How lovely still, though now no more
Thy locks in auburn beauty pour;
No more thine eye, of humid blue,
Beams like the star thro' evening dew:
Forbid alike to beam and weep,
Those orbs are clos'd in marble sleep,
Those braids in moveless marble twine;
Princess! thy throne is now thy shrine.
Yet, matchless as in life, the spell
Loves on that pallid lip to dwell;
And still the soul's immortal glow
Is radiant on that dazzling brow.
Soft be thy slumbers, soft and deep,
Till start thy people from their sleep;
Till thousand beacons, blazing bright,
Shake their wild splendours on the night;
Till on the mountain breeze's wing,
The shout of war thy landsturm fling;
And gleams in myriad hands the sword,
So deep in old Invasion gored.
God is the guide !-thro' woe, thro' fear,
Rushes his chariot's high career;
God is the guide!—thro' night, thro' storm,
Speeds his resistless Angel's form;
And red in many a doubtful fight,
Our fathers' swords carved out their right,
And still thro' field, and fire, and flood,
We'll seal the proud bequest with blood,
And give our babes the boon they gave,-
The glory of a Freeman's grave.
Bring, spirit, bring the splendid day,
That sees our ancient banners play :
Then shall be heard the trumpet-tone,
Where all is silent now, and lone :
From forest deep, from unsunn'd vale,
Shall gleam the sudden flash of mail;
Sudden along the grey hill's side
Shall proud and patriot squadrons ride;
Keen as his mountain eagle, there
Shall bound the fatal tirailleur ;
There, swift as wind, the dark hussar
Wheel his broad sabre for the war;
And mountain nook and cavern'd glen
Give up their hosts, of marshal'd men.
Then, Form of Love! no longer sleep :
Thine be it on the gale to sweep,
With Seraph smile, with Seraph power,
To lighten on our gloomy hour,
To bid the fainting land be wise
With wisdom from thy native skies;
Give the strong heart, the hero-will,
Angel! and yet protectress still.
FROM GREECE, A POEM BY WM. HAYGARTH, ESQ.
And lo! he comes, the modern son of Greece,
The shame of Athens; mark him how he bears
A look o'eraw'd and moulded to the stamp
Of servitude. The ready smile, the shrug
Submissive, the low cringing bow, which waits
Th' imperious order, and the supple knee
Proclaim his state degen'rate: pliant still
And crouching for his gain; whether in vest
Of flowing purple, and with orange zone,
And saffron sandal, and a coif of fur,
He apes the Archon's state, or pressing on
And elbowing the crowd, with slipper'd feet,
And cap of scarlet dye, curl'd locks, and dress
For speed succinct, he ranges the bazar,
And earns the paltry recompense of toil.
Where then shall we the father's genius seek?
Shame to the sons, amidst the song and dance,
And midnight revelry; these have outliv'd
The bold but transient features, these survive
The glow of fancy and the strength of thought.
The feast is spread, and the recumbent guests
Inclining o'er their tripods, quaff the wines
Of Zea or of Samos; mirth goes round,
The laugh, the jest, dispel their gloomy thoughts,
And yield a momentary happiness.
The strain begins-the mandoline, awak'd
By rudest touch, preludes the measure wild,
Whilst the responsive song, by none refus'd,
Successive passes round th' applauding guests,
Phrosyne's mournful dirge, or thy soft air
O beauteous Haidee! the tambour beats
And Athens' daughters, starting at the sound,
In loosely cinctur'd robes of crimson hue,
With ringlets darkly shadowing their breasts,
Throw back their snowy necks upon the air,
And wave their rosy-finger'd hands, and lead
The sprightly chorus, or the mazy round
Which Theseus first beheld, when he return'd
Victor from Crete, by Delian virgins twin'd.
Regardless of these sounds of revelry,
Silent and dull, and meas'ring every step,
With solemn air, the Moslem stalks along ;
His look, his gait, his habit, all proclaim
The supercilious despot of the land.
The muslin turban coil'd around his head
In spiral folds, shades his wan cheek; his brow
Low'rs gloomily upon his half-rais'd eye;
And from his arched nose, and lip with smile
Contemptuous curl'd, his shaggy beard descends.
The tawdry splendour of his garb declares
His Eastern origin; a silken vest
Of varied colours loosely veils his limbs,
And round each ankle floats; a purple belt
Invests his ample waist, bearing the load
Of pistol and of studded yatagan.
One hand sustains his pipe and one adjusts
The yellow robe, which from his shoulders broad
Sweeping in graceful folds, now shows and now
Conceals the manly texture of his form.
"Tis his delight beneath a canopy
Of interwoven vines, upon his mat
To pass the sultry hours, inhaling fumes
Of fragrant leaf, and supping the dark stream
Of Mocha's berry; he, so occupied,
Recks not of toil, of danger, or of war,
And hears unmov'd how Russia's hardy sons
Launch their red thunders o'er the Danau's wave,
Hence turn your gaze-the low degen'rate race
Claims not another thought; but we will search
The monuments of time; and there peruse
Those forms of genius which in vain we seek
Amidst the living tenants, firmly trac'd
On lifeless marble, and on sculptur'd stone:
In them a spirit still survives, in them
The soul of Athens seems to live again.
Here let us pause, e'en at the vestibule
Of Theseus' fane---with what stern majesty
It rears its pond'rous and eternal strength,
Still perfect, still unchang'd, as on the day
When the assembled throng of multitudes
With shouts proclaim'd th' accomplish'd work, and fell
Prostrate upon their faces to adore
Its marble splendour. How the golden gleam
Of noonday floats upon its graceful form,
Tinging each grooved shaft, and storied frize
And Doric trigliph! How the rays amidst
The op'ning columns glanc'd from point to point,
Stream down the gloom of the long portico;
Where link'd in moving mazes youths and maids
Lead the light dance, as erst in joyous hour
Of festival! how the broad pediment,
Embrown'd with shadow, frowns above and spreads
Solemnity and reverential awe!
Proud monument of old magnificence!
Still thou survivest, nor has envious Time
Impair'd thy beauty, save that it has spread
A deeper tint, and dimm'd the polish'd glare
Of thy refulgent whiteness. Let mine eyes
Feast on thy form, and find at ev'ry glance
Themes for imagination and for thought.
Empires have fallen, yet art thou unchang'd;
And Destiny whose tide engulphs proud man,
Has roll'd his harmless hillows at thy base.
Thy youth beheld thy country's fame, thine age
Beholds her agony; warriors have sought
Thy sacred walls, and 'gainst these columns rear'd
Their blood-stain'd lances, whilst they swell'd the hymn
Of victory; and now the abject Greek
Sighs on thy steps his superstitious pray'r.
Thou art the chronicle of ages past,
The lasting testimony; let me call
The spirit that resides within thy stones,
And it will tell me an appalling tale
Of rapine, and convulsion, and dire war,
Which thou hast witnessed. Mighty monument !
He who first rear'd thy frame, believ'd perchance
He rais'd thee for a few short years, a point
In the vast circle of eternity;
Nor did he dream that thou should'st be the pledge
Of Grecian genius to the numberless
Myriads unborn, and that beneath thy walls
Children of nations then unknown to fame,
The Gau!, the Briton, and the frozen son
Of polar regions, should together meet,
And on thy pure unsullied glories gaze.
THE CALLING OF THE CLANS. 1745
From the Novel of Waverley.
Mist darkens the mountain, night darkens the vale,
But more dark is the sleep of the sons of the Gael;
A stranger commanded-it sunk on the land,
It has frozen each heart, and benumb'd every hand!
The dirk and the target lie sordid with dust,
The bloodless claymore is but redden'd with rust;
On the hill or the glen if a gun should appear,
It is only to war with the heath-cock or deer.
The deeds of our sires if a bard should rehearse,
Let a blush or a blow be the meed of their verse!
Be mute every string and be hush'd every tone,
That shall bid us remember the fame that is gone.
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