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The dissonance ceas'd, and all seem'd calm and bright ;
When France, her front deep scar'd and gory,
Conceal'd with clustering wreaths of glory;

When, insupportably advancing,

Her arm made mockery of the warrior's camp; While timid looks of fury glancing,

Domestic treason, crushed beneath her fatal stamp, Writhed like a wounded dragon in his gore;

Then I reproach'd my fears that would not flee"And soon," I said, "shall Wisdom teach her lore In the low huts of them that toil and groan! And, conquering by her happiness alone,

Shall France compel the nations to be free,

Till Love and Joy look round, and call the earth their own."

Forgive me, Freedom! O, forgive those dreams!
I hear thy voice, I hear thy loud lament,
From bleak Helvetia's icy caverns sent―
I hear thy groans upon her blood-stain'd streams!
Heroes! that for your peaceful country perish'd―
And ye, that fleeing, spot your mountain-snows
With bleeding wounds, forgive me that I cherish'd
One thought that ever blessed your cruel foes!
To scatter rage and traitorous guilt

Where Peace her jealous home had built;

A patriot race to disinherit

Of all that made their stormy wilds so dear;

And with inexpiable spirit

To taint the bloodless freedom of the mountaineer-
O, France! that mockest heaven! adulterous, blind,
And patriot only in pernicious toils!

Are these thy boasts, champion of human kind,
To mix with kings in the low lust of sway,
Yell in the hunt, and share the murd'rous prey;

To insult the shrine of Liberty with spoils
From freemen torn-to tempt and to betray?

The sensual and the dark rebel in vain,

Slaves by their own compulsion! In mad game
They burst their manacles, and wear the name
Of Freedom, graven on a heavier chain !
O, Liberty! with profitless endeavour
Have I pursued thee many a weary hour;

But thou nor swell'st the victor's strain, nor ever
Didst breathe thy soul in forms of human power.
Alike from all, howe'er they praise thee,

(Nor prayer nor boastful name delays thee) Alike from priestcraft's harpy minions,

And factious blasphemy's obscener slaves,

Thou speedest on thy subtle pinions,

The guide of homeless winds, and playmate of the waves! And there I felt thee-on that sea-cliff's verge,

Whose pines, scarce travell'd by the breeze above,
Had made one murmur with the distant surge!
Yes, while I stood and gazed, my temples bare,
And that my being, through earth, sea, and air
Possessing all things with intensest love;

O, Liberty! my spirit felt thee there.

JULIA'S LETTER.

THEY tell me 'tis decided, you depart;
'Tis wise 'tis well, but not the less a pain;
I have no further claim on your young heart,-
Mine is the victim, and would be again;
To love too much has been the only art

I used. I write in haste, and if a stain

Be on this sheet, 'tis not what it appears,
My eye-balls burn and throb, but have no tears.

Byron.

I loved, I love you-for this love have lost
State, station, heaven, mankind's, my own esteem,
And yet can not regret what it hath cost,

So dear is still the memory of that dream;
Yet, if I name my guilt, 'tis not to boast,
None can deem harshlier of me than I deem:
I trace this scrawl because I cannot rest-
I've nothing to reproach, or to request.

Man's love is of man's life a thing apart,

'Tis woman's whole existence; man may range The court, camp, church, the vessel, and the mart, Sword, gown, gain, glory, offer in exchange Pride, fame, ambition, to fill up his heart,

And few there are whom these cannot estrange; Men have all these resources, we but one, To love again, and be again undone.

You will proceed in pleasure, and in pride,
Beloved and loving many; all is o'er

For me on earth, except some years to hide

My shame and sorrow deep in my heart's core;

These I could bear, but cannot cast aside

The passion which still rages as before! And so farewell-forgive me, love me-No, That word is idle now-but let it go.

My breast has been all weakness-is so yet;
But still I think I can collect my mind;
My blood still rushes where my spirit's set,
As roll the waves before the settled wind;
My heart is feminine, nor can forget-

To all, except one image, madly blind.
So shakes the needle, and so stands the pole,
As vibrates my fond heart to my fix'd soul.

I have no more to say, but linger still,
And dare not set my seal upon this sheet,
And yet I may as well the task fulfil,

My misery can scarce be more complete.
I had not lived till now, could sorrow kill;

Death shuns the wretch who fain the blow would meet, And I must even survive this last adieu,

And bear with life—to love and pray for you.

Don Juan.

THE GONDOLA.

Hervey.

THE Gondola glides

Like a spirit of night,
O'er the slumbering tides,
In the calm moonlight:-
The star of the north

Shews her golden eye,
But a brighter looks forth
From yon lattice on high!

Her taper is out,

And the silver beam
Floats the maiden about,

Like a beautiful dream!

And the beat of her heart

Makes her tremble all o'er;

And she lists, with a start,

To the dash of the oar,

But the moments are past,

And her fears are at rest, And her lover at last

Holds her clasp'd to his breast;

And the planet above,

And the quiet blue sea,

Are pledged to his love
And his constancy.

Her cheek is reclined

On the home of his breast,
And his fingers are twined
'Mid her ringlets, which rest
In many a fold

O'er his arm, that is placed
Round the cincture of gold
Which encircles her waist.

He looks on the stars

Which are gemming the blue, And devoutly he swears

He will ever be true;

Then bends him to hear

The low sound of her sigh,

And kiss the fond tear

From her beautiful eye.

And he watches its flashes,
Which brightly reveal
What the long fringing lashes
Would vainly conceal;
And reads-while he kneels
All his ardour to speak-

Her reply, as it steals
In a blush o'er her cheek!

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