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, 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, For whose was the genius,that plann'd at its call, 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, The rocks abrubt, and grassy plain! But not the storm, dethroning fast Around its dark and desert isle; Thy blossoms, now no longer bright; For many a sunset hour serene And plow'd, as with a swelling sail, *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, Oh, heart effusions, that arose From nightly wanderings cherish'd here; Of those that own no earthly home, Yes! I have loved thy wild abode, To tame thy torrent's thunder-shock, |