By gazing on thyself grown blind,

Thou taught'st the rest to see. With might unquestion'd,-power to save Thine only gift hath been the grave

To those that worshipp'd thee; Nor till thy fall could mortals guess Ambition's less than littleness!

3.

Thanks for that lesson-it will teach
To after-warriors more
Than high Philosophy can preach,
And vainly preach'd before.
That spell upon the minds of men
Breaks never to unite again,

That led them to adore
Those Pagod things of sabre-sway,
With fronts of brass, and feet of clay.

4.

The triumph, and the vanity,

The rapture of the strife
The earthquake voice of Victory,

To thee the breath of life;
The sword, the sceptre, and that sway
Which man seem'd made but to obey,
Wherewith renown was rife-

All quell'd!-Dark Spirit! what must be
The madness of thy memory!

5.

The Desolator desolate!

The victor overthrown!

The Arbiter of others' fate

A Suppliant for his own!

Is it some yet imperial hope

That with such change can calmly cope?

Or dread of death alone?

To die a prince-or live a slave-
Thy choice is most ignobly brave!

6.

He who of old would rend the oak,

Dream'd not of the rebound;
Chain'd by the trunk he vainly broke-

Alone-how look'd he round?
Thou in the sternness of thy strength
An equal deed has done at length,
And darker fate has found;
He fell, the forest-prowlers' prey,
But thou must eat thy heart away!

7.

The Roman, when his burning heart
Was slaked with blood of Rome,
Threw down the dagger-dared depart,
In savage grandeur, home.-
He dared depart in utter scorn

Of men that such a yoke had borne,

Yet left him such a doom!

His only glory was that hour

Of self-upheld abandon'd power.

8.

The Spaniard, when the lust of sway
Had lost its quickening spell,
Cast crowns for rosaries away,
An empire for a cell;

A strict accountant of his beads,

A subtle disputant on creeds,

His dotage trifled well:

Yet better had he neither known

A bigot's shrine, nor despot's throne.

9.

But thou-from thy reluctant hand

The thunderbolt is wrungToo late thou leav'st the high command To which thy weakness clung;

Then haste thee to thy sullen Isle,
And gaze upon the sea;
That element may meet thy smile,
It ne'er was ruled by thee!
Or trace with thine all idle hand
In loitering mood upon the sand
That earth is now as free!
That Corinth's pedagogue hath now
Transferr'd his by-word to thy brow.
15.
Thou Timour! in his captive's cages
What thoughts will there be thine,
While brooding in thy prison'd rage

But one-" The world was mine !"
Unless, like he of Babylon,
All sense is with thy sceptre gone,
Life will not long confino
That spirit pour'd so widely forth-
So long obey'd-so little worth!
16.

Or like the thief of fire from heaven,
Wilt thou withstand the shock?
And share with him, the unforgiven,
His vulture and his rock!
Foredoom'd by God-by man accurst,
And that last act, though not thy worst,
The very Fiend's arch mock;"
He in his fall preserved his pride,
And, if a mortal, had as proudly died!

WHEN the last sunsnine of expiring day
In summer's twilight weeps itself away,
Who hath not felt the softness of the hour
Sink on the heart, as dew along the flower?
With a pure feeling which absorbs and awes
While Nature makes that melancholy pause,
Her breathing moment on the bridge where Time
Of light and darkness forms an arch sublime,
Who hath not shared that calm so still and deep,

When the loud cry of trampled Hindostan*
Arose to heaven in her appeal from man,
His was the thunder-his the avenging rod,
The wrath-the delegated voice of God!
Which shook the nations through his lips--and blazed
Till vanquish'd senates trembled as they praised.

A holy concord-and a bright regret,
A glorious sympathy with suns that set?
'Tis not harsh sorrow-but a tender wo,
Nameless, but dear to gentle hearts below,
Felt without bitterness-but full and clear
A sweet dejection-a transparent tear,
Unmix'd with worldly grief or selfish stain,
Shed without shame-and secret without pain.

Even as the tenderness that hour instills When Summer's day declines along the hills, So feels the fullness of our heart and eyes When all of Genius which can perish dies. A mighty Spirit is eclips'd-a Power Hath pass'd from day to darkness-to whose hour Of light no likeness is bequeath'd-no name, Focus at once of all the rays of Fame! The flash of Wit-the bright Intelligence, The beam of Song-the blaze of Eloquence, Set with their Sun-but still have left behind The enduring produce of immortal Mind; Fruits of a genial morn, and glorious noon, A deathless part of him who died too soon. But small that portion of the wondrous whole, These sparkling segments of that circling soul, Which all embraced-and lighten'd over all, To cheer-to pierce-to please—or to appal. From the charm'd council to the festive board, Of hunian feelings the unbounded lord; In whose acclaim the loftiest voices vied, The praised-the proud-who made his

Which knew not what it was to intermit;
The glowing portraits, fresh from life, that bring
Home to our hearts the truth from which they spring;
These wondrous beings of his Fancy, wrought
To fulness by the fiat of his thought,
Here in their first abode you still may meet,
Bright with the hues of his Promethean heat,
A halo of the light of other days,
Which still the splendour of its orb betrays.

But should there be to whom the fatal blight, Of failing Wisdom yields a base delight, Men who exult when minds of heavenly tone Jar in the music which was born their own, Still let them pause--Ah! little do they know That what to them seem'd Vice might be but Wo. llard is his fate on whom the public gaze Is fix'd for ever to detract or praise; Repose denies her requiem to his name, And folly loves the martyrdom of Fame. The secret enemy whose sleepless eye Stands sentinel-accuser--judge-and spy, The foe--the fool-the jealous-and the vain, The envious who but breathe in others' pain, Behold the host! delighting to deprave, Who track the steps of Glory to the grave,

See Fox, Burke, and Pitt's eulogy on Mr. Sheridan's speech on the charges exhibited against Mr. Hastings in the House of Commons. Mi

Watch every fault that daring Genius owes
Half to the ardour which its birth bestows,
Distort the truth, accumulate the lie,
And pile the Pyramid of Calumny!
These are his portion-but if join❜d to these
Gaunt Poverty should league with deep Disease,
the high Spirit must forget to soar,
And stoop to strive with Misery at the door,
To sooth Indignity-and face to face
Meet sordid Rage-and wrestle with Disgrace,
To find in Hope but the renew'd caress,
The serpent-fold of further Faithlessness,-
If such may be the Ills which men assail,
What marvel if at last the mightiest fail?
Breasts to whom all the strength of feeling given

Bear hearts electric-charged with fire from Heaven,
Black with the rude collision, inly torn,

By clouds surrounded, and on whirlwinds borne,

To mourn the vanish'd beam-and add our mite
Of praise in payment of a long delight.
Ye Orators! whom yet our councils yield,
Mourn for the veteran Hero of your field!
The worthy rival of the wondrous Three !*
Whose words were sparks of Immortality!
Ye Bards! to whom the Drama's Muse is dear,
He was your Master-emulate him here!
Ye men of wit and social eloquence!

He was your brother-bear his ashes hence!
While Powers of mind, almost of boundless range,
Complete in kind-as various in their change,
While eloquence-Wit-Poesy-and Mirth,
That humble Harmonist of care on Earth,
Survive within our souls-while lives our sense
Of pride in Merit's proud pre-eminence,
Long shall we seek his likeness-long in vain,
And turn to all of him which may remain,

Such things should be-if such have ever been; Ours be the gentler wish, the kinder task,

To give the tribute Glory need not ask,

Fox-Pitt-Burke.

II.

I.

LONG years!-It tries the thrilling frame to bear
And eagle-spirit of a Child of Song-
Long years of outrage, calumny, and wrong;
Imputed madness, prison'd solitude,
And the mind's canker in its savage mood,
When the impatient thirst of light and air
Parches the heart; and the abhorred grate,
Marring the sunbeams with its hideous shade,
Works through the throbbing eyeball to the brain
With a hot sense of heaviness and pain;
And bare, at once, Captivity display'd
Stands scoffing through the never-open'd gate,
Which nothing through its bars admits, save day
And tasteless food, which I have eat alone

Till its unsocial bitterness is gone;
And I can banquet like a beast of prey,
Sullen and lonely, couching in the cave
Which is my lair, and—it may be—my grave.
All this hath somewhat worn me, and may wear,
But must be borne. I stoop not to despair;
For I have battled with mine agony,
And made me wings wherewith to overfly
The narrow circus of my dungeon wall,
And freed the Holy Sepulchre from thrall;

But thou, my young creation! my soul's child!
Which ever playing round me came and smiled,
And woo'd me from myself with thy sweet sight,
Thou too art gone-and so is my delight:
And therefore do I weep and inly bleed
With this last bruise upon a broken reed.
Thou too art ended-what is left me now?
For I have anguish yet to bear-and how?
I know not that-but in the innate force
Of my own spirit shall be found resource.
I have not sunk, for I had no remorse,

Nor cause for such: they call'd me mad-and why?
Oh Leonora! wilt not thou reply?

I was indeed delirious in my heart

To lift my love so lofty as thou art;

But still my phrensy was not of the mind;

I knew my fault, and feel my punishment

Not less because I suffer it unbent.

That thou wert beautiful, and I not blind,
Hath been the sin which shuts me from mankind;
But let them go, or torture as they will,
My heart can multiply thine image still;
Successful love may sate itself away,

The wretched are the faithful; 't is their fate
To have all feeling save the one decay
And every passion into one dilate,
As rapid rivers into ocean pour;
But ours is fathomless, and hath no shore

hark! the long and maniac cry Of minds and bodies in captivity.

And hark! the lash and the increasing howl,
And the half-inarticulate blasphemy!

There be some here with worse than phrensy foul,
Some who do still goad on the o'er-labour'd mind,
And dim the little light that's left behind
With needless torture, as their tyrants will
Is wound up to the lust of doing ill:

With these and with their victims am I class'd,

'Mid sounds and sights like these long years have pass'd; 'Mid sights and sounds like these my life may close: So let it be for then I shall repose.

IV.

I have been patient, let me be so yet;

I had forgotten half I would forget,

But it revives-oh! would it were my lot

To be forgetful as I am forgot!

Feel I not wroth with those who bade me dwell
In this vast lazar-house of many woes?
Where laughter is not mirth, nor thought the mind,
Nor words a language, nor ev'n men mankind;
Where cries reply to curses, shrieks to blows,
And each is tortured in his separate hell--
For we are crowded in our solitudes-
Many, but each divided by the wall,
Which echoes Madness in her babbiing moods;-
While all can hear, none heed his neighbour's call-
None! save that One, the veriest wretch of all,
Who was not made to be the mate of these,
Nor bound between Distraction and Disease.
Feel I not wreth with those who placed me here?
Who have debased me in the minds of men,
Debarring me the usage of my own,
Blighting my life in best of its career,
Branding my thoughts as things to shun and fear?
Would I not pay them back these pangs again,
And teach them inward sorrow's stifled groan?
The struggle to be calm, and cold distress,
Which undermines our Stoical success?
No!-still too proud to be vindictive--[
Have pardon'd princes' insults, and would die.
Yes, Sister of my Sovereign! for thy sake
I weed all bitterness from out my breast,
It hath no business where thou art a guest;
Thy brother hates-but I can not detest;
Thou pitiest not-but I can not forsake.

V.

Look on a love which knows not to despair,
But all unquench'd is still my better part,
Dwelling deep in my shut and silent heart
As dwells the gather'd lightning in its cloud,
Encompass'd with its dark and rolling shroud,
Till struck,-forth flies the all-ethereal dart!
And thus at the collision of thy name

The vivid thought still flushes through my frame,
And for a moment all things as they were
Flit by me; they are gone-I am the same.
And yet my love without ambition grew;
I knew thy state, my station, and I knew
A princess was no love-mate for a bard;
I told it not, I breathed it not, it was
Sufficient to itself, its own reward;
And if my eyes reveal'd it, they, alas!
Were punish'd by the silentness of thine,
And yet I did not venture to repine.
Thou wert to me a crystal-girded shrine,
Worshipp'd at holy distance, and around
Hallow'd and meekly kiss'd the saintly ground;
Not for thou wert a princess, but that Love
Hath robed thee with a glory, and array'd
Thy lineaments in beauty that dismay'd-
Oh not dismay'd—but awed, like One above;

And in that sweet severity there was

A something which all softness did surpass-
I know not how-thy genius master'd mine—
My star stood still before thee:—if it were
Presumptuous thus to love without design,
That sad fatality hash cost me dear;
But thou art dearest still, and I should be
Fit for this cell, which wrongs me, but for thee.
The very love which lock'd me to my chain
Hath lighten'd half its weight; and for the rest,
Though heavy, lent me vigour to sustain,
And look to thee with undivided breast
And foil the ingenuity of Pain.

VI.

It is no marvel-from my very birth

My soul was drunk with love, which did pervade
And mingle with whate'er I saw on earth;
Of cbjects all inanimate I made

Idols, and out of wild and lonely flowers,
And rocks, whereby they grew, a paradise,
Where I did lay me down within the shade
Of waving trees, and dream'd uncounted hours,
Though I was chid for wandering; and the wise
Shook their white aged heads o'er me, and said
Of such materials wretched men were made,
And such a truant boy would end in wo,
And that the only lesson was a blow;
And then they smote me, and I did not weep,
But cursed them in my heart, and to my haunt
Return'd and wept alone, and dream'd again
The visions which arise without a sleep.
And with my years my soul began to pant
With feelings of strange tumult and soft pain;
And the whole heart exhaled into One Want,
But undefined and wandering, till the day

I found the thing I sought, and that was thee;
And then I lost my being all to be
Absorb'd in thine-the world was past away-
Thou didst annihilate the earth to me!

VII.

I loved all solitude-but little thought
To spend I know not what of life, remote
From all communion with existence, save
The maniac and his tyrant; had I been
Their fellow, many years ere this had seen
My mind like theirs corrupted to its grave,
But who hath seen me writhe, or heard me rave?
Perchance in such a cell we suffer more
Than the wreck'd sailor on his desert shore;
The world is all before him-mine is here,
Scarce twice the space they must accord my bier.
What though he perish, he may lift his eye
And with a dying glance upbraid the sky-
I will not raise my own in such reproof,
Although 't is clouded by my dungeon roof.

Yet do I feel at times my mind decline,
But with a sense of its decay :-I sea
Unwonted lights along my prison shine,
And a strange demon, who is vexing me
With pilfering pranks and petty pains, below
The feeling of the healthful and the free:
But much to One, who long hath suffer'd so,
Sickness of heart, and narrowness of place,
And all that may be borne, or can debase.
I thought mine enemies had been but man,
But spirits may be leagued with them-all Earth
Abandons-Heaven forgets me ;-in the dearth
Of such defence the Powers of Evil can,
It may be, tempt me further, and prevail
Against the outworn creature they assail.
Why in this furnace is my spirit proved
Like steel in tempering fire? because I loved?