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 this 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 com. bined,

Their watch-word, humanity's vow;

Not a sea-boy that fought in that cause, but mankind

Owes a garland to honour 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 palid his cheek:

In its fast flushing morning thy Muses shall speak

When their lore and their futes 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 abrubt, 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 inassy 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 froin 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 fragment apple-tree,—
Romantic, solitary, free,

*In Catholic countries you often hear the church-bells rung to propitiate Heaven during thunder-storms.

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.