Who can tell thy warriors' grief,
Maddening o'er that long adieu?
Woman's love, and friendship's zeal,
Dear as both have been to me-
What are they to all I feel,

With a soldier's faith for thee?

Idol of the soldier's soul !

First in fight, but mightiest now; Many could a world control;

Thee alone no doom can bow. By thy side for years I dared

Death; and envied those who fell, When their dying shout was heard, Blessing him they served so well.* Would that I were cold with those, Since this hour I live to see; When the doubts of coward foes

Scarce dare trust a man with thee, Dreading each should set thee free! Oh! although in dungeons pent, All their chains were light to me, Gazing on thy soul unbent. Would the sycophants of him

Now so deaf to duty's prayer, Were his borrow'd glories dim,

In his native darkness share? Were that world this hour his own, All thou calmly dost resign, Could he purchase with that throne Hearts like those which still are thine? My chief, my king, my friend, adieu! Never did I droop before; Never to my sovereign sue,

As his foes I now implore:

All I ask is to divide

Every peril he must brave;

Like lava roll'd thy stream of blood,
And swept down empires with its flood;
Earth rock'd beneath thee to her base,
As thou didst lighten through all space;
And the shorn Sun grew dim in air,
And set while thou wert dwelling there
Before thee rose, and with thee grew,
A rainbow of the loveliest hue,
Of three bright colours, each divine,
And fit for that celestial sign;
For Freedom's hand had blended them,
Like tints in an immortal gem.

One tint was of the sunbeam's dyes;
One, the blue depth of Seraph's eyes;
One, the pure Spirit's veil of white
Had robed in radiance of its light:
The three so mingled did beseem
The texture of a heavenly dream.

Star of the brave! thy ray is pale,
And darkness must again prevail !
But, O thou Rainbow of the free!
Our tears and blood must flow for thee.
When thy bright promise fades away,
Our life is but a load of clay.

And Freedom hallows with her tread
The silent cities of the dead;
For beautiful in death are they
Who proudly fall in her array;
And soon, O Goddess! may we be
For evermore with them or thee!

NAPOLEON'S FAREWELL. FROM THE FRENCH.

FAREWELL to the Land where the gloom of my glory [nameArose and o'ershadow'd the earth with her She abandons me now-but the page of her story,

HONOUR.'

FROM THE FRENCH.

STAR of the brave !-whose beam hath shed
Such glory o'er the quick and dead—
Thou radiant and adored deceit,
Which millions rush'd in arms to greet, —
Wild meteor of immortal birth;
Why rise in Heaven to set on Earth?
Souls of slain heroes form'd thy rays;
Eternity flash'd through thy blaze;
The music of thy martial sphere
Was fame on high and honour here;
And thy light broke on human eyes,
Like a volcano of the skies.

At Waterloo, one man was seen whose left arm was shattered by a cannon-ball, to wrench it off with the other, and throwing it up in the air, exclaimed to his comrades, "Vive rEmpereur, jusqu'à la mort!" There were many other instances of the like. This, however, you may depend on as true.'-Private Letter from Brussels.

When the meteor of conquest allured me too far; I have coped with the nations which dread me

thus lonely,

The last single captive to millions in war.

Farewell to thee, France! when thy diadeni crown'd me,

I made thee the gem and the wonder of earth; But thy weakness decrees I should leave as I found thee,

Decay'd in thy glory, and sunk in thy worth.
Oh! for the veteran hearts that were wasted
In strife with the storm, when their battles were

won:

Then the Eagle, whose gaze in that moment was blasted,

Had still soar'd with eyes fix'd on victory's sun!

*The tricolour.

Can guilt like man's be e'er forgiven?
Can vice atone for crimes by prayer?
Father of Light, on thee I call!

Thou seest my soul is dark within;
Thou who canst mark the sparrow's fall,
Avert from me the death of sin.
No shrine I seek, to sects unknown;
Oh, point to me the path of truth!
Thy dread omnipotence I own;

Spare, yet amend, the faults of youth.

Let bigots rear a gloomy fane,

Let superstition hail the pile,
Let priests, to spread their sable reign,
With tales of mystic rites beguile.
Shall man confine his Maker's sway

To Gothic domes of mouldering stone?
Thy temple is the face of day;

Earth, ocean, heaven, thy boundless throne. Shall man condemn his race to hell,

Unless they bend in pompous form? Tell us that all, for one who fell,

Must perish in the mingling storm?
Shall each pretend to reach the skies,
Yet doom his brother to expire,
Whose soul a different hope supplies,

Or doctrines less severe inspire?
Shall these, by creeds they can't expound,
Prepare a fancied bliss or woe?
Shall reptiles, grovelling on the ground,
Their great Creator's purpose know?
Shall those, who live for self alone,

Whose years float on in daily crime-
Shall they by Faith for guilt atone,

And live beyond the bounds of Time? Father! no prophet's laws I seek,--

Thy laws in Nature's works appear ;— I own myself corrupt and weak,

Yet will I pray, for thou wilt hear! Thou, who canst guide the wandering star Through trackless realms of æther's space; Who calm'st the elemental war,

Whose hand from pole to pole I trace:
Thou, who in wisdom placed me here,
Who, when thou wilt, canst take me hence,
Ah! whilst I tread this earthly sphere,
Extend to me thy wide defence.

To Thee my God, to thee I call!
Whatever weal or woe betide,

By thy command I rise or fall,
In thy protection I confide.

If, when this dust to dust's restored,
My soul shall float on airy wing,
How shall thy glorious name adored
Inspire her feeble voice to sing!
But, if this fleeting spirit share

With clay the grave's eternal bed,
While life yet throbs I raise my prayer,
Though doom'd no more to quit the dead.

To Thee I breathe my humble strain, Grateful for all thy mercies past, And hope, my God, to thee again This erring life may fly at last.

TO EDWARD NOEL LONG, ESQ.
'Nil ego contulerim jocundo sanus amico.'-HOR.
DEAR LONG, in this sequester'd scene,
While all around in slumber lie,
The joyous days which ours have been,
Come rolling fresh on Fancy's eye;
Thus if amidst the gathering storm,
While clouds the darken'd noon deform,
Yon heaven assumes a varied glow,
I hail the sky's celestial bow,
Which spreads the sign of future peace,
And bids the war of tempests cease.
Ah! though the present brings but pain,
I think those days may come again;
Or if, in melancholy mood,
Some lurking envious fear intrude,
To check my bosom's fondest thought,
And interrupt the golden dream,

I crush the fiend with malice fraught,
And still indulge my wonted theme.
Although we ne'er again can trace,

I Granta's vale, the pedant's lore;
Nor through the groves of Ida chase

Our raptured visions as before, Though Youth has flown on rosy pinion, And Manhood claims his stern dominion, Age will not every hope destroy, But yield some hours of sober joy.

Yes, I will hope that Time's broad wing
Will shed around some dews of spring:
But if his scythe must sweep the flowers
Which bloom among the fairy bowers,
Where smiling Youth delights to dwell,
And hearts with early rapture swell;
If frowning Age, with cold control,
Confines the current of the soul,
Congeals the tear of Pity's eye,
Or checks the sympathetic sigh,
Or hears unmoved misfortune's groan,
And bids me feel for self alone;
Oh! may my bosom never learn

To soothe its wonted heedless flow,
Still, still despise the censor stern,
But ne'er forget another's woe.
Yes, as you knew me in the days
O'er which Remembrance yet delays,
Still may I rove, untutor'd, wild,
And even in age at heart a child.
Though now on airy visions borne,

To you my soul is still the same.
Oft has it been my fate to mourn,
And all my former joys are tame.
But, hence ye hours of sable hue!
Your frowns are gone, my sorrows o'er :
By every bliss my childhood knew,
I'll think upon your shade no more,

Sweet Thyrza! waking as in sleep,
Thou art but now a lovely dream;
A star that trembled o'er the deep,

Then turn'd from earth its tender beam.
But he who through life's dreary way
Must pass, when heaven is veil'd in wrath,
Will long lament the vanish'd ray

That scatter'd gladness o'er his path.

ONE STRUGGLE MORE, AND I AM FREE.

ONE struggle more, and I am free

From pangs that rend my heart in twain ; One last long sigh to love and thee,

Then back to busy life again. It suits me well to mingle now

With things that never pleased before : Though every joy is fled below,

What future grief can touch me more? Then bring me wine, the banquet bring; Man was not form'd to live alone : I'll be that light, unmeaning thing That smiles with all, and weeps with none. It was not thus in days more dear,

It never would have been, but thou
Hast fled, and left me lonely here;
Thou'rt nothing-all are nothing now.
In vain my lyre would lightly breathe!
The smile that sorrow fain would wear
But mocks the woe that lurks beneath,

Like roses o'er a sepulchre.
Though gay companions o'er the bowl
Dispel awhile the sense of ill;
Though pleasure fires the maddening soul,
The heart, the heart is lonely still!
On many a lone and lovely night

It soothed to gaze upon the sky;
For then I deem'd the heavenly light
Shone sweetly on thy pensive eye:
And oft I thought at Cynthia's noon,
When sailing o'er the Ægean wave,
'Now Thyrza gazes on that moon

Alas, it gleam'd upon her grave! When stretch'd on fever's sleepless bed, And sickness shrunk my throbbing veins, "Tis comfort still,' I faintly said,

'That Thyrza cannot know my pains;' Like freedom to the time-worn slave,

A boon 'tis idle then to give, Relenting Nature vainly gave

My life, when Thyrza ceased to live!

My Thyrza's pledge in better days,

When love and life alike were new! How different now thou meet'st my gaze! How tinged by time with sorrow's hue! The heart that gave itself with thee

Is silent-ah, were mine as still! Though cold as e'en the dead can be, It feels, it sickens with the chill.

WHEN Time, or soon or late, shall bring The dreamless sleep that lulls the dead, Oblivion! may thy languid wing

Wave gently o'er my dying bed! No band of friends or heirs be there, To weep, or wish, the coming blow; No maiden with dishevell'd hair,

To feel, or feign, decorous woe. But silent let me sink to earth,

With no officious mourners near: I would not mar one hour of mirth, Nor startle friendship with a tear. Yet Love, if Love in such an hour

Could nobly check its useless sighs, Might then exert its latest power

In her who lives, and him who dies. "Twere sweet, my Psyche, to the last Thy features still serene to see :

Forgetful of its struggles past,

E'en Pain itself should smile on thee.

But vain the wish-for Beauty still

Will shrink, as shrinks the ebbing breath; And women's tears, produced at will, Deceive in life, unman in death.

Then lonely be my latest hour,

Without regret, without a groan;

For thousands Death hath ceased to lower, And pain been transient or unknown.

'Ay, but to die, and go,' alas!

Where all have gone, and all must go!
To be the nothing that I was

Ere born to life and living woe!
Count o'er the joys thine hours have seen,
Count o'er thy days from anguish free,
And know, whatever thou hast been,
'Tis something better not to be.

There is an eye which could not brook
A moment on that grave to look.

I will not ask where thou liest low,
Nor gaze upon the spot;

There flowers or weeds at will may grow,
So I behold them not:

It is enough for me to prove

That what I loved, and long must love,
Like common earth can rot;
To me there needs no stone to tell,
'Tis nothing that I loved so well.

Yet did I love thee to the last

As fervently as thou,

Who didst not change through all the past,
And canst not alter now.

The love where Death has set his seal,
Nor age can chill, nor rival steal,

Nor falsehood disavow:

And, what were worse, thou canst not see Or wrong, or change, or fault in me.

The better days of life were ours;

The worst can be but mine:

The sun that cheers, the storm that lowers,
Shall never more be thine.

The silence of that dreamless sleep
I envy now too much to weep;
Nor need I to repine

That all those charms have pass'd away,
I might have watch'd through long decay.

The flower in ripen'd bloom unmatch'd
Must fall the earliest prey;
Though by no hand untimely snatch'd,
The leaves must drop away:
And yet it were a greater grief
To watch it withering, leaf by leaf,
Than see it pluck'd to-day;
Since earthly eye but ill can bear
To trace the change to foul from fair.

I know not if I could have borne
To see thy beauties fade;
The night that follow'd such a morn
Had worn a deeper shade:
Thy day without a cloud hath pass'd,
And thou wert lovely to the last;

Extinguish'd, not decay'd;
As stars that shoot along the sky
Shine brightest as they fall from high.

As once I wept, if I could weep,
My tears might well be shed,
To think I was not near to keep
One vigil o'er thy bed;

To gaze, how fondly! on thy face,
To fold thee in a faint embrace,
Uphold thy drooping head;

And show that love, however vain,
Nor thou nor I can feel again.

Yet how much less it were to gain,

Though thou hast left me free, The loveliest things that still remain, Than thus remember thee! The all of thine that cannot die Through dark and dread Eternity Returns again to me,

And more thy buried love endears Than aught, except its living years.

IF SOMETIMES IN THE HAUNTS OF MEN.

IF sometimes in the haunts of men

Thine image from my breast may fade, The lonely hour presents again

The semblance of thy gentle shade: And now that sad and silent hour

Thus much of thee can still restore, And sorrow unobserved may pour

The plaint she dare not speak before.
Oh, pardon that in crowds awhile

I waste one thought I owe to thee,
And, self-condemn'd, appear to smile,
Unfaithful to thy memory!
Nor deem that memory less dear,
That then I seem not to repine;
I would not fools should overhear
One sigh that should be wholly thine.

If not the goblet pass unquaff'd,
It is not drain'd to banish care;
The cup must hold a deadlier draught,
That brings a Lethe for despair.
And could Oblivion set my soul

From all her troubled visions free,
I'd dash to earth the sweetest bowl
That drown'd a single thought of thee.
For wert thou vanish'd from my mind,
Where could my vacant bosom turn?
And who would then remain behind

To honour thine abandon'd Urn?
No, no-it is my sorrow's pride

That last dear duty to fulfil;
Though all the world forget beside,
"Tis meet that I remember still.
For well I know, that such had been
Thy gentle care for him, who now
Unmourn'd shall quit this mortal scene,
Where none regarded him but thou:
And, oh! I feel in that was given
A blessing never meant for me;
Thou wert too like a dream of heaven
For earthly Love to merit thee.

FARE THEE WELL.

Alas! they had been friends in youth;
But whispering tongues can poison truth;
And constancy lives in realms above;
And life is thorny, and youth is vain;
And to be wroth with one we love,
Doth work like madness in the brain;

But never either found another
To free the hollow heart from paining-
They stood aloof, the scars remaining,
Like cliffs which had been rent asunder.
A dreary sea now flows between,

But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder,
Shall wholly do away, I ween,
The marks of that which once hath been.'
COLERIDGE'S Christabel.

FARE thee well! and if for ever,
Still for ever, fare thee well:
Even though unforgiving, never
'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel.

Would that breast were bared before thee
Where thy head so oft hath lain,
While that placid sleep came o'er thee
Which thou neer canst know again :
Would that breast, by thee glanced over,
Every inmost thought could show !
Then thou wouldst at last discover
"Twas not well to spurn it so.
Though the world for this commend thee-
Though it smile upon the blow,
Even its praises must offend thee,
Founded on another's woe:

Though my many faults defaced me,
Could no other arm be found,
Than the one which once embraced me,
To inflict a cureless wound?
Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not;
Love may sink by slow decay,
But by sudden wrench, believe not
Hearts can thus be torn away:
Still thine own its life retaineth,

Still must mine, though bleeding, beat;
And the undying thought which paineth
Is-that we no more may meet.

These are words of deeper sorrow
Than the wail above the dead;
Both shall live, but every morrow
Wake us from a widow'd bed.
And when thou wouldst solace gather,
When our child's first accents flow,

Wilt thou teach her to say Father!
Though his care she must forego?
When her little hand shall press thee,
When her lip to thine is press'd,
Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee,
Think of him thy love had bless'd!

Should her lineaments resemble

Those thou never more mayst see,
Then thy heart will softly tremble
With a pulse yet true to me.

All my faults perchance thou knowest,
All my madness none can know ;
All my hopes, where'er thou goest,
Wither, yet with thee they go.
Every feeling hath been shaken ;

Pride, which not a world could bow,
Bows to thee-by thee forsaken,

Even my soul forsakes me now: But 'tis done-all words are idle

Words from me are vainer still;
But the thoughts we cannot bridle
Force their way without the will.
Fare thee well! thus disunited,

Torn from every nearer tie,
Sear'd in heart, and lone, and blighted,
More than this I scarce can die.

BORN in the garret, in the kitchen bred,
Promoted thence to deck her mistress' head;
Next-for some gracious service unexpress'd,
And from its wages only to be guess'd-
Raised from the toilette to the table, where
Her wondering betters wait behind her chair.
With eye unmoved, and forehead unabash'd,
She dines from off the plate she lately wash'd.
Quick with the tale, and ready with the lie,
The genial confidante, and general spy,
Who could, ye gods, her next employment
guess-

An only infant's earliest governess!
She taught the child to read, and taught so well,
That she herself, by teaching, learn'd to spell.
An adept next in penmanship she grows,
As many a nameless slander deftly shows;