If they were fitted for the purposed cage: Horse by a blackleg, broadcloth by a tailor, As is a slave by his intended bidder. 'Tis pleasant purchasing our fellow-creatures; And all are to be sold, if you consider Their passions, and are dext'rous; some by features Are bought up, others by a warlike leader, Some by a place-as tend their years or natures; The eunuch having eyed them o'er with care, They haggled, wrangled, swore, too-so they did! At last they settled into simple grumbling, And then the merchant, giving change, and signing I wonder if his appetite was good? Or, if it were, if also his digestion? Methinks at meals some odd thoughts might intrude, About the right divine, how far we should Sell flesh and blood. When dinner has oppress'd one, I think it is, perhaps, the gloomiest hour THE LOVERS. THE heart-which may be broken happy they! Thrice fortunate! who of that fragile mould, The precious porcelain of human clay, Break with the first fall: they can ne'er behold "Whom the gods love die young," was said of yore, * The death of friends, and that which slays even more- The gentle pressure, and the thrilling touch, The least glance better understood than words, As but to lovers a true sense affords; Sweet playful phrases, which would seem absurd To those who have ceased to hear such, or ne'er heard : All these were theirs, for they were children still, They were not made in the real world to fill A busy character in the dull scene, But like two beings born from out a rill, A nymph and her beloved, all unseen Moons changing had roll'd on, and changeless found By the mere senses: and that which destroys THE ASSASSINATION. THE other evening ('twas on Friday last)— I found the military commandant Stretch'd in the street, and able scarce to pant. See Herodotus. The assassination alluded to took place on the 8th of December, 1820, in the streets of Ravenna, not a hundred paces from the residence of the writer. The circumstances were as described. Poor fellow for some reason, surely bad, They had slain him with five slugs; and left him there To perish on the pavement: so I had Him borne into the house and up the stair, And stripp'd, and look'd to,-But why should I add And though I have seen many corpses, never So calm; though pierced through stomach, heart, and liver, He seem'd to sleep,-for you could scarcely tell (As he bled inwardly, no hideous river Of gore divulged the cause) that he was dead: "Can this be death? then what is life or death? Speak!" but he spoke not: "wake!" but still he slept :"But yesterday, and who had mightier breath? A thousand warriors by his word were kept In awe he said, as the centurion saith, 'Go,' and he goeth; come,' and forth he stepp'd. AULD LANG SYNE, AND all our little feuds, at least all mine, (As far as rhyme and criticism combine To make such puppets of us things below), Your face-but you have acted on the whole And when I use the phrase of "Auld Lang Syne!" For me, for I would rather take my wine With you, than aught (save Scott) in your proud city. But I am half a Scot by birth, and bred A whole one, and my heart flies to my head, As "Auld Lang Syne" brings Scotland, one and all, streams, The Dee, the Don, Balgounie's brig's black wall,* I care not-'tis a glimpse of "Auld Lang Syne." And though, as you remember, in a fit Of wrath and rhyme, when juvenile and curly, Which must be own'd was sensitive and surly, They cannot quench young feelings fresh and early; THE DREAM. SHE dream'd of being alone on the sea-shore, Until she sobb'd for breath, and soon they were And something roll'd before her in a sheet, 'Twas white and indistinct, nor stopp'd to meet And ran, but it escaped her as she clasp'd. The dream changed :-in a cave she stood, its walls Of ages on its water-fretted halls, Where waves might wash, and seals might breed and lurk; Her hair was dripping, and the very balls Of her black eyes seem'd turn'd to tears, and mirk The brig of Don, near the "auld toun" of Aberdeen, with its one arch, and its black deep salmon stream below, is in my memory as yesterday. I still remember, though perhaps I may misquote, the awful proverb which made me pause to cross it, and yet lean over it with a childish delight, being an only son, at least by the mother's side. The saying as recollected by me was this, but I have never heard or seen it since I was nine years of age : "Brig of Balgounie, black's your wa', Wi' a wife's ae son, and a mear's ae foal, And wet, and cold, and lifeless at her feet, Pale as the foam that froth'd on his dead brow, Were once her cares, how idle seem'd they now!), Of his quench'd heart; and the sea dirges low FAME. OF poets who come down to us through distance And so great names are nothing more than nominal, Too often in its fury overcoming all Who would as 'twere identify their dust From out the wide destruction, which, entombing all, Save change: I've stood upon Achilles' tomb, And heard Troy doubted; time will doubt of Rome. Are swept away, and tomb inherits tomb, Until the memory of an age is fled, And, buried, sinks beneath its offspring's doom: Where are the epitaphs our fathers read? Save a few glean'd from the sepulchral gloom I canter by the spot each afternoon Where perish'd in his fame the hero-boy, A broken pillar, not uncouthly hewn, But which neglect is hastening to destroy, While weeds and ordure rankle round the base.* I pass each day where Dante's bones are laid: A little cupola, more neat than solemn, Protects his dust, but reverence here is paid To the bard's tomb, and not the warrior's column: The chieftain's trophy and the poet's volume, The pillar which records the battle of Ravenna is about two miles from the city, on the opposite side of the river to the road towards Forli. Gaston de Foix, who gained the battle, was killed in it: there fell on both sides twenty thousand men. The present state of the pillar and its site is described in the text... |