No passing bell for them shall toll,
No funeral rites be said;
O'er their remains the sea shall roll,-
Its caves shall be their bed!
"Then shall the dark usurper feel,
Who robb'd me of my right,
That Heav'n had yet in store for him,
A dart from its quiver bright:
When he mourns the death of his kingdom's heir, Then even in this grim tower
More light of heart will his captive be,
Than he in his Royal Bower!"
Tell me, Beauty, what art thou,
What is then thy magic spell?
Thou, before whom myriads bow,
Goddess bright, where do'st thou dwell?
Dwell'st thou in the raven tress,
Dark as midnight's jetty dye,
In the cheek's bright roseate bloom,
In the dark and brilliant eye?
Tell me, Beauty, tell me true,
Lurk'st thou in the dimpled smile?
In the light and graceful form,
Does thy witching power beguile?
No, ah, no, in these alone,
Beauty, thou can'st never dwell, 'Tis in bright Expression's beam, That is found thy magic spell.
And in vain the sparkling eye,
And the cheek so bright and fair;
These can never, never charm,
If expression dwell not there.
But when in the eye's bright flash,
We can see the spirit speak,
And each passion of the soul,
Painted on the glowing cheek;
When, in every feature, shine
Genius bright, and fancy's fire,
Where is he, so cold, so dead,
Who can gaze, and not admire?
Life is the time to smile; as doth the infant eye,
When all unconscious of the ills of dark mortality;
Life is the time for joy, the flame that burns so bright
At the altar of childhood's heart, ere sin hath dimm'd its
heavenly light.
Life is the time to blush, as doth the youthful cheek,
When warmed with feeling's generous rush, it glows with
tints that speak;
Life is the time to gain-the gold of earth alone?
No, a gem of Heaven's treasury, the Pearl of price unknown.
Life is the time to give an ear to pity's call,
A heart to friends, a hand to foes, a Christian's love to all; Life is the time for toil, to run the Christian race,
To wrestle hard with sin, and gain at Christ's right hand a place.
Life is the time to love, to seek the bright reward,
Which the Omnipotent will give the followers of their Lord ; Life is the time to die, to yield the parting breath,
To raise to heaven the trusting eye, and triumph e'en in
Fronting the wave-environ'd shore of France,
And bulwark'd with her everlasting main,
O'er which the cloud-white cliffs sublimely gaze,
Like genii, rear'd for her defence, behold
The Isle-queen!-every billow sounds her fame!
The ocean is her proud triumphal car
Whereon she rideth, and the rolling waves
The vassals which secure her victory;
Alone and matchless in her sceptred might,
She dares the world. The spirit of the brave
Burns in her; laws are liberty; and kings
Wear crowns that glitter with a people's love,
And, while undimm'd, their glory aye endures;
But once dishonour'd,-and the sceptre falls,
The throne is shaken, patriot voices rise,
And, like storm'd billows by the tyrant gale
Awaken'd-loud and haughty is their roar !
Heaven-favour'd land! of grandeur, and of gloom,
Of mountain pomp and majesty of hills,
Though other climates boast, in thee supreme
A beauty and a gentleness abound;
Here all that can soft worship claim, or tone
The sweet sobriety of tender thought,
Is thine the sky of blue intensity,
Or charm'd by sunshine into picture clouds,
That make bright landscapes when they blush abroad.— The dingle grey, and wooded copse, with hut
And hamlet, nestling in the bosky vale,
And spires brown peeping o'er the ancient elms,
And steepled cities, faint and far away,
With all that bird and meadow, brook and gale
Impart, are mingled for admiring eyes,
That love to banquet on thy blissful scene.
But Ocean is thy glory: and methinks
Some musing wand'rer by the shore I see,
Weaving his island fancies.-Round him, rock
And cliff, whose grey trees mutter to the wind,
And streams down rushing with a torrent ire:
The sky seems craggy with her cloud piles hung,
Deep mass'd, as though embodied thunder lay
And darken'd in a dream of havoc there!
Before him, Ocean, yelling in the blast,
Wild as the death-wail of a drowning host!
The surges,---be they tempests as they roll,
Lashing their fury into living foam,
Yon war-ship shall out-brave them all !---her sails
Resent the winds, and their remorseless howl;
And when she ventures the abyss of waves,
Remounts, expands her wings, and then---away!
Proud, as an eagle dashing through the clouds.
And well brave scion of the Empress Isle
Thy spirit mingles with the mighty scene,
Hailing thy country on her ocean throne.
Once more I breathe the mountain air; once more
I tread my own free hills! Even as a child
Clings to its mother's breast, so do I turn
To thee my glorious home. My lofty soul
Throws all its fetters off: in its proud flight
"Tis like the new-fledged eaglet, whose strong wing
Soars to the sun it long has gazed upon
With eye undazzled. Oh! ye mighty race
That stand like frowning giants, fix'd to guard
My own proud land; why did ye not hurl down
The thundering avalanche, when at your feet,
The base usurper stood? A touch—a breath,
Nay even the breath of prayer, ere now, has brought
Destruction on the hunter's head; and yet
The tyrant pass'd in safety. God cf Heaven!
Where slept thy thunderbolt?
Thou choicest gift of Heaven, and wanting which
Life is as nothing; hast thou then forgot
Thy native home, and must the feet of slaves
Pollute this glorious scene! It cannot be.
Even as the smile of Heaven can pierce the depths
Of these dark caves, and bid the wild flowers bloom
In spots where man has never dared to tread ;
So thy sweet influence still is seen amid
These beetling cliffs. Some hearts yet beat for thee,
And bow alive to Heaven: thy spirit lives,
Ay, and shall live, when even the very name
Of tyrant is forgot. Lo! while I gaze
Upon the mist that wreathes yon mountain's brow,
The sunbeam touches it, and it becomes
A crown of glory on his hoary head :
Oh! is not this a presage of the dawn
Of freedom o'er the world? Hear me, then, bright And beaming Heaven! while kneeling thus I swear To live for FREEDOM, or with her—to die!
-Twas day-and yet there came no light,
Or only such as made more horrible
The desolation that before was hid
In the black shroud of darkness.-The red sun,
Blood-stained and dim, look'd on the fallen city
Like an affrighted murderer on the corse
Mangled beneath his foot.-The work is done!—
Silence is in the streets!-
Fanes, domes, and spires, lie crumbled on the ground;
Hovels are tost on palaces; and gold
Shines upon heaps of dust and scattered stones.
The voice of man is o'er; his might is crush'd
Like a bruis'd reed; the labours of his hand
Are strew'd as leaves before a tempest.
Where his rich temples lie! and see!
As the gaunt earthquake with his giant stride,
Again goes staggering by, how, roaring, fall
His everlasting pyramids, and mock
In reeking loneliness, the pride that called
Their feebleness eternal.
The silent multitude in breathless awe,
Stand on the shore of the mute, sullen sea,
|