ore.

XXXI.
Enlight'ning Peace! for thine the hours
That wisdom decks in moral grace,
And thine invention's fairy powers,
The charm improv'd of nature's face;
Propitious come! in silence laid
Beneath thy olive's grateful shade,
Pour the mild bliss that sooths the tuneful mind,
And in thy zone the hostile spirit bind.

XXXII.
While Albion on her parent deep
Shall rest, may glory light her shore,
May honour there his vigils keep
Till time shall wing its course no more;
Till angels wrap the spheres in fire,
Till earth and yon fair orbs expire,
While chaos mounted on the wasting flame,
Shall spread eternal shade o'er nature's frame.

Peruvian Tales: Cora, Tale Vi

The troops of ALMAGRO and ALPHONSO meet on the plain of CUZCO --. MANCO -CAPAC attacks them by nights--His army is defeated, and he is forced to fly with its scattered remains--CORA goes in search of him-- Her infant in her arms--Overcome with fatigue, she rests at the foot of a mountain--An earthquake--A band of Indians fly to the mountain for shelter--CORA discovers her husband--Their interview--Her death --He escapes with his infant--ALMAGRO claims a share of the spoils of Cuzco--His contention with PIZARRO --The Spaniards destroy each other--ALMAGRO is taken prisoner, and put to death--His soldiers, in revenge, assassinate PIZARRO in his palace--LAS CASAS dies--The annual festival of the PERUVIANS --Their victories over the Spaniards in Chili--A wish for the restoration of their liberty--Conclusion.


At length ALMAGRO and ALPHONSO'S train,
Each peril past, unite on Cuzco's plain;
CAPAC resolves beneath the shroud of night
To pierce the hostile camp, and brave the fight;
Though weak the wrong'd PERUVIANS ' arrowy showers
To the dire weapons stern IBERIA pours,
Fierce was th' unequal contest, for the soul,
When rais'd by some high passion's strong controul,
New strings the nerves, and o'er the glowing frame
Breathes the warm spirit of heroic flame.
But from the scene where raging slaughter burns,
The timid muse with silent horror turns;
The blended sounds of grief she panting hears,
Where anguish dims a mother's eye with tears;
Or where the maid, who gave to love's soft power
Her faithful spirit, weeps the parting hour;
And O, till death shall ease the tender woe,
That soul must languish, and those tears must flow;
For never with the thrill that rapture proves,
Her voice again shall hail the youth she loves!
Her earnest eye no more his form shall view,
Her quiv'ring lip has breath'd the last adieu!
Now night, that pour'd upon the hollow gale
The din of battle, dropp'd her mournful veil.
The sun rose lovely from the sleeping flood,
And morning glitter'd o'er the field of blood;
Where, bath'd in gore, PERUVIA'S vanquish'd train
Lay cold and senseless on the sanguine plain.
The gen'rous CAPAC saw his warriors yield,
And fled indignant from the conquer'd field.
A wretched throng from Cuzco now repair,
Who tread 'mid slaughter'd heaps in mute despair;
O'er some lov'd corse the shroud of earth to spread,
And breathe some ritual that may soothe the dead.
No moan was heard, for agony supprest
The fond complaints which ease the swelling breast;
Each hope for ever lost, they only crave
The deep repose that wraps the shelt'ring grave:--
So the meek lama, lur'd by some decoy
Of man, from all his unembitter'd joy,
Erewhile as free as roves the wand'ring breeze,
Meets the hard burden on his bending knees;
O'er rocks and mountains, dark and waste he goes,
Nor shuns the path where no fresh herbage grows;
Till, worn with toil, on earth he prostrate lies,
Heeds not the barb'rous lash, and scornful dies.
Swift o'er the field of death sad CORA flew,
Her infant to his mother's bosom grew;
She seeks her wretched lord, who fled the plain
With the last remnant of his vanquish'd train:
Thro' the long glen, or forest's gloomy shade,
A dreary solitude, the mourner stray'd;
Her timid heart can now each danger dare,
Her drooping soul is arm'd by deep despair--
Long, long she wander'd, till oppress'd with toil,
Her trembling footsteps track with blood the soil.
Where o'er an ample vale a mountain rose,
Low at its base her fainting form she throws:
"And here, my child," she cried, with panting breath,
"Here let us wait the hour of ling'ring death;
This famish'd bosom can no more supply
The streams that nourish life--my babe must die!
In vain I strive to cherish, for thy sake,
My failing strength; but when my heart-strings break,
When my cold bosom can no longer warm,
My stiff'ning arms no more enfold thy form,
Soft on this bed of leaves my child shall sleep--
Close to his mother's corse, he will not weep!
O! weep not then, my tender babe--tho' near,
I shall not hear thy moan, nor see thy tear;
Hope not to move me by thy mournful cry,
Nor seek with earnest look my answering eye."
As thus the dying CORA'S plaints arose,
O'er the fair valley sudden darkness throws
A hideous horror; thro' the wounded air
Howl'd the shrill voice of nature in despair;
The birds dart screaming thro' the fluid sky,
And, dash'd upon the cliff's hard surface, die;
High o'er their rocky bounds the billows swell,
Then to their deep abyss affrighted fell;
Earth groaning heaves with dire convulsive throes,
While yawning gulphs its central caves disclose.
Now rush'd a frighted throng with trembling pace
Along the vale, and sought the mountain's base;
Purpos'd its perilous ascent to gain,
And shun the ruin low'ring o'er the plain.
They reach'd the spot where CORA clasp'd her child,
And gaz'd on present death with aspect wild:
They pitying pause--she lifts her mournful eye,
And views her lord!--he hears his CORA'S sigh--
He meets her looks--their melting souls unite,
O'erwhelmed, and agoniz'd with wild delight.
At length she faintly cried, "we yet must part!
Short are these rising joys--I feel my heart,
My suff'ring heart is cold, and mists arise,
That shroud thy image from my closing eyes!
O, save my child!--our helpless infant save,
And shed a tear upon thy CORA'S grave."

The fluttering pulse of life now ceas'd to play,
And in his arms a pallid corse she lay!
O'er her dear form he hung in speechless pain,
And still on CORA call'd--but call'd in vain;
Scarce could his soul in one short moment bear
The wild extremes of transport and despair.
Now o'er the west in melting softness streams
A lustre, milder than the morning beams;
A purer dawn dispell'd the fearful night,
And nature glow'd in all the blooms of light;
Then first the mourner, waking from his trance,
Cast on his smiling babe an eager glance:
Then rose the hollow voice on fancy's ear,
The parting words he hears, or seems to hear!
That sought with anxious tenderness to save
That dear memorial from the closing grave;
He clasps the object of his love's last care,
And vows for him the load of life to bear.
He journey'd o'er a dreary length of way,
To plains where freedom shed her hallow'd ray;
There, o'er the pathless wood, and mountain hoar,
His faithful band the lifeless CORA bore:
Ye who ne'er pin'd in sorrow's hopeless pain,
Deem not the toil that soothes its anguish vain;
Perchance the conscious spirit hovers near,
And love's fond tribute to the dead is dear.
Not long IBERIA'S sullied trophies wave,
Her guilty warriors press th' untimely grave;
For av'rice rising from the caves of earth,
Wakes all her savage spirit into birth:
Bids proud ALMAGRO feel her baleful flame,
And Cuzco's treasures from PIZARRO claim.
Now fierce in hostile rage each warlike train.
Purple with kindred blood PERUVIA'S plain;
While pensive on the hills, whose lofty brow
O'erhung with waving woods the vale below,
PERUVIA'S hapless tribes in scatter'd throngs,
Behold the fiends of strife avenge their wrongs:
Till, fetter'd in PIZARRO'S iron chain,
ALMAGRO swells the victor's captive train.

In vain his pleading voice, his suppliant eye,
Conjure his conqu'ror by the holy tie
That seal'd their mutual league with sacred force,
When first to climes unknown they bent their course;
When danger's rising horrors low'r'd afar,
The storms of ocean, and the toils of war,
The sad remains of wasted life to spare,
The shrivell'd bosom, and the silver'd hair--
ALMAGRO dies--the victor's barb'rous pride
To his pale corpse funereal rites denied;
Chill'd by the heavy dews of night it lay,
And wither'd in the sultry beam of day;
Till Indian bosoms, touch'd with gen'rous woe,
Paid the last duties to a prostrate foe.
With unrelenting hate the conqu'ror views
ALMAGRO'S band, and vengeance still pursues.
Condemns the victims of his power to stray
In drooping poverty's chill, thorny way;
To pine with famine's agony severe,
And all the ling'ring forms of death to fear;
Till, by despair impell'd, the rival train,
Rush to the haughty victor's splendid fane;
Swift on their foe with rage impetuous dart,
And plunge their daggers in his guilty heart.
How unavailing now the treasur'd ore
That made PERUVIA'S rifled bosom poor!
He falls--unpitied, and would vainly buy
With ANDES ' mines, the tribute of a sigh.
Now faint with virtue's toil, LAS CASAS ' soul
Sought, with exulting hope, her heavenly goal:--
But whence descends, in streams of lambent light,
That lovely vision on the raptur'd sight?
'Tis Sensibility! she stands confest:
With trembling step she moves, and panting breast;
To yon deserted grave, lo, swift she flies,
Where her lov'd victim, mild LAS CASAS lies!
I see her deck the solitary haunt
With chaplets twin'd from every weeping plant:
Its odours soft the simple violet shed,
The shrinking lily hung its drooping head;
A moaning zephyr sigh'd within the bower,
And bent the frail stem of the pliant flower:
"Hither," she cried, her melting tone I hear,
It vibrates full on fancy's wakeful ear;
"Ye to whose yielding hearts my power endears,
The transport blended with delicious tears,
The bliss that swells to agony the breast,
The sympathy that robs the soul of rest;
Hither, with fond devotion, pensive come,
Kiss the pale shrine, and murmur o'er the tomb;
Bend on the hallow'd turf the tearful eye,
And breathe the precious incense of a sigh.
LAS CASAS ' tear has moisten'd misery's grave,
His sigh has moan'd the wretch he fail'd to save!
He, while conflicting pangs his bosom tear,
Has sought the lonely cavern of despair,
Where desolate she pin'd, and pour'd her thought
To the dread verge of wild distraction wrought.
While drops of mercy bath'd his hoary cheek,
He pour'd, by heav'n inspir'd, its accents meek;
In truth's clear mirror bade the mourner's view
Pierce the deep veil which error darkly drew,
And vanquish'd empire with a smile resign,
While brighter worlds in fair perspective shine."
She paus'd--yet still the sweet enthusiast bends
O'er the cold turf, and still her tear descends.
Ah, weak PERUVIA ! oft thy murmur'd sighs,
Thy stifled groans in fancy's ear arise;
She views, as slow the years of bondage roll,
On solemn days* when sorrow mocks controul,
Thy captive sons their antique garb assume,
And wake remember'd images of gloom.
Lo! ATALIBA'S murder'd form appears,
The mournful object of eternal tears!
Wild o'er the scene indignant glances dart,
And pangs convulsive seize the throbbing heart--
Distraction soon each burning breast inflames,
And from the tyrant foe a victim claims!
But now, dispersing desolation's night,
A ray benignant cheers my gladden'd sight!
A blooming Chieftain of Peruvian race,
Whose soaring soul its high descent can trace,
The feather'd standard rears on Chili's* plain,
And leads to glorious strife his gen'rous train.
And see, IBERIA bleeds! while Vict'ry twines
Her fairest garlands round PERUVIA'S shrines;
The gaping wounds of earth disclose no more
The lucid silver, and the blazing ore;
A brighter radiance gilds the passing hour,
While Freedom breaks the rod of lawless power;
On Andes' icy steep exulting glows,
And prints with rapid step th' eternal snows;
While, roll'd in dust her graceful feet beneath,
Fades the dark laurel of IBERIA'S wreath!--
PERU ! the timid muse who mourn'd thy woes,
Whom pity robb'd so long of dear repose,
The muse whose pensive soul with anguish wrung,
Her early lyre for thee has trembling strung;
Shed the vain tear, and breath'd the powerless sigh,
Which in oblivion with her song must die;
Pants with the wish thy deeds may rise to fame;
Bright on some high-ton'd harp's immortal frame,
While on the string of ecstacy it pours
Thy future triumphs o'er unnumber'd shores.

Edwin And Eltrada, A Legendary Tale

Where the pure Derwent's waters glide
Along their mossy bed,
Close by the river's verdant side,
A castle rear'd its head.

The antient pile by time is raz'd,
Where gothic trophies frown'd,
Where once the gilded armour blaz'd,
And banners wav'd around.

There liv'd a chief well known to fame,
A bold adven'trous knight,
Renown'd for victory, his name
In glory's annals bright.

Yet milder virtues he possest,
And gentler passions felt,
For in his calm and yielding breast
The soft affections dwelt.

No rugged toils the heart could steel,
By nature form'd to prove
Whate'er the tender mind can feel
In friendship or in love.

He lost the partner of his breast,
Who sooth'd each rising care,
And ever charm'd the pains to rest
She ever lov'd to share.

From solitude he hop'd relief
And this lone mansion sought,
To cherish there his faithful grief,
To nurse the tender thought.

There, to his bosom fondly dear,
A blooming daughter smil'd,
And oft' the mourner's falling tear
Bedew'd his EMMA'S child.

As drest in charms the lonely flower
Smiles in the distant vale,
With beauty gilds the morning hour,
And scents the evening gale;

So liv'd in solitude, unseen,
This lovely, peerless maid;
So grac'd the wild sequester'd scene,
And blossom'd in the shade.

Yet love could pierce the lone recess,
For there he likes to dwell,
To leave the noisy crowd, and bless
With happiness the cell.

To wing his sure resistless dart
Where all its power is known,
And rule the undivided heart
Despotic and alone.

Young EDWIN charm'd her gentle breast,
Though scanty all his store,
No hoarded treasure he possest,
Yet he could boast of more:

For he could boast the lib'ral heart,
And honour, sense, and truth,
Unwarp'd by vanity or art,
Adorn'd the gen'rous youth.

The maxims of a servile age,
The mean, the selfish care,
The sordid views that now engage
The mercenary fair,

Whom riches can unite or part,
To them were all unknown,
For then each sympathetic breast
Was join'd by love alone.

They little knew that wealth had power
To make the constant rove;
They little knew the weighty dower
Could add one bliss to love.

ELTRADA o'er the distant mead
Would haste at closing day,
And to the bleating mother lead
The lamb that chanc'd to stray.

For the bruis'd insect on the waste
A sigh would heave her breast;
And oft her careful hand replac'd
The linnet's fallen nest.

To her sensations calm as these
Could sweet delight impart,
Those simple pleasures most can please
The uncorrupted heart.

And oft with eager step she flies
To cheer the roofless cot,
Where the lone widow breathes her sighs,
And wails her desp'rate lot.

Their weeping mother's trembling knees
Her lisping infants clasp,
Their meek imploring look she sees,
She feels their tender grasp.

On her pale cheek, where hung the tear
Of agonizing woe,
ELTRADA bids a smile appear,
A tear of rapture flow.

Thus on soft wing the moments flew,
(Tho' love would court their stay,)
While some new virtue rose to view,
And mark'd each fleeting day.

The youthful poet's soothing dream
Of golden ages past,
The muse's fond ideal theme
Seem'd realiz'd at last.

But here, how weak to hope that bliss
Unchanging will endure;
Ah, in a world so vain as this,
What heart can rest secure!

For now arose the fatal day
For civil discord fam'd,
When YORK from LANCASTER'S proud sway
The regal sceptre claim'd.

Each moment now the horrors brought
Of desolating rage,
The fam'd achievements now were wrought
That swell th' historic page.

The good old ALBERT pants again
To dare the hostile field,
The cause of HENRY to maintain,
For him the lance to wield.

But O, a thousand gen'rous ties
That bind the hero's soul,
A thousand sacred claims arise,
And EDWIN'S breast controul.

Though passion pleads in HENRY'S cause,
And EDWIN'S heart would sway,
Yet honour's stern, imperious laws,
The brave will still obey.

Oppress'd with many an anxious care,
Full oft ELTRADA sigh'd,
Complaining that relentless war
Should those she lov'd divide.

At length the parting morn arose,
For her in sadness drest,
While boding thoughts of future woes
With terror heav'd her breast.

A thousand pangs her father feels,
A thousand tender fears,
While clinging at his feet she kneels,
And bathes them with her tears.

One pitying tear bedew'd his cheek--
From his lov'd child he flew,
O'erwhelmed, the father could not speak,
He could not say--"adieu!"--

Arm'd for the field her lover came,
He saw her pallid look,
And trembling seize her drooping frame,
While, falt'ring, thus he spoke:

"This cruel tenderness but wounds
The heart it means to bless,
Those falling tears, those mournful sounds
Increase the vain distress!"--

"If fate," she answer'd, "has decreed
That on the hostile plain
My EDWIN'S faithful heart must bleed,
And swell the heep of slain:

"Trust me, I never will complain,
I'll shed no fruitless tear,
Not one weak drop my cheek shall stain,
Or tell what passes here!

"O, let thy fate of others claim
A tear, a mournful sigh;
I'll only murmur thy dear name,
I'll call on thee--and die!"--

But ah, how vain for words to tell
The pang their bosoms prov'd,
They only will conceive it well,
They only, who have lov'd.

The timid muse forbears to say
What laurels EDWIN gain'd;
How ALBERT , long renown'd, that day
His ancient fame maintain'd.

The bard, who feels congenial fire,
May sing of martial strife,
And with heroic sounds inspire
The gen'rous scorn of life.

But ill the theme would suit her reed,
Who, wand'ring through the grove,
Forgets the conqu'ring hero's meed,
And gives a tear to love!

Though long the closing day was fled,
The fight they still maintain,
While night a deeper horror shed
Along the darken'd plain.

To ALBERT'S breast an arrow flew,
He felt a mortal wound--
The drops that warm'd his heart bedew
The cold and flinty ground.

The foe who aim'd the fatal dart
Now heard his dying sighs;
Compassion touch'd his yielding heart,
To ALBERT'S aid he flies.

While round the chief his arms he cast,
While oft he deeply sigh'd,
And seem'd as if he mourn'd the past,
Old ALBERT faintly cried:

"Though nature heaves these parting groans,
Without complaint I die;
Yet one dear care my heart still owns,
Still feels one tender tie.

"For YORK , a warrior known to fame,
Uplifts the hostile spear,
EDWIN the blooming hero's name,
To ALBERT'S bosom dear.

"O tell him my expiring sigh,
Say my last words implor'd
To my despairing child to fly,
To her he once ador'd!"

He spoke! but O, what mournful strain,
Whose force the soul can melt,
What moving numbers shall explain
The pang that EDWIN felt?

The pang that EDWIN now reveal'd--
For he the warrior prest
(Whom the dark shades of night conceal'd)
Close to his throbbing breast.

"Fly, fly," he cried, "my touch profane--
O, how the rest impart!
Rever'd old man! could EDWIN stain
With ALBERT'S blood the dart?"

His languid eyes lie weakly rais'd,
Which seem'd for ever clos'd,
On the pale youth with pity gaz'd,
And then in death repos'd.

"I'll go," the hapless EDWIN said,
"And breathe a last adieu!
And with the drops despair will shed,
My mournful love bedew.

"I'll go to her for ever dear,
To catch her trembling sigh,
To wipe from her pale cheek the tear,
And at her feet to die!"

And as to her for ever dear
The frantic mourner flew,
To wipe from her pale cheek the tear,
And breathe a last adieu;

Appall'd his troubled fancy sees
That tear of anguish flow,
And hears in every passing breeze
The plaintive sound of woe.

Meanwhile the anxious maid, whose tears
In vain would heav'n implore,
Of ALBERT'S fate despairing hears,
But yet had heard no more.

"What woes," she cried, "this breast must prove,
Its dearest ties are broke;--
O, say what ruthless arm, my love,
Could aim the fatal stroke?

"Could not thy hand, my EDWIN , thine
Have warded off the blow?
For O, he was not only mine,
He was thy father too!--

"Why does thy bosom throb with pain?--
O speak, my EDWIN , speak!
Or sure, unable to sustain
This grief, my heart will break."

"Yes, it will break,"--he falt'ring cried,
"For we will life resign--
Then trembling know, thy father died--
And know, the guilt was mine!

"It is enough!" with short quick breath,
Exclaim'd the fainting maid;
She spoke no more, but seem'd from death
To look for instant aid.

In plaintive accents EDWIN cries,
"And have I murder'd thee?
To other worlds thy spirit flies,
And mine this stroke shall free!"--

His hand the lifted weapon grasp'd,
The steel he firmly prest,
When wildly she arose, and clasp'd
Her lover to her breast.

"Methought," she cried, with panting breath,
"My EDWIN talk'd of peace;
I knew 'twas only found in death,
And fear'd that sad release.

"I clasp him still! 'twas but a dream--
Help yon wide wound to close,
From which a father's spirits stream,
A father's life-blood flows.

"But see!--from thee he shrinks, nor would
Be blasted by thy touch!--
Ah, though my EDWIN spilt thy blood,
Yet once he lov'd thee much.

"My father, yet in pity stay!--
I see his white beard wave--
A spirit beckons him away,
And points to yonder grave.

"Alas, my love, I trembling hear
A father's last adieu;
I see, I see the falling tear
His wrinkled cheek bedew.

"He's gone, and here his ashes sleep--
I do not heave a sigh,
His child a father does not weep--
For ah, my brain is dry!

"But come, together let us rove,
At the pale hour of night,
When the moon wand'ring through the grove,
Shall pour her faintest light.

"We'll gather from the rosy bower
The fairest wreaths that bloom,
We'll cull, my love, each op'ning flower
To deck his hallow'd tomb;

"We'll thither from the distant dale
A weeping willow bear;
And plant a lily of the vale,
A drooping lily, there.

"We'll shun the face of glaring day,
Eternal silence keep;
Through the dark wood together stray,
And only live to weep.

"But hark, 'tis come--the fatal time,
When, EDWIN , we must part:
Some angel tells me 'tis a crime
To hold thee to my heart.

"Yet, EDWIN , if th' offence be thine,
Too soon I can forgive;
But O, the guilt would all be mine,
Could I endure to live.

"Farewell, my love, for O, I faint,
Of pale despair I die;
And see! that hoary, murder'd saint
Descends from yon blue sky.

"Poor weak old man! he comes, my love,
To lead to heav'n the way;
He knows not heav'n will joyless prove,
If EDWIN here must stay!"

"O, who can bear this pang?" he cried,
Then to his bosom prest
The dying maid, who piteous sigh'd,
And sunk to endless rest.

He saw her eyes for ever close,
He heard her latest sigh,
And yet no tear of anguish flows
From his distracted eye.

He feels within his shiv'ring veins
A mortal chillness rise!
Her pallid corse he feebly strains,
And on her bosom dies.

No longer may their hapless lot
The mournful muse engage,
She wipes away the tears that blot
The melancholy page.

For heav'n in love dissolves the ties
That chain the spirit here,
And distant, and for ever flies
The blessing held most dear;

To bid the suff'ring soul aspire
A higher bliss to prove,
To wake the pure, refin'd desire,
The hope that rests above!