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For beautiful in death are they
[FROM THE FRENCH.]
FAREWELL to the Land, where the gloom of my Glory
The last single Captive to millions in war!
Farewell to thee, France!-when thy diadem crown'd
I made thee the gem and the wonder of earth,— But thy weakness decrees I should leave as I found
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 wonThen the Eagle, whose gaze in that moment was
Had still soar'd with eyes fix'd on victory's sun!
Farewell to thee, France !—but when Liberty rallies
Then turn thee and call on the chief of thy choice!
WRITTEN ON A BLANK LEAF OF “THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY."
ABSENT or present, still to thee,
My friend, what magic spells belong!
In turn thy converse, and thy song.
And "MEMORY" o'er her Druid's tomb
April 19, 1812.
ROUSSEAU-Voltaire--our Gibbon-and de Staël-
But they have made them lovelier, for the lore
Where dwelt the wise and wondrous; but by thee
The wild glow of that not ungentle zeal,
Is proud, and makes the breath of glory real!
THOUGH the day of my destiny's over,
The faults which so many could find; Though thy soul with my grief was acquainted, It shrunk not to share it with me,
And the love which my spirit hath painted
Then when nature around me is smiling,
Because it reminds me of thine;
And when winds are at war with the ocean,
If their billows excite an emotion,
It is that they bear me from thee.
Though the rock of my last hope is shiver'd, And its fragments are sunk in the wave, Though I feel that my soul is deliver'd
To pain-it shall not be its slave.
There is many a pang to pursue me:
They may crush, but they shall not contemn-They may torture, but shall not subdue me— "Tis of thee that I think-not of them.
Though human, thou didst not deceive me,
Yet I blame not the world, nor despise it,
And more than I once could foresee,
From the wreck of the past, which hath perish'd,
It hath taught me that what most cherish'd