Yet rears her crest, unconquer'd and sublime, May strike to those whose red right hands have bought RIVER, that rollest by the ancient walls, What if thy deep and ample stream should be Are not thy waters sweeping, dark, and strong? And such as thou art were my passions long. Time may have somewhat tamed them, not for ever; Thou overflow'st thy banks, and not for aye Thy bosom overboils, congenial river! Thy floods subside, and mine have sunk away: But left long wrecks behind, and now again, The current I behold will sweep beneath She will look on thee,-I have look'd on thee, Her bright eyes will be imaged in thy stream, That happy wave repass me in its flow! The wave that bears my tears returns no more : Distance, nor depth of wave, nor space of earth, As various as the climates of our birth. A stranger loves the lady of the land, Born far beyond the mountains, but his blood Is all meridian, as if never fann'd By the black wind that chills the polar flood. My blood is all meridian; were it not, I had not left my clime, nor should I be, In spite of tortures ne'er to be forgot, A slave again of love,—at least of thee. 'Tis vain to struggle-let me perish young— Live as I lived, and love as I have loved ; To dust if I return, from dust I sprung, And then, at least, my heart can ne'er be moved. |