« AnteriorContinuar »
The Swan, in majesty and grace,
Contemplative and still ;
But roused, — no Falcon, in the chace,
Could like his satire kill.
The Linnet in simplicity,
In tenderness the Dove ;
But more than all beside was he,
The Nightingale in love.
Oh! had he never stoop'd to shame,
Nor lent a charm to vice,
How had Devotion loved to name
That Bird of Paradise.
Peace to the dead! - In Scotia's choir
Of Minstrels great and small,
He sprang from his spontaneous fire,
The Phønix of them all.
The arrow that shall lay me low, Was shot from Death's unerring bow, The moment of my breath ; And every footstep I proceed, It tracks me with increasing speed ; I turn, — it meets me, — Death Has given such impulse to that dart, It points for ever at my heart.
And soon of me it must be said,
That I have lived, that I am dead;
Of all I leave behind,
A few may weep a little while,
Then bless my memory with a smile ;
What monument of mind
Shall I bequeath to deathless Fame,
That after-times may love my name?
Let Southey sing of war’s alarms,
The pride of battle, din of arms,
The glory and the guilt, -
Of nations barb’rously enslaved,
Of realms by patriot valour saved,
Of blood insanely spilt,
And millions sacrificed to fate,
To make one little mortal great.
Let Scott, in wilder strains, delight
To chant the Lady and the Knight,
The tournament, the chace,
The wizard's deed without a name,
Perils by ambush, flood, and flame;
Or picturesquely trace
The hills that form a world on high,
The lake that seems a downward sky.
Let Byron, with untrembling hand,
Impetuous foot and fiery brand,
Lit at the flames of hell,
Go down and search the human heart,
Till fiends from every corner start,
Their crimes and plagues to tell ;
Then let him fling the torch away,
And sun his soul in heaven's pure day.
Let Wordsworth weave, in mystic rhyme,
Feelings ineffably sublime,
And sympathies unknown ;
Yet so our yielding breasts enthral,
His Genius shall possess us all,
His thoughts become our own,
And strangely pleased, we start to find
Such hidden treasures in our mind.
Let Campbell's sweeter numbers flow
Through every change of joy and woe,
Hope's morning dreams display,
The Pennsylvanian cottage wild,
The frenzy of O'Connel's child,
Or Linden's dreadful day ;
And still in each new form appear,
To every Muse and Grace more dear.
Transcendent Masters of the lyre !
Not to your honours I aspire ;
Humbler yet higher views
Have touch'd my spirit into flame;
The pomp of fiction I disclaim ;
Fair Truth! be thou my muse ;
Reveal in splendour deeds obscure,
Abase the proud, exalt the poor.
I sing the men who left their home,
Amidst barbarian hordes to roam,