That rose to reconcile him with his fate,
And that escape to death from living hate:
And Otho comes, and, leaping from his steed,
Looks on the bleeding foe that made him bleed,
And questions of his state; he answers not,
Scarce glances on him as on one forgot,
And turns to Kaled: -each remaining word
They understood not, if distinctly heard;
His dying tones are in that other tongue,
To which some strange remembrance wildly clung.
They speak of other scenes, but what-is known
To Kaled, whom their meaning reach'd alone;
And he replied, though faintly, to their sound,
While gazed the rest in dumb amazement round:
They seem'd even then-that twain-unto the last
To half-forget the present in the past;
To share between themselves some separate fate,
Whose darkness none beside should penetrate. [tone
Their words, though faint, were many-from the
Their import those who heard could judge alone;
From this, you might have deem'd young Kaled's
More near than Lara's, by his voice and breath,
So sad, so deep, and hesitating broke
The accents his scarce-moving pale lips spoke;
But Lara's voice, though low, at first was clear
And calm, till murmuring death gasp'd hoarsely
But from his visage little could we guess, [near ;
So unrepentant, dark, and passionless;
Save that, when struggling nearer to his last,
Upon that page his eye was kindly cast;
And once, as Kaled's answering accents ceased,
Rose Lara's hand, and pointed to the east,
Where (as then the breaking sun from high
Roll'd back the clouds) the morrow caught his eye,
Or that 't was chance, or some remember'd scene,
That raised his arm to point where such had been,
Scarce Kaled seem'd to know, but turn'd away,
As if his heart abhorr'd that coming day;
And shrunk his glance before that morning light,
To look on Lara's brow-where all grew night.
Yet sense seem'd left, though better were its loss;
For when one near display'd the absolving cross,
And proffer'd to his touch the holy bead,
Of which his parting soul might own the need,
He look'd upon it with an eye profane, [disdain:
And smiled-Heaven pardon! if 'twere with
And Kaled, though he spoke not, nor withdrew
From Lara's face his fix'd, despairing view,
With brow repulsive, and with gesture swift,
Flung back the hand which held the sacred gift,
As if such but disturb'd the expiring man,
Nor seem'd to know his life but then began,
That life of immortality, secure
To none, save them whose faith in Christ is sure.
But gasping heaved the breath that Lara drew,
And dull the film along his dim eye grew; [o'er
His limbs stretch'd fluttering, and his head droop'd
The weak, yet still untiring knee that bore ;
He press'd the hand he held upon his heart-
It beats no more, but Kaled will not part
With the cold grasp, but feels, and feels in vain,
For that faint throb which answers not again.
"It beats!"-away, thou dreamer! he is gone-
It once was Lara which thou look'st upon.
He gazed, as if not yet had pass'd away
The haughty spirit of that humble clay;
And those around have roused him from his trance,
But cannot tear from thence his fixed glance;
And when, in raising him from where he bore
Within his arms the form that felt no more,
He saw the head his breast would still sustain,
Roll down like earth to earth upon the plain;
He did not dash himself thereby, nor tear
The glossy tendrils of his raven hair,
But strove to stand and gaze, but reel'd and fell,
Scarce breathing more than that he loved so well-
Than that he loved! Oh! never yet beneath
The breast of man such trusty love may breathe.
That trying moment hath at once revealed
The secret long and yet but half-concealed;
In baring to revive that lifeless breast,
Its grief seem'd ended, but the sex confess'd;
And life return'd, and Kaled felt no shame-
What now to her was womanhood or fame?
And Lara sleeps not where his fathers sleep,
But where he died his grave was dug as deep;
Nor is his mortal slumber less profound,
Though priest nor bless'd nor marble deck'd the
mound;
And he was mourn'd by one whose quiet grief,
Less loud, outlasts a people's for their chief.
Vain was all question ask'd her of the past,
And vain e'en menace-silent to the last;
She told nor whence, nor why she left behind
Her all for one who seem'd but little kind.
Why did she love him? Curious fool!-be still-
Is human love the growth of human will?
To her he might be gentleness; the stern
Have deeper thoughts than your dull eyes discern,
And when they love, your smilers guess not how
Beats the strong heart, though less the lips avow.
They were not common links, that form'd the chain
That bound to Lara Kaled's heart and brain,
But that wild tale she brook'd not to unfold,
And seal'd is now each lip that could have told.
They laid him in the earth, and on his breast,
Besides the wound that sent his soul to rest,
They found the scatter'd dints of many a scar,
Which were not planted there in recent war;
Where'er had pass'd his summer years of life,
It seems they vanish'd in a land of strife;
But all unknown his glory or his guilt,
These only told that somewhere blood was spilt,
And Ezzelin, who might have spoke the past,
Return'd no more that night appear'd his last.
Upon that night (a peasant's is the tale)
A serf that cross'd the intervening vale,
When Cynthia's light almost gave way to morn,
And nearly veil'd in mist her waning horn;
A serf, that rose betimes to thread the wood,
And hew the bough that bought his children food,
Pass'd by the river that divides the plain
Of Otho's lands and Lara's broad domain:
He heard a tramp-a horse and horseman broke
From out the wood-before him was a cloak
Wrapt round some burden at his saddle-bow,
Bent was his head, and hidden was his brow.
Roused by the sudden sight at such a time,
And some foreboding that it might be crime,
Himself unheeded watch'd the stranger's course,
Who reach'd the river, bounded from his horse,
And lifting thence the burden which he bore,
Heaved up the bank, and dash'd it from the shore,
Then paused, and look'd, and turn'd, and seem'd
to watch,
And still another hurried glance would snatch,
And follow with his step the stream that flow'd,
As if even yet too much its surface show'd:
At once he started, stoop'd; around him strown,
The winter floods had scatter'd heaps of stone;
Of these the heaviest thence he gather'd there,
And slung them with a more than common care.
Meantime the serf had crept to where unseen
Himself might safely mark what this might mean.
He caught a glimpse, as of a floating breast,
And something glitter'd starlike on the vest,
But ere he well could mark the buoyant trunk,
A massy fragment smote it, and it sunk:
It rose again but indistinct to view,
And left the waters of a purple hue,
Then deeply disappear'd: the horseman gazed,
Till ebb'd the latest eddy it had raised;
Then turning, vaulted on his pawing steed,
And instant spurr'd him into panting speed.
His face was mask'd-the features of the dead,
If dead it were, escap'd the observer's dread;
But if in sooth a star its bosom bore,
Such is the badge that knighthood ever wore,
And such 'tis known Sir Ezzelin had worn
Upon the night that led to such a morn.
If thus he perish'd, Heaven receive his soul!
His undiscover'd limbs to ocean roll;
And charity upon the hope would dwell,
It was not Lara's hand by which he fell.
And Kaled-Lara-Ezzelin, are gone,
Alike without their monumental stone!
The first, all efforts vainly strove to wean [been ;
From lingering where her chieftain's blood had
Grief had so tamed a spirit once so proud,
Her tears were few, her wailing never loud;
But furious would you tear her from the spot
Where yet she scarce believed that he was not,
Her eye shot forth with all the living fire
That haunts the tigress in her whelpless ire;
But left to waste her weary moments there,
She talk'd all idly unto shapes of air,
Such as the busy brain of sorrow paints,
And woos to listen to her fond complaints :
And she would sit beneath the very tree
Where lay his drooping head upon her knee;
And in that posture where she saw him fall,
His words, his looks, his dying grasp recall;
And she had shorn, but saved her raven hair,
And oft would snatch it from her bosom there,
And fold, and press it gently to the ground,
As if she stanch'd anew some phantom's wound.
Herself would question, and for him reply;
Then rising, start, and beckon him to fly
From some imagined spectre in pursuit:
Then seat her down upon some linden's root,
And hide her visage with her meager hand,
Or trace strange characters along the sand-
This could not last she lies by him she loved;
Her tale untold-her truth too dearly proved.
THE Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green, That host with their banners at sunset were seen: Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown,
That host on the morrow lay wither'd and strown. For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass'd; And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew
And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
But through it there roll'd not the breath of his pride:
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.
And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail;
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.
And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!
AVE Maria! blessed be the hour!
The time, the clime, the spot, where I so oft Have felt that moment in its fullest power Sink o'er the earth so beautiful and soft, While swung the deep bell in the distant tower,
Or the faint dying day-hymn stole aloft, And not a breath crept through the rosy air, And yet the forest leaves seem'd stirr'd with prayer.
Ave Maria! 'tis the hour of prayer!
Ave Maria! 'tis the hour of love! Ave Maria! may our spirits dare
Look up to thine and to thy Son's above! Ave Maria! oh that face so fair!
[doveThose downcast eyes beneath the Almighty What though 'tis but a pictured image strikeThat painting is no idol, 'tis too like.
Sweet hour of twilight! in the solitude
Of the pine forest, and the silent shore
Which bounds Ravenna's immemorial wood,
Rooted where once the Adrian wave flow'd o'er,
To where the last Cesarean fortress stood,
Evergreen forest! which Boccaccio's lore And Dryden's lay made haunted ground to me, How have I loved the twilight hour and thee!
The shrill cicalas, people of the pine,
Making their summer lives one ceaseless song,
Were the sole echoes, save my steed's and mine,
And vesper-bell's that rose the boughs along:
The spectre huntsman of Onesti's line, [throng,
His hell-dogs, and their chase, and the fair
Which learn'd from this example not to fly
From a true lover, shadow'd my mind's eye.
Oh Hesperus! thou bringest all good things-
Home to the weary, to the hungry cheer,
To the young bird the parent's brooding wings,
The welcome stall to the o'er-labour'd steer;
Whate'er of peace about our hearth-stone clings,
Whate'er our household gods protect of dear,
Are gather'd round us by thy look of rest;
Thou bring'st the child, too, to the mother's breast.
Soft hour! which wakes the wish and melts the heart
Of those who sail the seas, on the first day
When they from their sweet friends are torn apart;
Or fills with love the pilgrim on his way,
As the far bell of vesper makes him start,
Seeming to weep the dying day's decay;
Is this a fancy which our reason scorns?
Ah! surely nothing dies but something mourns!
As rising on its purple wing The insect-queen of eastern spring, O'er emerald meadows of Kashmeer Invites the young pursuer near, And leads him on from flower to flower A weary chase and wasted hour; Then leaves him, as it soars on high, With panting heart and tearful eye: So beauty lures the full-grown child, With hue as bright, and wing as wild; A chase of idle hopes and fears, Begun in folly, closed in tears. If won, to equal ills betray'd, Wo waits the insect and the maid, A life of pain, the loss of peace, From infant's play, and man's caprice: The lovely toy so fiercely sought Hath lost its charm by being caught. For every touch that wooed its stay Hath brush'd its brightest hues away: Till, charm, and hue, and beauty gone, 'Tis left to fly or fall alone. With wounded wing, or bleeding breast, Ah! where shall either victim rest? Can this with faded pinion soar From rose to tulip as before ? Or beauty, blighted in an hour, Find joy within her broken bower ? No! gayer insects fluttering by Ne'er droop the wing o'er those that die; And lovelier things have mercy shown To every failing but their own; And every wo a tear can claim Except an erring sister's shame.
SHE walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half-impair'd the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!
WELL! thou art happy, and I feel
That I should thus be happy too;
For still my heart regards thy weal
Warmly as it was wont to do.
Thy husband's bless'd-and 't will impart
Some pangs to view his happier lot:
But let them pass-Oh! how my heart
Would hate him, if he loved thee not!
When late I saw thy favourite child,
I thought my jealous heart would break,
But when th' unconscious infant smiled,
I kiss'd it for its mother's sake.
I kiss'd it, and repress'd my sighs,
Its father in its face to see ;
But then it had its mother's eyes,
And they were all to love and me.
Mary, adieu! I must away:
While thou art blest I'll not repine,
But near thee I can never stay;
My heart would soon again be thine. I deem'd that time, I deem'd that pride Had quench'd at length my boyish flame, Nor knew, till seated by thy side, My heart in all, save hope, the same.
Yet was I calm: I knew the time
My breast would thrill before thy look; But now to tremble were a crimeWe met, and not a nerve was shook.
I saw thee gaze upon my face,
Yet meet with no confusion there; One only feeling couldst thou trace, The sullen calmness of despair. Away! away! my early dream,
Remembrance never must awake: Oh! where is Lethe's fabled stream? My foolish heart, be still, or break.
OH! SNATCHED AWAY IN BEAUTY'S BLOOM.
On! snatch'd away in beauty's bloom,
On thee shall press no ponderous tomb!
But on thy turf shall roses rear
Their leaves, the earliest of the year; And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom:
And oft by yon blue gushing stream
Shall sorrow lean her drooping head, And feed deep thought with many a dream, And lingering pause and lightly tread; Fond wretch! as if her step disturb'd the dead!
Away! we know that tears are vain,
That death nor heeds nor hears distress :
Will this unteach us to complain ?
Or make one mourner weep the less?
And thou-who tell'st me to forget,
Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet.
MANFRED TO THE SORCERESS.
-Fвом тy youth upwards
My spirit walk'd not with the souls of men,
Nor look'd upon the earth with human eyes;
The thirst of their ambition was not mine;
The aim of their existence was not mine;
My joys, my griefs, my passions, and my powers,
Made me a stranger; though I wore the form,
I had no sympathy with breathing flesh,
For midst the creatures of clay that girded me
Was there but one who but of her anon.
I said, with men, and with the thoughts of men,
I held but slight communion; but instead,
My joy was in the wilderness, to breathe
The difficult air of the iced mountain's top,
Where the birds dare not build, nor insect's wing
Flit o'er the herbless granite; or to plunge
Into the torrent, and to roll along
On the swift whirl of the new breaking wave
Of river, stream, or ocean in their flow.
In these my early strength exulted; or
To follow through the night the moving moon,
The stars and their development; or catch
The dazzling lightnings till my eyes grew dim;
Or to look, listening, on the scatter'd leaves,
While autumn winds were at their evening song.
These were my pastimes, and to be alone;
For if the beings, of whom I was one,-
Hating to be so, -cross'd me in my path,
I felt myself degraded back to them,
And was all clay again. And then I dived,
In my lone wanderings, to the caves of death,
Searching its cause in its effect; and drew
From wither'd bones, and skulls, and heap'd-up dust,
Conclusions most forbidden. Then I pass'd
The nights of years in sciences untaught,
Save in the old time; and with time and toil,
And terrible ordeal, and such penance
As in itself hath power upon the air,
And spirits that do compass air and earth,
Space, and the people infinite, I made
Mine eyes familiar with eternity,
Such as, before me, did the Magi, and
He who from out their fountain dwellings raised
Eros and Anteros, at Gadara,
As I do thee;-and with my knowledge grew
The thirst of knowledge, and the power and joy
Of this most bright intelligence.
ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY THIRTY-SIXTH YEAR.*
'T IS time this heart should be unmoved, Since others it hath ceased to move!
Yet, though I cannot be beloved,
Still let me love!
My days are in the yellow leaf;
The flowers and fruits of love are gone;
The worm, the canker, and the grief
Are mine alone!
The fire that on my bosom preys
Is lone as some volcanic isle;
No torch is kindled at its blaze-
A funeral pile!
The hope, the fear, the jealous care,
The exalted portion of the pain
And power of love, I cannot share,
But wear the chain.
But 'tis not thus and 'tis not here-
Such thoughts would shake my soul, nor now,
Where glory decks the hero's bier,
Or binds his brow.
The sword, the banner, and the field,
Glory and Greece around me see!
The Spartan, borne upon his shield,
Was not more free.
Awake! (not Greece-she is awake!)
Awake, my spirit! Think through whom
Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake,
And then strike home!
Tread those reviving passions down,
Unworthy manhood!-unto thee
Indifferent should the smile or frown
Of beauty be.
If thou regret'st thy youth, why live?
The land of honourable death
Is here:-up to the field, and give
Away thy breath!
Seek out-less often sought than found-
A soldier's grave, for thee the best;
Then look around, and choose thy ground,
And take thy rest.
THOMAS PRINGLE was born on the fifth of January, 1787, at Blaiklaw, a few miles from Kelso, in Scotland, where his father was a respectable farmer; and his early years were passed amid the pastoral and secluded scenery of his native country. An accident, by which he was made permanently lame, induced his father to send him to the university, and at eighteen he commenced his course at Edinburgh, where, after the completion of his education, he was for several years engaged in the office of the Commissioners of the Public Records. Growing weary of his sedentary employment under government, in conjunction with Mr. JAMES CLEGHORN, he in 1817 established the Edinburgh Monthly Magazine, which subsequently falling into other hands, was styled Blackwood's Magazine, and became the most famous periodical of its class in the world. An unwillingness to make the work a vehicle of personal satire and political controversy, led to disagreements with his publisher, and finally to a transfer of his services as editor to Constable's Edinburgh Magazine, by which he became involved in a literary warfare very uncongenial to his disposition.
In 1819, he published "The Autumnal Excursion and other Poems," and having given up his engagement with Constable, he proceeded in the same year to London, with his family and several friends, and embarked for South Africa. There he became engaged in a contest with the Colonial Governor, Lord CHARLES SOMERSET, which resulted in his return to England, where he arrived on the seventh of July, 1826.
AFAR in the desert I love to ride, With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side: When the sorrows of life the soul o'ercast, And, sick of the present, I cling to the past: When the eye is suffused with regretful tears, From the fond recollections of former years; And shadows of things that have long since fled Flit over the brain, like the ghosts of the dead:
By an article in the "New Monthly Magazine," then edited by THOMAS CAMPBELL, he became known to the managers of the Antislavery Society, who, in 1827, engaged him as their secretary, in which capacity he was employed until the extinction of slavery in the British colonies. In the meantime, he was a contributor to different literary magazines, and for several years was editor of "Friendship's Offering," one of the most popular of the illustrated annuals. He also wrote his "African Sketches," a series of poems relating to that continent, and a "Narrative of a Residence in South Africa," both of which were published by Moxon. He died on the fifth of December, 1834, of a disease induced by too earnest devotion to his various pursuits, and just before his intended re-embarkation for Africa, whither he was going for the restoration of his health.
Some of Mr. PRINGLE's poems are very spirited, and nearly all of them are smoothly and correctly versified; but relating chiefly to the traditions and manners of a country of which but little is known; their peculiar merit is not well appreciated, even by educated readers.
Mr. PRINGLE enjoyed the friendship of SIR WALTER SCOTT, ZACHARY MACAULAY, and many other eminent authors and philanthropists; and "although he discharged during many years, with a fearless and honest zeal, the duties of an office which exposed him to the bitterness of party spirit, no man, perhaps, had ever fewer enemies, or descended into the grave with fewer animosities."
Bright visions of glory-that vanish'd too soon;
Day-dreams-that departed ere manhood's noon;
Attachments-by fate or by falsehood reft;
Companions of early days-lost or left;
And my native land-whose magical name
Thrills to the heart like electric flame;
The home of my childhood; the haunts of my prime;
All the passions and scenes of that rapturous time
When the feelings were young and the world was
Like the fresh bowers of Eden unfolding to view;
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