Volume 3 — POEMS 1814-1816.

Farewell! if ever fondest prayer For other's weal availed on high, Mine will not all be lost in air, But waft thy name beyond the sky. 'Twere vain to speak—to weep—to sigh: Oh! more than tears of blood can tell, When wrung from Guilt's expiring eye,[305] Are in that word—Farewell!—Farewell!

These lips are mute, these eyes are dry; But in my breast and in my brain, Awake the pangs that pass not by, The thought that ne'er shall sleep again. My soul nor deigns nor dares complain, Though Grief and Passion there rebel: I only know we loved in vain— I only feel—Farewell!—Farewell!

When we two parted In silence and tears, Half broken-hearted To sever for years, Pale grew thy cheek and cold, Colder thy kiss; Truly that hour foretold[mr] Sorrow to this.

The dew of the morning[ms] Sunk chill on my brow— It felt like the warning Of what I feel now. Thy vows are all broken,[mt] And light is thy fame: I hear thy name spoken, And share in its shame.

They name thee before me, A knell to mine ear; A shudder comes o'er me— Why wert thou so dear? They know not I knew thee, Who knew thee too well:— Long, long shall I rue thee, Too deeply to tell.

In secret we met— In silence I grieve. That thy heart could forget, Thy spirit deceive. If I should meet thee[mv] After long years, How should I greet thee?— With silence and tears.

I cannot talk of Love to thee, Though thou art young and free and fair! There is a spell thou dost not see, That bids a genuine love despair.

And yet that spell invites each youth, For thee to sigh, or seem to sigh; Makes falsehood wear the garb of truth, And Truth itself appear a lie.

If ever Doubt a place possest In woman's heart, 'twere wise in thine: Admit not Love into thy breast, Doubt others' love, nor trust in mine.

Perchance 'tis feigned, perchance sincere, But false or true thou canst not tell; So much hast thou from all to fear, In that unconquerable spell.

Of all the herd that throng around, Thy simpering or thy sighing train, Come tell me who to thee is bound By Love's or Plutus' heavier chain.

In some 'tis Nature, some 'tis Art That bids them worship at thy shrine; But thou deserv'st a better heart, Than they or I can give for thine.

For thee, and such as thee, behold, Is Fortune painted truly—blind! Who doomed thee to be bought or sold, Has proved too bounteous to be kind.

Each day some tempter's crafty suit Would woo thee to a loveless bed: I see thee to the altar's foot A decorated victim led.

Adieu, dear maid! I must not speak Whate'er my secret thoughts may be; Though thou art all that man can reck I dare not talk of Love to thee.

I speak not, I trace not, I breathe not thy name,[mw] There is grief in the sound, there is guilt in the fame: But the tear which now burns on my cheek may impart The deep thoughts that dwell in that silence of heart.

Too brief for our passion, too long for our peace, Were those hours—can their joy or their bitterness cease? We repent, we abjure, we will break from our chain,— We will part, we will fly to—unite it again!

Oh! thine be the gladness, and mine be the guilt![my] Forgive me, adored one!—forsake, if thou wilt;— But the heart which is thine shall expire undebased[mz] And man shall not break it—whatever thou mayst.[na]

And stern to the haughty, but humble to thee, This soul, in its bitterest blackness, shall be:[nb] And our days seem as swift, and our moments more sweet, With thee by my side, than with worlds at our feet.

One sigh of thy sorrow, one look of thy love,[nd] Shall turn me or fix, shall reward or reprove; And the heartless may wonder at all I resign— Thy lip shall reply, not to them, but to mine.

Who hath not glowed above the page where Fame Hath fixed high Caledon's unconquered name; The mountain-land which spurned the Roman chain, And baffled back the fiery-crested Dane, Whose bright claymore and hardihood of hand No foe could tame—no tyrant could command? That race is gone—but still their children breathe, And Glory crowns them with redoubled wreath: O'er Gael and Saxon mingling banners shine, And, England! add their stubborn strength to thine. The blood which flowed with Wallace flows as free, But now 'tis only shed for Fame and thee! Oh! pass not by the northern veteran's claim, But give support—the world hath given him fame! The humbler ranks, the lowly brave, who bled While cheerly following where the Mighty led—[309] Who sleep beneath the undistinguished sod Where happier comrades in their triumph trod, To us bequeath—'tis all their fate allows— The sireless offspring and the lonely spouse: She on high Albyn's dusky hills may raise The tearful eye in melancholy gaze, Or view, while shadowy auguries disclose The Highland Seer's anticipated woes, The bleeding phantom of each martial form Dim in the cloud, or darkling in the storm;[310] While sad, she chaunts the solitary song, The soft lament for him who tarries long— For him, whose distant relics vainly crave The Coronach's wild requiem to the brave! 'Tis Heaven—not man—must charm away the woe, Which bursts when Nature's feelings newly flow; Yet Tenderness and Time may rob the tear Of half its bitterness for one so dear; A Nation's gratitude perchance may spread A thornless pillow for the widowed head; May lighten well her heart's maternal care, And wean from Penury the soldier's heir; Or deem to living war-worn Valour just[311] Each wounded remnant—Albion's cherished trust— Warm his decline with those endearing rays, Whose bounteous sunshine yet may gild his days— So shall that Country—while he sinks to rest— His hand hath fought for—by his heart be blest!

There is a tear for all that die,[313] A mourner o'er the humblest grave; But nations swell the funeral cry, And Triumph weeps above the brave.

For them is Sorrow's purest sigh O'er Ocean's heaving bosom sent: In vain their bones unburied lie, All earth becomes their monument!

A tomb is theirs on every page, An epitaph on every tongue: The present hours, the future age, For them bewail, to them belong.

For them the voice of festal mirth Grows hushed, their name the only sound; While deep Remembrance pours to Worth The goblet's tributary round.

A theme to crowds that knew them not, Lamented by admiring foes, Who would not share their glorious lot? Who would not die the death they chose?

And, gallant Parker! thus enshrined Thy life, thy fall, thy fame shall be; And early valour, glowing, find A model in thy memory.

But there are breasts that bleed with thee In woe, that glory cannot quell; And shuddering hear of victory, Where one so dear, so dauntless, fell.

Where shall they turn to mourn thee less? When cease to hear thy cherished name? Time cannot teach forgetfulness, While Grief's full heart is fed by Fame.

Alas! for them, though not for thee, They cannot choose but weep the more; Deep for the dead the grief must be, Who ne'er gave cause to mourn before.

The Night came on the Waters—all was rest On Earth—but Rage on Ocean's troubled Heart. The Waves arose and rolled beneath the blast; The Sailors gazed upon their shivered Mast. In that dark Hour a long loud gathered cry From out the billows pierced the sable sky, And borne o'er breakers reached the craggy shore— The Sea roars on—that Cry is heard no more.

There is no vestige, in the Dawning light, Of those that shrieked thro' shadows of the Night. The Bark—the Crew—the very Wreck is gone, Marred—mutilated—traceless—all save one. In him there still is Life, the Wave that dashed On shore the plank to which his form was lashed, Returned unheeding of its helpless Prey— The lone survivor of that Yesterday— The one of Many whom the withering Gale Hath left unpunished to record their Tale. But who shall hear it? on that barren Sand None comes to stretch the hospitable hand. That shore reveals no print of human foot, Nor e'en the pawing of the wilder Brute; And niggard vegetation will not smile, All sunless on that solitary Isle.

The naked Stranger rose, and wrung his hair, And that first moment passed in silent prayer. Alas! the sound—he sunk into Despair— He was on Earth—but what was Earth to him, Houseless and homeless—bare both breast and limb? Cut off from all but Memory he curst His fate—his folly—but himself the worst. What was his hope? he looked upon the Wave— Despite—of all—it still may be his Grave!

He rose and with a feeble effort shaped His course unto the billows—late escaped: But weakness conquered—swam his dizzy glance, And down to Earth he sunk in silent trance. How long his senses bore its chilling chain, He knew not—but, recalled to Life again, A stranger stood beside his shivering form— And what was he? had he too scaped the storm?

He raised young Julian. "Is thy Cup so full Of bitterness—thy Hope—thy heart so dull That thou shouldst from Thee dash the Draught of Life, So late escaped the elemental strife! Rise—tho' these shores few aids to Life supply, Look upon me, and know thou shalt not die. Thou gazest in mute wonder—more may be Thy marvel when thou knowest mine and me. But come—The bark that bears us hence shall find Her Haven, soon, despite the warning Wind."

He raised young Julian from the sand, and such Strange power of healing dwelt within the touch, That his weak limbs grew light with freshened Power, As he had slept not fainted in that hour, And woke from Slumber—as the Birds awake, Recalled at morning from the branchéd brake, When the day's promise heralds early Spring, And Heaven unfolded woos their soaring wing: So Julian felt, and gazed upon his Guide, With honest Wonder what might next betide.

Belshazzar! from the banquet turn, Nor in thy sensual fulness fall; Behold! while yet before thee burn The graven words, the glowing wall,[nf] Many a despot men miscall Crowned and anointed from on high; But thou, the weakest, worst of all— Is it not written, thou must die?[ng]

Go! dash the roses from thy brow— Grey hairs but poorly wreathe with them; Youth's garlands misbecome thee now, More than thy very diadem,[nh] Where thou hast tarnished every gem:— Then throw the worthless bauble by, Which, worn by thee, ev'n slaves contemn; And learn like better men to die!

Oh! early in the balance weighed, And ever light of word and worth, Whose soul expired ere youth decayed, And left thee but a mass of earth. To see thee moves the scorner's mirth: But tears in Hope's averted eye Lament that even thou hadst birth— Unfit to govern, live, or die.

"O Lachrymarum fons, tenero sacros Ducentium ortus ex animo: quater Felix! in imo qui scatentem Pectore te, pia Nympha, sensit."

There's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away, When the glow of early thought declines in Feeling's dull decay; 'Tis not on Youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, which fades so fast,[ni] But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere Youth itself be past.

Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of happiness Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt or ocean of excess: The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in vain The shore to which their shivered sail shall never stretch again.

Then the mortal coldness of the soul like Death itself comes down; It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its own; That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our tears, And though the eye may sparkle still, 'tis where the ice appears.

Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth distract the breast, Through midnight hours that yield no more their former hope of rest; 'Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruined turret wreath[nj][316] All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and grey beneath.

Oh, could I feel as I have felt,—or be what I have been, Or weep as I could once have wept, o'er many a vanished scene; As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish though they be, So, midst the withered waste of life, those tears would flow to me.

I heard thy fate without a tear, Thy loss with scarce a sigh; And yet thou wast surpassing dear, Too loved of all to die. I know not what hath seared my eye— Its tears refuse to start; But every drop, it bids me dry, Falls dreary on my heart.

Yes, dull and heavy, one by one, They sink and turn to care, As caverned waters wear the stone, Yet dropping harden there: They cannot petrify more fast, Than feelings sunk remain, Which coldly fixed regard the past, But never melt again.

Bright be the place of thy soul! No lovelier spirit than thine E'er burst from its mortal control, In the orbs of the blessed to shine. On earth thou wert all but divine, As thy soul shall immortally be;[nk] And our sorrow may cease to repine When we know that thy God is with thee.

Light be the turf of thy tomb![nl][318] May its verdure like emeralds be![nm] There should not be the shadow of gloom In aught that reminds us of thee. Young flowers and an evergreen tree[nn] May spring from the spot of thy rest: But nor cypress nor yew let us see; For why should we mourn for the blest?

Farewell to the Land, where the gloom of my Glory Arose and o'ershadowed the earth with her name— She abandons me now—but the page of her story, The brightest or blackest, is filled with my fame.[no] I have warred with a World which vanquished 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 crowned me, I made thee the gem and the wonder of earth,— But thy weakness decrees I should leave as I found thee,[np] Decayed 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 soared with eyes fixed on Victory's sun![nq]

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 withered, thy tear 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!

Must thou go, my glorious Chief, Severed from thy faithful few? Who can tell thy warrior's grief, Maddening o'er that long adieu?[nr] Woman's love, and Friendship's zeal, Dear as both have been to me—[ns] What are they to all I feel, With a soldier's faith for thee?[nt]

Idol of the soldier's soul! First in fight, but mightiest now;[nu] Many could a world control; Thee alone no doom can bow. By thy side for years I dared Death; and envied those who fell, When their dying shout was heard, Blessing him they served so well.[321]

Would that I were cold with those, Since this hour I live to see; When the doubts of coward foes[nv] Scarce dare trust a man with thee, Dreading each should set thee free! Oh! although in dungeons pent, All their chains were light to me, Gazing on thy soul unbent.

Would the sycophants of him Now so deaf to duty's prayer,[nw] Were his borrowed glories dim, In his native darkness share? Were that world this hour his own, All thou calmly dost resign, Could he purchase with that throne Hearts like those which still are thine?[nx]

My Chief, my King, my Friend, adieu! Never did I droop before; Never to my Sovereign sue, As his foes I now implore: All I ask is to divide Every peril he must brave; Sharing by the hero's side His fall—his exile—and his grave.[ny]

We do not curse thee, Waterloo! Though Freedom's blood thy plain bedew; There 'twas shed, but is not sunk— Rising from each gory trunk, Like the water-spout from ocean, With a strong and growing motion— It soars, and mingles in the air, With that of lost La Bédoyère—[323] With that of him whose honoured grave Contains the "bravest of the brave." A crimson cloud it spreads and glows, But shall return to whence it rose; When 'tis full 'twill burst asunder— Never yet was heard such thunder As then shall shake the world with wonder— Never yet was seen such lightning As o'er heaven shall then be bright'ning! Like the Wormwood Star foretold By the sainted Seer of old, Show'ring down a fiery flood, Turning rivers into blood.[324]

The Chief has fallen, but not by you, Vanquishers of Waterloo! When the soldier citizen Swayed not o'er his fellow-men— Save in deeds that led them on Where Glory smiled on Freedom's son— Who, of all the despots banded, With that youthful chief competed? Who could boast o'er France defeated, Till lone Tyranny commanded? Till, goaded by Ambition's sting, The Hero sunk into the King? Then he fell:—so perish all, Who would men by man enthral!

And thou, too, of the snow-white plume! Whose realm refused thee ev'n a tomb;[325] Better hadst thou still been leading France o'er hosts of hirelings bleeding, Than sold thyself to death and shame For a meanly royal name; Such as he of Naples wears, Who thy blood-bought title bears. Little didst thou deem, when dashing On thy war-horse through the ranks. Like a stream which burst its banks, While helmets cleft, and sabres clashing, Shone and shivered fast around thee— Of the fate at last which found thee: Was that haughty plume laid low By a slave's dishonest blow? Once—as the Moon sways o'er the tide, It rolled in air, the warrior's guide; Through the smoke-created night Of the black and sulphurous fight, The soldier raised his seeking eye To catch that crest's ascendancy,— And, as it onward rolling rose, So moved his heart upon our foes. There, where death's brief pang was quickest, And the battle's wreck lay thickest, Strewed beneath the advancing banner Of the eagle's burning crest— (There with thunder-clouds to fan her, Who could then her wing arrest— Victory beaming from her breast?) While the broken line enlarging Fell, or fled along the plain; There be sure was Murat charging! There he ne'er shall charge again!

O'er glories gone the invaders march, Weeps Triumph o'er each levelled arch— But let Freedom rejoice, With her heart in her voice; But, her hand on her sword, Doubly shall she be adored; France hath twice too well been taught The "moral lesson"[326] dearly bought— Her safety sits not on a throne, With Capet or Napoleon! But in equal rights and laws, Hearts and hands in one great cause— Freedom, such as God hath given Unto all beneath his heaven, With their breath, and from their birth, Though guilt would sweep it from the earth; With a fierce and lavish hand Scattering nations' wealth like sand; Pouring nations' blood like water, In imperial seas of slaughter!

But the heart and the mind, And the voice of mankind, Shall arise in communion— And who shall resist that proud union? The time is past when swords subdued— Man may die—the soul's renewed: Even in this low world of care Freedom ne'er shall want an heir; Millions breathe but to inherit Her for ever bounding spirit— When once more her hosts assemble, Tyrants shall believe and tremble— Smile they at this idle threat? Crimson tears will follow yet.[327]

There be none of Beauty's daughters With a magic like thee; And like music on the waters Is thy sweet voice to me: When, as if its sound were causing The charméd Ocean's pausing, The waves lie still and gleaming, And the lulled winds seem dreaming:

And the midnight Moon is weaving Her bright chain o'er the deep; Whose breast is gently heaving, As an infant's asleep: So the spirit bows before thee, To listen and adore thee; With a full but soft emotion, Like the swell of Summer's ocean.

Star of the brave!—whose beam hath shed Such glory o'er the quick and dead— Thou radiant and adored deceit! Which millions rushed in arms to greet,— Wild meteor of immortal birth! Why rise in Heaven to set on Earth?

Souls of slain heroes formed thy rays; Eternity flashed through thy blaze; The music of thy martial sphere Was fame on high and honour here; And thy light broke on human eyes, Like a Volcano of the skies.

Like lava rolled thy stream of blood, And swept down empires with its flood; Earth rocked beneath thee to her base, As thou didst lighten through all space; And the shorn Sun grew dim in air, And set while thou wert dwelling there.

Before thee rose, and with thee grew, A rainbow of the loveliest hue Of three bright colours,[329] each divine, And fit for that celestial sign; For Freedom's hand had blended them, Like tints in an immortal gem.

One tint was of the sunbeam's dyes; One, the blue depth of Seraph's eyes; One, the pure Spirit's veil of white Had robed in radiance of its light: The three so mingled did beseem The texture of a heavenly dream.

Star of the brave! thy ray is pale, And darkness must again prevail! But, oh thou Rainbow of the free! Our tears and blood must flow for thee. When thy bright promise fades away, Our life is but a load of clay.

And Freedom hallows with her tread The silent cities of the dead; For beautiful in death are they Who proudly fall in her array; And soon, oh, Goddess! may we be For evermore with them or thee!

They say that Hope is happiness; But genuine Love must prize the past, And Memory wakes the thoughts that bless: They rose the first—they set the last;

And all that Memory loves the most Was once our only Hope to be, And all that Hope adored and lost Hath melted into Memory.

Alas! it is delusion all: The future cheats us from afar, Nor can we be what we recall, Nor dare we think on what we are.