Oh, shame to thee, Land of the Gaul!
Oh, shame to thy children and thee!
Unwise in thy glory and base in thy fall,
How wretched thy portion shall be!
Derision shall strike thee forlorn,
A mockery that never shall die;
The curses of hate and the hisses of scorn
Shall burthen the winds of thy sky;
And, proud o'er thy ruin, for ever be hurl'd
The laughter of triumph, the jeers of the world.
FAREWELL to the land, where the gloon of my glory
Arose and o'ershadow'd the earth with her name-
She abandons me now,-but the page
of her story, The brightest or blackest, is fill'd with my fame.
I have warr'd with a world which vanquish'd me only
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 diadem 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!
Farewell to thee, France!-but when liberty rallies
Once more in thy regions, remember me then-
The violet still grows in the depth of thy valleys;
Though wither'd, thy tears will unfold it again—
Yet, yet, I may baffle the hosts that surround us,
And yet may thy heart leap awake to my voice-
There are links which must break in the chain that has bound us,
Then turn thee and call on the chief of thy choice!
LET Edinburgh critics o'erwhelm with their praises
Their Madame de Stael, and their famed L'Epinasse;
Like a meteor at best, proud philosophy blazes,
And the fame of a wit is as brittle as glass:
But cheering the beam, and unfading the splendour
Of thy torch, wedded love! and it never has yet
Shone with lustre more holy, more pure, or more tender,
Than it sheds on the name of the fair Lavalette.
Then fill high the wine-cup, e'en virtue shall bless it,
And hallow the goblet which foams to her name;
The warm lip of beauty shall piously press it,
And Hymen shall honour the pledge to her fame:
To the health of the woman, who freedom and life too
Has risk'd for her husband, we 'll pay the just debt; And hail with applauses the heroine and wife too, The constant, the noble, the fair Lavalette.
Her foes have awarded, in impotent malice,
To their captive a doom, which all Europe abhors, And turns from the slaves of the priest-haunted palace, While those who replaced them there blush for their cause: But, in ages to come, when the blood-tarnish'd glory
Of dukes, and of marshals, in darkness hath set, Hearts shall throb, eyes shall glisten, at reading the story Of the fond self-devotion of fair Lavalette.
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 ne'er canst know again:
Would that breast, by thee glanced over,
Every inmost thought could show!
Then thou would'st at last discover
'T was 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 would'st 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 hands shall press thee,
When her lip to thine is prest,
Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee,
Think of him thy love had bless'd!
Should her lineaments resemble
Those thou never more may'st 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 't is 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.
If that thou be'st a devil, I cannot kill thee.»
BORN in the garret, in the kitchen bred,
Promoted thence to deck her mistress' head;
Next for some gracious service unexprest,
And from its wages only to be guess'd—
Raised from the toilet 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.
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