Thy green banks, rock-begirt, afford
The wild, the soft, the bold,
Enchantment all, a lovely type
Of Eden, blest of old!
The heart alone its power can tell,
Philosophy may teach,
Poets and painters both essay,
Thy excellence to reach.
Yet all in vain! what art can show
This scene diversified?
Where, 'neath the dread o'erhanging rocks,
Thy streams pellucid glide;
Their rugged forms are seen less stern,
View'd in thy waters calm,
As sorrow's sharpest pangs are sooth'd
By pity's gentle balm.
Sweet was the hour, and rich the glow
Of sunset on thy stream,
When first to my admiring sight
As 't were a fairy dream,
Namur's proud citadel appear'd
"Bathed in that flood of light,”
The monument of Gallic boast
Humbled by William's might.*
* For a pompous description of the capture of Namur, and its citadel,
by the French under Marshal Luxembourg, in 1692, see Boileau's "Ode;" and Racine
Sur la Prise de Namur."-In 1695, William III.,
And as the panoramic scene
Engaged my deepest thought,
In fancy I again retraced
The deeds his valour wrought.
May warlike tread no more disturb
Thy vales! but peace diffuse
Her blessings on thy vine-clad hills,
My loved, my favourite Meuse !
of England, after a long and memorable siege, retook both town and citadel: the garrison being reduced during that siege from 15,000 men to 5,500!
MILLER! fresh gather'd laurels now
Grace anew thy honour'd brow,
And Arequipa's plains attest,
On nobler one they scarce can rest.
Around thy head, 'neath foreign sky,
Waves the proud flag of victory;
And grateful plaudits deaf'ning roar
Re-echo from thy native shore.
Thou champion bold of liberty,
Go on, and set the captive free;
In retributive justice stand,
Firm, upon that blood-stain'd land;
Bid Nature's child no more despair,
Secure beneath thy fost'ring care;
No dastard tyrant let them fear,
While valour aids their hopes to cheer.
Vain is the boast of" mines of gold "
When men, like beasts, are bought and sold;
Vain is the boast of "sunny skies"
Seen dimly through their streaming eyes.
What boots how fair and fresh the bloom
Of flowers, that droop o'er slavery's tomb!
This Miller feels, and thousands more,
Upon the haughty Spaniard's shore,
And vie in manly struggle ever
The bonds of trembling slave to sever!
Humanity with bravery dwells
As British history often tells,
Nor wilt thou, Miller, here deny,
All soldier as thou art, the sigh,
And tribute of a Christian tear
O'er Salaberri's bloody bier!
No! thou wilt mourn his dreadful end,
And in the rebel, weep the friend.
ON THE DEATH OF MALIBRAN.
How strangely varied is the awful doom
That leads us from the cradle to the tomb!
Some, ling'ring on through many a painful year,
Are prone to wish the death they dread were near;
Some, drooping slowly, mourn their sinking fire;
Some, flush'd with victory, in youth expire.
All suffer here below and death's the seal
Imprest on all our fates, in woe or weal.
Nor could sweet Malibran's surpassing grace
Divert the ruthless monarch from the chase:
Even while music floated on her breath
She vainly struggled in the arms of death!
The swan-like notes that echoed through the room
Bespoke her triumph, and prepared her tomb!
She, th' unrivall'd queen of scenic art,
Whose power dramatic reach'd the inmost heart,
From the high pinnacle of her just pride
Was hurl'd, and in her very triumph died!
Sweet Malibran! what thrilling tones were thine
When impious rapture swore thou wert" divine!" Tones which; but hark! what dreadful shrieks now
On th' affrighted ear throughout the hall?
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