Shall a tyrant enslave us, my countrymen!—No!
His head to the sword shall be given-
A death-bed repentance be taught the proud foe,
And his blood be an offering to Heaven!
Then rise, fellow-freemen, and stretch the right hand,
And swear to prevail in your dear native land!

SONG.

WITHDRAW not yet those lips and fingers, Whose touch to mine is rapture's spell! Life's joy for us a moment lingers,

And death seems in the word-farewell.
The hour that bids us part and go,
It sounds not yet-oh! no, no, no!

Time, whilst I gaze upon thy sweetness,
Flies like a courser nigh the goal;
To-morrow where shall be his fleetness,
When thou art parted from my soul?
Our hearts shall heat, our tears shall flow,
But not together, no, no, no!

HALLOWED GROUND.

WHAT'S hallow'd ground? Has earth a clod
Its Maker meant not should be trod

By man, the image of his God,
Erect and free,

Unscourged by Superstition's rod

To bow the knee?

That's hallow'd ground-where, mourn'd and miss'd, The lips repose our love has kiss'd ;

But where's their memory's mansion? Is't

Yon church-yard's bowers?

No! in ourselves their souls exist,

A part of ours.

A kiss can consecrate the ground

Where mated hearts are mutual bound:

The spot where love's first links were wound,
That ne'er are riven,

Is hallow'd down to earth's profound,
And up to heaven!

For time makes all but true love old;
The burning thoughts that then were told
Run molten still in memory's mould;
And will not cool,

Until the heart itself be cold

In Lethe's pool.

What hallows ground where heroes sleep?
"Tis not the sculptured piles you heap!
In dews that heavens far distant weep
Their turf may bloom;

Or Genii twine beneath the deep
Their coral tomb.

But strew his ashes to the wind

Whose sword or voice has served mankind—

And is he dead, whose glorious mind

Lifts thine on high ?

To live in hearts we leave behind

Is not to die.

What's hallow'd ground? "Tis what gives birth
To sacred thoughts in souls of worth!-
Peace! Independence! Truth! go forth
Earth's compass'd round;

And your high-priesthood shall make earth
All hallow'd ground.

CAROLINE.

PART I.

I'LL bid the hyacinth to blow,
I'll teach my grotto green to be;
And sing my true love, all below
The holly bower and myrtle-tree.

There all his wild-wood sweets to bring, The sweet south wind shall wander by, And with the music of his wing

Delight my rustling canopy.

Come to my close and clustering bower,

Thou spirit of a milder clime, Fresh with the dews of fruit and flower, Of mountain-heath, and moory thyme.

With all thy rural echoes come,

Sweet comrade of the rosy day, Wafting the wild bee's gentle hum,

Or cuckoo's plaintive roundelay.

Where'er thy morning breath has play'd,
Whatever isles of ocean fann'd,
Come to my blossom-woven shade,

Thou wandering wind of fairy-land.

From some green Eden of the deep, Where Pleasure's sigh alone is heaved Where tears of rapture lovers weep, Endear'd, undoubting, undeceived;

From some sweet paradise afar,

Thy music wanders, distant, lostWhere Nature lights her leading star, And love is never cross'd.

Oh gentle gale of Eden bowers,

If back thy rosy feet should roam, To revel with the cloudless Hours In Nature's more propitious home.

Name to thy loved Elysian groves, That o'er enchanted spirits twine, A fairer form than cherub loves, And let the name be Caroline.

PART II.

TO THE EVENING STAR.

GEM of the crimson-color'd Even,
Companion of retiring day,
Why at the closing gates of Heaven,
Beloved star, dost thou delay?

So fair thy pensile beauty burns,
When soft the tear of twilight flows;
So due thy plighted love returns,

To chambers brighter than the rose;

To Peace, to Pleasure, and to Love,
So kind a star thou seem'st to be,
Sure some enamour'd orb above

Descends and burns to meet with thee
Thine is the breathing, blushing hour,
When all unheavenly passions fly,
Chased by the soul-subduing power
Of Love's delicious witchery.

O! sacred to the fall of day,
Queen of propitious stars, appear,
And early rise, and long delay,
When Caroline herself is here!

Shine on her chosen green resort,

Whose trees the sunward summit crown, And wanton flowers, that well may court An Angel's feet to tread them down. Shine on her sweetly-scented road,

Thou star of evening's purple dome, That lead'st the nightingale abroad,

And guidest the pilgrim to his home.

Shine, where my charmer's sweeter breath
Embalms the soft exhaling dew,
Where dying winds a sigh bequeath
To kiss the cheek of rosy hue.

Where, winnow'd by the gentle air,
Her silken tresses darkly flow,
And fall upon her brow so fair,

Like shadows on the mountain snow.

Thus, ever thus, at day's decline,
In converse sweet, to wander far,

O bring with thee my Caroline,
And thou shalt be my Ruling Star!

FIELD FLOWERS.

YE field flowers! the gardens eclipse you, 'tis true, Yet, wildings of Nature, I dote upon you,

For ye waft me to summers of old,
When the earth teem'd around me with fairy delight,
And when daisies and buttercups gladden'd my sight,
Like treasures of silver and gold.

I love you for lulling me back into dreams
Of the blue Highland mountains and echoing streams,
And of birchen glades breathing their balm,
While the deer was seen glancing in sunshine remote,
And the deep mellow crush of the wood-pigeon's note
Made music that sweeten'd the calm.

Not a pastoral song has a pleasanter tune
Than ye speak to my heart, little wildings of June-
Of old ruinous castles ye tell,

Where I thought it delightful your beauties to find,
When the magic of Nature first breathed on my mind,
And your blossoms were part of her spell.
Ev'n now what affection the violet awakes;
What loved little islands, twice seen in their lakes,
Can the wild water-lily restore!

What landscapes I read in the primrose's looks,
And what pictures of pebbled and minnowy brooks
In the vetches that tangled their shore!

Earth's cultureless buds, to my heart ye were dear, Ere the fever of passion, or ague of fear

Had scathed my existence's bloom;

Once I welcome you more, in life's passionless stage, With the visions of youth to revisit my age,

And I wish you to grow on my tomb.

STANZAS

ON THE BATTLE OF NAVARINO.

HEARTS of oak that have bravely deliver'd the brave,
And uplifted old Greece from the brink of the grave,
"T was the helpless to help, and the hopeless to save,
That your thunderbolts swept o'er the brine;
And as long as yon sun shall look down on the wave,
The light of your glory shall shine.

For the guerdon ye sought with your bloodshed and toil,
Was it slaves, or dominion, or rapine, or spoil?
No! your lofty emprize was to fetter and foil
The uprooter of Greece's domain !

When he tore the last remnant of food from her soil,
Till her famish'd sank pale as the slain!

Yet, Navarin's heroes! does Christendom breed The base hearts that will question the fame of your deed?

Are they men?-let ineffable scorn be their meed, And oblivion shadow their graves!—

Are they women?—to Turkish serails let them speed! And be mothers of Mussulman slaves.

Abettors of massacre! dare ye deplore

That the death shriek is silenced on Hellas's shore? That the mother aghast sees her offspring no more By the hand of Infanticide grasp'd?

And that stretch'd on yon billows distain'd by their gore Missolonghi's assassins have gasp'd?

Prouder scene never hallow'd war's pomp to the mind, Than when Christendom's pennons woo'd social the wind,

And the flower of her brave for the combat combined, Their watch-word, humanity's vow ;

Not a sea-boy that fought in that cause, but mankind
Owes a garland to honor his brow!

Nor grudge, by our side, that to conquer or fall,
Came the hardy rude Russ, and the high-mettled Gaul;
For whose was the genius, that plann'd at its call,
Where the whirlwind of battle should roll?
All were brave! but the star of success over all
Was the light of our Codrington's soul.

That star of thy day-spring, regenerate Greek! Dimm'd the Saracen's moon, and struck pallid his cheek:

In its fast flushing morning thy Muses shall speak When their lore and their lutes they reclaim: And the first of their songs from Parnassus's peak Shall be "Glory to Codrington's name!”

LINES

ON LEAVING A SCENE IN BAVARIA. ADIEU the woods and waters' side, Imperial Danube's rich domain! Adieu the grotto, wild and wide,

The rocks abrupt, and grassy plain!

For pallid Autumn once again Hath swell'd each torrent of the hill; Her clouds collect, her shadows sail, And watery winds, that sweep the vale Grow loud and louder still.

But not the storm, dethroning fast
Yon monarch oak of massy pile;
Nor river roaring to the blast

Around its dark and desert isle;
Nor church-bell tolling to beguile
The cloud-born thunder passing by,
Can sound in discord to my soul:
Roll on, ye mighty waters, roll!
And rage, thou darken'd sky!

Thy blossoms, now no longer bright;

Thy wither'd woods, no longer green; Yet, Eldurn shore, with dark delight I visit thy unlovely scene!

For many a sunset hour serene My steps have trod thy mellow dew, When his green light the fire-fly gave, When Cynthia from the distant wave Her twilight anchor drew,

And plow'd, as with a swelling sail,
The billowy clouds and starry sea:
Then, while thy hermit nightingale
Sang on his fragrant apple-tree,-
Romantic, solitary, free,

The visitant of Eldurn's shore,

On such a moonlight mountain stray'd
As echo'd to the music made
By Druid harps of yore.

Around thy savage hills of oak,

Around thy waters bright and blue, No hunter's horn the silence broke, No dying shriek thine echo knew; But safe, sweet Eldurn woods, to you The wounded wild deer ever ran, Whose myrtle bound their grassy cave, Whose very rocks a shelter gave From blood-pursuing man.

Oh, heart effusions, that arose

From nightly wanderings cherish'd here; To him who flies from many woes,

Even homeless deserts can be dear!
The last and solitary cheer

Of those that own no earthly home,
Say is it not, ye banish'd race,
In such a loved and lonely place
Companionless to roam?

Yes! I have loved thy wild abode,

Unknown, unplow'd, untrodden shore, Where scarce the woodman finds a road, And scarce the fisher plies an oar: For man's neglect I love thee more; That art nor avarice intrude

To tame thy torrent's thunder-shock, Or prune thy vintage of the rock Magnificently rude.

1 In Catholic countries you often hear the church-bells rung

to propitiate Heaven during thunder-storms.