For the Illustrious Dead?-So fond is Grief!-
It ever loves, with melancholy pleasure,
To suit each passing thing, to that which chief
Employs the tender thought, as the mind's richest treasure!
Ah me! I fondly wander!—
Receive the Bard, some thick and cypress bower,
Where the sun hath no power;
Near which lorn streams meander,
Mournfully and slow!
There shall my sad thoughts ponder,
And tune the high harp's prompted flow!
Here I'll digest the errant strain,
If agitated feeling break not way,
And shatter widely wide again
The purpose of the lay!
The Heir of England's high and mighty throne,-
Queen of our love-desires-hopes-and hearts-
Hymen investeth with his fruitful zone,
And all its holy blessedness imparts!
Hark! millions hail the day with soul and voice!
There was Love and Pleasure, Feast and Mirth,-
Song and Dance,-and all the bliss of earth!
Rose England's Genius from his watery caves,
And bound in wreathes his sea-green hair;
Each Demi-power that rules the waves,
And Ocean-girted Liberty was there.
Of flowers, in Neptune's depth that lie,
Unseen by day's pervading eye,
They form'd a variegated band,
And knit the rose-inwoven hand,
And danc'd upon the yellow strand;
Then, hid in deep obscurity,
They glad descended to their surge-beat ball,
To celebrate the nuptial festival!
And then, 'tis said, the sound of melody
Was heard t' ascend from spiritual symphony,
And float, in lengthen'd sounds, along the charmed sea.
Death shakes his dart, deriding with delay,
To scath the myrtles of the nuptial bed,
And plant his mournful cypress in their stead!
Now, what on earth can joy to Frederick bring?
For blighted is the fruit and precious tree!
Yet when he knew the first was dead,
For Thee Hope sooth'd him still, but that is sped! What can console him now ?—Grief's cureless sting Transpierc'd him while he bent in agony!
In his lone heart there hath burst forth a spring,
That shall for ever flow, and flow for Thee!
He who hath, in a garden fair and gay,
Foster'd a plant he deems the gem of all,
Glad views the broad propitious star of day
Unfold its splendour, gradually tall;
The time anticipates, with fond delight,
When it shall glow in all its beauty bright:
But if, when every blossom greets his vision,
And his whole soul dilates with prospect near,
The fellon blasts should seize the full fruition,
And scatter all its sweetness from the year;
What then his sorrow for the harsh defeat
Of all his early hopes?-Dim is the light That glisten'd in his eye,-cold is the heat That warm'd his breast,—his flush'd cheek waneth white. -Weak emblem of the lonely mourner's woe! That sears his heart, and scaths his joy below; Makes him forlorn,-his darling Hope so near! Great are his sorrows, but his soul is great! And, though the tender thought may feel the sear, He will not sink beneath the weighty care, But bear, with all due fortitude, his fate!
Joy is light-wing'd; he skims his airy round,
Drawing whole æras after unperceiv'd;
And when Remembrance hath their number found,
That they could pass so soon is scarce believ'd.
But Grief to every hour adds weights of lead,
And counts each slow, dull minute's lonely stay,
And thinks whole ages tardily have sped,
During the circuit of one heavy day.
So short thy being seemeth to have lasted,
And all the joy it brought so soon been blasted!
Indeed, the reminiscence of past bliss,
Mingled with present bale, turns all to bitterness!
Now censure we the lingering foot of Time,
And see no pleasure in this earthly clime.
But we'll indulge our woe, and hoard our grief,
That shall of every comfort be the chief.
Swift fly, ye years!-speed, speed, thou dart of fate!
Free us from clay,-wing us to heaven's gate,
Where sits, illustrious, in her starry sheen,
Of all our joys, our woes, our future Britain-Queen!
No more upon old Thames his rolling waves,
Our guardian genius floats with blithest joy!
Nor rise exulting from his unseen caves,
The measures wild, to Fancy's ear or eye! —
He chafes the surges in his sorrowful mood,
And tears the glad wreath from his sea-green hair
Binding the weary sedge around his brows,
That hangs in mournful wise, so rough and rude!
With such wild action o'er the waves he rose,-
And all his subject demi-powers were seen,
With wave-protected Freedom's awful mien;
They tore the flowery garland in despair,
And beat the breast, and rent their fragrant locks!
Hist! he commands th' enchafed sea be still,-
Now level roll the waves, nor siege the rocks,-
He treads a surge obedient to his will;
Each demi-power around on watery hill,
Visage to breast declin'd; high eminent he :
Their brine-stain'd weeds hang loose and carelessly
But, whist! he speaks,—all else quite voiceless be!
"Isle of the chalky cliffs! repos'd serene
Upon old Ocean's all-tumultuous breast;
Bride of the hoary sire! whose awful mien
Forbids the foe thy sacred peace molest,—
In western waves, the vassals of thy power,
Is my sequester'd, water-girted seat;
There, also, have I variegated bower,
Form'd in deep Neptune's uttermost retreat.
The sun bath look'd not on the envermeil eye
Of any
flower that decks the sweet recess;
In light -excluded, chaste obscurity,
Beauteous they glow, and never die,
Where gold, and germs, and coral lie,
Which form my sedge-crown'd cavern measureless.
There is my throne; there hear I, without dread,
The howling tempest madden over head :
And, when I list, I rise to view the sun,
And thee, fair Isle ! who still art young aud gay,
As on the joyous, hymeneal day,
When Ocean wedded thee,—and this my charge begun. The world to thee its various tribute brings,
And ornaments to deck thee gorgeously ;
To thee surrenders all her choicest things,
Her gold, her pearl, her gems, her minstrelsy:
Why then hast thou dofft every cheerful guise,
Outrivalling Iris in innumerous dies,
More gay than Flora, flush'd with all the year;
For mournful black, and moody cypress drear?
"Too well I know the cause! She upon whom
Hung to sustain the long-successive line,
Hath found an early,-ah! too early tomb!
Who would not weep, and visit at her shrine?
She of thy daughters was the diadem;
All sweetness, love, and goodness,-all divine!
Thou hast lost an invaluable gem!
No merchant its co-equal can explore,'Twas like the oracle on Aaron's breast;
And thou hadst gain'd from its prophetic power,
The days succeeding should be fully blest!
'Tis gone! and, ah! so wayward is thy fate!
The blessings that it promis'd were decreed
To be uncertain, wavering, and late,
If it were lost;-alas! 'tis lost, indeed!
See, holy Freedom droops her nectar'd head,
And all the powers who watch o'er Britain's isle!
No sports now echo from our oozy bed,
Nor gambols make the passing minutes smile! Weep! weep! her death! my sons and daughters fair! But let not patriot courage e'er despair!"
He said; and plung'd beneath the waves;
The hollow surges dash'd around,
And echoed thrice through all the caves
Of Ocean's utmost bound!
The wand'ring navies over the whole main,
Felt the quick calm, albeit no voice they heard;
Anon they saw the wild waves roll again,
And all the sea with sudden rush appear'd.
Even so sudden hast thou left us lone!
Soon hast thou set, thou lovely, cheering beam! Forsaken soon thine oriental throne,
And quick departed to the western stream!
Did She behold thee starting from thy sphere?
Wand'rer of lands/remote !-1 ween not so;
But yet, a Mother's secret warning fear,
Told thou wert gone,-whither we all must go!
And did no Mother then compose thine eye?
Nor weep upon thy bosom, chill'd by death?
None,-none was there, to watch thy spirit fly!
None,-none, to catch thy last and dearest breath!-
In regions pitiless, lorn Sojourner,
Seeking the boon of peace to her denied,-
With sorrow for her one cold comforter ;-
Afar was she when her lov'd daughter died!
THOU Wert the only link that bound to earth;
Now that is loos'd, fain would she instant speed,
And follow thee and thy abortive birth,
There, where the weary shall have rest, indeed.
But there was ONE-who caught thy parting sigh,
Who bent o'er thee with such an agony,
No tears might moist his wildly-gazing eye,
That would have wept, but could not!-Words are weak ; Indeed, bath their whole utmost power the art,
One throb of th' anguish of the bleeding heart,
To spirit-thrilling language, to impart ?
-Tho' sympathy may think, it cannot speak,-
When the lone husband gazed o'er widow'd bed,
On the soft features of the newly dead,
Ere the last glow of life had wholly fled;
But linger'd out a farewell, mild and meek,
Of feeling past upon the lifeless cheek;
While fix'd the eye, as it had view'd him, fast,
With tenderness and faith unto the last,-
Seem'd Fate then more than pangs of death to wreak,
And to exhaust her quiver full of woes
Upon his singled soul !-'Tis past,-the tear o'erflows,
And now again the frozen life-blood glows,
And his o'erlabour'd spirit finds relief,
That it can weep, and ponder o'er its grief.
But thou who wert a jewel chased in gold;
Fair, yet discretionate !-Upon thy bier
Shall Splendor all her costly pomp unfold,
And Honor hallow it with many a tear!
Freedom among the mourners shall be seen,
And Commerce following thro' the woeful night;
Princes shall fill each sorrowing pause between,-
And, last-Religion close the soothing rite!
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