74. THE POPLAR FIELD.
THE poplars are fell'd! farewell to the shade,
And the whispering sound of the cool colonnade • The winds play no longer and sing in the leaves, Nor Ouse on his bosom their image receives. Twelve years have elapsed since I last took a view Of my favourite field and the bank where they grew; And now in the grass behold they are laid,
And the tree is my seat that once lent me a shade. The blackbird has fled to another retreat,
Where the hazels afford him a screen from the heat;
And the scene, where his melody charm'd me before,
Resounds with his sweet flowing ditty no more.
My fugitive years are all hasting away,
And I must ere long lie as lowly as they,
With a turf on my breast, and a stone at my head,
Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead.
'Tis a sight to engage me, if anything can,
To muse on the perishing pleasures of man;
Though his life be a dream, his enjoyments, I see,
Have a being less durable even than he.
GREECE.
[From THE GIAOUR.]
E who hath bent him o'er the dead
Ere the first day of death is fled,
The first dark day of nothingness,
The last of danger and distress,—
(Before decay's defacing fingers
Have swept the lines where beauty lingers,)
And mark'd the mild angelic air,
The rapture of repose that's there, -
The fix'd yet tender traits that streak
The languor of the placid cheek,-
And but for that sad shrouded eye,
That fires not, wins not, weeps not, now,
And but for that chill changeless brow,
Where cold obstruction's apathy
Appals the gazing mourner's heart,
As if to him it could impart
The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon;·
Yes, but for these, and these alone,
Some moments, ay, one treacherous hour,
He still might doubt the tyrant's power,
So fair, so calm, so softly seal'd,
The first, last look by death reveal'd!
Such is the aspect of this shore;
'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more!
So coldly sweet, so deadly fair,
We start, for soul is wanting there.
Hers is the loveliness in death,
That parts not quite with parting breath;
But beauty with that fearful bloom,
That hue which haunts it to the tomb;
Expression's last receding ray,
A gilded halo hovering round decay,
The farewell beam of feeling past away;
Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth,
Which gleams, but warms no more its cherish'd earth!
Clime of the unforgotten brave!
Whose land, from plain to mountain cave,
Was freedom's home or glory's grave!
Shrine of the mighty! can it be,
That this is all remains of thee?
76. NAPOLEON AND THE YOUNG ENGLISH
LOVE contemplating-apart
From all his homicidal glory—
The traits that soften to our heart
Napoleon's story.
"Twas when his banners at Boulogne
Arm'd in our island every freeman,
His navy chanced to capture one
Poor British seaman.
They suffer'd him, I know not how,
Unprison'd on the shore to roam;
And aye was bent his youthful brow
On England's home.
His eye, methinks, pursued the flight
Of birds to Britain, half way over,
they could reach the white
A stormy midnight watch, he thought,
Than this sad state would have been dearer,
If but the storm his vessel brought
At last, when care had banish'd sleep,
He saw one morning, dreaming, doating,
An empty hogshead from the deep
Come shoreward floating.
He hid it in a cave, and wrought
The live-long day, laborious, lurking,
Until he launch'd a tiny boat,
By mighty working.
Oh dear me! 'twas a thing beyond
Description!-such a wretched wherry,
Perhaps, ne'er ventured on a pond,
Or cross'd a ferry.
For ploughing in the salt sea field,
It would have made the boldest shudder;
Untarr'd, uncompass'd, and unkeel'd,-
No sail. -no rudder.
From neighbouring woods he interlaced
His sorry skiff with wattled willows;
And thus equipp'd he would have pass'd
The foaming billows.
A French guard caught him on the beach,
His little Argo sorely jeering;
Till tidings of him chanced to reach
Napoleon's hearing.
With folded arms Napoleon stood,
Serene alike in peace and danger,
And, in his wonted attitude,
Address'd the stranger.
"Rash youth, that wouldst yon channel
On twigs and staves so rudely fashion'd,
Thy heart with some sweet English lass
Must be impassion'd."
"I have no sweetheart," said the lad;
"But, absent years from one another,
Great was the longing that I had
To see my mother."
"And so thou shalt," Napoleon said,
"You've both my favour justly won;
A noble mother must have bred
So brave a son."
He gave the tar a piece of gold,
And, with a flag of truce, commanded
He should be shipp'd to England old,
And safely landed.
Our sailor oft could scantly shift
To find a dinner, plain and hearty;
But never changed the coin and gift
Of Buonaparte.
77. THERE'S A GARDEN OF ROSES.
THERE'S
THERE'S a garden of roses by Bendamere's stream,
And the nightingale sings round it all the day
long;
In the time of my childhood 'twas like a sweet dream
To sit 'midst the roses, and hear the birds' song.
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