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I saw him on the battle eve,

When like a king he bore him ! Proud hosts in glittering helm and greave,

And prouder chiefs before him : The warrior, and the warrior's deeds, The morrow, and the morrow's meeds,

No daunting thoughts came o'er him;He look'd around him, and his eye Defiance flash'd to earth and sky!

He look'd on ocean,-its broad breast

Was covered with his fleet;
On earth,--and saw from east to west

His banner'd millions meet :
While rock, and glen, and cave, and coast,
Shook with the war-cry of that host,

The thunder of their feet!
He heard the imperial echoes ring-
He heard, and felt himself a king!

I saw him next alone ;-nor camp

Nor chief his steps attended,
Nor banners' blaze nor coursers' tramp,

With war-cries proudly blended :-
He stood alone, whom Fortune high
So lately seem'd to deify,

He who with heaven contended

Fled, like a fugitive and slave ;
Behind, the foe,-before the wave!

He stood,-fleet, army, treasure gone,

Alone, and in despair ! While wave and wind swept ruthless on,

For they were monarchs there ;
And XERXES in a single bark,
Where late his thousand ships were dark,

Must all thy fury dare;-
Thy glorious revenge was this,
Thy trophy, deathless SALAMIS!



SYREN! of sullen woods and fading hues,
Yet haply not incapable of joy,-

Sweet Autumn, I thee hail !

With welcome all unfeigned ;
And oft, as Morning from her lattice peeps,
To beckon up the Sup! I'll seek with thee,

To drink the dewy breath
Of fields left fragrant then.

To solitudes, where no frequented path
But what thine own foot makes, betrays thine

Stealing obtrusive there,
To meditate thine end,

By overshadow'd ponds, in woody nooks,
With ramping sallows lined, and crowding sedge,

That woo the winds to play,
And with them dance for joy.

And meadow pools, torn wide by lawless floods, Where waterlilies spread their glossy leaves,

On which the dragon-fly

Yet batteps in the sun;
Where leans the moping willow half-way o'er,
On which the shepherd crawls astride, to throw

His apgle clear of weeds,
That float the water's brim.

Or crispy hills, and hollows scant of sward,
Where, step by step, the patient shepherd boy

Hath cut rude flights of stairs,

To climb their steepy sides ; Then, tracking at their feet; grown hoarse with

noise, The moaning brook, that ekes its weary speed,

And struggles through the weeds
With faint and sullen crawl.

These haunts, long favour'd, but more so now,
With thee thus wandering, moralizing on;

Stealing glad thoughts from grief,

And happy though I sigh !
Sweet vision ! with the wild dishevelled bair,
And raiment shadowy with each wind's ombrace,

Fain would I win thine harp
To one accordant theme.

Now, not inaptly craved, commencing thus :
Beneath the twined arms of this stunted oak,

We'll pillow on the grass,

And fondly ruminate
O'er the disorder'd scenes of fields and woods,
Plough'd lands, thin travell’d by half hungry sheep;

Pastures track'd deep with cows,
Where small birds seek for seed.

Marking the cow boy—who so merry trills
His frequent unpremeditated song ;

Wooing the winds to pause

Till echo sings again,
As on, with plashy step and clouted shoon,
He roves, half indolent and self employ'd,

To rob the little birds
Of hips and pendent haws,

And sloes, dim cover'd, as with dewy veils,
And rambling brambleberries, pulp and sweet,

Arching their prickly trails

Half o'er the narrow lane;
And mark the hedger, front with stubborn face
The dank rude wind, that whistles thinly by,

His leathern garb, thorn-proof,
And cheeks red hot with toil !

Wild sorceress ! me thy restless mood delights
More than the stir of summer's crowded scenes ;

Where, giddy with the din,
Joy pall'd mine ear with song:

Heart sickening for the silence that is thine-
Not broken inharmoniously, as now

That lone and vagrant bee
Roams faint with weary chime.

The filtering winds, that winnow through the

woods In tremulous noise, now bid, at every breath,

Some sickly canker'd leaf

Let go its hold and die !
And now the bickering storm, with sudden start,
In fitful gusts of anger carpeth loud ;

Thee urging to thine end,
Sore wept by troubled skies !

And yet, sublime in grief, thy thoughts delight
To shew me visions of more gorgeous dyes :

Haply forgetting now,

They but prepare thy shroud !
Thy pencil, dashing its excess of shades,
Improvident of waste, 'till every bough

Burns with thy mellow touch,
Disorderly divine !

Soon must I view thee as a pleasant dream,
Droop faintly, and so sicken for thine end,

As sad the wind sinks low,

In dirges for their queen!
While in the moment of their weary pause,
To cheer thy bankrupt pomp, the willing lark

Starts from his shielding clod,
Snatching sweet scraps of song!

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