We parted upon solemn ground
Far-lifted tow'rds the unfading sky;
But all our thoughts were then of Earth
That gives to common pleasures birth;
And nothing in our hearts we found
That prompted even a sigh.
Fetch, sympathising Powers of air,
Fetch, ye that post o'er seas and lands,
Herbs moistened by Virginian dew,
A most untimely sod to strew,
That lacks the ornamental care
Of kindred human hands!
Beloved by every gentle Muse
He left his Trans-atlantic home:
Europe, a realized romance,
Had opened on his eager glance;
What present bliss! - what golden views!
What stores for years to come!
Though lodged within no vigorous frame,
His soul her daily tasks renewed,
Blithe as the lark on sun-gilt wings
High poised or as the wren that sings
In shady places, to proclaim
Her modest gratitude.
Not vain is sadly-uttered praise;
The words of truth's memorial vow
Are sweet as morning fragrance shed
From flowers 'mid GOLDAU's* ruins bred;
As evening's fondly-lingering rays,
On RIGHI's silent brow.
Lamented Youth! to thy cold clay
Fit obsequies the Stranger paid;
And piety shall guard that stone
Which hath not left the spot unknown
Where the wild waves resigned their prey,
And that which marks thy bed.
And, when thy Mother weeps for Thee, :
Lost Youth! a solitary Mother;
This tribute from a casual Friend
A not unwelcome aid may lend,
To feed the tender luxury,
The rising pang to smother.
* One of the villages desolated by the fall of part of the Mountain Rossberg.
SKY-PROSPECT FROM THE PLAIN OF FRANCE.
Lo! in the burning West, the craggy nape
Of a proud Ararat! and, thereupon,
The Ark, her melancholy voyage done!
Yon rampant Cloud mimics a Lion's shape;
A golden spear to swallow! and that brown
And massy Grove,.so near yon blazing Town, destruction to escape!
Yet all is harmless as the Elysian shades
Where Spirits dwell in undisturbed repose,
Silently disappears, or quickly fades ;-
Meek Nature's evening comment on the shows
That for oblivion take their daily birth,
From all the fuming vanities of Earth !
ON BEING STRANDED NEAR THE HARBOUR OF BOULOGNE,
WHY cast ye back upon the Gallic shore,
Ye furious waves! a patriotic Son
Of England-who in hope her coast had won,
His project crowned, his pleasant travel o'er?
Well let him this noted beach once more,
That gave the Roman his triumphal shells;
That saw the Corsican his cap and bells
Haughtily shake, a dreaming Conqueror !
Enough; my Country's Cliffs I can behold,
And proudly think, beside the murmuring sea,
Of checked ambition, tyranny controlled,
And folly cursed with endless memory:
These local recollections ne'er can cloy;
Such ground I from my very heart enjoy!
AFTER LANDING THE VALLEY OF DOVER. - Nov. 1820.
WHERE be the noisy followers of the game
Which Faction breeds? the turmoil where? that past
Through Europe, echoing from the Newsman's blast,
And filled our hearts with grief for England's shame.
Peace greets us; rambling on without an aim
We mark majestic herds of Cattle free
To ruminate-couched on the grassy lea,
And hear far-off the mellow horn proclaim
The Season's harmless pastime. Ruder sound
Stirs not; enrapt I gaze with strange delight,
While consciousnesses, not to be disowned,
Here only serve a feeling to invite
That lifts the Spirit to a calmer height,
And makes the rural stillness more profound.
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