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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 shiver'd 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 foun

tain of our tears, And though the eye may sparkle still, 't is

where the ice appears.

Would that breast, by thee glanced over,

Every inmost thought could show ! Then thou wouldst at last discover

'Twas not well to spurn it so. Though the world for this commend

Though it smile upon the blow,
Even its praises must offend thee,

Founded on another's woe :
Though my many faults defaced me,

Could no other arm he found,
Than the one which once embraced me,

To inflict a cureless wound? Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not ;

Love may sink by slow decay, But by sudden wrench, believe not

Hearts can thus be torn a way :

Though wit may flash from fluent lips,

and mirth listract the breast, Through midnight hours that yield no

more their former hope of rest; 'Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruin'd

turret wreath, All green and wildly fresh without, but

worn and gray 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 vanish'd scene; As springs in deserts found seem sweet,

all brackish though they be, So, midst the wither'd waste of life, those tears would flow to me.

Murch, 1815. 1816.


“Alas !they had been friends in youth;

But whispering tongues can poison truth
And constancy lives in realms above;
And life is thorny; and youth is vain;
And to be wroth with one we love,
Doth work like madness in the brain ;
But never either found another
To free the hollow heart from paining-
They stood aloof, the scars remaining,
Like cliffs which has been rent asunder;
A dreary sea now Hows between,
But neither heat, not frost, nor thunder,
Shall wholly do away, I ween,
The marks of that which once hath been."

COLERIDGE's Christabel, FARE thee well! and if for ever,

Still for ever, fare thee well : Even though unforgiving, never

'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel.

Still thine own its life retaineth,

Still must mine, though bleeding, beat: And the undying thouglit which paineth

Is-that we no more may meet. These are words of deeper sorrow

Than the wail above the dead; Both shall live, but every morrow

Wake us from a widow'd bed. And when thou wouldst solace gather,

When our child's first accents flow, Wilt thou teach her to say “ Father!”

Though his care she must forego ? When her little hands shall press thee,

When her lip to thine is press'd, Think of him whose prayer shall bless

thee, Think of him thy love had bless'd! Should her lineaments resemble

Those thou never more may'st see, Then thy heart will softly tremble

With a pulse yet true to me. All my faults perchance thou knowest,

All my madness none can kuol; All my liopes, where'er thou goest,

Wither, yet with thee they go. Every feeling hath been shaken ;

Pride, which not a world could bow, Bows to thee-by thee forsaken,

Even my soul forsakes me now: But 't is done-all words are idle

Words from me are vainer still ; But the thoughts we cannot bridle

Force their way without the will.

Would that breast were bared before thee

Where thy head so oft hath lain, While that placid sleep came o'er thee

Which thou ne'er canst know again :

Fare thee well! thus disunited,

Torn from every nearer tie, Sear'd in heart, and lone, and blighted, More than this I scarce can die.

March 18, 1816. April 4, 1816.


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 charmed ocean's pausing,
The waves lie still and gleaming,
And the lulld 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.

March 28, 1816. 1816.



Swift be their guidance, wheresoe'er it

lead ! Though the strain'd mast should quiver

as a reed, And the rent canvas fluttering strew the

gale, Still must I on; for I am as a weed, Flung from the rock, on Ocean's foam to

sail Where'er the surge may sweep, the tem

pest's breath prevail. In my youth's summer I did sing of One, The wandering outlaw of his own dark

mind; Again I seize the theme, then but begun, And bear it with me, as the rushing

wind Bears the cloud onwards : in that Tale I

find The furrows of long thought, and dried

up tears, Which, ebbing, leave a sterile track be.

hind. O’er which all heavily the journeying

year's Plod the last sands of life, where not a

flower appears. Since my young days of passion--joy, or

pain, Perchance my heart and harp have lost

a string, And both may jar: it may be, that in vain I would essay as I have sung to sing. Yet, though a dreary strain, to this I

cling; So that it wean me from the weary dream Of selfish grief or gladness--so it fiing Forgetfulness around me--it shall seem To me, though to none else, a not un

grateful theme. He, who grown aged in this world of In deeds, not years, piercing the depthis

of life, So that no wonder waits him ; nor below Can love or sorrow, fame, ambition,

strife, Cut to his heart again with the keen

knife Of silent, sharp endurance: he can tell Why thought seeks refuge in lone caves, With airy images, and shapes which

dwell Still unimpair'd, though old, in the soul's

haunted cell.

"Afin que cette application vous forçât de penser à autre chose ; il n'y a en vérité de remède que celui-là et le temps." Lettre du Roi de Prusse à D'Alembert, Sept. 7, 1776.


Is thy face like thy mother's, my fair

child ! ADA! sole daughter of my house and

heart ? When last I saw thy young blue eyes

they smiled, And then we parted, -not as now we

part, But with a hope.

Awaking with a start, The waters heave around me; and on

high The winds lift up their voices: I depart, Whither I know not; but the hour's

gone by, When Albion's lessening shores could

grieve or glad mine eye. Once more upon the waters ! yet once

more ! And the waves bound beneath me as a

steed That knows his rider. Welcome to their


yet rife

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Secure in guarded coldness, he had mix'a Again in fancied safety with his kind, And deem'd his spirit now so firmly fix'd And sheath'd with an invulnerable mind, That, if no joy, no sorrow lurk'd behind ; And he, as one, might ʼmidst the many

stand Unheeded, searching through the crowd

to find Fit speculation ; such as in strange land He found in wonder-works of God and

Nature's hand.

Yet must I think less wildly ;--I have

thought Too long and darkly, till my brain be

cane, In its own eddy boiling and o’erwrought, A whirling gulf of phantasy and flame : And thus, untaught in youth my heart

to tame, My springs of life were poison'd. 'T is

too late! Yet am I changed ; though still enough

the same In strength to bear what time cannot

abate, And feed on bitter fruits without ac.

cusing Fate. Something too much of this :--but now

't is past, And the spell closes with its silent seal. Long absent HAROLD re-appears at last ; He of the breast which fain no more

would feel, Wrung with the wounds which kill not

but ne'er heal ; Yet Time, who changes all, had alter'd

hiin In soul and aspect as in age: years steal Fire from the mind as vigor from the

limb; And life's enchanted cup but sparkles

near the brim.

But who can view the ripen d rose, nor

seek To wear it? who can curiously behold The smoothness and the sheen of beauty's

cheek, Nor feel the heart can never all grow

old ? Who can contemplate Fame through

clouds unfold The star which rises o'er her steep, nor

climb ? Harold, once more within the vortex,

rollid On with the giddy circle, chasing Time, Yet with a nobler aim than in his youth's

fond prime. But soon he knew himself the most unfit Of men to herd with Man; with whom he

held Little in common ; untaught to submit His thoughts to others, though his soul

was quell'u In youth by his own thoughts; still un

compell'd, He would not yield dominion of his

mind To spirits against whom his own rebellid : Proud though in desolation; which

could find A life within itself, to breathe without


His had been quaffèd too quickly, and he

found The dregs were wormwood, --but he

fill' again, And from a purer fount, on holier ground And deem'd its spring perpetual; but in

vain ! Still round him clung in visibly a chain hich gallid for ever, fettering though

unseen, And heavy though it clank'd not; worn

with pain,

Where rose the mountains, there to him

were friends : Where rollid the ocean, thereon was lis

home ; Where a ue sky, and glowing clime,

extends, He had the passion and the power to

roam ;

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But in Man's dwellings he became a

thing Restless and worn, and stern and weari

some, Droop'd as a wild-born falcon with clipt

wing, To whom the boundless air alone were

home : Then came his fit again, which to o'er.

come, As eagerly the barr'd-up bird will beat His breast and beak against his wiry

dome Till the blood tinge his plumage, so the

heat Of his impeded soul would through his

bosom eat.

Self-exiled Harold wanders forth again, With nought of hope left, but with less

of gloom ; The very knowledge that he lived in vain, That all was over on this side the tomb, Had made Despair a smilingness assume, Which, though 't were wild,

-as on the plunder'd wreck When mariners would madly meet their

doom With draughts intemperate on the sink

ing deck, Did yet inspire a cheer, which he forbore

to check.

Fit retribution ! Gaul may champ the

bit And foam in fetters ;-but is Earth more

free? Did nations combat to make One sub

mit; Or league to teach all kings true sov

ereignty? What! shall reviving Thraldom again

be The patch’d-up idol of enlighten'd days ? Shall we, who struck the Lion down,

shall we Pay the Wolf homage? proffering lowly

gaze And servile knees to thrones ? No;

prove before ye praise ! If not, o'er one fallen despot boast no

more! In vain fair cheeks were furrow'd with

hot tears For Europe's flowers long rooted up


And roused the vengeance blood alone

could quell; He rushi'd into the field, and, foremost

fighting, fell. Ah! then and there was hurrying to

and fro, And gathering tears, and tremblings

of distress, And cheeks all pale, which but an

hour ago

The trampler of her vineyards; in vain

years of death, depopulation, bondage, fears, Have all been borne, and broken by the

accord Of roused-up millions; all that most

endears Glory, is when the myrtle wreathes a

sword Such as Harmodius drew on Athens'

tyrant lord. There was a sound of revelry by night And Belgium's capital had gatherd

then Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright The lamps shone o'er fair women and

brave men ; A thousand hearts beat happily ; and

when Music arose with its voluptuous swell, Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which

spake again, And all went merry as a marriage bell; But hush ! bark! a deep sound strikes

like a rising knelii Did ye not hear it ?-No; 'twas but the

wind, Or the car rattling o'er the stony

street; On with the dance ! let joy be uncon

fined ; No sleep till morn, when Youth and

Pleasure meet To chase the glowing Hours with flying

feetBut hark !-that heavy sound breaks in

once more, As if the clouds its echo would repeat; And nearer, clearer, deadlier than be

fore! Arm! Arm! it is--it is—the cannon's

opening roar! Within a window'd niche of that high

hall Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain ; he

did hear That sound the first amidst the fes

tival, And caught its tone with Death's pro

phetic ear; And when they smiled because he

deem'l it near, His heart more truly knew that pea

too well Which stretch'd his father on a bloody


war ;

Blush'd at the praise of their own lore.

liness ; And there were sudden partings, such

as press The life from out young hearts, and

choking sighs Which ne'er might be repeated; wlio

could guess If ever more should meet those mutual

eyes, Since upon night so sweet such awful

morn could rise ! And there was mounting in hot haste :

the steed, The mustering squadron, and the clat

tering car, Went paring forward with impetuous

speedl, And swiftly forming in the ranks of And the deep thunder peal on peal afar ; And near, the beat of the darming

drum Roused up the soldier ere the mornas

star; While throng'd the citizens witla ter

ror dumb, Or whispering, with white lips--" The

foe, they come! they come !" And wild and high the “ Cameroit's

gathering ” rose! The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's

hills Have heard, and heard, too, have lider

Saxon foes :Ilow in the noon of night that pibroch

thrills, Savage and shrill! But with the breat

which fills Their mountain-pipe, so fill the moun

taineers With the fierce native daring which :

instils The stirring memory of a thousandla And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each

clansman's ears :


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